Best Modicum Poems
Blessed in abundance that manifests in our
stressed daily interaction with our fellow man, and the sincerest
form of our inner wellbeing is the outpour of laughter.
Dormant in the face of adversity, while we empathise with
modern populace at large and try to bring some
modicum of humanity and relief of the pain.
We’d all experience this from time to time and this is
seed of essence in our reality that is forever fraught.
Felled by ulterior motives – punished like Sisyphus by our
fellow peers – as the dulcet tones of compliments, the sweetest
wrung encouragement that soothed our souls like songs
sung at our cradle; the melodies now forgotten. They are
symbols indelibly edged into our subconscious and those
cymbals that tend to want to drown us out so that
we spin in the vortex, but vector us towards the stories to tell.
Be it to explain the tumultuous emotions raging beneath the surface of
our designer exterior – this is by far the saddest
hour and we, eventually, rather opt for the dilatory thought.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Percy Bysshe Shelly – To a Skylark
May you call to mind cherished lullaby, or prayer,
something tried and true, when it seems no one is there.
Sound and reason, oft times, circumvent the ear
when the shadows drown to expose our every fear.
May you memorize every word in heart and mind
with the melody and its time not far behind.
Soul may weep with tears if the spirit's well-aligned,
but this one-two punch is a plan of good design.
It makes silent that which torments, blinds our view;
stops us drinking from that toxic monster's brew;
chases misery with heartfelt plea anew ~
In the act, we call to arms His whole darn crew.
Let the song console you, mitigate your woes;
as you ruminate, let it soothe your weary soul.
Sing aloud or silently to tempo slow
as your earnest prayer clears a path to daybreak's glow.
Never judge, it's ours to do with as we please;
as we stand, we fall to frail and fragile knees.
Bumped and bruised, we long for modicum of ease,
yet such sweet collapse finds us lost in stormy seas.
You've escaped the depths, you can do it once again,
and again, my friend, if you must. Do not give in.
You are stronger than you ever could conceive.
When you have a choice, choose hope. Always believe.
2/17/2023
I could pound her head against a brick wall
or find some modicum of logic to install
but those would probably do no good at all
for she is filled with bitter anger and gall
Do these words portray someone you know
If I could change her attitude, I'd make it so
the world would have a much brighter glow
hold me back cuz I can't take much mo!
I've seen a few others who tried enlightening
but her mind is closed, her heart tightening
her audacity flashes like forked lightning
she's so churlish and stubborn, it's frightening
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I succumb
Ceding my stuff blindly, toward oblivion and none
Unwilling to persevere, without a modicum of fun
Listing in perpetual stasis, til the spasm’s undone
And yet a god may save me, or a talisman of love
Some prophet of euphoria, quelling ennui thereof
Placing good tidings, into a universal equation
Edifying eternity…..revealing its exact duration…..
Alas he speaks in riddles, and treads a mobius strip
Each cycle forming a twist, convoluting his trip
Determined I follow, my awareness in collapse
Narrow-mindedly stumbling into mortality traps
Now I sense the endgame, but decline to exalt
Its a distortion, an abortion, a cataclysmic fault
Chance meeting with a nihilist, yields positive results
Unable to see past zero, he reveals nothing but cults
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I begun
A contorted brain-f*ck, had no choice but to come
A demon of clarity, with an open ended measure
One who gives to please, but prefers taking pleasure
To believe for one moment, I’d live off a dying spark
Only denies potential, when again life goes dark
With more light to come, my sunglasses prepared
Eternity’s not polarised, just infinitely layered
If a blind man articulates, I’ve seen all this before
Screaming and convinced “I’m a seer at my core”
Could be he’s mistaken, or deluded with Déjà vu
Begs his final question, “do I have a point of view”?
Plucked from Shakespeare
and plopped in Central Park,
Sturnus vulgaris, the mimic,
conquered New York.
It made it there,
You know it made it everywhere;
The continental stage stolen.
And here on my fence amid this tragedy
To be blessed with a modicum of bliss;
The sparkling spring songster
with his treasured chest pumping
my missing birds song list.
22.04.18
Craig Cornish's
Spring - Poetry Contest
3rd Place
it is my lady
it is my love
and so the story unfolds
of the passions fervor holds deep
where the heartbreaks searching
for a modicum more time
between the decision does the
nightingale or lark sing
repeated over and over
an echo of the heart
spanning untold generations
when our helpless eyes fall
into that delicious abyss of love
from whence we cast to fate
the exquisite moments when lips taste
the ambrosian fruit of paradise
when arms embrace no longer a dream
we become a ship at sea
in the net of time
fair or foul weather we sail
for it is love that life survives
it is love that gives meaning
and somewhere between the songs
of birds lost in the heavenly notes
we linger in the arms of love
whether caught in the pinions
or left in the mocking bird's call
an appeal for a mate
we continue in the fault
of our stars, locked in a headlong rush
to close any separation
where continents perchance merge
where paradise erupts in appetites
that must be satiated
with every breath
life triumphs in its growth
the delicate morsel in the heaven of lips
where roses have no fear of lingering
love always asks
can i tarry here but a moment more
can this kiss become eternity
can this embrace meld
into the infinity of longing come true
one more moment of your lips
one more moment with the lavender rose
in your eyes
it is behind that veil we will learn
moments are forever
OKC 7/22
So, who says it takes ten years to become a poet?
I’ve read incredible lines from second graders --
Some may write for sixty years, you’d never know it
For all some have become are mediocre shaders!
Do you consider it “good” poetry to criticize others
When you’ve not developed a modicum of expertise?
Your propensity for negative thoughts only smothers
While most Poetry-Soupers skills steadily increase.
So, be careful how you turn your venom on Soupers
Whose work is far superior to what you are showing
Open your Comments for those you call “poopers”
And we’ll share our true thoughts, not so glowing!
I hope when you read this poem, you do take offense*
For we are tired of being the butt of your nasty intents.
#55 on Best New Poems List
Written November 29, 2021
*for your information, this is a classical form put
to good use, in this case, since you criticized us
for using classical forms!
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
There are times I'm torn between feeling and thought,
consciously aware of a dispute between mind and heart.
I become anxious when I realize there's a power struggle
and my doleful soul seeks a tranquil place to snuggle.
Somewhere deep inside of me where it's more docile
until my heart and mind call for a truce and reconcile.
Unfortunately, that's short-lived... a temporary thing.
Until again, they'll fight like pugilists in a boxing ring.
Rodin didn't sculpt The Thinker inside each human mind
but the psyche often chides the heart, "Love really is blind."
Divine, are those gifts God has so generously given to us
but they don't always come to terms, and it creates a fuss.
The heart yearns for love, the mind searches for a reason.
Scripture says the heart is treacherous and commits treason.
My mind stands guard, to prevent my heart from breaking
but despite the risk, my heart finds it worth the undertaking.
A logical mind weighs pros and cons, thinking pragmatically
Bah, cries a heart, "Life should be lived more romantically."
They grind on each other as if one a mortar, the other a pestle
And so, the mind and heart will continue to quibble and wrestle.
The soul always reappears when a modicum of peace holds fast
but the truce between heart and mind is destined never to last.
Although instrumental to a soul's well-being, they will disagree.
Mind rules a heart, or vice versa. Que sera sera. What will be will be.
I am at once pleased and saddened that I have taken your life,oh great creature
of the forest.
I am pleased because I have invested many years honing my woods lore and
shooting skills for this final result.
I am saddened because I have killed one of God's most beautiful creatures for
uncertain reasons.
I don't need your flesh to sustain my family nor your hide to clothe them.
I question myself constantly because I seem to focus an inordinate amount of
time day-dreaming about forthcoming hunts and re-enacting old hunts in my
head.
I question why I am obsessed with checking and re-checking my hunting
equipment as the fall days shorten.
I question why I expose myself to the abuse of the natural elements--drenching
rain, freezing snow and biting winds, waiting for you to materialize.
I especially question this hidden force of ancient origins that drives me to take
your life.
I am satisfied that I have not killed just for the sake of killing--that there is
something deeper, more spiritural at stake. Perhaps I'm attempting to capture a
modicum of your nobility, your sheer beauty and ability to live free, for myself.
Regardless of the answers to these probing questions and as I kneel next to
your lifeless body, I do ask for your forgiveness and promise that your mortal
remains will not be wasted and that the cherished memories of this hunt will
remain with me for the balance of my life.
There once was a feller named Charlie Horse,
Who was unmercifully teased of course.
But he took it all in stride,
With a modicum of pride,
Damning his zany name 'til he was hoarse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
When I was just a wee farm lad growin' up in Hoosier land,
There were many things about farm life I didn't quite understand!
One day I saw a neighbor leadin' a big bull down the gravel road.
I asked my dear old Pa about that and this is what I was told.
"Son, he's takin' that mean old bull to "service" a neighbor's cow."
The implications of that went over my tousled head then, but now,
I associate it with the "service" we git when dealin' with the IRS!
(Don't you think I handled a very delicate matter with a modicum of finesse!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Mrs. Lightfoot had taught music at Talbot Elementary School for years.
A couple of her pupils excelled in music but most became engineers.
She sat at her desk to muse upon the past after another trying day,
Recalling events that had contributed to the 'dyeing' of her hair gray!
She remembered concerts when the cacophonous din made her wince,
And Mrs. Lightfoot approached such musicals with foreboding ever since.
But beaming parents saw their prodigies destined for musical acclaim.
(Only one she knew strummed a banjo at the VFW with a modicum of fame!)
Tubby Aruba wrestled with his tuba, ever out of step in the marching band.
Sissie Pyaner tried to emulate Liberace but she battered the concert grand.
For some reason one of the valves on Clyde Crumpet's trumpet always stuck,
And the trombone players could never harmonize - such was their bad luck!
Pat Claret could never adjust her clarinet reeds to eliminate the squeaks.
'Tyke' Biddle fiddled with the bull fiddle but never mastered its techniques.
Hubie Crums thought he was Gene Krupa and went crazy on the drums.
And when it came to playing the French horn, Sydney Corne was all thumbs!
Many times Mrs. Lightfoot thought she'd chosen the wrong speciality path,
And oft' wondered if she should have majored in history or maybe math.
In a couple of years she could lay down her baton one last time and retire,
To reminisce about fatal concerts, bleating horns and inharmonious choir!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Christmas is the time to kindly say gift receipt me please,
Just in case the gift you give me don’t fully decorate my trees.
When you shop there’ll be no need for you to put in a lot of thought,
As long as there’s a gift receipt for whatever it is you’ve bought.
Then I’ll be sure that I can get the right color and in my size,
There really is no down side except for the lack of any real surprise.
But after all we’re not kids and we know that magic is not fact,
And a gift receipt can save hurt feelings with a modicum of tact.
Then bake some Christmas cookies and mark them with my name,
And I will also make a batch and with yours do the same.
This way we are assured of getting all the ones that we love,
I would like to thank you right now for going over and above.
Today I saw a Christmas card at one of the local stores,
I took a picture of it with my phone and sent it to you and yours.
Share the spirit of Christmas with family, friends and everyone in between,
And be sure to shop the after Christmas sales ‘cause it’s almost Halloween.
You're a mystery to me, a modicum of memory.
I have your straight nose; your big, clumsy feet;
Your dry sense of humour and stubborn streak -
Or so I've been told.
I know you loved history - dusty books left behind.
I've heard stories about you, but they can't define
Who you really were.
I remember snippets of your eulogy, given by my dad,
The son-in-law you didn't like but grew to love.
I wish you'd known me long enough
To love me too.
But maybe it's better this way, trying to figure you out
Like a game of Clue, which I've been told
I once played with you.
So I'll keep piecing you together
Like the puzzles you loved,
Because you truly are the most fascinating person
I've never known.
Recruit Division
I never applied to join the Army, a nice man phoned me,
He said I was the type they liked, with a steel certainty,
Plus he happened to mention the nurses on the way,
And the simple matter of doubling up my pay,
I signed.
So after having passed some sort of fitness tests,
I puffed quite a bit, but certainly tried my best,
I found myself, as many a medic knows,
To the town of Ash Vale, near a certain lady rose,
I’d signed.
Now as I walked, fashionable hair dishevelled,
There ahead of me, was a soldier whose back was upright and level,
So I called out, ‘Sorry to bother you mate, is the way for the Keogh camp gate’?
And the RSM made it very clear, that I would find it and him, certainly quite near,
Now I’d signed.
Within the breath of a watching gnats eye,
My hair was gone, no time to wonder why,
Everything seemed to happen with rapid and specific shouts,
Part of me was now wondering, a modicum of doubt,
Why I’d Signed?
Over the months to follow, each day a tired tomorrow,
I learnt about guns and bangs and running for fun,
Whilst far out on the expanse of the drill square,
A Russian yelled ‘Moy Et’ with a certain disposition,
Signing was my decision.
Now behind that drill square ran the main London line,
So we would be doing things, everything looking fine,
When the London train would pass, thundering on time,
And I tried not to grin at the phrase, ‘I left you in this position’,
Glad I signed.
I discovered a new world of dead fly biscuits,
Often so hungry the compo was worth risking it,
And how far a bed could fly, without seeming to try,
Or how proud I was as my bulled boots, not asking why,
I’d signed.
There was the nine second rule, certainly a gas,
Although they’d not mentioned they would take off the mask,
As each of us fit and healthy blokes,
Laid on the grass, throat burning chocked,
But I signed.
Finally a day arrived, escape from the camp,
Helping my granddad walk up the ramp,
Parents watched on as their son stood up,
Second best recruit, but no second cup,
Proud I’d signed.
Andrew Carnegie, Reminiscing Aldershot, 14th Jan 2017.