Best Monica Poems
Bill And Monica - Limerick
There once was a girl called Monica
Bill played her like a harmonica
Placed cigars in her rear
News said that was *****
Both caught on surveillance electronica
Santa Monica Pier
I remember watching
the ocean roll on the shore,
wave after wave,
crashing down on the solid sand
and I idly staring back
wondering if the Atlantic was as blue.
I watched him light a candle
and move in the swaying light
from a bygone age.
The flame flickered, so fragile,
it leans and sways in the cold breeze
My burning love is the flame in the lamp
From antiquity--a pre-industrial artifact
An oil lamp of glass from Rome
Bronze from Carthage
A terra-cotta from Athens
He smiles at me
in a flicker of light and
knows all my past like a line from Virgil
A chronicle from Homer
An essay from Milton, a history of Herodotus
And me, ignorant,
knowing nothing of him
can only quote
from Ovid,
Beowulf,
Caedmon and Gilgamesh.
The flame descends,
From the nape of the lit candle,
and we are lying in darkness on a spring night.
Everything in history is forgotten
and yesterdays are not so many
as night descends,
the lit moon cast in the glow
of the lamplight of our love.
A Dream !!! Monica - Reality ?.
Flakes of gold permeate my hours, diamond dust shrouds my time.
Snow streaked, golden haired, Autumn green eyed beauty – my rhyme
doth speak of – I try and get past all this glitter, in order to find
what is past ?, what is above ?, what is !, in this beautiful mind.
A beautiful mystery to me, is what I see in the enigmatic you.
In doubt, – with much uncertainty – I know not what to do.
With patience and understanding ?, is this what will bring through,
to the surface, all that you keep buried deep within – away from me too ?
Autumn green eyes, with flakes of gold, hide – diamond dust covers reality.
Emotions stifled – like ghosts caught in reflections – never seem to touch me.
A world of experiences I have heard, I understand, I have come to see,
Yet all that comes to light, into sight, does not let her be, does not set her free.
Could reality be ?, she has nothing for me, – it will never, to be shown,
heart felt, expressed affection, loving emotion, desire for more – I’ve known,
yet in spite, I know that within the deep caverns of her frozen heart, lies
a spirit – that upon finding the essence of its expectations – flies
to the unattainable, holds tightly closed, the doors to her heart, never wide,
does she open, to let in, never shares the gold flakes, diamond dust she hides
behind that tough façade she has painstakingly created from inside
to protect that fragile little girl – buried deep within – from a ride
back into the depths of a life that family, experience, lovers have created,
that have steeled her heart, her resolve, and maybe even fated
by powers greater than anything we mere mortals are able to comprehend ?
And so, life – I feel for me – will be a heart breaking comedy to its end.
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Reality
Becomes the heart ache, the pain in the pit of my soul – the loss of – not having !
The sadness I feel when parting, may come on the wings of knowing – having
experiences, with any depth, may never – for me – become a reality.
B. J. “A” 2
October 22nd 2006
I did not have sexual relations I swore
but my mouth organ and horn she asked for.
No one played like Monica
and she loved a good cigar
but now she won’t blow my nut sax anymore!
All my interns played it for me I confess
and with me pass an act of sexual congress.
That woman, Miss Lewinsky,
sure stained my Presidency
but Holy BJ, I sure stained her blue dress!
Written: July 2016
It is slowly juxtaposition,
an oldies reith for an acoustic-ness-
and we make a mock,
drain the corner stores mox....
Engravings in luck and harmonious-
they take a tail for a toc,
malevolence out of the box,
on the streets-
in levy and over the acropolis,
like crumbly even and corny thermopolis-
how the havens in heaven must shine inside...
How many travels say they coincide?
Even in a sailing away against all storm's periphery,
dynamite at the dreamy renditions are trickery-
a pleasure of the presence is no outer measure of some other type of compression!
Children of the iron curtain
Stripped of God from birth,
Crawling on a toothless wall -
Question marks on compass.
Chicks growing colored wings,
Door unlocked - unable to believe
Sunrise doesn't come with bars
For those who can still fly...
No man's land - unable to catch roots,
Holograph of gardens back home
Tended by parents with disrupted movements,
Tears muffled on the California coast...
Children of the iron curtain...
Each sunset gathers them on beaches
Champion chess players of their fate
Stop and salute me as I drive along
alone...
check the definition of "The Iron Curtain"
Cristina
the world is full of people
who just don't care
they see you need a ride
and leave you standing there
what's the use of friends
if they don't sympathise
and because of different parties
they don't comprimise
yes people can be mean
when they get upset
they show their ugly feeling
and do not act their best
i'm sorry for being one of those
that acted so unkind
i am so ashamed
i kind of lost my mind
please forgive me
for the nasty thing i've done
if this passes by us
then a victory we have won
but please don't denigh us
a friendship just begun
dear monica, I'm inspired to pen a letter to you to read my thoughts a moment I will always treasure for it indeed was a pleasure to meet you monica. I was so fascinated in the brief moments we spoke I-I didn't even choke as I'm simply stunned by your flow mentality with me as you burst in unadulterated laughter as our commonality on the dream thing clicked and my man thing said oh yeah this is it! you dominated my thoughts for the rest of the evening as I read your poems and journeyed with you to special places, the words I am secure in your behavior just knocks my socks off, when there's so much definition of an event you wonder where this will go or is it only time already spent so in your travels I hope you will reflect on that moment in time we met and our minds danced in admiration of life's events and this time it all made sense
love and peace,
unconcious
Monica, I tell you that’s an awfully hard door.
I don’t think I should be hitting it anymore.
I’ve given it the works with this sledgehammer.
Yes, I know we are in a big jammer.
How did I know the old man would lock the door on us?
We are stuck in this basement. That’s not too fabulous.
A pick and a shovel is all we would need.
I know you can’t stand it anymore and want to be freed.
I’ll get some dynamite and blow a hole in the wall.
It will cause just a little explosion, that’s all.
You want me to try the door again? Whatever you say, dear.
Just like you, I want like hell to get out of here.
Based on scenes in the 1963 film "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World"
bells and whistles been
somebody kin to me needs
this ol house is was
"He must have been mentally bent
whoever designed the Washinton monument.
That thing doesn't look anything like him.
I suggest that we," said Monica Lewinsky,
"change it to A Tribute To President Bill Clinton."
Get it? It's because the Washington monument looks so much like a, well you know,
a cigar...........then again it could also look like a middle finger or even an erect p........
.....I better not say the last one. I don't think I can on Poetry Soup.
In any event, they'd all be appropriate for her.
The reason I was there I cannot recall
But I was sitting outside of our classroom, alone in the hall
When Principal Johnson walked into our class
I stood up to watch him through the square in the door with the glass
He whispered something to the teacher who put down her chalk
Then up to Monica Fulton he slowly started to walk
She gathered her things with a sad look in her eyes
Butterflies started churning in my stomach as I could empathize
Everybody knew about Monica’s troubles at home
She lived with an abusive father in a house all alone
But rules were different back in those days
There were no social workers around to take her away
I watched them walk down the hallway, footsteps echoing on wood
Up to his office door where Monica’s father now stood
He handed her over, then stepped on inside
Monica simply starred at her father with blue eyes opened so wide
He grabbed her collar and started yanking her toward the front door
She tried pulling away yelling, “I won’t go with you no more”
Then suddenly the fire alarm started a loud shrilling ring
“Everybody, single file outside”, the teachers started to sing
Mr. Fulton lost his grip in all of the chaos and confusion
Breaking the glass with my fist, left on my hand a contusion
That was the day Monica Fulton finally got to run away
No one has heard from her since, not even today
I happily spent my three months in the juvenile detention hall
The sentence I received for initiating a false fire alarm call
When Monica ran past me to the opposite end door
She yelled, “Thank you, Joe – I’ll remember this forever and more”
Scam
Fake
Con artist
She. .....he
He.....she
Someone
Something
Robber
Thieves
Use, abuse, misuse me,you and others
Strike before we STRIKE
Hello trash folder
He nods towards a table between the hibiscus
and other flowering plants,
a bit more removed from the racket of passing cars,
the tiny music of forks tapping porcelain dinner plates.
Her eyes spy artwork for sale
hung across mustard-colored walls.
He wants Amore: flatbread
covered with baby spinach,
sliced tomatoes,
melted feta and provolone.
She searches for something more exotic:
can almost taste the tumbling of arugula
and gorgonzola dripped in a vinaigrette
of pear and thyme. Or perhaps
the portobello lasagna,
its cream sauce surrounding
layers of spinach and mozzarella
to go with a glass of good white wine.
But he insists on the flatbread
and places her menu aside,
doesn't catch the shrug
or her wandering eyes.
Tab plus tip: $31.95. Or a bargain
for pride—unaware the real cost
of ordering the pizza was her
disinterested sigh.
Many an angel does wear white,
Though the flawless, blinding, perfect cloth
Is seldom a part of the celestial uniform.
True angelic attire is as often as not
A bloodflecked smock
Inhabited by a cranky, caring cynic
Bent on saving you in spite of yourself.
Dr. Monica, Best Friend to my wife,
And a second sister to myself,
Is such a one.
Unlike The Ones Who Thunder From Above,
"Fear Not!", Dr. Monica never said so on arrival;
She lives in the land of fear
And knows it's always standing by the bedside
While you lie there trying to hang onto your soul.
I know all this, from what she did for me,
Once upon a time when I lay skating
Over Death's bottomless lake,
Steering me past the thin ice.
She came from other places, other duties
To keep on fighting Death in ministering to me
In double, unpaid overtime,
Because that's what the real angels do:
Fight a fight no one can really win,
But persuading Mr. Death it just ain't worth his trouble
To carry off this one, just yet.
Impossibilities being the angelic currency,
She spent them liberally on me,
Finding my blood when my veins tapped out,
Talking to me though I was unconcious,
Inflating the good and tactfully omitting the bad
For those standing watch over me;
Real angels know how and when to lie.
Michael, Umbriel, Gabriel, Ariel
And their subordinates
May dress to impress, up there in Administration;
But down here, where the real work is,
The real angels walk the halls of pain,
Wear smudgy robes
And make sarcastic cracks
In disregard of all religion,
And with firm shakings of a head
Haloed with a mound of wild black hair,
They purse their lips and say,
"Not today, Mr. Death, not today."
Like Dr. Monica.