Best Move Around Poems
(Alternative Ending for Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater)
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.
Do you think he kept his wife so well
by putting her inside a pumpkin shell?
Inside that shell she had no room
to move around. A rotten groom
was Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.
In the end, his wife could not be found
by friends or family. He’d thrown away the key,
and his wife was not allowed
to leave that stinking pumpkin shell.
Rumor is from loneliness she died.
Peter cruelly put all empathy aside.
A cat jumped in the river
to meet a fellow fish,
he wanted to be like them
it was his only wish.
He figured he could do it
he had everything it takes,
with whiskers on his front parts
and a tail a catfish makes.
He swam down to the bottom
while holding in his breath,
but soon began to worry
that this might end in his death.
His little heart was pounding
as he raced back to the top,
he determined if he made it
that he wasn't going to stop.
He broke the surface with a splash
and gulped in lots of air,
He climbed up the embankment
and ran like he didn't care.
He ran through empty fields
and to home ran all the way,
and when he got their safely
stopped to think about the day...
"I love to watch the catfish
as they circle down below,
they move around so effortless
and offer quite a show."
He wanted to be like them
so he thought, in blissful glee,
but then he came to realize
...'twas curiosity.
Their mesmerizing silky glide
and tantalizing tryst,
offered a temptation
that brings us to this twist:
The cat by then concluded
that it was to be his fate,
that he should rather have the catfish
on his dinner plate.
Houston
I wonder if the summer rain was warm
that poured like Pharaoh’s plagues upon the town
as people waded from their homes in swarms
and small craft was the mode to move around.
Memories lost by tempest's hurt and harm
float pass as muddy waters flood the ground.
The summer rain may be a hurricane,
a wicked, wind song made in sad refrain.
9/3/17
There you are being conceived in your mother's womb.
Before you know it you will be born in this world
real soon.
As you develop; you start to move around. You take in
your first food as your mom gobbles it down.
Your ears start to develop; behold now you can hear!
You start to move around as the sounds you hear are
weird.
You look around to only darkness. So you yawn and fall
asleep. Look at those precious toes that are taking
shape on your little feet!
You hear your mother talking and you react to her voice.
You start to kick. You start to coo. It seems to make
you rejoice.
I can hear the sound of your heart beat, and at hearing
it I fall in love. I take a moment to see what is now
going on in heaven above.
Yah smiles down upon you as a precious baby is starting
to take shape. Everything seems good so far, but hold up
baby...wait!
A pain hits you hard. You're wondering what's the
commotion. You don't even know it, but your mom
is now having an abortion.
You don't deserve this. You're a precious baby. To be
born is the Father's will. But you don't even know it,
because now you are being killed.
The pain is killing you...unbearable pain, but what can
you do. It hurts too much to say this is what your mom
thinks of you.
Some think they know better, but your life began at
conception. Why do some think otherwise? Is it because
they fell victim to the devil's deception?
Look at you torn to pieces. I'm crying at the sight
of you. But it's a relief to your mother, she sees a
different point of view.
Another child dead. Another life gone. I can't control
my emotion. A precious gift from above is now the victim
of another abortion.
If I ruled the world I'd paint it mostly blue,
Spiders would build the finest webs - I'd decree the morning dew,
Auroras would shimmer above the poles, their colors ringing true,
Those would follow my first thought, "Good grief! What will I do?"
Puppies would be off to run and romp, kittens added to the chases,
Mountains, deserts and oceans - set down in law as special places,
The red kite's ride, the jaguar's stride, moon and trees within their races,
The sable's fur, the cheetah's purr, we'd acknowledge such given graces,
And I'd praise the honored beauty in elderly people's faces.
Wind would dance across the sand, long waves would come ashore,
Unfair rebukes and tactical nukes - do we need this stuff anymore?
Graceful herds would move around the Serengeti plain,
I'd reach across the ocean, try to lessen my good friend's pain.
I'd find the key to hardened hearts,
To quell our many tribal wars,
Diplomatic smarts and peaceful arts,
Those things I'd underscore.
No more homeless, evermore - from that they would be free,
(I'd live with the skepticism that we could ever all agree.)
I'd want to know all the poets, every poet that can be,
To never miss the poetry, it's in every soul, you see.
24 February 2017
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
i lay stilled atop this muddied cold ground
a castaway like autumn's leaves deadened
unable, unwilling to move around
i sit bloodied, like skies of dawn, reddened
i am bathed in november's cold, harsh rain
pummeled by the fate of past's sniffling cries
slowly succumbing beneath weighted pain
i reach out attempting to dry my eyes
perhaps it is the will of fate to die
to wither and crumble atop this ground
to gather where the helpless others lie
to succumb here, unseen, wrinkled and browned
is life's pain something to be remembered
or cast off in the winds of december?
11/21/2020
A right to free movement
A right to live
Where we want
Should be our perogative
We should not feel that we can not roam
Or decide to set down new roots
Or to find a new home.
Borders are a man made concept
Nothing to with nature or creations set up
They were created by those who wish to rule
Making it easy for them control
Dividing people into smaller groups
Then instilling within them a tribal instinct,
Selling them an identity of nationhood
Proud to march under flags and anthems
Creating many individual races
This started back as further than the dark ages
Almost since the dawn of man
A flaw that may see us all dammed
Unless we begin to evolve back into a state
The we started off as
Just one race
That allows everyone to share
And move around the planet
Sharing cultures, faith and love
Sharing the wealth of which there's more than enough
Working in communities to create much more
One mass co-operative force
Respecting the resources of this earth
Not just exploiting it for all its worth
But nurturing and using permaculture to grow
The foundations of the seeds we grow
And fostering tolerance between us all
Building a peace that is eternal
Putting an end to war through self rule
Existentialism becomes the new tool
Of being your own authority
Showing kindness and compassion to all
This is my dream I share with you all
One race
One love
One peace is may call.
Up the rolling hills
As much green as one can see
Meeting with blue sky
As colors swirl together
Beauty expressed with its heart
The greatest green grass
Displaying color outside
On the brightest fields
A gorgeous feel about it
A love on the ground below
The hills move around
Where the sky fills, up above
A cyan blue shown
Mixed perfectly with the green
Of the wondrous grass pronounced
The greenery here
In this harmonious land
Brightens the dreary
A happy day is brought forth
From this delightful green place
Russell Sivey
Great things
are always recognized
They are given awards and prizes
History records the great things;
spurts of revolutionary thought creating,
civilization course changing
These be the elements of great things
But, what of the small things,
the little things
that often go unnoticed and unseen
Not appreciated much are the small things
Like a kind word of encouragement,
given to a weary soul
in need of a wee bit of comforting
Such a small act of love
sprinkled on fallow ground,
sprouts a great soul revival
which in turn makes more love abound
Mustard seed things
make mountains move around
Small things be the catalyst for great spiritual transforming
I will sing praises of all the small things
given to me in my lifetime
To awake each day,
and feel the love of another morning sunrise
To go to sleep peacefully at night,
and dream of loving things
that will flow to me in rainbow rivers of light
So beautiful are the small things,
things I will always speak of;
simple little things ...
like seeing a blooming flower
send forth a sweet fragrance of love
Most of the days as I buy vegetables
the old woman would move around
close to me like the winter tree
The leaves mostly robbed by the time
tangled age seated in the hair
the freckles painting the drudgery
The unwashed and overused sari
stained by the tears of poverty
Would not speak to beg money
would just move around
with the eloquent wounds
Most of the days but not every time
I would give her small amounts
A faint almost invisible smile
Would come and disappear
The lips lacked tissue
The other day in the late afternoon
when the shadows had started prolonging
under the banyan tree
the afternoon light and the leaves
wove hand in hand a story in the shadow
The very small and irregular shapes
of the pale soft light
sat in such a way that gave the impression
of a woman squatted on the pavement
It looked so from a distance of say thirty feet
As I came close
I found the old woman sprinkling
parched rice to the pigeons
The source of the shadow the afternoon painted
beneath the tree
A little tissue collected in the lips now
The lilac of love doesn't wither
Nor the object
______________________________________
March 2, 2018
Their evening starts
With dinner and a dance
It's taken many months
To be standing in this stance
Slow delightful moves
As they move around the floor
In their hearts they know
Their evening cries for more
The moment moves their wants
As they share thoughts with a kiss
The texture of their touch
From their earlier evening wish
Now their dance is over
They sit and drink some wine
And share chats and kisses
Captured in their time
Moving close together
His hands start to walk
Like an adventurer on her body
As their gentle kissing locks
At each and every button
He opens, she heavenly sighs
Revealing this lovely dove
She's only for his eyes
Her blouse now ajar
His breath, she takes away
Her tanned delightful cleavage
Invites his hands to play
Gentle as can be
He glides to feel her charms
Excitement shows through
As she holds him in her arms
His hands re-adventure
Her torso he slowly crawls
To reach his destination
Her heavenly scented walls
He zigs her inner thighs
Like meandering river flows
For he knows up ahead
In her garden lies a rose
Minutes pass with kisses
Complimenting with passionate touch
Her garden he has reached
Allowing, she loves him such
Her rose, with petal like frills
Moist in the evening dew
Her garden gate he enters
She sighs, as she welcomes him through
The walk he takes so slowly
As he absorbs her inner walls
Upon seeing her heart
He's running ten feet tall
The excitement in their hearts
Is released and begins to flow
A rush of groans and sighs
All over their bodies, show
Breathing peaks with kisses
As they hold each other tight
The Highlander and his Dove
Declared their love tonight
I am cool water,
You are a lily, upon ...
I move around and about -
Sustain you, cradle you.
Drink of me ...
And bloom!
You are blossom, soft,
To my supple branching ...
You are fragrance and beauty,
Giggling in the breeze.
Hold tight to me ...
And abound!
I am a mistral, aloft,
You, the waxwing dancing -
Unseen and unknowable, yet ...
I am care and constant.
Press your wings upon me ...
And soar!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Select 5, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Corona has...
conquered
hearts of
people.
And
those,
with
pessi-
mistic
thoughts are
gonna conceal...
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
their While, people
Parts with opti- mistic
With thoughts are gonna
Gloves move around
and with self-assurance,
Masks faith and
to per- hope to
form regain
their their lock-
tasks. down loss.
2-5-2020
~DEEPA~
Disclaimer: Read continuously as C-19
(start with C,move on to 1 and then 9).
Don’t see the soldiers as they move around,
Through the jungle without a sound,
Crawl along this wet,cold ground,
These american boys are victory bound.
Fighting a war they believe is right,
No end is near no end in sight,
One more day one more fight,
See the tunnel but see no light.
Lay me down to get some sleep,
In your dreams the battle seeps,
Mountains high and valleys deep,
What you sow is what you reap.
Visit graves where buddies lay,
Fought for freedom the american way,
War still haunts you night and day,
This is the story of a green beret.
MARTY WEST