Best Offhand Poems
A pity I couldn't comprehend
What is happening to my homeland?!
Utter disarray harming my stand
Lives in the clutches of evil hands
The paths we are to walk have no ends
Face demons or bury heart in sand
Bend to the will, the risk in the wind!
To whom would I spill my reprimand?
Motherland, my love is fine and grand
My words of ivory wrap your land
On your sole soil, souls grow and expand
A pity I couldn't comprehend
What is happening to my homeland?!
In cage, dreaming of a promised land
On my life, you have the upper hand
My words if you feel and understand
My pain if you heal and put an end
Rise to a dare and hold a whip hand
The beast took hold of my fairyland
Reins of reign seized by anarchy bands
The world of lies, my ink couldn’t stand
The rain of words beyond my pen's hand
Homeland, if only you apprehend
To your turmoil I can't be offhand
Forgive my passion to a twin land
World of Ivory, my wonderland!
January 17th, 2019
I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
When you are confused, anxious, in pain, your stomach in a granny knot.
Near the end, nowhere to go, no friends, no family that understands.
"Stand in a field and scream," it helps, they say. I can tell you; it does not.
You've given yourself away; soul, body turned into a parking lot.
It feels like you exist only in a twilight world, a no man's land,
when you are confused, anxious, in pain, your stomach in a granny knot.
When your heart has bled bone dry to leave a shriveled purple apricot,
lover gone, left for another, even worse, you heard it second-hand,
"stand in a field and scream;" it helps, they say. I can tell you; it does not.
You've tried and tried so desperately hard, giving everything you've got.
It's like the walking of the living dead with feet in deep dark quicksand
when you are confused, anxious, in pain, your stomach in a granny knot.
When you've lost all you desire, your love, your life, your home, your Camelot,
and it's become much more than you can weather, tolerate, or withstand.
"Stand in a field and scream," it helps, they say. I can tell you; it does not.
From all I've learned in love and life, and that's a lot, here's a parting shot;
by do-gooders and hosts of influencers, it's often said offhand:
"When you are confused, anxious, in pain, your stomach in a granny knot,
stand in a field and scream; it helps," they say. I can tell you; it does not.
So many more. Just a sampling of favorites, per contest instructions.
For each poet I have included a sampling of titles in parentheses.
THREE OF MY FAVORITES
Gershon Wolf
Gershon lands me in stitches.
In his wise and funny hands,
I can’t help but smile or laugh.
A grin happens, belly twitches.
(Sex Sells, War is Hell; Tingles, Twitches, Creaks;
Scant Solace in the Solstice, Old Bessie)
Caron Krutsinger
Caron carries me to Wonderland.
Her muse and faeries’ mischievous.
Earthbound - school, kids and pets.
Her quaint stories, written offhand.
(Sleeping Elfin Baby, Santa Puppy Begs for Bones,
Unicorn with the Rainbow Tail, Fluffy Fat Robin)
Evelyn Judy Buehler
Evelyn’s poems’ immersed in hues.
An imagistic touch of stirring magic.
God will gift her with eternal colors -
Not one of them, she will refuse.
(Clashing Colors, Scarlet Noon, Green Door, Moonlight Blue)
12/30/2022
Who is your best PS poet or poetess Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
“I am Gabriel, in the presence of God, I stand.”
The importance, of the angel’s words,
like lightning strikes - holy, grand.
Far better joy than the song of birds.
Silences faithless tongues, stuns nerves.
The predictions come to pass. God does not lie.
Brilliance of wingspan; respect deserves.
Christ’s come to us, The Dayspring on High.
God’s angel was gentle with Mary, not offhand.
Oh, to hear the treasure of choice words.
Still, she’d have to tell her fiancé, to stand
before him with her claim; to cross words.
To ponder, hold joy, in wonder, her world’s
turned upside-down. In praise, she’d magnify
the Lord. God chose a young virgin who serves.
Christ’s come to us, The Dayspring on High.
Zechariah, in silence, saw God’s right hand.
He questioned, even though an angel burns
before him. Sans understanding of what God planned.
A babe in his old age? A gift disturbs?
God means what He says. Listen to His words.
God is not a man, that He should lie!
Every scripture, in His timing, He confirms.
Christ’s come to us, The Dayspring on High.
Admire the breaking of sunrise light.
The canvas of the sky, a morning sigh.
Dumbfounded speak, the blind have sight.
Christ’s come to us, The Dayspring on High.
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
The death penalty.
What a laugh
And their pulling on strings
To keep this going
As their money bags swing
Lifelessly
From left to right.
How dare they take an old mans
Walking stick.
How dare they beat their wives,
Breaking the rule of thumb.
What catastrophe could place
This sodden child in their
Arms tonight.
She withers with fright
And is ever watchful of
The innkeeper
Who is paying his debt
To society with offhand eyes.
It is not the pangs of living
That silences her pleading.
Nor is it the throttler
With his sweaty palms so bleak.
It's not the putrid taste of
Tomorrows casualties
Or the attempts to stop the bleeding.
It is the innkeeper
Who is regarded as the man who
Sells perjury by the mouthfuls.
The innkeeper
With his iron stomach and
Scruples drunk
On sloth and negligence.
This wear and tear child
Can spot his hands through
The arched back of her manipulator.
His knuckles are white.
His knuckles are screaming
And singing the song of lechery
While he's avoiding whimpers
Of an exploited adolescent.
Avoiding interrogation.
My life is so simple
No blood on my hands
I walk the straight and narrow
Something is offhand
I travel the road of complication
Never to be heard
I sweat the ugly nature , coming within my age
My early recollections carve out my frame
Can I be some enigma ,dancing to a tune
My soul is so reverent that even I think of myself as a buffoon
Oh please help me when I'm stranded sitting at the curb
I wish that I was so adept that even I could make the turn
Jesus was a savior,or so they say
Where is he when you need him ,even with his sway
God I want your magic give it to me in spades
Return me to nature that is one wish i pray
I just want a simple life even if its just one day
The Lord offered His wondrous love
Bringing forgiveness from above
I’m handpicked.
Upholding my faith’s fervent zeal
His truth-covenant shows great seal:
God’s handshake.
Saviour’s branch I am; He’s the vine
My heart accepts His work divine
as handmaid.*
Mighty sovereign of my soul
He leads toward triumphant goal
not offhand.
With Christ making my life blissful
I thank Him, being His grateful
handiwork.
*Luke 1:38 And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word…
May 13, 2020
5th place, "A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1218" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 5/22/2023
The screen draws a hopeless biology
An image of an empty cleaner leaving downstairs
Why won't an idle client advertise?
The bath washes
An inevitable dinner tosses a converse arch
The adjusted approval flies against the clique
Chaos yawns beside a baroque goldfish.
Should the venal ascend beside a fairy chap?
Blood replaces the aesthetic virus
When can blood groan?
Blood scrolls outside the whole.
While bombs starve under blood
The roman censor motivates the subject
When a profitable constituent defines the contrary artwork
Blood dodges his winter inside a hysterical ladder
The soul battles the chemist
And the award spites love
The understood sarcasm treasures love
Love farms behind the sophisticate and pardons the soul
Can a war zone hate in the autumn?
Apologize into an unsuccessful fire
As an offhand antidote gangs a custom
The toad sounds like war behind a saint
An umbrella landscape contours a dated psychosis
Only after war pulses hate.
In the deep of the snow, In the dead of winter,
Under the Aurora Borealis taking our breath away.
The snow turtles jostle, and skittle, and Skim the snow,
All in a beautifully quiet nights, bountiful, wonderful play.
Man has seldom seen this recluse, so gentle and so renowned.
White as the snow packed earth itself, they simply can’t be found.
They sled and slide and scurry to hide before the break of day,
No one knows they’re even there, for they make not even a sound.
Animals respect them for they can’t make them into prey.
Even the polar bears leave them alone, except for to play.
And no matter how much the bears bat them about, I say!
They just close up and go wherever they are conveyed.
Magical, they can swim waters quite cold and really deep.
They eat the little fishes and enjoy whatever they can reap.
A man will never find their den as they dig into the frozen snow,
For like the tundra gophers, they live in the frozen ground below.
I swear they do exist, for a baby once came to me, admiring my fishing pole.
For I had lots of little tasty, yummy, fish that he wanted my son and I to throw.
We obliged him just that once, and then for more nights before we left his land.
But if you're going searching there’s something I should let you know, offhand.
They only show themselves to the pure of heart with a fish offering in your hand.
Last Halloween was scary
with evil brewing strong
when Peggy planned a party
and things went off all wrong
In tatty robe, her hair awry
she slaved all day with care
her neighborhood to satisfy
with an elegant affair
Fine treats she baked and broiled
and decorated in detail
until her appetite was spoiled
and strength had almost failed
The house she'd scrubbed and polished
to a frighteningly bright sheen
every speck of dust demolished
she worked like a machine!
But, oh- the guests arrived too early
before she was quite dressed
and between her looks, and manner surly
were somewhat less than impressed
And to make things even worse
they quipped in her living room
their clever lines, so well-rehearsed
“Oh Peg, we LOVE your costume!”
They waited half a second, while
still within earshot
and sniped with vicious smiles
about all her house was not
How her home was far too small
to host this gathering
with depressing rooms and narrow hall
too shabby for anything!
The kids came in rolled their eyes
at tacky Halloween kitsch
and consoled themselves by cracking-wise
about it all with Mitch
Now Mitch was Peggy's husband
and should've known her mind
but he said things offhand
that came off as unkind
Then Nan came in with Merrilee
a chef of snobby taste
who (nose turned up), quite warily
declared the food “a waste”
Then as the midnight beckoned
Peg raged against the room
(a “woman scorned”, I reckon...)
the party met their doom!
___
A Halloween poem to make up for my deceptively titled 'The Living Dead' poem... which has nothing to do with the holiday!
She reminded mi of Liz thou prettier than Liz
She was engrossed in her smart phone... me relaxed
next to her chat chatting business... i could tell shes engrossed
not in her smart chats.... but in my chat with my buddy Sam
her enthusiasm keeps rising unable to hold it any more she joins
Albeit i an offhand sort of way.... Cynthia is in a quest
same as i... in our academic deans office at the varsity
Cynthia is on an errand.. she needs authentication of sorts
Her she is on an errand.. but going by looks i guess she is fun
fun to be with.. and now i do know fun to talk with am so wired
so outgoing is she...the guys at college call it the 'it' factor
it means the different between being labeled charming or...
outgoing, snob, geek, smart or simply amazing.. am not being
judgmental... and am not into labeling but into connecting..
connecting with... and Cynthia is already so connected
Delightful... a carelessly used word by them con artist
but am not interested in a con game but in the lady...
she isn't snobbish... as i do now have the precious number
if love were religion she and i followers.. we would fly on wings
delivered to the city of pleasure.. for keeping ideals of the faith
Of love and morals.. i guess well have to find out but am betting
betting on my mortal name and by the spark of flames in her eyes...
shes fun to be with and your's am not the type to be snobbish.. especially
especially when am dealing with such a pretty girl its till and until.. i know her
we part me thinking... that our encounter is.. for its the predestined path....
lewis nyaga
mku.. 1847hrs
a dedication to Cynthia
60's Child
I found myself at the tail end of childhood then,
Coming out of its long sunny sleep;
The days and nights of pleasures, terrors, wonders
Strung together to make up the pitted landscape
Of being small
Still filled my world and made it whole.
Mostly i remember things like:
Summer crab feasts, "I Love Lucy" reruns
"Laugh-In" bits, the drone of ball games on t.v.,
Trips into town to my Grandfather's old store
For candy and comics
Back before my town became Yuppie Central.
Another child raised beneath the cathode rays' glow,
My mind absorbed images, words with only hinted meanings
- Like the smiling faces in the cigarette ads
The offhand reports of body counts
From a faraway, makebelive war,
i heard and felt the many signs of strain
Between the longhaired Bigger Kids and their parents;
But not for me their world of confused revolt.
That would come later, milder in my case
When I became one of their second, weaker, wave.
No, I stepped out of the close land of childhood
Just after it was all over;
Wondering ever since,
Just what it was I'd missed, or hadn't
By dint of being a kid of the fabled 60's.
A sure shot, he sets up a can, and digs his heels in the sand
feet spread, a hat on his head, a gun in his hand: he looks grand.
Cloudy skies shade the sun from his eyes, letting him aim as planned:
and that can, flew apart, just like he knew it would, beforehand.
His friend wants to end their partnership, he said as much, offhand:
a showdown’s coming; it'll all come down to who's quick of hand.
Their morels a hoax: they rob folks and sell stolen contraband
and hide their cash in the wetlands, stashing their loot in quicksand.
Two of the roughest, toughest gringos north of the Rio Grande
stand ready to test how much pain the other man can withstand.
Their shared desire to fire... will send one man to the promised land:
this is life and death, final breath, well beyond a reprimand.
They're fighting for reasons neither man can quite understand:
it's all about ego, and which gunslinger is in command.