Best Offshoot Poems
With the rules she is quite savvy
Yet she has to pay a levy
She knows for a fact
The weight is exact
But, madam, she is top-heavy.
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This is an offshoot to Jan's "Lets All Embrace Big Boobs"
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Contest: A poem you have not entered in a contest # 7
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placing: 4th
Categories:
offshoot, fun,
Form:
Limerick
Cosmos magic assails me, delights me, entices me.
Heavenly bliss smiles upon my willingness to become one.
Spiritual energy lifts me, inspires me.
Ascending, I transmute
A star now, I smile at my empty chair.
Other stars congregate around me. Welcome back, they whisper.
Not in a voice, but in gentle, loving, thoughts.
I recognize them, they are the ones I had forgotten.
I am feeling blissful, loved, experiencing a soul level I had
Been banned from retaining in my earth body.
My empty chair sends love to the hickory tree behind her.
I realize they are related. At one time, she was an offshoot from
the tree's roots.
I am an offshoot of another world.
Leaving this one behind will be no hardship.
Sparkling, dazzling energy enhances and promotes sheer happiness.
I feel a delight I had forgotten.
I am delicately surrounded by the cosmos which loves me now,
Has always loved me, and will forever love me.
I say "I have missed you so much!"
Knowing the one I have missed is me.
I have never felt so loved.
Categories:
offshoot, happiness, imagery, life, love,
Form:
Free verse
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***
Categories:
offshoot, creation, poetry, , literature,
Form:
Free verse
The way..' Which way? Shown them; us.. One life.'
In a world containing many angles.
Having doubt as downtime probes in' faces observe,
Backs hold awareness yet in turning; still.' A Simile of watching is'
Despite my protests I must so re-visit, gather of broken desires
Of intention within, around I survey, listening to the disquiet of souls..
As my mind ponders.. Love, It alone makes sense, not a tawdry love.'
Not a copy love; pressed on us by media, neither love of slander again
A promoted devaluation.'
A way exists.' not manufactured from the foibles of human emotion..
Neither an offshoot from its scheming; or the wellspring of deceit,
Open as eternity, to those who truly seek; call out now in the tumult'
Or silence, before the grave is opened.. That shadow of a 'black hole'
Hell has its mirror image, do not be fooled.' Yet the creator has made redemption'
All exists..' The good and the evil, 'look' I lay a blessing and a curse before you'
Choose that which you desire.!
Categories:
offshoot, blessing,
Form:
Narrative
Nigeria.
The country of my birth. Beautiful in youth. Wrinkled as the years pass by. Through no fault of hers. But by the doing and undoing of her children, consciously and unconsciously.
Blessed by God. Impoverished by mankind.
Struggling for self-liberation but incarcerated by wicked and egoistic souls. Souls who prefer to squander and milk the nation today with the goal of enjoying life and securing the future of their lineage.
Nigeria.
Everytime I read the dailies, the thought of what might have been makes it all the more pathetic. A nation whose citizens should ‘swim’ in milk and honey. Whose name should be revered amongst the comity of nations. But for the myopic thinking of our leaders – past and present – we are where we find ourselves; in the woods. The genesis started with their actions and inactions.
Directly or indirectly, the fault is ours to bear. Forget colonization. Forget its offshoot, neo-colonization. We can be what we want to be. Fortune favours the prepared.
Nigeria.
A weak giant.
Clueless leaders.
A country with no respect for history. For the rule of law.
Whose citizens are permeated with a brief memory span.
Nigeria.
How can looters still have the temerity to contest elections after their misdeeds some years ago! And people will vote!
Another election is forthcoming; we will forget the ordeals of the past. And vote these insatiable, power-hungry, monstrously greedy, sinister people called ‘leaders’ into power!
Posterity will judge. If it can’t, then God.
Nigeria.
Girls are being kidnapped. Maybe raped and dehumanized. Students are on strike and the government does not give a hoot. Some governors are forever enriching themselves by passing bills that will pay them billions of taxpayers’ hard-earned funds. Pensioners are being owed. Poverty is on the increase. Unemployment too. Crime. Name them.
All these in a sane country!
Nigeria.
Until our ‘leaders’ are stopped from travelling abroad to treat headaches.
Until a law is passed mandating their children to school in public institutions.
Until every politician is made accountable for every kobo spent.
Until the rule of law is supreme.
Until our votes count…
Things will sure fall apart in this country.
Categories:
offshoot, africa, allegory, anger, betrayal,
Form:
Free verse
Hades and Tormented Souls (the Dwelling)
(presenting a fragment of the second part promised)
Where the dark wind blows, lies abound
deep into a ravenous, hellish pit.
Lost souls cry and moan deep under ground
under evil torture each must submit.
Dark Hades, ancients called this gloom
agonizing souls, cast into Hell.
Hideous monsters working in every room
death's stinking odor the smell.
Shrill cries from pain immensely great
as tortured minds see so clear.
The miseries they and others sadly ate
embracing the dark seeds of fear.
Panic in one room, terror in another
burning brands searing souls.
So sweet the agonizing cries for mother
as demons reach their goals.
Each torment according to its worst sin
eyes gouged , for depraved acts.
Hearts sliced, tossed into a burning bin
tongues torched for lying facts.
Hands crushed for stealing other's gains
whips slashing across bloody backs.
Every torture imagined for greater pains
even burning in oil soaked sacks.
Deepest level, reserved for special guests
darkest demons there get to play.
Inflicting deeper pain by evil's requests
to those that thought never to pay!
Where the dark wind blows, lies abound
deep into a ravenous, hellish pit.
Lost souls cry and moan deep under ground
under evil torture each must submit.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-07-2015
Previous Note from the Acheron poem:
Previously presented was part one-
The Tumid River of Acheron (the journey) Part One-Revised.
The journey into HADES by way of crossing the Styx.
The river Styx is actually an offshoot of the Acheron
that splits into the Styx and the Cocytus.
Part two now has two lines written. It will be titled ,
Hades and Tormented Souls (the Dwelling)..
I have no preset limit to the second part, may be
longer or shorter. I suspect it will be even longer.
I hope the readers enjoy this write. I wanted to do
something dark and move away from all my love, romance
and Nature writes. A bit of variety to stir my
imagination...
I have made several corrections to this poem in the last
few days.
Categories:
offshoot, art, cry, dark, death,
Form:
Rhyme
A doctor ordained to bring people from death to life
Turning into an assassin sending them from life to death
Lopsided was his brain, a sure psychopath
Dr. Harold Shipman committed crime after crime in stealth
None suspected him of his evil designs
And he continued his sinister escapade for long.
Did violence rage in his heart as a youth?
Or did his ego and wickedness subdue him lifelong?
He decimated not just one or two but many
Were they his opponents, no one knows
Sadly they were all elderly women,
Who were never his adversaries, one has to suppose..
Was he ruled by some uncontrollable impulses?
Or as a child did something tear him apart?
Were they crimes done in cold blood?
Or the offshoot of a dark malice hidden away in his heart
As a child seeing his mother’s suffering and death
From painful cancer and being under morphine
He must have thought that death was more covetable than being in pain
Whose suffering had dealt a death blow to him in his teen
Were his killings an act of recompense or was he a sadist,
Deriving pleasure out of his heinous acts- still a shrouded mystery
Before much investigation could be done about his psyche
He hanged himself, becoming part of history
Intriguing is the working of human brain
None can think of Shipman without some trace of pain
August.21.2022
`~ Placed Sixth~
Dr. Harold Shipman Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Joe Maverick
Categories:
offshoot, abuse, betrayal, evil, murder,
Form:
Rhyme
Indelible link to a bygone event,
one clutches with foolproof recall,
of cerulean cloud-ridden sky,
on that pivotal day I penned my first opus,
I strolled at a leisurely pace,
down this charming but tangled green lane,
that would later perturb the gist of my tract,
uncanny those sun-streak formations,
sinuous transient rich-coloured sequence,
each passing cloud had this mammoth offshoot,
kaleidoscope medium hue snatch,
wild spur to psychic pictorial harvest,
downward plod seemed so apt as a title,
perky whisper from cotton wool sweep,
had its dawn in thin veil mists,
I zestfully scribbled each thought,
without stick, hum and haw, tribulation,
prickly hedge, blue fly drone, rambling briar,
found their unforeseen Orphic voodoo,
fervent stanza and spiral quicksand,
spooky banshee air wail raucous thriller,
to spore shedding fern, somber ripple or dash,
tangy vapour guide rails afterglow,
drop by drop float on satin rim fleece,
and so my first plot was conceived,
at the whim of a noonday cloud
Categories:
offshoot, art, celebration, color, deep,
Form:
Free verse
There’s a burning yen nomadic deep within entrenched,
to absorb fresh environments ambrosial on foot,
where incidental hue or august colour wash abound,
or that March bloom tantalising shady patch,
with its dreamlike mystic wide-flung allure,
some blue pigment dawn whisper tempting spur on,
that hidden orange-red sunlit prompt I can’t curb,
I follow blindly without oppugning brier cloak
pitfalls,
yet noonday mishap neither blight nor wanton cross,
as other fellow venturers might script a manifold offshoot,
but from sound and slant sentient aspect,
I can awaken fond galvanic episodes,
of uproarious elation emanating from a golden grained beach,
where energetic offspring unleash their zeal,
adjacent to labyrinthine thriving townscapes,
ancient river, the stuff of verse and bard,
parallels its salted surging thunderous ripple,
with its indigo bold rush beneath a stoic wharf.
to capture lush spots
with the pourboire of bright eye
as timeless haven
Yet late phase hours settings have cachet,
in tandem with the peep of day burst,
as I reveal a harvest swept ashore,
flotilla at a dock and day boundary,
so nocturnal bliss enraptured round each plinth,
and plethora of svelte unearthly steps,
where haunted hair-raising halos splash,
adding lustrous night fly element,
beside the raucous alleyway caper,
inchoate, invisible, intriguing inlay,
shards of boisterous daring impishness,
cast at my intrepid moonlit atman,
enigmatic echoes chase skinflint shadows,
whoosh of splintered black ice sepulchral,
under reckless swerving car manoeuvre,
muddy slush speckled rim upshot,
street lanterns wondrous wide arc madrigal,
spoon wink and woo lambent opus,
banisher of eerie eve ghost glow silence
earth atmosphere shall
watch bemused as moonlight orb
peers at globe beneath
Categories:
offshoot, celebration, character, color, deep,
Form:
Haibun
student they are
on the wings of knowledge,
on mirthful wings of angel,
on light of inside and outside
smiling touches them purely
fresh mind, fresh eye view to the future
they are frolicsome for acquiring knowledge
together footsteps on the airway road
crossing they are every step of offshoot thinking
smiling, playing, gossiping, seeing, looking
and walking to the bright career
they are child to teenage on same base
on angelic wings and heavenly light
suddenly the MounTain LigHt comes upon them
comes upon them as Fat-Man and Little-Boy
it burns their wings of angelic soul
put off the light of happiness
cut up the two souls from their chain
wounded many of their caravan
MounTain LigHt brings mourning bliss for them!
it has no soul, no eye, no veins, no blood of kindness
it understands only the procession of death
it understands royal roads of Dhaka, Chattogram,
Rajshahi, Khulna, Rangpur, Sylhet, Barishal
it understands tareque masud, mishuk munier to Mim, Rajib and so on
it understands the darkness of grave yard
it understands the death angel Azraeal and greets him on inert roads
it understands a bier and shrouded dead body
it understands the epitaph with bereavement motherly tears
oh! light of life is not secured still on road
every innocent soul is devoured abruptly
giant death angel transform himself on vehicle
it comes as MounTain LigHt and fires, razes
nonsense demonic driver enjoys the race on bail
excited uncontrolled peoples ruminate stability,
demolish more lively soul in blind emotion
oh! death you are mad provoker on road to road
-August 09, 2018
*****
Note: - written on Diya Khanam Mim and Abdul Karim Rajib, student of Shaheed Ramiz Uddin Cantonment College, Dhaka were died on 29 July, 2018, Jabal-e-Noor Paribahan ran over them!
Categories:
offshoot, death, depression, nonsense,
Form:
Prose Poetry
We have reached the base of the Idol
where the iron is now mixed with clay
a kingdom broken and fractured
its lack of strength in full display
There can never be any cohesion
of elements weak and debased
governments and religions so splintered
where virtue and truth is erased
Oh senate of Rome you still rule here
and golden coins her decisions make
the amalgamations of your religions
continue the confusion you create
Your churches fictions were born in Persia
and your idols birth from Egypt took root
from Greece and Rome your philosophy
and senators who lie for money your offshoot
The former fools of the court now staged
the drunken revelry of Greece and Rome
highly paid keep your citizens engaged
is the takeout they dine on at home
History now accurately documents your error
the scribes no longer paid to hide your sin
but every truth has been now recorded
into the book of time not held by men
Men live as though
no record to their life exists
that every reflection of our minds and thought
and of our bodies
not in time encased
They seem as quickly to forget
the place where all exist
in where ever is the book
of time and space consist
Our inheritance millennia's of lies
the table of the world of thought
it has twisted the aim of the target
until our own destruction will have it brought
Tis the net and web that seeks to catch us
the bait is saturated with wine and song
a cup full drunk with its inebriation
until you cannot see what's right from wrong
Every conception in time has given birth
to the ideology that has taken root in man
it has grown into the tree that has not worth
and its branches to be burned and condemned
Men lavish praise on their idols
for the trophies and the titles to win
but if it is self service that you are seeking
the table that's spread will in death end
sources , Daniel
COPYRIGHT © 2012 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Categories:
offshoot, dedication, devotion, faith, history,
Form:
Free verse
There’s a lot of strange things going on in our world and our governments keep many of these sinister goings on under wraps.
Quote by poet.
At the edge of our town was a heavily guarded building, and was rumoured that it was an offshoot of area 51, You could easily drive past it because it was surrounded by tall poplar trees. Old wives's tales I thought until one hot June night last year. I was driving home after visiting a friend and it had just turned midnight then my car spluttered to a halt," Damn" I said, I was out of gas, it was all I needed. I got out of the car and started walking, there was a full moon, so it was bright and it was about a half hour walk home; I heard a noise and to my right was a tall dark humanoid creature moving by the tree-line . Then above I noticed a greenish white vapour trail. I quickened my pace then heard gunfire and heard what sounded like an air raid siren, I was seized with terror and started running as fast as I could. In the distance I saw lights coming towards me. Three big army trucks passed me, heading for the building I thought, I reached town and headed for the police station to report what I'd seen. Sergeant Smith whom I knew was on duty, I started to tell him my story." Stop right there” he said, "If I log this, it won’t end well believe me”.
Categories:
offshoot, fantasy, fear, moon,
Form:
Free verse
Hot loom produced the treasured weave
Of ramshackle flesh woven. Sweated conjugation
Of thrust and deep throated grind,
To bind the seminal blood and body.
That produce, that offshoot of impaled loin,
Of lapping womb invite. Genesis penetration
Of love or instant hedonism
To rise the ovarian phoenix.
Some love-lust clay creates perfection
Of savagery and seconds. Nine months incubation
Of period art and swollen beauty flawed
To shape the jewel's faultless facets.
And false gods and artists tear their eyes
Of frustrated inferiority. Failed in emulation
Of the absolute and joyous capacity
To author such creation.
Categories:
offshoot, art,
Form:
Today I undertake to put on the highest cloak of humility.
To consider myself as an offshoot of Grace.
To act in the lowest denomination of pride.
As much as place other before me in love,
to place every human above my one unit cell of self.
To uphold the pre-eminence of Christ while He increases as I decrease.
I pledge to cancel out all forms of carnal competition which births in the me envy and pride.
And rest in the only favor our Lord supreme places in my realm.
I have decided to bend low to life and in life.
So that His strength will pull me on to honor, glorified in His righteousness.
I therefore declare, that I am nothing without Him and need His sufficiency to add flesh to my inadequacies.
I will let God completely have His way.
For if God claims me in my state of genuine pure humility, He will work it all out Himself,
As He is the one who works in me to do His good will and pleasure.
Categories:
offshoot, appreciation, humanity, motivation, wisdom,
Form:
Didactic
Poetry IS the Mother of ALL art.
The completion and the part.
A private punchline-divine.
Be it the fruit or be it the vine.
It is The IS, sometimes the Music,
sometimes the Muse for us.
The usery that uses us.
The gizt of hearts in infatuation,
of the telling apart.
Insanity or bust.
Between lesson and instruction.
To be or it's destruction.
The painting and the canvas,
bared for emotions-teeth to take a bite of that
sweet ****- au pair with a peculiar incisor inflection.
Like a werewolf transforming with a tear, gleaming
to go on a tear.
Of whatever amazes or confounds us.
It uplifts and surrounds us.
There is poetry in a hungry infant,
and the warmth of a Mother- the need pregnant,
expectant.
Symbiotic-
Symmetry-
Symbolic-
Systemry- in offshoot,
Automatic
Ethereal firmament
To drink of
the bulwarks of love that
cultivates the brainworks as it wallows in
possibilities mud,
taking thought into-the bliss-of-the asunder,
of connecting string
Gloriously plundered.
Poetry is,
A glimpse of
"The Way."
Sparking like a pinwheel,
on freedom day,
growing, blooming
the flowers seed of
Intensity, integrity, glowing into
Life's density in sporadic release of splay.
The I Am. Pied piping His signature conducting groove
into our channels.
As the orchestra plays.
The call that we all dance to.
Molding the Earth like pottery of clay.
God's use of snapshots of what love should be.
Has a chance to put from the reach of it's ease'.
The Universe His studio, and dispensary.
WE the ones fogging the lenses scope of things
(needing proofs before the picture is even through/
or while the ink is still new.)
Because it IS both abstract and it IS REAL.
There IS Contagiousness in poetry's mental feel.
Its thundering peel, uncovering, rolling. Roaring in zeal.
In a symphony of opened seals.
Showing like a signet ring.
Shofar in the spring of knowing.
Categories:
offshoot, art, inspiration, inspirational, poems,
Form:
Rhyme