Best One Hundred Poems
Inside twinkling eyes of nights bloom
Garden flowers whisper
Peeking through tree branches, heads nod
Vines twine graceful arbor crown
Rows covered with pretty petals
Faces of sunflowers
Dream of tomorrows honey bee
Sleepy yawns of sweet peas
Early morning darkness shrouds daisy
Happy go lucky petals
Spin cartwheels across the night sky
Honeysuckle smiles grace fence
Veil of mist twirling through hearth
Maiden’s shy smile sleeping
Exuberant gaze waiting brightly
Bluebell colors swirl
Dew drops dripping off Iris tongues
Moon beams warm tulips
Kiss of starlight rejoice each rose
Pepper nasturtium petal
Under Hostas' green leaf shelter
Nestles dainty slippers
Woven of heaven’s sweet scents
Garlands adorn the sky
Pirouette back down to earth
And open the garden gate
Dawn’s an hour’s chime away
In mystical days of June
BRIAN'S CHOICE X,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
2nd Place
written August 23, 2019
“Pretty lady”, let me love you, take you places you’ve never been
All the pain you’ve gone through, I’ll make sure it don’t happen again
I promise to always comfort you, your burdens I will bear
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to prove to you I truly care!
As long as there’s a sky, and those stars continue to shine above
You will always see it in my eye what I feel for you is 100% love!
"Sexy Man," you are what I want plus more.
Your comfort mopped my tears right off the floor.
I love the way you caress and touch me.
Arousing the inner beauty for all to see.
My world you conquered when push came to shove.
I give you my thoughts, my emotions, my lust, and my "100% love."
another typical day, with feet on the ground
ordering the hedge to meet my image of trim
many measured bits fall before the cutting edge
casual thoughts detach, is there anybody in ?
then some mental inner disturbance jangles
with corresponding jig, nerves rip in deeper
following the run of a stalk, the hang of a sprig
so prune the untidy and unwelcome creeper
movement to the side of my eye is caught
something is scared, behind dense vegetation
the fast beating breast of a baby brown bird
frantic flutter flash, demented aggravation
descends to the pavement in fear driven escape
panic ruptures in flood from a half sliced-off wing
chest partly open, feathers flecked red with blood
cupped warm in my hand, young life does cling
grim realisation, fledgling with no hope
pressure leaking, ebbing from a dying heart
but then our eyes meet, answers it is seeking
where's my mum, when can my flying lessons start?'
the deed is now done, the light that shone has gone out
just the salt of my tears at this horrible juncture
the killing of one hundred and fifty million years
and this clumsy ape's evolutionary puncture
undiluted guilt, too much concentration to bear
to forgive and assuage, soothing rational thought
replacement anger and even more depressing rage
bombs target children when careless wars are fought
imagine that child, in screaming terrified terror
in mortal trouble, reduced to core instinct base
an external world has turned your home into rubble
where's my mum, why can't I see her familiar face?'
Casarah wants us to write happy
That’s not an easy job
My fickle muse has left me
She’s turned into quite a snob
She won’t let me write a poem that’s funny
Not even a short limerick
Now my world is dark not sunny
I’m feeling a little bit sick
So I’ve locked her in a cupboard
She’s wailing and creating a fuss
Her plans to gag me are scuppered
I’ve just GOT to write humourous
My capricious muse is locked away
I can hear her starting to cry
I’ll let her out one day
That doesn’t end with a Y!
Contest One hundred and one words - CHECKED WITH WORD COUNTER
Sponsor Casarah Nance
31st August 2015
One hundred percent, can you see it?
Maybe - imagine if that were a pool.
A pool of water maybe or a pool of blood?
What power dictates true endeavour?
What justifies what stakes rise?
Perhaps we stand here in front of pure evil?
Perhaps it’s pure love we see under a reddening sky.
How dangerous is it?
How sharp is the hand that slices to kill, how blunt is the fist that strikes for the freedom of you and me to survive?
One hundred percent is every fibre, every thought, every sight seen through the eyes and deep in the minds eye. All the pumping blood, heart beats, memories of love and hate draining into the sea, rotting on the ground or exploding in the vast sky. Every feeling felt, every tear, scream or cry in an instant goes by.
What of those who give one hundred percent for our lands, for our democracy. What of those out there today or tonight?
To give one hundred percent for most is too much because you can never be free. To give one hundred percent for those who you love do you separate yourself from humanity?
Imagine the pool of darkening water, imagine the lonely cloud in the deep blue sky.
Those who give one hundred percent for you and for me on foreign fields, in foreign seas or skies.............
.............die.
If all could be said
With one hundred thirty six words
Could my thoughts be coherent
Would words travel in herds
Would they race across pages
receiving thunderous applause
Would they cause one to ponder
or take a moment of pause
If words could take flight
Somehow written in the sky
There your eyes might marvel
thoughts traveling high
Witness the majesty
of words raining down
Stories of paupers
or a King with a crown
So many detailed stories
One hundred thirty six words rearranged
Stories of contented people
or of others estranged.
So I ask you to write
Share your words with me
You may be the next Will Shakespeare
Asking “To be or not to be?”
Now I must finish
My words have run out
You might ask me
“What are you talking about?”
Written for John Lawless’s One Hundred Thirty Six Word Poetry Contest.
August 23 2019
The birth of Jesus is the cause for us to celebrate.
No Frankincense and Myrrh; we’ve learned a different trait.
Some celebrate in splendour the manger and the hay -
driving home to join Jesus and are missing Christmas day.
One hundred Christmas dinners never make the plate.
No one wants their presents, Christmas cake or celebrate.
The empty chair is stared upon; no one has the taste,
so one hundred Christmas dinners go to waste.
To a stranger whose been lucky in the run to Christmas day,
who reads a little paragraph that’s quickly thrown away.
Never gives a second thought for those in time of need.
Just one less for Christmas is a message they should heed.
On the other side of life, death has left a sudden sting.
There is a hundred people where this message has to cling.
Kin and friends must gather to farewell a parting soul -
Christmas day means nothing when the need is to console.
One hundred Christmas dinners never make the plate.
No one wants their presents, Christmas cake or celebrate.
The empty chair is stared upon; no one has the taste,
so one hundred Christmas dinners go to waste.
Silver bells on tinsel strips decorate the room.
Flashing lights in windows hide the reigning gloom.
A passer by would note the house is full of Christmas cheer.
Christmas time will be recalled - for this memory each year.
Christmas time will be recalled - for this memory each year.
The things you do are not worthy of compliments.
I thought even someone like you would have more sense.
Sometimes I wish you would stay on the other side of the fence.
Inside your cranium, there does not appear to be much room.
That is why you have always been a boomboom.
So often, you would display a puerile scene.
Nobody else I know would break a slot machine.
Your impetuous action was something not too keen.
Inside your cranium, there does not appear to be much room.
That is why you have always been a boomboom.
Nobody likes it when you rant in a vociferous way.
Your deleterious actions seem to be here to stay.
Nothing has ever changed. It’s the same from day to day.
Inside your cranium, there does not appear to be much room.
That is why you have always been a boomboom.
Whenever it is payday, you run off to a casino.
You disregard your bills and obligations, and off you go.
In no time at all, you no longer have any dough.
Inside your cranium, there does not appear to be much room.
That is why you have always been a boomboom.
The way you act in public appears bizarre and strange.
The family and few friends you have are treated like small change.
Is there a possibility your brain we can rearrange?
Inside your cranium, there does not appear to be much room.
That is why you have always been a boomboom.
I do not love you as if you were
A flow of pink petals billowing a fire;
I love you as I love certain things secretly
Within the shadows of my heart
I love you as a plant that does not bloom
But holds hidden inside itself: the light of all flowers,
And thanks to your love, living darkly in my body
Is every rich aroma that rises from the earth
I love you without knowing how, when or from where
I love you directly without problems or pride
I love you this way because I have no other way
Only this one, in which there is no you or I
So close that your hand upon my chest is mine
So close that when I yawn, it is your sleepy eyes that close
Poem Number Twenty-One Hundred
A true man of rhyme born and bred
Started quite late
Guess it was fate
Eventually my fire needed to be fed
© Jack Ellison 2015
I used to wonder if I’d get through
This war to end all wars
Ever get me a wife and a child
A home with grandchildren too.
Mum cried when I signed up
But I did it for her as well
I was no frightened young pup
The honour, the glory sounded swell.
For king and country we all must fight
To protect our kith and kin
I remembered she cried to sleep that night
When her baby boy was called in.
I was a man, a hero; you never know it could be fun
But none died like they did in the picture-house
No hero standing blowing in the barrel of his gun
Men didn’t fall silent as the proverbial mouse.
One minute they were there, the next they were gone
Some vanished in misty red mud and air
Friends for life, or seconds, fell one by one
Life sucked out painfully, cruelly, not fair.
I wondered if I would ever take a wife
How I curse this war had begun
But in my heart, I know I will not live this life
I am sure now as the setting of the evening sun.
Mourn me please those that gave me the chance to live
I’m stunned into silence, no thoughts just fears
I know now there is nothing more I can give
Remember, I love you, please don’t shed many tears.
Will I go home, have children and glory
Will somebody know of me one hundred years on
Will somebody find me and tell my story
No Kith or Kin, will all memory be gone?
© MT
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Rhyme of my lifetime
Lifetime of solitude free of the chains
Chains of our human community so incendiary
Incendiary, lusty blaze of rose and golden ambitions raging beneath
Beneath midnight ripples swims danger, preying on unwary
Unwary we entered this world of pains
Pains, mine become rhyme
6/11/16
Copyright by Author
7 lines, chained, abcdcba rhyme
5, 10, 15, 20, 15, 10, 5 syllable count
Call it an "Unbroken Arrow"
For contest: Titles of Novels
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
My mind bows to the ethers;
bends upon astral scapes.
There lay the challenge, yet unmet,
and I stand not alone.
The interplay of souls on the astral,
is the training ground, of the spiritual warrior.
Translated into the mortal realm, it loses something.
Mortals must learn to use mind, body and spirit,
to modify their world.
Utopia only comes, when things are done right;
with the whole effort instead of a tiny part.
My co-worker posed a theory to me
That our boss was born one hundred years later than she was supposed to be
Neither of us could exactly put our finger on why, but I had to agree
No makeup, unbrushed hair, bad teeth
As though she just awoke from a long, troubled sleep
Her mannerisms seem out of sync somehow with contemporary company;
Solitarily sorting books in the back room of the used bookstore she manages each day
to remain distant and dazed, as though unfamiliar with a world that has dramatically changed
Nobody knows how old she is, but I’d guess upper-middle-aged
She never seems relaxed or at home with where she has landed, always looking around as she walks through a room or doorway, ever vigilant
She shows up each day looking like last night was another rough one, but her speech and ways seem oddly quaint and well-bred,
strangely legalistic and more formal than needed in this squalid environment.
She simply doesn’t seem at home in this place;
She can stand two feet away from me and a co-worker as we’re sorting while joking and, while our hands are busy working, our minds are away playing,
But she is immune to the general contagion of the strange repartee and laughs exchanged, seeming to hear nothing we’re saying.
Never laughing herself nor conversing, guarding her thoughts, observations, and history from judgment, and getting lost in her own world such that the sudden awareness of the presence of another person can induce a violently startled jump the other way.
And I know what that’s like, as I’ve spent many years in that state,
so it is painful to see it in another neglected appearance
and another needlessly nervous wreck of a person who is
wishing to just go home or one day somehow escape this place
where her body has ended up by way of a misdirected fate.
But today she took my co-worker and I by surprise when, after being shown a book with a cover featuring a picture of Jesus playing golf, she smiled widely and lively, and she replied,
“That’s ridiculous! Everyone knows Jesus only played tennis!!”
It was just a small joke, but it was like seeing a rainbow in the refracted light on a dark sky
It gave me hope that, despite being meant for a time perhaps one hundred years ago, in this day where she was nonetheless sent, she may someday come home.
A Hundred Years Ago
By Elton Camp
(Statistics and facts apply only to the USA)
It was forty-seven years the average man would live
And twenty-two cents an hour the average pay to give
There were eight thousand automobiles--not any more
And the fuel for them was sold only in the drug store
The most common car was by Ford and called Model T
And there were only 144 miles of paved road, you see
Bathtubs at fourteen percent were an item very rare
Just once a month the average woman washed her hair
In Las Vegas there were only thirty who did reside
And there was no income tax anywhere to deride
Marijuana, heroin and cocaine were all legally sold
All good for your health, store customers were told
Even the germ theory of disease was still debated
As being wrong many doctors the idea still rated
The most common government was rule by a king
Stayed so until to an end the Great War did bring
Space travel was impossible most scientists did say
Or else, being shot out of a canon might be a way
Even the millions of galaxies were not know to exist
Stars float around in a cloudy mass, they did insist
There were only 230 reported murders in the USA
So there were some very good things about that day