Best One Hundredth Poems
I don't get to church on Easter.
I'm so sorry that it is true.
I make the big Easter dinner
With my guests more than quite a few.
The egg hunt is in the morning
When children's energy is high.
I keep one eye on the egg hunt
And one eye on the baking pie.
When all the eggs are found, it is
Time to cook the twenty-pound ham.
If the children cry they're hungry,
I bring out the bread and grape jam.
Twenty-six guests at my table
This Easter of twenty-eighteen,
This is lots but it's not the most
That my Easter table has seen.
This was my ninety-ninth Easter.
In July, my one-hundredth year.
We are throwing a big party,
I am hoping you'll all appear.
4/16/18
In an isolated island where most people are fishermen, life was so hard. One morning near the shore, a genie from a floating lamp appeared before a hundred fishermen and asked each one of them for a wish. Everyone got his chance and had his wish. Ninety-nine fishermen asked for money, clothes, boats, houses, jewelries and other material things. For the one hundredth and last fisherman, he only asked for a tree -- a coconut tree.
Floating lamp, above the surface waves
Fishermen grump, under the water paves
Impossible dreams, in any way unreachable
Imagination streams, in every way achievable.
(Prosebite)
for her sister's one hundredth birthday
a new sweater purchase from a store blocks away
a goal coveted, though for the aged, no such thing
as risk-free walking
she believes
self help springs from iron determination
anchored by her walker,
she trudges,
dismissable pain from battered knees
that grind in bone shrapnel
sapped by the demands of her quest,
her return walk of measured step affliction,
fatigue eroding
"Should I call police to usher me home?"
her thoughts like fabric fraying
in the ruling wreckage of movement, willfully overcome
she wraps her sister's white sweater that
ribbons their legitimacy
that hold them together
curbing minds drifting
daily quest to fight fading
two sisters, resilient blooms
to rage at pulls to brokenness
to slip what traps the aged
their undimmed merit in the slow lane
hardy hearts still beating
pivoting
in life flourishing love
that holds its footing in this world's
detachment
Poem composed: October 3/21
my one hundredth verse
thanks you soupers everywhere
for love and support
A four year medallion
A lifetime of pain
The hours put in
Always fighting the strain
One hundredth of a second
Your dream crashes down
The spoils eluded
Someone else with the crown
No pictures or news clips
Today come your way
The prize to another
The trophy at bay
With pity now over
It’s time to begin
The reward in the training
New words to your hymn
So head back to the track
Or your pool or the court
The bar a bit higher
Your coach to retort:
“It’s all up to you
As you reweigh the cost
Never quitting—the magic
Until then nothing lost”
(Watching The Winter Olympics: February, 2014)
Joy is found in the name of Joyce, our beloved poetess friend.
Only one who lives life well can happily reach their one-hundredth year.
Young at heart is she! Faithful, generous, and
Charming as can be is our Joyce, dear -
Evermore to be a soul that friends and family revere.
A Quintain for Joyce Johnson, a wonderful woman here who has experienced a very rich and full life. It's so good to know you, Joyce! May you have many other Happy Birthdays to come.
There isn’t much value to the cent today.
It is still one-hundredth of a dollar.
Inflation has eroded its value away.
It is enough to make me cry and holler.
It is still one-hundredth of a dollar.
One won’t put anything in your shopping cart.
It is enough to make me cry and holler.
It has been mistaken for its British counterpart.
One won’t put anything in your shopping cart.
It takes a whole bunch to buy anything.
It has been mistaken for its British counterpart.
It is easy to feel inflation’s sting.
It takes a whole bunch to buy anything.
There isn’t much value to the cent today.
It is easy to feel inflation’s sting.
Inflation has eroded its value away.
He (she) was a surreal sight rocking in a huge red chair
beside the old house nearby. The bright orange hair,
painted face, polka dot clown suit, and grinning lips
were ludicrous. I was unnerved by this outrageous gag.
Having given out her one hundredth bag,
Mama said, “Hon, go get the other fifty.”
Inside, there it was, leering and humming;
hovering, staring, its bright, evil eyes glaring.
Emitting a low, guttural noise, it floated towards me.
The rest of the night is a blur.
I never shared my story with anyone.
My adult life is firmly fixed in reality--
no more hovering clowns pursuing me!
The stray synthetic orange hairs I sometimes see
mean nothing. They could have come from—anywhere.
October 10, 2020
entered in Carolyn Devonshire's Halloween Fright Poetry Contest
Three-hundred milligrams
Approximately one-hundredth of a fluid ounce
Three-hundred milligrams of water a day, I’d die
Three-hundred milligrams of caffeine after three
I find myself staying up all night
Thinking of you.
What else is there to think of?
How something measured in milligrams
Could have such an effect on my state
Causing me to think in anagrams
Like what my life would be like if we didn’t meet
The letters would all be jumbled
Nonsense, no rhyme or reason.
Maybe I should try to sleep instead of imagining you cheating.
I think of how I’d react if I found you in such a state
But I am well aware that it would never happen
But…
but…
but… if it did
I’d definitely punch you square in the face
Then cry like a child lost in Target
As their most beloved has gone missing.
Even if you left me, you would never really go.
I dream of you once the caffeine wears off
Even if you lived three million miles away
You’d still be here with me
Its as if you have your own special compartment in my brain
Your own chamber in my heart
The impression you have left on my soul could never depart.
I wonder if I have left such a mark.
This poem doesn’t really reek of poetry
Probably because its two in the morning
Three-hundred milligrams still in my system
But I was thinking that if I wrote these caffeine inspired ponderings
Then maybe, just maybe
You’d see how much you mean to me.
Okay, I’m ready to go to sleep. I think…
Toadstools shouldn’t tower so;
A blade of grass be taller than I.
One raindrop shouldn’t get me soaked;
A ladybug look me in the eye.
Something seems amiss, I say;
This really is an awful surprise -
Either I’ve woken in a land of giants,
Or shrunken one hundredth of my size.
If it were a dream I’m in,
I wouldn’t have felt that pinch.
It seems to me a mile today,
Yesterday was just an inch.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have yelled at Mom
And screamed I wanted to live someplace else;
Perhaps that tantrum I threw last night
Shrunk me down smaller than an elf.
What can I do to regain my size
And have normalcy return?
I would say, I am sorry and hug my Mom
If my family I could rejoin.
Being bad really makes you small;
In many more ways than just one.
I have learned this lesson for myself -
Behaving is much more fun.
Captain Tom
By Jan Beaumont ©
He was somebody we'd never heard of
Just a man quietly living his life
But a man who'd seen things that he shouldn't
Like battle and horror and strife.
He was loved and surrounded by family
Had a home and a warm comfy bed
Then the horrible virus that hit us
Changed the world when it reared its cruel head.
There were so many people who sickened
There were those who were fighting to live
And then there were those who were there by their side
Who were ready and willing to give.
Captain Tom saw a need to do something
He wanted to help where he could
He started to walk in his garden
Back and forth for the NHS good.
He wanted to raise just a thousand
He thought he could do it you see
But instead that old soldier raised millions
Just by walking each day tirelessly.
It's not as if he was a young man
He had lived to a wonderful age
On his one hundredth birthday
They honoured him well
He now found himself on the world stage.
For on his centennial birthday
His name became almost eternal
They promoted the man who'd achieved oh so much
And Tom Moore went from Captain to Colonel!
Michael Ball and our Tom made a record
And it went to the top of the charts
The oldest man ever to be No 1
And of course No 1 in our hearts.
So we thank you for everything,
Colonel Tom Moore
You selflessly gave us your best
You have done us all proud, you're a hero
Now just go put your feet up and rest!
she said i will be back in a jiffy
i said, dear, that is one-one hundredth
of a second
which is longer than a nanosecond
but i know your leagues
which are never lingering in parsecs
that adorable face she wears at times
to my witty responses, he is mine
her heart dominates my every axiom
where particle and wave
somehow violate every known law
where logic and reasoning succumb
and you never really know why
but that adorable face is everything
in life you ever wanted
where a jiffy separation is tolerable
but prefer nanoseconds
where walks in leagues
are parsecs spent with the stars
i can explain the universe
where below reality exists God's design
how Darwin's theory collapses
beneath MIT engineers' scrutiny
she explains to me the reason why
the math was empty
until that adorable face loved me
life was a search for answers
i found them all in her
where that third wandering electron
of oxygen rests in its orbit
studying kinematics it is now at rest
where physics celebrates infinity
where love forever reigns supreme
in a temple of corinthian columns
where the heavenly hosts sing, love is.....
the Gordian Knot unfolds in her touch
the math was empty until then
just formulas until she revealed why
OKC 7/22
Romantic poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. Poetry to romantic poets is not a craft but an inspiration. The poet does not care for the perfection of form or clarity of expression. The romantic poets laid emphasis on imagination, inspiration, and emotion. It is the expression of the inner urges of the soul of the artist. The poet gives free expression to his feelings, emotions, experiences, thoughts, and ideas and does not care for rules and regulations. The emphasis is laid on inspiration and intuition.
"Time to go, I'll see you folks"
A wave and he was gone
just like every year before
he never lingered on
Always got right to the point
(no beating around the bush)
Questions answered, terse, direct
but never in a rush
They met him sixteen years ago
While hiking Caldwells Trail
no backpack, tent or dirty boots
And clean down to each nail
You had to like him right away
his warmth would sink right in
He left you feeling good inside
Like knowing you could win
Every June, like clockwork
with jacket in his hand
You'd meet him coming up the trail
He'd wave, or shake your hand
He really "brightened up your day"
As though he brought the sun
Vacations seemed so far apart
He added that much fun
Then one June, he didn't show
The trail seemed almost sad
Vacation over, headed home
Really (kind of glad)
Late-night News in mid July
A "tribute to a man"
One-Hundredth Anniversary
To a Pioneer named "Dan"
Seemed this guy was special
That he'd blazed a mountain trail
Saved lots of folks in winter storms
He also brought the mail
They showed his only photograph
Taken Eighteen-fifty-two
Dan Cauldwells grin, as real as life
Just like it was each June.....
They say you are not worth much these days.
However, in monetary transactions, your presence stays.
In stores and banks, you can always be found,
even though some folks will not pick you up from the ground.
You have been given a misnomer by many.
They have mistaken you for a British counterpart, the penny.
“A penny saved is a penny earned” is what Ben Franklin said.
That saying persists even though the man is now dead.
There have been many piggy banks you have been in.
You carry the profile of Abraham Lincoln.
It does not take a very bright scholar
to know you are one-hundredth of a dollar.
More people should get into the habit of saving you each day.
You are still considered money, and should never go away.
Twice I read a note my wife left for me
"Be home by four-thirty, love you" - she wrote
Twice I read a note my wife left for me
My wife said she loves me, she wrote a note
Yesterday was my one-hundredth birthday
Can I blow out the candles now; I think
There is one slice of cake left on the tray
Why are so many candles in my sink
I think I'll make some eggs sunny-side up
After, I read the left note from my wife
Why is there no coffee-cream in my cup
I will slice the cake with a butter knife
I think my dementia disease doubled
Just like a bridge over waters troubled
A Bridge Over Troubled Waters Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
5-13-2020