Best One Third Poems
A THIEF CALLED TIME
“Time is the thief you cannot banish”
Phyllis McGinley writer 1905-1978
All that live upon this earth
dwell on borrowed time,
for the human race every
single day that passes by
is a payment off an unsecured
loan, that gifted at birth.
While time can be a wondrous friend
beware when of one’s greatest enemy,
waiting for it sometimes an age
when running out, be afraid.
Centuries ago, time became
a science a complex measure
yet never tamed, only caged
as it ticks and tocks away,
when it calls, one’s life becomes
a hired boat sailing
certain to run aground.
But time never ceases
unlike the human body
in need of a good night’s sleep,
as it steals away one third
of everyone’s life time.
© Harry J Horsman 2020
Magic is everywhere, but stage magicians,
have no clue, as to what it really is.
Magic built our universe.
That something so complex, as the universe,
could be born of a few elements of pure…magic.
That, intelligent organisms can grow,
from carbon and evolve; that’s magic.
A flower, bush or a tree, unfolding from a seed;
that’s magic.
Real magic; the nature of everything.
An atom, cell, molecule of DNA…magic.
The Visica Pisces in the seed of life,
gives birth to the flower of life.
Metatron’s cube is geometrical magic.
That, all that exists, is composed of numbers;
real magic.
Ideas are born of, dream magic.
Whole civilizations, are birthed into existence by…
dream magic.
Magical wonders, reflected in young eyes;
stir the emotions and captivate the senses.
Scientists…magicians…they’ve no idea,
of how real magic works.
The magic that creates all life,
is beyond known physics;
metaphysics and its comprehension’
lie in hidden realms, where human ego,
blocks science from going.
The real magicians;
those who dare to cross the line,
ego has drawn,
are persecuted and maligned by colleagues.
As magical history unfolds,
wisdom is revealed.
The same science that says:
“humans use only one third of their brain capacity”;
all too swiftly, negate the other two thirds.
Society, self-limiting;
minimizes its own knowledge;
its own magical existence.
Doubt is a game, played by fools;
while belief, is the magical wonderland,
of materializations; yet to manifest.
What exists. in the imaginations magic hat…exists.
Just wave the wand of belief and produce.
Skeptitis, is an overwhelming malady.
Its swollen tendrils,
have kept the world in,
stagnation; far too long.
Belief is the only cure;
the magic of faith,
does move mountains.
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
Bogdan Chmielnicki sits astride a horse
A magnificent statue in Central Kiev
To a monumental Ukrainian figure
A George Washtington-style liberator
He took it to the Poles in the 1600's
A lone Jew glances at Bogdan on his horse
Forgive him his disgust, of course, for
That Cossack and his army murdered
Nearly every Jew in Kiev -- on their way
To killing 600,000 Jews, one-third
Of the Jews then in Europe, during an
Unprecedented Reign of Terror...*
Leave Chmielnicki astride his horse
Let Ukraine celebrate Bogdan
~ without one ounce of remorse
_________________________________
*Chmielnicki's Reign of Terror is known
by the abbreviation 'Tach v'Tat,' which is
short form for the Hebrew calendar year
corresponding to 1648-49. The Cossacks'
genocidal campaign lasted through 1660.
The governor announced that gyms
Will open in a week
So all the fitness freaks can start
Improving their physique.
At just one-third capacity,
Facilities will let
Much fewer members enter
To absorb each other’s sweat.
Despite the mandatory masks,
(Assuming all comply)
There will not be a surface
That remains germ-free and dry.
Yet hordes will flock to exercise
And take it all in stride,
While others, me among them,
Will continue walks outside.
HURRICANE HATTIE
It came like a thief
After midnight
Stealthily
Unawares
Mischievously
Spitefully
Desperately
Determined
With preconceived plans
Across the Caribbean Sea
Suddenly turning west
Making a beeline
To British Honduras
In Central America
It foiled expectations
That it would arrive
At seven the next morning
And
Instead
Made a surprise visit
Six hours earlier
And
Like the Gestapo
The KGB
The Secret Police
Attacked
While people were
Least prepared
Snoozing
Snoring
Dreaming
Of better things.
Discriminating
It attacked
Belize
Ignoring neighboring
Guatemala
Honduras
Mexico
As if
Remotely controlled
By some
Vengeful fanatic
At 150 miles per hour
And more
It
Clobbered
Battered
Hammered
Pounded
The coastline
Of
The Jewel
People still ’memba
How in ’61
It wrecked havoc
In Dangriga
Belize City
San Pedro
Cay Caulker
Among others
As it
Thumped
Hit
Broke
Lifted
Pushed
Carried
Dumped
Submerged
Their valuables
And
Like a Repo Man
Dispossess them
Of their
Treasured belongings
Within the
Make-belief safety
Of its eye
Poor people
Thinking it was over
Sought their fortunes
On the beaches
In the shops
In others’ property
When Hattie
On a round trip ticket
Came back hurriedly
And with
More gusto
Lashed out
As a category five
Storm
Typhoon
Hurricane
To teach them a lesson
In
Tort
Honesty
Respect
And dignity.
In the end
One third of the coast
Was devastated
One third
Damaged
And
Another third
Standing
With 264 dead
And millions
Of dollars lost
The place lay wasted
Spoiled
Thorn
Flooded
Damaged
Wounded
Smashed
Muddied
Polluted
As
Debris
Corpses
Belongings
And victims
Wallowed in its wake.
As it distanced itself
From
Its handiwork
And Observed
With a smirk
Its power
To
Subdue
Man
Woman and child
It grinned
In satisfaction
At its exploits
And its supernatural supremacy
To shape destiny
And vanquish the vulnerable
We love our silly Grazillas,
Who eat chocolate ice cream because they don't like vanilla.
They prefer lumpy pillas,
As they nap under the willas.
They eat salt by the pillas,
And watch only chinchillas.
They prefer to work as millas,
They prefer their envelopes to be manilla.
They could easily take down Godzilla,
Because them Grazillas,
Are stone cold killas.
They are a cross between a gorilla and a gator,
And they sure do enjoy their maters and taters.
They make fun of waiters,
And they are great imitaters.
They love gossiping with the gators,
And are known to be fair ice skaters.
Peculiar too is the way they only eat fish flavored Now and Laters,
And man can they drive those freighters,
And they choose to shave with cheese graters.
They are even one-third dinosaur,
And they are rotten to the core.
They love to renact the Civil War,
And to get a dollar they will pretend to be poor.
They play golf just so they can yell Fore,
And when they get a banana they all yell Score!
They are in a band and go on world tour,
But I admit they are sometimes a bore.
They are the legends of lore,
That come from the Loth Lorien shore,
And in their land they are unequivical lords.
How do they have shimmering tails,
They put water from the Amazon on every golden scale.
Their fur is silvery and pale,
And they comb it twice a day without fail.
Their favorite snack is kale,
Especially in the middle of a gale.
They love riding the rails,
Looking for the the Holy Grail.
They may look frail,
But you never can tell.
They like digging wells,And telling tall tales.
Try never to compliment the males,
Cause their egos sure do swell.So if you come across a silly Grazilla,
Lazing under a willa...
Don't forget to bow to the queen of the Grazillas.
Whose name is Drucilla,
Who lounges on golden pillas...
While she listens to thrilla...
So I bid you ado untilla...
Young people go marching, the boys and the girls,
thinking like we once did, they they’ll change the world.
They claim government can be the cure for our ills,
they seem to be forgetting that socialism kills.
Lenin and Stalin put twenty million souls down,
left them to rot in dark pits in the ground.
The gulags and purges were the work of their will,
the Holodomor just clinched it, socialism kills.
China under Mao was the state with the plan,
a great leap forwards needs ever woman and man.
But it was a leap to nowhere, sixty million graves filled,
the greatest mass-murder in history, socialism kills.
Socialism kills, yes socialism kills.
It never brings fairness, it never will.
One hundred million paid the steep bill,
they’d tell you if they could: socialism kills.
Cambodia promised its people a golden age,
beginning at year zero, to build better days.
But Pol Pot’s killing fields, the whole world chilled.
One-third of the people lay dead, socialism killed.
Cuba and North Korea both slaughter and starve
the citizens they hold back through force of arms.
Not nations, but prisons, innocent blood they spill,
all you need to understand that socialism kills.
Some say it might work with better people in charge,
though it fails every time, in countries small or large.
Venezuela is the latest to swallow the bitter pill,
it descends into chaos because socialism kills.
Socialism kills, yes socialism kills.
It never bring fairness, it never will.
One hundred million paid the steep bill.
It can’t deal with human nature, so socialism kills.
Villanelle: Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Likely as not the country will be run by interlopers
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
The first signs crop up when lax morals make him relent
Shuts an eye to alien antics on his wife and his daughters
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
When foie gras vacation rather than who runs government
Or the long weekend pont makes the migrant caretakers
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
Fanatics from dictatorships money-minters from the Levant
Drugsters* outsourced from banana republics’ carpetbaggers
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
And lo! Ere the cock crows every face in the pram’s sun-burnt
In one generation one-third pray through tongue-twisters
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
In two generations three-fourths take over government
Pimps drug-addicts loafers wage war with spiritual gangsters
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
* drug-pushers, drug-dealers, drug-addicts and their bankers
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Don't Rock the Boat
The words I hear most often spoken "politically correct"
remind me of, something I heard, by some religious sect
Do not question, "that's taboo" and now you're out of line
not the way you're taught to think, that isn't our design
Ours is the way, you speak and think, so you can get along
just remember left is right, and remember right is wrong
Politically correct it is, carefully choose your words
fury may rain down on you, if you mix up bees and birds
So many things to change and learn, my head is in a spin
always try to pick generic, "correctness" is a win
Not quite sure what passport means, gate is open wide
illegals, (oops) "undocumenteds", show their cards with pride
Voter ID in the way, in many states it's not
you can have, four legs and bark, "the California lot"
Really hard to pick a phrase, with all of them they brag
only one won't get their vote, it's called the "American Flag"
Prayer is gone from all the schools, mats are still in place
"In God We Trust" is all but gone, from this, the human race
I know there are a lot of you, and together you have clout
you need to stand, locked arm in arm, or they "will" burn you out
"Excuse me please?" The warning bell, it makes all of them frown
to them it is an insult, their answer? Shout you down
A hundred thousand, thousand things, that turn our country sour
most left, some right, correct it is, that take us towards that hour
Islamist extremeists? Don't mention them in vain
scared they'll offend one third the world, for the ten percent insane
Yes all lives matter this we know, a lot will disagree
they're the ones that loot and burn, and disrupt lifes harmony
Protected by "corrected" left, they're encouraged in their acts
another ten percenter group, that's twisting all the facts
Unconscious in their warped beliefs, that "their" life is the way
tunnel vision, guides them well, yes each and every day.....
The sky is a mass field of common wealth
Air,light and water yields of common wealth
Along and across,the lines drawn on the political map
Like nerves running over the body
Bounding the water resources as mile stones
Separated the hearts not the soil
Unrest, tearing the unity and peace,piece by piece
The idea of inventing bottles
Made drinking water a marketing commodity
Water is the champion in some own camps
Water is a weapon in the agenda of the world war,the last
Polluting environment inch by inch
Money making minds,burning oil in sleepless nights
To discover a vial to make "inhaling fresh air" a commercial commodity
There stands greed as a dividing wall of common wealth
In between rich and poor
Rich is right and poor is left!
Up setting the order of common wealth sharing and caring
Great not greed,greet not greed,slogan is fake!
The spider spins it's own web for it to run
Anger,jealous and affection a World Wide Web
People unaware the tool of love to cut it to get out
Love and affection got out of hearts and hiding in the armpits
Where,Where is peace?
True,the foundation of commonwealth is strong as the Great Wall
"Breaking the Earth of one fourth
Bringing people of one third
Briefing the heads in good word
Business become,commonwealth"
This "mantra" is not answering the burning issues
If meeting is the answer,that's to meet the peace not people
It is a waste of time and money otherwise
"It is like going to the toilet,
There is a sitting,then there is a report and matter is dropped"
A veteran Lankan parliamentarian as revealed
Out of fifty three seats of Commonwealth
Find the fifty fourth one
Let peace sit down on fifty fourth seat
Let it the pivot of searching peace
Pick up all pieces of peace
Past it on the wall of CHOGM
It is greater than the Chinese Great Wall,very strong!
Resolve,peace!
Dissolve finding peace!!
(This poem is on the 23rd the CHOGM-Commonwealth Heads of Govt. Meeting-
taking place in Sri Lanka from 15th to 17th November 2013)
EVIL Exists; Utopia Does Not
You may remember them--
a wildly-diverse band of individuals--
a strange ensemble comprised of
various races, age brackets,
backgrounds, and philosophies.
By the mid-seventies the philosophies
had been replaced with one mindset, that
of a leader with irresistible power
who compared himself to Jesus Christ.
He banished societal norms some followers
had brought with them, replacing them
with his own. Many in this insulated
community didn't seem to realize they
were not in the utopia they'd been promised.
Now, close your eyes and try to see them--
hundreds of them--parents, their many
children, friends, and lovers--lying close together,
some with their arms around each other,
looking so peaceful after partaking of
Jim Jones's cyanide-laced fruit juice.
Guyana, South America, 1978, the Jonestown compound
909 dead--about one-third of them children
Jim Jones, one of the most notorious cult leaders of all times
written June 27, 2016, for Brian Davey's Evil Is Everywhere Contest
My father went one third,
I can reach half of the rest.
My son will avail the goal.
Take away the safety net
What remains
only the weak kill and call themselves men
A coward hides in the mountain of who they are
behind their own curse justifying wrongs
Tears falling each and every single day
suffering innocence weep
Self inflicted forged inside darkness
Mortal sin
The day will arrive
when you have to come out of your shell facing reality
Evil deeds done dirt cheap begging soul forgiveness
Blinding pure is the eyes of our Saviour
Salvation enslaved by guilt
poor is the heart where poison seeps
Rich forgiving pride the Lords prayer I say
Please God open their eyes to your peaceful presence
Make them aware of your goodness morally within
Open their souls to the truth
such deeds hold an ugly sin
Mercy on your damned soul
Such actions
destiny crumbles
inside their castle walls bleed burning with fire
Angry all their lives at everyone but themselves
Articles of faith strips them bare
I tip my eyes to the Lord
Blessing myself in the name of our Father the Holy trinity
Begging their forgiveness
One third of Man
blind faceless spill blood
cursing peace and His Holiness in the end days
Early summer flowering deciduous shrubs,
And I among them came and went with
Philadelphus virginalis,
Their brightening solar ships.
Its natural tendency is to grow vase-shaped,
Clipping encourages the plant to fill out
And become dense, and in my final spring
It performed beautifully, flowering prolifically.
Mock orange is not a heavy feeder.
It loves sun and reads memories
On cactus leaves with sideways glares,
Though on an "established" plant,
One should prune out about one-third
Of the old growth (the trivialities of life's Agur),
Allowing the gloried lightness of day
To seize upon bright green leaves.