Best Originals Poems
I don’t know that anything about me
is original – I mean, all of my atoms,
I’ve been told, once belonged to some
dimwit creature (hmm...) roaming the earth
long before air-conditioners and Mai Tais...
And talk about Sin! – now that’s an Original
I would gladly give my share away in
a heartbeat; sure as hell, not missing a
cinder of the concept – though, if not the
world itself, I have no recollection of a
bountiful garden...while readily admitting
to having dined and drank with more than
one size and specie of venomous serpent –
But of all my Non Originals, the abiding
presence of love within me is a lineage
I would gladly claim as my own, were I
asked, praying to be absolved of any penance
if untrue. And, if false...then I would claim,
even more vociferously, my uncompromising
capacity to forgive all, thus hopefully moving
existing originals into the Lord's Grace of
Transformative Light.
The CRY OF A KENYAN.
Rihanna talks of The New America
American Oxygen
It seems same for poor Kenya
Our one and only treasure
Drowning in the dark
Driven by cartels of no concern
No care for the next generation.
And here's my plead.
Am lost within a nation
No name no trace
No location no possession
No government but govern men
No freedom but free doom
Threats are the new proverbs
New slogans taking over,
(guilty till proven rich)
Corruption a current chess game
Leadership now a business gap
Leaders being Board Members
Cabinet being the shareholders
I wonder if we are the debtors
No say, since the burden is too big.
Am tired, torn, worn and tortured for my silence
Enough, if the flowing blood
Enough of the illegal lands
Enough of the assassinations
Coz Kenya is now more less Hollywood.
A crew hired to act the movie
The happenings seem dreams
All like fiction in The Originals.
The only fact, that time is passing
No longer can we entrust our lives on the government
No longer can we express out freely
No longer are our cases ruled with justice
Cases clog in the courts.
No longer can even prayers shaken their utter
No longer do they fear the Supreme One
But in churches, all different
Sited like an innocent infant
Faked sorrows while praying
All aiming to win our trust
Let's standout,Kenyans for Kenya
Let's open up eyes, and stop being fooled
Let's stop falling on their knees like slaves
A fact,they are meant to be our servants
But act like we are theirs slaves
Some lie to be fighting for us
But are after the seat, to grab the cheques
Wanting the privileges and Excellency
Let's stand for our poor Kenyans
Say No to their treachery
A New Kenya, me and you. — thinking about Kenya.
courtesy of Kagz de falsa as at 10/06/2016
A combination of Haiku and Kyoka
designer originals
from feed sacks
after the chickens were fed
her artist's touch
honed with the aid
of her foot movement
on the treadle machine
Boy those wheeler dealers sure work hard
just look at Ed slaving away sorting things.
First he sorts out the electrics and switches
then he turns his attention to the mechanics.
Strips out the callipers and replaces them
a new exhaust is also on the cards.
Back breaking work as he takes off bright work
and then sands it down ready for re-spray.
Off to the paint booth where its masked up,
now first a stabiliser to stop leakage.
Two coats of primer, now finally the colour
a gorgeous chocolate that really pops.
The last job is to change the wheels
back to Porsche originals chocolate coated.
Down to the track where she revs and revs
then like a race horse our Porsche flies.
Mike is well impressed at Ed's hard work
wow it is an eye stopper he cries.
A new owner to be found who will love it
Mike works his charms and so has a sale.
Yet another classic saved from the scrap heap
Our 928 Porsche is restored like new.
With a growl it eats up the roads
putting a smile on her owner's face
written 12/04/2015
contest PD and Skat's For Women Only
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We may go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain
he stood in front of me
ripping up papers as he stormed through the house
but i knew i left those papers in the car
"the divorce papers are in the car"
i said to myself over and over
i became nauseous
the Hidden Series
parts one - eight
laid before me
innocent
lifeless
meaningless
crumbs of paper
i had several hundred copies
nonetheless, i sat in my own puddle of tears
he stood in front of me
smirking
he knew how devastated i would be
after he destroyed the originals
the Hidden Series
parts one - eight
laid before me
crumbs of paper
meaningless
lifeless
innocent
i had several hundred copies
nonetheless, i sat in my own puddle of tears
i became nauseous
Oh, Ravi Varma, you are a legend!
When I look at this Indian postage stamp
(brought out in your honour),
a miniature of your self-portrait
with the inset of your painting
of the legendary Damayanti
with the mystic swan,
I am of course reminded
of the well-known little narrative,
the episode from the grand epic—the Mahabharata:
Princess Damayanti interacting with
the soothsayer-swan, which,
at the moment, is suggesting to her
to take King Dushyanta as her spouse—
in the ensuing swayamvara, the moment of choice
(of a husband from among the suitors),
and Damayanti listening,
with bated breath, to the mystic bird.
My stream of consciousness takes me
to the originals—oil on canvas:
the strikingly common feature in both the portraits,
I must observe, are the observant eyes—
Your bright, beady, artistic eyes
And Damayanti’s glittering eyes
that nearly give away the excitement
surging in her, the bhava;
and her bhava, too, her posture.
My thought stream takes me further
to the other eyes in your enchanting array of portraits—
of the celestial Mohini with her bewitching eyes
And the legendary Shakuntala with her alluring, lovelorn eyes—
to mention just two.
Your artistic mind visualized the scenes
and your eyes didn’t fail to capture the bhavas,
and the bhavas, that is, the feelings
together with the complementary postures.
Oh legend, you have had your accolades—
national as well as international;
You also had to face turbulent criticism;
you still face it.
But, as we know, it’s not the grounded aircraft,
but the flying plane that faces turbulence!
***
From head to toe, energy flows,
Each time she shows her unique style
Miles away, with a unique smile,
Infused with the most unique glow.
Inspired to show what I know,
Before my memory is filed
In the back of her mind's eye, while
Mutual respect for art grows,
Sonnet dedications are formed.
ORIGINALS earn such an ode,
Not because they are not the norm,
Not conformed, but true to their code.
Eventually, these words storm,
Thundering down creative roads.
I've got a head full of memories
and a heart that some called gold,
I've laid beside the beautiful,
been sheltered when I'm cold,
I've danced beside the devil,
another story don't you know!!
but there ain't no remedy, no drug,
for the pain of growing old.
I still got my levis they date back
to sixty two, they hang there in the closet,
alone and feeling blue,
I just popped up to tell them how good
they made me feel
but they just turned back and told me
they're my scar that just won't heal.
So a word of wisdom, each day
just reach for the moon,
cause I gotta say it,
it's over much to soon,
enjoy all it's pleasures,
enjoy!! it please won't you,
and there's a pair of old originals,
you never know they might fit you.
MAGIC BEANS
There was magic in those beans!!
Colors - reds, greens, blacks,
savory flavors, and sweetness,
sweetness to ease the uneasiness.
They became a sought after reward,
payment for being, for existing,
payment to an unknown need.
Age changed the beans.
The colors still held secret the
tantalizing rewards flavor.
The relief longer lasting
yet somehow still lacking
the joy of the originals.
There was still magic in those beans.
Dark Magic, Black Magic,
potions that brought less relief,
exacerbating the desire
for more of what caused the need –
for more.
There was no bean stalk,
no Golden Goose,
only the lie of the magic beans
feeding the fear of a lonesome child
too soon challenged
to become a grown-up.
John G. Lawless
1/6/2015
For PD’s Magic Beans – Poetry Contest
< Pallets profusely pulsating
Over organic originals
Emotions enormously emerge
Through trident times
Relic rejoice recant
Yes yearn yourself
Solid structure's sanction
Open optional opinions
Understudy understand unity's
Poetry's passionate's pulse
Because beauty bestows
Over oversights objection
Widespread whispers wanted
Leaving lasting longevity
Entry For
Adeleke Adeite's
Acrostic
Poetic Picture Of Poetry Soup
G.L. All
Universal Xi
sand dollars natures
prosperity through the sea
universal xi
~Sunshine Williams ~
Haiku
Created for Star & Leona
December 25, 2015
JP’s Originals
Ars Longa
It finally happened!
Someone in the East Wing
Goateed a Madonna and redid a Rembrant
a la de Kooning.
A blond with Vogue patterns
is crouched on the hall--
She's eyeing a Van Gogh
eyeing her from the wall.
We judge from the blushes
of blue-rinsed ladies in fur
Rude comments were made
on the audio tour.
The guards commandeer
Donatellos for targets
and are cleaning their pistols
with snips of Vermeer.
The staff in the Art Shoppe
is selling originals
and hanging the copies
in Gallery Five.
They're burning the Monets
they've tattooed Apollo,
crowds clamor outside
to get in on the fun.
Cars circle the gallery
in infinite coils--
curbside parturitions
here a boy there a girl.
KoKo Ameen, the Jewelry Queen
Designs her creations with a sheen,
Her bangles jingle-jangle as she
Tip-toes through the tangle
Of original designs that will be
Presented in her one-woman show,
Simply entitled, "KoKo Ameen Aglow."
Her originals are in demand by
The Fifth Avenue hauteur
Who frequent her shows for the mature
Lovers of jewelry who don't mind spending
Thousands of dollars for KoKo's blending
Of turquoise, silver, copper and gold,
Making statements that are very bold,
Wear it today, wear it forever,
Friends will become envious however,
When they know that the earrings and
Pins are designed by KoKo Ameen,
The Jewelry Queen.
November 3, 2016
Old Jewelry Contest