Best Palsied Poems
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
Forgive me please and don't berate
My dismal voice when I narrate,
The many poems I've written well,
To bring to you my tale to tell.
I like to write my thoughts in rhyme
And find I have an easy time,
To form each stanza with a flow;
My words go smoothly to and fro.
Then comes the time to say aloud,
The words composed to a small crowd.
My voice will crack with croaks and gasps:
A rusty gate, it swings and rasps.
New England twang with words that clip,
Come squirming through my palsied lips.
I envy Brits posh english speech.
Their phonics cannot be impeached.
I practice lines a hundred times,
Until they sound just barely fine.
Then try and try and try again,
But still I reach that faltered end.
So bare with me in my attempt,
To narrate words in voice unkempt.
I'll forge ahead and not give up,
To spout my spiel and fill your cup.
In penning this, yet speaking that;
It's better left where it was at.
On pages written to be read
And not aloud with angst and dread.
final dismount, final ride
pasture waits for dappled roan
girth mark of the lonely byways
lather from the battles flown
dew eyed weary, spinal backed
stumble step'd and nostril blown...
stirrup brass with bugle hung
faded strap and leather worn
bridle twisted, crackled spur
broken packboard, blanket torn
carbine scabbard, saddle sore
salt and stain wrung round the horn...
cosmoline and splintered stock
powder burned and pointed lead
flashpan crusted, blackened sight
ramrod tamped and barrel fed
faceless names etched in the action
thunder echoed, eardrums bled...
now the rider, less the man
mustered out a thousand suns
restless eye and palsied hand
scattered mind behind the gun
drumbeat sigh and breaking heart
no true glory grasped and won...
in the world
of the world
in joy's cascade as much as grief
season turns
while seasons end
wind blows down the autumn leaf.
Trump On A Funny Farm
Trump's lips do look like Donald Duck
Sad imitating palsied person when he does cluck
Like a cruddy chicken carries on and on
Sure hope pretty soon he will be gone.
Down people he will cut and criticize
Has short stubby hands and sleazy eyes
Then he really tries to put you to the test
When he starts a head-butting contest.
To keep up with Trump we simply refuse
Way people does mishandle and will misuse
Thought of him as President surely alarms
He belongs on either an animal or funny farm.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
The Grand Old Dame sat at the table
with cream on the corner of her mouth
from a donut she ate as she sat in her chair
and a coffee she held in her shaking hand
A ribbon and pink visor donned her head
and a reddish hue sprinkled with white
was the color of her coiffured hair
reflecting from a ceiling light
from a diner in the urban night
At one time she was the elite
the meat
of notoriety of a certain group of society
where decisions were made
by a select few
Whom the masses never knew
that shaped the way the world would turn
The hand that shook once kissed by royalty
now wizened and palsied
picked up a crumb and stared at it
as if it were a gem
the jewels amassed as she recalled
in times of wealth
She placed the crumb in her mouth
and conjured up tastes when her palate was young
the delicate meats, the caviar
her suite in Paris
her gentleman friends
But all is gone now
Oh dear, she laments,oh dear
then she rises from the table and stands erect
befitting her character
and leaves the contents on the table
and the past behind
Ralph Sergi contest: NEW POETS OF SOUP 11/26/2013
Our Autumn Love
How many ages past as I recall
An image of my brawny self to quell
The ominous fear of growing old soon
What, Pray, intervenes to recast that spell
Voluminous love of feeling and touch
Render to me your body with lust
Crushing embraces and wet kisses on
your soft and flaccid skin, your oily shine
Give impetus to move my palsied hands
Across your bare exterior to soothe
and utter sweet expletives in your ear
Our eighty plus years have not bound our souls
Just a brief sojourn to the climax of love
©Ralph Sergi April 21,2016
*This poem is not necessarely meant to be sensual
but as a message to seniors that love whether
physical or spiritual should be the last thing you enjoy
until your dying day.
Their lawn chairs in the sun
Outside a standard door--
They are considered nonproductive.
They passed their buying power
For the next to last measured lot.
The old man putters about the yard.
Turning earth for flowers that she wants
Beside the fence of hedge and vine;
And to a reel gone out of style,
He dances with his dog.
She feeds all birds and stops to watch
A squirrel glide like a leaf
Among the thoughts of friends
Whose deaths predict their own;
The papers tell them so.
She brings him tea and stories,
Retelling all that made them glad,
And love for children who had fled in fear
Of palsied hands to faster places
Where an hour can wear no dust.
Pomposity
Arrogance and ego are hazards that lead us astray.
Jealousy will tarnish your blessings when allowed to stay.
Center your pain, adapt and overcome for relief.
Passing judgement is deplorable, that’s just my belief.
A smug puritan will point their finger and berate.
We should never blame others for the reality we create.
Discretion is for all, understand and learn.
When frolicking in the flame, beware of the burn.
We can write whatever we choose, ramifications abound.
Sanctions, however, can be bequeathed when blasphemy is found.
Some will praise God, seeking attention for their glass shelves.
Unfortunately, the self-righteous just seek praise for themselves.
I think every poet on this site has talent with their words that glisten.
Insults and palsied stones are understood by many, just read and listen.
Embitterment will ensue when foul scents become thick.
Karma can strike with a vengeance, it’s time to put down the stick.
Her palsied mass depicting hapless shape,
A victim of heartless human rape.
This deathly site against a post,
Still so much alive like most.
With a wizened look and grotesque stare,
Breasts exposed,the rest too bare.
Assets devoid of former glory,
Reaching out to tell their story.
Agony encrypted on lips and brow,
You cannot help,but ask but "How"?.
Emaciation in stages beyond anorexic grace,
More like a skull than a womans face.
Like a shivering banshee in Alaska,
You're feelings' cold,can't stop and ask her.
Anticipating death she stands aghast,
Waiting patiently to breathe her last.
A whistling wind beckons ever slowly,
What succour now would help one so lowly?
Once a babe of parental kindness,
Today discarded by a world so mindless.
The end has come the throes begin,
Saying Goodbye to a life of sin.
From a deathly look and furrows of anguish,
Freedom at last! Death comes with a flourish.
----- Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
Hillary and Trump Are Methodist
Trump tries to think he is hot to trotting
But like a fool all his history has forgotten
To Blue Star Mom was moron and adversed
Possible thing to do in world is the worst.
Another real bad as usual he has just done
Of cerebral-palsied person Trump made fun
Mentioned where a woman's blood came from
Did abuse someone who was deaf and dumb.
Low of all low life's Trump he likes being
Took advantage of blind no longer seeing
Knowing he is great seeming so stellar
What would he say about Helen Keller?
What he should do is cease and desist
But probably my points he has missed
Lastly to write find this hard to resist
Both Hillary and Trump are Methodist.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Prominent Poet
my anonymity is stalking the streets
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows:
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets:
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.
dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight
watching the downpour:
downbeat and worn
like tire-worm whitewalls:
peeling and torn.
the blanched, arched faces
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece.
running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.
SAY IT’S A DREAM
The cloud had wrapped herself around
And like a shield it engulfed my life and being
With gloom & anguish, pains and aches
Wretched and weakened, drained of strength
Gossiped by friends and foes alike
Like a plague they hid and kept from me
Lonely, angry, desolate and lost
Maimed by illness like a palsied imp
The hands that once would rise in cheer
Are now retarded, stuck in chair
The voice that roared and earned respect
Is now disguised by groans unclear
Would there be an end to the pains I feel
When the eyes are closed would it bring an end
For beneath the flesh that once were fresh
Reside the flames that burn afresh
Please say it’s a dream I need to awake
That the pains I feel are feigned and unreal
That the morn shall bring a ray of relief
And the heart shall be eased of the pains and relieved.
In a place faraway, your eyes hold a bejeweled, luminous sky,
Each a sphere divine in which stars are birthed and swim.
Envied are these heavenly dwellers for their place on high,
Privileged are they, privy to your every fancy and whim.
In a land beyond, your laughter peals honeyed through air
Palsied by melancholy words and stillborn dreams,
Trills a cadence that soars ever higher like a diva’s dare,
With each seraphic note, inspires ballads in endless reams.
In a world apart, your smile curls lips with a sinuous grace
Nary a painter’s palette nor sculptor’s chisel can capture,
Lines flow eternal to make every calloused heart race,
Kindle threadbare minds with untold shades of rapture.
In a distant dream, your hand sprinkles a fine dust of bliss,
Thus is this city of paltry charm a blessed place anointed.
Oh how many eternities must I endure till our fateful tryst,
When my weary soul, at last, is by your beauty transported?
In your river;
My heart, like a ruined waterwheel;
Whatever it turns, in any direction ,
there is water flowing all over.
And even if I leaned my back against the wall,
In front of me the water flows
Before your sun;
My heart like a palsied shadow
Wherever my face turned; stung from the eyes of sun
How shall I, while I am a palsied shadow,
to flee from these eyes!
Oh Lord..
From ragged clay you created me
Don't distract my heart with waterwheel,not your river
Don't blinds my wretched shadow from your sun
Oh Lord..
My heart quivering like the heart of quicksilver
Show me the road.
Anxious in Ancona (1)
His plan, as he’s boarding his baldachined barge
en route for the easterly sea,
(arthritis allowing) is giving it large,
but the pain is as bad as can be:
though Rome is his home, he must go and take charge:
Cortona is cortisone-free.
One thousand four hundred the Christian years
(and then we’ll add sixty-four more):
Pope Pius the Second, that subtlest of seers,
is bound for the Umbrian shore.
He’s even less warlike than Billie Joe Spears,
but wants to be wading through gore.
He’s running a fever, his legs have ballooned,
but he won’t be deflected or swayed.
He’ll not be impugned or dragooned or lampooned:
undampened his rodomontade:
the mention of mercy, mere salt in the wound –
hell-bent on a pious crusade.
The portents are palsied: a bargeman is drowned:
this project is just getting sillier.
“Venetians are keeping us hanging around:
we can hire troops for Tyre in Sicilia.”
The Middle East! Pius wants boots on the ground
(now why does that sound so familiar?)
The ominous omens are gathering thickly,
but no-one could call him a quitter.
He’s scrofulous, suffering, sallow and sickly,
but boyishly buoyant, not bitter.
They land him on sand on the strand of Otricoli,
and lift him aloft in a litter.