Best Paraded Poems
Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness
Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight,
roaming the streets any time of day or night.
Her foul body odor announced her presence,
as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments.
Walking barefoot regardless of the weather,
in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better.
Children teased and made fun of Sarah,
reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama.
Behind her a lively entourage would follow,
taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow.
They howled with childish laughter,
as Sarah hurled angry profanities after.
An avid collector of all kinds of trash,
she transformed her abode into a garbage stash.
Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game,
to unkind people who had no mercy or shame.
While many folks turned a blind eye,
young boys threw rocks and other missile,
at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied.
Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide,
as Sarah furiously dashed outside,
brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom,
screaming out curses, damnation, and doom.
Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain,
and before long, she was officially "certified insane."
Most agreed it was for her own benefit,
and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit."
But even though she was locked away in an institution,
no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition.
When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone;
her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.
Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness.
08-06-2015
Contest: Mental Illness
Sponsor: Nathan D.
Placement: 7th
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
Do not fall in love with people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave, you will finally understand, why storms are named after people. Caitlyn Siehl
In this episode of suppression,
I refuse to speak, as you know
words could flow in sorrows.
But a melancholic mind
is the nemesis of a poet.
Forcing fingers to bleed
raindrop tears into ink,
where metaphors are an adversary
and you don't need to confess
that there are no more verses
that can be called sacred
when crimson waterfalls flow in veins,
so, I curse my merciless muse,
which ignores the heart's plea
..... yet, I wonder if there can be love without poetry.
Once, when my garden nourished snowdrops,
upon the arrival of robins in spring,
I was your golden orb,
but you no longer bask in my glory
and impatient crows follow my footsteps.
Now that you've bloomed,
it feels as though my purpose
has been abruptly stolen.
I curse those premeditated prophecies,
spoken from an omniscient tongue,
so I wander like Cupid without arrows,
mute like a flutist without a flute.
Hoping to sleep forever in an asylum
of wildflowers you have left behind.
Upon the return of silence,
I'm no longer the thorns upon your rose stalk.
Once strong branches reveal empty nests,
as my roots become exposed over cold earth.
covered with autumn leaves -
I feel their anguish as the breeze
scatters them under oblivious feet.
You were forbidden,
but I was not the only sinner.
Never powerful enough to
become the ringmaster in your circus -
I hope you never tame.
I'm trapped within an aura,
resembling cremated affirmations -
yet, I know my spirit will ignite again.
I remember when you
only saw the moon,
so I paraded for you
a galaxy of stars.
But just like planktons
on a beach - nothing shines endlessly.
As We Stroll Along Lanes Of Truth, Lies Or Convenient Illusions
But if truth and light grace your soul
And a wisdom shields heart and mind,
You may in life hope for the best
As we stroll along lanes of truth, lies or convenient illusions
And either we come to know or not know
That to this dark world- we are less than nothing.
O truth! Does life and love gift all we need
As that gaze from stars crying while looking down
We then, that are not born of eternal seeds
Wade through this ever changing realm
Mired in the darkness which patiently lies, waiting within!
In love we think we are flowers blooming forever
In gardens devoid of decay
Yet invisible beyond that veil
Are powers that seethe in anger
Things that seek to destroy, and eat us alive.
Such foreboding exists, as does ground beneath bare and roaming feet
Although in blindness we see only with limited sight we have
Prone to seek peace, love and beauty,
We conjure up fantasies and dreams
Illusions that quell our deep and internal fears!
Ah, gone are days of the magical gods
They which could be insured to take the blame
Those that set us into perils, into savage wars
In our ignorance we saw- the gods played and wreaked havoc
As we, heaped upon this world mysterious gifts of darkness
And paraded forth as if living was a mere game
A thing which we mastered, a monster we truly controlled.
And in that deception we saw imagined gods that we had conquered
And we imagined the Gods that we had become-through our magnificent being!
Robert J. Lindley, May 20th 1989
Verse
Note: Deleted
Nested in the cat’s cradle
Paraded in a child’s fable
I have no voice, don’t let me die
No longer shall I live a lie
I have no soul nor thoughts to save
Unbeknownst to me is
this life beyond the grave?
A designer dainty as she
silky essence she creeps upon so free
and with sheer elegance
unveils a painted lady in a trance
Wake me before the dream ends
In this a lie I can’t depend
Ochre paint splat on walls
Tinted forewings so not to fall
Hindwings I hold up in pain
Fragile chitin, scales, and veins
Bleeding strokes of mango chutney
Opera gloves cobalt blue, cloak impunity
Wake me up! Before I drop
Still asleep, a standing prop
And when I open my eyes
I’ll have wings like butterflies
The bitter truth sounds insane
Blends of electronic elements
Mesh makes perfect sense distasteful
Nestled neatly prim and graceful
Kept in the dark where it’s unfair
Wake me lest I vanish in thin air
In my dream a translucent permanence
I stand alone and have woken an evanescence
BETWEEN FARAWAY DISTANCE is THE POET and I
Treacherous stretches mounds of greens feed fresh the mind. . .
never ever upon a spangled heavens or in seagulls’ crash - hush,
nor on echoed notes of tweeting nightingales did I hear; feel. I find
the need to stop, steadily listen to the drumbeating of my heart.
Vivid is the touch of class brushed unto words, phrases and lines
paraded to thousand eyes to be read; critiqued or appreciated.
Not the lyrics, not the tones, not ev'n verses nor blues could conceal.
His pens, the aroma of spring flowers, sweet! Drawing grins to lips:
his style, maybe common to some but to me: truly, one of a kind.
Speaking softly to my nerves, tickling senses to consider he. . .
Our panache oppose however in seeking depths likeness bursts,
boundless in abandon from fountain of muse, more than amuse.
Not a sonnet, not a kyrielle, not even a haiku nor a tanka could hide.
Unstoppable, the poet and I, our thoughts and feelings fused. Twined
in our inks displayed not only a blooming romance hue. Yes, between us
is a faraway distance, so flagrant - challenging intentions if sincere or not,
but shared portions of rhymes, talks and times won; serving as shapers,
enriching our vows. Not long, the poet and I is wearing golden rings.
Written January 01, 017 (09:55 am)
'Twas a dark and stormy night! (OK - so I'm being a tad histrionic!)
The Earl of Pence was lounging by the fire sipping his gin and tonic.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared sending shivers down his spine.
Even his hound, Lord Percival, was so upset that he began to whine!
'Twas well-known thereabouts that phantoms haunted the earl's castle,
And on such frightful nights they were bound to cause a spooky hassle.
Nefarious deeds had occurred within Penceshire Castle walls in the past,
And were replayed in 'spirited' form leaving generations of earls aghast!
A shriek from the bowels of the castle sent the dog into howling fits,
And brought the earl bounding to his feet, scaring him out of his wits!
The blood-curdling screams were from a former Earl of Pence who in 1642,
Was hung by his thumbs in the dungeon for a fair maiden that he slew!
Suddenly, the ancient organ in the hall began playing eerie chords.
Heard on the floor above was rowdy dancing by ladies, knights and lords.
Ghastly emanations from the past paraded through the terrified earl's room,
Antecedents all, leering and grinning and predicting the anxious earl's doom!
Lord Percival sensing trouble long before, across the moat had bolted!
The storm subsided and the apparitions faded leaving the earl quite jolted!
He felt a bony hand upon his shoulder that took away his final breath.
'Twas his valet who offered a gin and tonic to the earl who now lay in death!
On the bank of the James River,
Virginia Colony,
a proposal was conceived to constrain the African fire.
The ploy, a real achievement in the West-Indian settlements.
In Rome, bodies were paraded along the byways,
to make a statement.
My Massa used ropes.
We dangled by our necks like roosters in a slaughter house.
When the pining for liberty was stirred up in the marrows of our bones,
we set ablaze a few bungalows,
and murder some dumb beasts.
The statement we made was called an uprising.
The fields were abandoned, the livestock ran wild,
and the slothful young mistress had to breast-feed her own child.
The scheme had the ingredients of breaking a mule,
and Virginia Colony was the first lab for creating fools.
A prophet’s blessing was given to the merchants,
and black diamonds were shipped;
they were purged of the soil of the mother land.
A new being was fashioned, dependent on Massa.
A man was set against his consort and his seeds,
and the whips wrote rules on our backs in their faces;
our pride drained from the gorges in our hides,
and respect slowly seeped from their eyes.
The bond was broken;
a ***** was concocted
without the spirit of Ghana, the Warrior King,
and the Ashanti, the pre-colonial backbone.
Should we not push as a woman in nativity for the renaissance?
He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen, unfurled
and carried aloft in chilly air.
The flickering street lamp understood
as long shadows on a cobbled walk
slow danced in the warming glow.
But the music was not for them tonight.
The musician’s voice transformed
and angry staccato flares broke.
Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree!
He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick.
Snapping of limbs and morality
but the tree was just a thug anyway.
Indignant “Quiet downs!”
rained from high-rise windows
mingling in the blood of the fallen;
and tears…so few tears.
Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight.
Yet they could not escape the song,
that guileless voice in the darkness,
which once again transformed.
Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass
amplifying every tremble of the lip.
Pitiful notes, harsh on either end
and broken by uneven vibrato,
yet piercing in their rawness,
turned away the wrathful storm.
Tremulous begging it seemed,
accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn,
which lulled to sleep the very stars above.
The moon halted to listen as well,
before tucking itself in, cathartic,
as the pitiful busker concluded his song
of remorse for un-lived dreams
and unspoken things
The music wasn't for them tonight.
10/18/15
In ruined scatter witnessing the greys into black
Why has it come to this as us humans finally lack
Through my eyes bloodied looking down on such
Crossed I've become in frenzied scarred mode
As to I I'm in awe as to the I that fuses
Centurions from Legions brave, showing confuse
To my left to my right seeing said damnest like I
In wondering their theirs as to their paraded
Mirrored like I that they require I be masqueraded
The tolling bell has spoken as I enter my demise
As I hang above paradise seeing cawing crows fly
Images of my existence, forever, eternally why
If I were an elephant I’d shave off my trunk.
Shave off my trunk! Who woulda thunk?
Cause a really long nose
reaching down to my toes
is an ostentatious piece of junk.
But wait, how the heck would I shower?
I’d need a huge hunk of hydraulic power.
to rinse the plaque
off my big back
and time-wise, it’d consume half an hour!
So I guess my trunk I’d keep.
So I could shower on the cheap
and pick up the soap
or salute the Pope
if he paraded by in his Jeep
*no contest
CALIBER
The mental quality of spirits is unveiled.
Anne saw them in imagery.
They were in small shapes as a displayed mural.
A bust of lives demised with estate being conveyed as an inhabitant or the occupier.
Their capacity was that of full animation and stream.
Anne watched the mystical images that were once all men.
Their colors came as black, white, and olive.
Attuned to their surroundings, they did not alter their position on the wall.
They desire was to rectify a wrong.
Calibers are competent to their form in which Anne was not afraid of being forewarned.
Anne began to name them the ones that she saw.
The black one was called Magic because he was the leader of them all.
There were two level of white men seated by rows.
Anne named them Parchment because of their lab coats.
The olive one was called Mixed-Blood.
Stature they formed with ability to construct.
The degree of their mental capacity paraded the capability of the physical you being possessed.
Might they enter via an oval of the body?
They haunted this house to influence cognizance.
Anne’s knowledge is such that she may not be aware of their existence from where they exist.
Ignorance is the perception Anne lived in.
Anne and her family moved from this house in her seventh year.
She saw their presence first when she was four.
Once Anne and her family left, she did not see them anymore.
Anne moved on Briesch when she was an infant.
She never spoke of what she saw until she relocated.
Anne’s mother stated that a veil was over her eyes, a pall of despair trying to develop premonition.
Caliber is a degree of mental capacity or moral quality.
Anne cultivated this identity.
_________________________________________|
Penned February 17, 2014!
For Anne Currin Contest Any Poem/Any Subject!
Bright yellow badges proclaimed their faith
Paraded like nameless cattle
Counted and cooped as poultry
Numb and gelid they lay
Only thing alive
Was A desire
For a smooth
Kiss of
Death
Written On:04/24/2017
Contest:'Form N' by Broken Wings
Your days are numbered from the time you were born
Before you know it you blink and they're gone
It is incumbent when finding you're an adult
To select the right course, proceed, protest or join a cult
For sooner than soon, the youthful spring disappears
It dawns that you're old and it will move you to tears
But what comes next might be most important of all
When your eyes finally close comes the judgment call
All the iniquitous things you had chosen to do
Will then be paraded once more before you
But it's then too late and what's done can't be changed
It's Satan's stone where your acts are written and maintained
So think about this when that Dybbuk sits on your shoulder
And tell him "go back to Hell" before you get any older
The word on faerie lips, I’ve heard -
A gleaming, white, pristine, grade A...
Baby tooth. And rarely used.
A solid, shining, well-endowed,
enamel-laden tooth. I’m wowed!
And....
It’s in the next town!
Flyable!
I gather my reliable
Companion faeries...
and
we’re
off.
Now, they’ll be the distractions
from this night-time interaction.
One can change into a rat, and one a bat.
And, readers, THAT
Is how you keep
prying
parents
BUSY.
I’ll be the procurer
of the tooth. Magnifico!
Window’s just open. In we go,
My troops and I,
A squeeze.... a wiggle...
We’re there.
We giggle.
The holder of the tooth
Is fast asleep.
So in we creep,
And there she is - blonde, dainty pinkish lips.
And I'll admit
she’s pretty cute.
Though drools a bit.
And now... the moment...
I lift the pillow....
And that’s it! I have no doubt!
And look, some gore is hanging out!
I don’t mind telling you, I quite like that bit.
Anyway, I scrape off the food....
Oh, mercy me....
Spinach for tea.
But...
It’s gorgeous.
Flawless.
A tooth without a mark, a nick
Or dent. Enamel slick
and gleaming new
as the first day
It came through!
My troops and I - we dance in glee
around the bed - unstoppably!
And our giggles wake...
no one.
A
Perfect
Score!
We fly out, we’re elated
They’ll rejoice
We will be feted
And paraded all through Faerie Town!
They’ll pull the other posters down
And photograph our faerie faces
All the faerie places
Will be graced
With our fair countenances!
We’ll launch such legends and romances!
What’s more!
What’s more!
The Grand Dame of the council... she’ll be BOUNCING
With excitement and announcing
Our awards and trophies shining
We’ll be signing
Faerie books and faerie hands
Our names will sing through all the land!
Oh, a treasure was scored today!
We’re laughing, laughing all the way
Home. Careful!
Don’t drop our
Treasure, for with that,
all our high dreams would....
Oh.