Best Part And Parcel Poems
(Read later stanzas for more of the humour part ; parody of politics)
I Can't think well of a democracy
if nepotism and false promises
are part and parcel of its idiosyncrasy
A system of governance can't appeal to me
if it forever stinks of the 'stinking' rich plutocracy.
The media the ravening wolves many times their puppets,
together they howl for our divided attention
With wily words to win the masses of marionnettes
The nation's welfare merely their scheme in pretension.
Wonder why political power has to be the monopoly
of ambitious, vainglorious affluent power moguls.
Why can't they simply choose leaders
from any sincere poor yet wise and humble individuals?
The promises of a better world by 'em' politicians
are simply the oratory tricks of slick tacticians.
Demagogues come in all shapes and sizes
They come in 'perfect' future leader disguises
Pulling you and me to polling booths, luring us the dumbstruck voters
To amass as much power and wealth as possible in their limited quotas.
No wonder poor presidents are turned or burned
in the form of their rude and crude effigy cartoons
Comic sarcastic politics I say, since a caricature
it purposely lampoons!
Then the demonstrations, remonstrations
but they only invite riots and tear bomb gas
So if yah can keep your rallies peaceful
maybe you won't be such an ass.
And if yah do go ahead ranting, panting, slogun chanting
No seeds of discord nor weeds of hate be sowing, planting
for a showdown with fleshy arms, no metal arms can still be prancing, advancing
With sloguns not shotguns be ye protesting and demanding.
Thus I really wonder if politicos politicking
really do make the world tick.
Or do they simply in many places cause
timebombs to parallel the clock's tick?
(ok cast d ballot n vote 4 me as funny presidential candidate
of no-man's land ;
Elevated railroad tracks
Abandoned long ago
Have been transformed into a place
Where grass and flowers grow.
With benches made of wood or stone
And artwork interspersed,
The desolation and despair
Have all but been reversed.
If visiting the city
Is a plan that you have made
Then walk upon the High Line
And behold what’s there displayed.
It’s part and parcel of the town
But also quite unique
So stroll the High Line if
A New York feeling’s what you seek.
As the rooster crows:
A look in the pool mirrored a perfect mop
At times of frizzy hair or defiant shaggy tresses
Ohhh the satisfaction at the sight
And yabba, dabba, doo!! echoed loud and clear
Triumphant male ego at its best!
A man’s crowning glory
Pulled, cut, brushed, curled, straightened, shaved
Lathered, gelled, creamed and pasted
Soaked in fragrant Makassar oil
Invigorator, conditioning both groom and style.
Macho, gentle, sweet, daring tastes
Side-partings, medium, undercut and long
Sporting pony-tails, short back and sides
Elvis and James Dean quiffs curled kiss-me-quicks,
Punk, Mohawk, flamboyant fringes
Highlights and lowlights, sprays and blow-dries!
All part and parcel of male vanity and crowning glory.
Heckles from the henhouse:
As some men grow older they shed hair.
Each day they seek strands that were once there,
But skin patches widen --
Just check out Joe Biden.
Prepare to shut eyes in the bright glare.
A comb-over seems like a good plan,
But ladies don’t flock to a con man.
With 10 hairs remaining,
A “crown” they are feigning.
What happens when strands face a wind fan?
No reason for men to grow manic;
Mustaches and beards can work magic,
Diverting attention
Without the pretension
That balding is simply too tragic.
The “rug” method’s just too expensive,
Espec’ly when loss is extensive.
Like Telly Savalas,
The outcome’s not callous --
Few women find baldness offensive!
*Many thanks to Paul Callus for inviting me to join in this co-write.
Life is a continuous journey beset with troubles
So long we live in this universe,
Trouble becomes part and parcel of human experience
Life swings like a pendulum,
One moment swings towards favourable conditions;
That brings name,fame,gain,praises and merriment;
At another moment,unfavourable conditions curse,
Welcoming the loss,ill-fame,blame and pain
Panic no more!
Understand there are ways to clear sufferings,
None is hopelessly condemned to eternal misery,
Unless he himself allows it to be so.
Give away your realization to realise critically,
That all conditioned phenomenon like sufferings and troubles,
Arises not by the way of independent causes,
But it arises out of ones causes.
We can put an end to every form of sufferings,
It is by discovering the root causes of troubles
Do not disheartened by these futile miseries,
Instead act wisely in overcoming them,
No worldly-minded person are from suffering
There are no differences between wise and unwise,
But the manner in which he faces them differs.
Socrates, once faced his hot tempered wife's insults;
Defending her false accusation in a humorous way
Like Tagore prayed not to be shielded from dangers,
But to become fearless in facing it.
The great Buddha taught the world,
That sorrows are caused by our own actions,
And arise from our own ignorance.
Buddha showed how to remove sorrow,
But ourselves must work to gain happiness
Mind is the forerunner of all states
Mind is chief;mind-made are these states
Was what Buddha had preached to his followers.
Like prophet Muhammad accept faith as strength;
Adopting sorrow as a friend;
Using knowledge as a weapon;
And transforming patience as Garb and Virtue
Then the troubles will soon pass;
What had caused you to burst in tears today,
Will be forgotten tomorrow curving smiles on your face.
Do not let the past spoil your present happiness,
Whatever our troubles,however pressing they maybe,
Time will heal our wounds,
But besides leaving things to time,
It is ourselves to protect from hurting.
Maintain the peace in our mind
Don't allow people or troubles to drain energy away,
Since it is ourselves who creates our happiness not others.
From the hewer of wood
to the Prince of his tribe
From the drawer of water
to the meticulous scribe
We are all part and parcel
of humankind...
gracing God's cosmos
~ intertwined
I think personal faith
is just that – between you
and God alone; which makes
all personal universal –
meaning, that which we share
with God is part and parcel of
Divine Creation.
For nothing exists
outside the existence. He is a sea
of continuous motion. A symphony
of eternal song – when in
tune, we sing as the angels
sing; when in motion we conquer
as the waves, flowing over
and around all obstacles –
perpetuating power that
rearranges coastlines; captures
sun and moonlight, holding
their warmth of reflections as the body
of our days and light of our vivid
dreaming –
to say we discern the breath
of Heavenly Bodies, is to share their paths
and awesome orbits – to chronicle our humble
journeys from specks of clay to cosmic lords
of universes...those we clearly see, as well as
those, dim and distant...as yet – unknowable….
It may well be, that as we reach out
we reach in, exploring the past and destinies
of borderless
space and time.
The Divine of me
knows me better than
self – therefore, when
I am selfless I seem
closer to the Divine...but not
truly far from self...for we are
part-and-parcel, sharing
the same spirit, substance
of all matter; it is the matter
when looking out or
looking in – the eyes of
man in God...or the eyes
of God in man….
As the rooster crows:
A look in the pool mirrored a perfect mop
At times of frizzy hair or defiant shaggy tresses
Ohhh the satisfaction at the sight
And yabba, dabba, doo!! echoed loud and clear
Triumphant male ego at its best!
A man’s crowning glory
Pulled, cut, brushed, curled, straightened, shaved
Lathered, gelled, creamed and pasted
Soaked in fragrant macassar oil
Invigorator, conditioning both groom and style.
Macho, gentle, sweet, daring tastes
Side-partings, medium, undercut and long
Sporting pony-tails, short back and sides
Elvis and James Dean quiffs curled kiss-me-quicks,
Punk, mohawk, flambouyant fringes
Highlights and lowlights, sprays and blow-dries!
All part and parcel of male vanity and crowning glory.
Heckles from the hen house:
As some men grow older they shed hair.
Each day they seek strands that were once there,
But skin patches widen --
Just check out Joe Biden.
Prepare to shut eyes in the bright glare.
A comb-over seems like a good plan,
But ladies don’t flock to a con man.
With 10 hairs remaining,
A “crown” they are feigning.
What happens when strands face a wind fan?
No reason for men to grow manic;
Moustaches and beards can work magic,
Diverting attention
Without the pretension
That balding is simply too tragic.
The “rug” method’s just too expensive,
Espec’ly when loss is extensive.
Like Telly Savalas,
The outcome’s not callous --
Few women find baldness offensive!
-----------------------------------------------
With special thanks to Carolyn Devonshire
with whom this fun write was written.
Haven where solicitous parents hover
over sick little ones and dispense advice to
mature ones; an emotional stronghold, not merely an
edifice one enters for physical shelter.
Sanctuary whose personality changes
with time, paralleling inhabitants' metamorphoses,
embellished with evidences of the pride and sentimentality
each possesses, those preferences each
thrives on as part and parcel of existence.
Houses become homes when those within love them and
one another--nurturing, respecting, mending,
maintaining that rapport and awareness
essential in relationships within and beyond walls.
July 5, 2017, entered in Brian Strand's Early July Premiere Contest
When I was young and had zero dollars to spend
Grandpa's skiff with succulent mangoes I loved to tend
With view of City canal, flowing not far from home
Near thoroughfare with perfect patrons; few not so grown
Not so proud as I, safe with shillings from tropic fruits, sold
Sans chant. I never had to beg, my joy was always two fold.
Times have changed, I wouldn't sell jack; my family knows
Sales has never been my forte; I'll be lackadaisical, and let it show
For I'd rather be a P.R. person, who sniff labels and goods that entice
As deals, but trick the masses with much gook, some unnoticed
But that's not all with sales; folks will look you up and down
As though you're part and parcel of goods they've found.
...
Entry for Sara Kendridk's 'Two Lenses' poetry contest
for my children
What is life but a rite of passage, an epigrammatic trial,
A transient state, a walk through the trees,
A stroll for a crooked mile.
When it seems at last to be ended, finished, over and done,
Such finality just an illusion
For eternity has begun.
Oh, I know you dwell on the nature of grief, the savagery of pain,
And that tears may flow without end,
And sadness will ever remain.
But just like the source of the oceans, emotions or life-giving air,
The fact that you cannot see these things
Does not mean they are not there.
And I will always be here, in your blood and soul and mind,
I am part and parcel of all that you are,
Just seek and you will find.
My love for you, my pride in you, lives forever and a day,
No death can diminish such potency,
Nor bury it's meaning away.
Reach out to me and feel for me and always know my name,
For I will burn with a guiding light,
An everlasting flame.
As years will pass I shall remain a part of all you do,
Wherever you are, wherever you go,
Always watching over you.
WOMB -
Dark and deep inside.
Suffocated and unconscious.
Soul inherits the body.
A new child is born.
In between -
Joys and griefs.
Part and parcel of life.
TOMB -
Life breathes its last.
Soul abandons the body.
Back to the eternity.
Back to dark and deep inside.
From womb to tomb
The soul-cycle continues
From tomb to womb.
Whose is the heart that bursts with pride each time she sees your face.
Whose are the eyes that dart about, to check your world is safe.
Whose are the arms that wrap you up and hold you tight and close.
Whose is the love that's always there whenever you need it most.
Whose is the smile that lights the room when you are smiling too.
Whose shoulder is the place to be, when only a cuddle will do.
Whose chest is warm and comforting when you're a weary soul.
Whose motivation only has your happiness as her goal.
Whose are the tears that cry for you as you grow old and free.
Whose is the heart that aches so much, in the space where you should be.
Whose is the head that knows that you must find your path alone.
Whose is the voice that welcomes you each time you go back home.
Who could have so many facets that make her oh so great.
Who has you on her mind each day, and today we celebrate.
Whose hands hold and guide you, in a way unlike another.
All these are part and parcel of the joys of being a mother.
"You've got six months, nine at the most.
If you opt for chemo, we could stretch it some.
Maybe a couple of years,
but first six months of serious treatments."
When he said nine months
I thought that's the normal prenatal life
So I have possibly a pregnancy left.
Decisions, Decisions, Decisions
Let's see two years minus six months
minus maybe some more for recovery from chemo.
Or nine months of wondering,
could this be the day?
My neighbor was sick as a dog for most treatments.
She couldn't eat; she couldn't sleep.
Just a forever burning sensation, dry, lifeless, pain
My cousin said his was not so bad, but
then he died only two months afterward,and
they had said he might live five years.
My last nine months, what will I do?
I will get ready to die - prepare to enter a new life.
Wait a minute ...
I am doing that already ever since
I decided to put my trust in God's Son.
My eternal life began at that moment sixty years ago.
I will tell everybody I know how good God is.
But I have cancer; is cancer good?
I look at it this way.
Cancer is a chapter -
the last nine months of my life on earth.
It defines me and with
God's help I can deal with it -
without chemo.
He has a plan and cancer is
part and parcel of it.
The rest is just guesswork.
Christmas is upon us and a New Year once again.
Where has all the time gone from the now that's turned to then?
While some folks hand out presents, part and parcel of the season,
I've no gift to offer, save for this poor rhyme, with reason.
My yearning for the world, yet most especially those I know
And dare to call true friends, is something harder to bestow...
Or at least a bit more abstract than a package could contain—
Though only grinches would upon receiving those complain.
I want to voice my deepest thanks for friendship's warmth and cheer
That fill the heart with brimming blessings all throughout the year
And ask that Santa give us peace and love in fullest measure,
With happiness thrown in that lasts as memories to treasure.
So, let me say, in my own way, with simple quatrains plain
And unadorned by ribbons, what no poem can explain,
Just Merry Christmas, one and all, and by the stars that shine,
I wish you Happy New Year in these days of Auld Lang Syne!
~ Harley White