Best Periodical Poems
elements combine
elements are periodical
periodical books bore
periodical tables
tables made of symbols
tables without plates
plates are round
plates which hold pi
pi is a formula
pi is a tool
tool for a scientist
tool for a fool
fool who professes knowledge
fool who makes rules
rules are finite
rules are broken
broken like copper
broken like hearts
hearts full of mystery
hearts full of blood
bloods full of iron
blood contains water
water has hydrogen
water brings oxygen
oxygen seems plentiful
oxygen burns
burns in a rocket ship
burns in our cells
cells in a prison
cells of terror
terror feeds anger
terror is uncontrollable
uncontrollable energy
uncontrollable results
results used strategically
results used to war
war is a winnower
war is indiscriminate
indiscriminate fools
indiscriminate thinkers
thinkers who tinker
thinkers who risk
risk more than they own
risk mixing atoms
atoms are mindless
atoms of Adam are rash
rash as surface burn
rash from radiation
radiation
burn
You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.
Robin Williams - Dead poets society
Poets are born,
not manufactured.
The moment when life said:
"Recite a poem for me."
Verses began to flow,
like moonlight shimmering
upon tides rushing to the shore.
Tongue spoke in silent tones,
in a language forgotten in time.
Emotions that had been internally burning
bled a scripted sadness of sentimental scents. .
A perpetual periodical anthology of adversity,
hidden behind an enigmatic encrypted haiku,
about a lost soul's suffering in chains,
caged within the nonsense of syllables.
An unmetered sonnet,
where the world saw common rhymes,
as unforgivable idiotic crimes.
Not all metaphors make sense.
Still the quill yearned for meaning.
To write in evergreen sanguine blessings,
creating a vocabulary reminiscent
of blossoming phraseology -
but words can be misinterpreted.
When eyes lie with fake flattery,
this gifted madness you call poetry,
is like a curse for a wordsmith.
The mind becomes bewildered,
drifting in heavy hues of longing lavenders,
wondering where the spring flowers are.
Some remain content with withering thoughts,
but my ink is immortal in sowing perennial seeds.
We write poems that no one ever will read;
Paint landscapes that will never be sold;
Compose music that no one ever will hear;
Imagine stories that will never be told.
We sculpt statues that in no museum will stand;
Pen plays no performer will act;
Snap photos that in no periodical will land;
Craft scripts no producer will back.
And, when the sunrise another tomorrow does bring,
We will go out and do it once more,
Because, even in writing a song that no one will sing,
The artist achieves what he is living for.
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The Hub Of The Earth, I
Some vehicle screeches toward soundless nights,
a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
as it settles midst different roadside slights.
The decreasing engine roars criminally,
pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
the bright hub unpolishes pitilessly.
The earth's orphans coexisting subsistence,
under new suns and periodical moons,
melts in a blink of an eon insistence.
Meddling miners carved canyons, felled forest looms,
a blue world shadows as a universe watch,
sculpt mountains, charcoal skies, oily oceans, dooms.
A womb will reinvent the species that botch,
our metamorphosis cast a new sasquatch.
2021 March 13
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Mar 20)
~~Brian Strand
Before There Was Google
By Elton Camp
Way back in the graduate school days
To find facts, there weren’t many ways
Simply to find a library book
Into the card catalog you look
In little drawers, find the card
Searching was tedious and hard
When you locate it, still have doubt
For perhaps the book is checked out
It was off into the musty stack
The needed information to track
Also bringing the hapless researcher fear:
The Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature
One couldn’t have a sure expectation
The magazine was even in the collection
In very few colleges anywhere around
Was even a single computer to be found
For the good old days, I don’t yearn
But trust Google to help me learn
My unusual physical appearance
Was enhanced by a striking thinness,
And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.
Less charmingly, I was also the kind of
Deliberately malicious little hooligan
Who'd remove some periodical
From a neighbour's letter-box
And then mutilate it before reposting it.
The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution
Was well under way, and yet for all that,
Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers
And the Dave Clark Five;
Even the Fab Four themselves,
Were quaintly wholesome figures.
And in comparison to what was to come,
They surely fitted in well
In a long vanished England
Of Norman Wisdom pictures;
And the well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service and World Service,
Of coppers and tanners
And ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers
And window cleaners.
At least that's how I see it,
Looking back at it all
From almost half a century later.
Spirited meeting, don't faint
Real or surreal, it is momentary, as cannot stay long on the same plane
Want to protect from mirthless life's winding chimes
Only if it was easy as mending the book's spine
Rarely lurking demons underneath the bed
Don't waste yourself peeking beneath the bed
Blindfold daydreaming,lines you up to heaped relics of unsung martyrs in a sepulcher
Starkly outshine rabid prince makes shy away the vulture
Never be too soft or daft
Not completely at fault, for programmed specimen of the mightier craft
Amidst the bantering on lease
Just don't succumb to the whisper of inherited guilt please
In summation to any wrong answer
Even rustling waft of your ashes will be sneezed at
Don't plug out the sound of closing doors
Sign to focus on the right one just designed for you
Betide as it was destined
Brush frivolous talk aside as choice is destiny's invoice
Essential to periodical diuresis of precarious enslavement
Rejoice to all sensations, before obfuscated by life's retirement
Antiques and Curios
A collection of Antiques and curios,
Covered in dust on a cellar floor.
Things once made for a purpose,
No longer of use anymore.
Record Player with wind-up handle,
Once sung out the old Seventy-eights.
A music box with broken spring,
Film scores of the all-time greats.
Gas mask, unused in a chest,
A wartime ration book, stained, slightly torn.
Hobnail working boots, coal black,
Scuffed at the toes, well worn.
An old encyclopedia, open at page 12,
Dwarf stars, Meteors and Asteroid,
The mysteries of our Solar system
and a Comet we may need to avoid.
Vintage clothes in leather suitcase,
Fashionable back in the year.
Someone would probably buy them,
For the right price, not too dear.
Pots and Pans of Copper and Tin,
Ornamental handles and lid.
Hard to imagine they were ever used,
But, by the signs of wear, someone did.
A collection of old newspapers,
Bismarck disabled and sunk,
A periodical about holy orders,
The life and times of a Monk.
Moth eaten Teddy Bear, only one eye,
Tracks for a blue clockwork train.
Toy soldiers of lead, standing proud,
Down somebody’s memory lane.
I began to feel rather intrusive,
An invasion of a man’s private life;
Never to know treasures keeper,
Was he at war, leaving children and wife.
An assemblage of curiosities,
To move them would feel such a crime.
I will leave everything undisturbed,
Treasured by someone of the time.
i am at the part of unfortunate decision
fake flowers in hand and a dusty prayer
hesitation has a cup of warm pintos with country ham with me
i am the defiant source of a sticky glue's periodic periodical
nothing else matters for i make myself inanimate
precious memories are pickled in a jar of overtly potent vinegar
i am a lost soul feeling frigid in a deserted desert foundation
windchime sandstorms bully me with its unevenly rhythmic syncopation
since becoming an unbalanced liar, i have become a role model for truths untold
i never thought that my ice box character presentation could be so calmly bold
i have been zombie with a bad case of bubbleguts ever since that morning of "the circle ride"
i am at the part of unfortunate decision
heavy exhalation standstill experimenting with a lever similar to a disoriented h. george wells
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.
Best For Last
We bare our souls capriciously exposed,
O'er a chronology gift long ago,
Humbly traipse fortuitous hearts composed,
Traverse fragmented biannual flow.
Oblique drifts of periodical moons,
Guide our latter half just as earned before,
Nature flights of triangular formed loons,
As seasonal exchange caused them to soar.
From color-filled picturesque scenery,
To monochromatic impassiveness,
Passage midst creation and synergy,
Intimates harmonious timeliness.
Clock fades crucial seconds tempts to outlast,
As time wane merging thoughts holding our past.
2019 December 14
*3rd Place*
Your best sonnet July-December 2019
~~John Hamilton
*Honorable Mention*
STRAND SPECIAL 10,any form ,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Let's get this day over with
That's all I want to do
All I want is to close my eyes until tomorrow
And to start myself anew
That About A Face
Previously responsible concerning an adolescent resplendent facial hallmark,
Awarded to privileges and sanctioned embellishment favoring enhancement,
Over time, years chip away unnoticeably o'er worn breathless moments,
Taunt texture of an arduous youth evaporates in a whimsical hallucination,
Face delicately immersed in a penny-filled wishing well made full by an Irish spring,
Whereby, encroaching four-leaf clovers anticipate deviating hands to favor,
For a wealth of squishing palms to rub gently the verdurous lucky
chartreuse petals,
Against foretelling fluctuating skin with moisturizing balms that saturates the aged cavities,
Alas, rebellious slaves to periodical moons ebb the epidermis as once kept promises reneges,
Former fields of the dermis yield a harvest worthy of an ample supply of suppleness o'er a lifetime,
Where cherished glorious heyday occupied a magnificent proffered face for cameras to envy,
In the advance of time, I am content to gracefully tender the waning years for a fair measured distance as a camera poses for a closeup.
2019 December 22
If we begin this tale from the left,
many will see the sons and daughters of tomorrow emerged.
Did God really said "let there be light"?
Or was it a planted falsehood in hearts?
Are we really wet in the image of God
or in the complexities of the devil?
Who are you by the way?
When was the last time you check the complexion of your life?
Wildness pulls the trouser of sanity
For Wild has power, water has rocked humanity to succumb.
I have counted the number of my days on earth and carved it on the pumpkin leaves.
I have nothing to worry about even if death comes today.
I have started cackling again in the forest.
This light will bear me witness that I came,
I warned them of hazard of falsehood,
I held a tilted peace among men,
I graced the World Series of pains;
Yes, this light will bear me witness.
The fire place is made for lost dreams when they are found in your eyes.
No one knows where the wind blows.
Let this note play in your blood stream,
Let it bear the names of the streets in hell,
Let's number the Huts of Sluts in heaven before dawn;
Let us read from the casket of a dead man a written elegy of his sins.
Even if the readers of my stanzas fail to realize that boyhood is a sin,
I will apologize for being an adult.
Many will see this through the music playing in the head of a mad man.
Others will see it and cry out blood about the city built in the bosom of emptiness;
Whilst others, will see Azrael at feet of men clamouring for redemption,
But, I will see voidness in your eyes.
I will stop shooting at mid sky of stars
The orthodox of this lexical freedom is lost,
Tell your mother of this periodical pains of the world.
Man is water and dust.
The wild is imaginations of this waters and nature.
We are work over in the Skimpy world, Frail. Fragile. rainbows, fireflies.
A cracking world depicting lossness, drifting slowly through the mouth of the wind while smile prey on revival, on loss taste.
Subjective to this sunshine beauty,
Of this waters and wild, we're naive
We are the world itself reviving metallic tissues.
God has hope and hopes of getting through the eyes of men.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
I have been pre - oc
cupied
i have knot been per -
used to periodical nomanclature nor have I been be -
spectaled by the enormity of my
self
but have been painting numerous
simple questions to my
self:
under guises that I have flat
out
denied.
sorry if I have scared
you with this literal literary
banter, I didn't mean to impose or be too
daring, by posing
contests of painting the decanter
from this email poster...
to hear that the health
of you two
has improved
and sickness, and blues
are freed - form obtuse,
Once Pasteur once said:" It's not what yr eatin' -
It's what yr fed"
that I missed
yr visit and scared
you with my insecure
are you there? rambling exclamations
I sent you proof that I
am merely a typist
out in cyberspace...and that I was in need
of more than online conversation...
sorry sylvia, I will
no longer bother you, I am sorry
of my over - reaction, but not of the attraction
I sensed from you,
and never from the time spent between us 2