Best Perusal Poems
The experience of penning one's thoughts to paper
for the perusal of others
offers a certain inner satisfaction
that must be experienced to be appreciated;
letting your words guide you
to a deeper appreciation of your surroundings and self.
Poets do not garner feelings from their pens,
but from their hearts;
for the pen is but a brush and the page a canvas
upon which to paint dreams, desires, and thoughts.
The underlining passion
and potency of the written word
can be cathartic;
when it is your thoughts that embroider the page.
Intimate feelings are allowed to drift
through those thoughts,
and gather between the lines of each verse.
A poet's words, like a poultice,
can draw emotions
from the wounds of memory,
and catapult the reader into a reality
previously undiscovered.
A poet, using a creative collage of tinder thoughts
stirs the embers of conformity,
hoping to ignite sputtering flames of awareness.
Usually, I fall behind
Where I’m supposed to be.
One step back (or more), I am
In perpetuity.
Papers pose in giant piles,
Awaiting my perusal.
All entreaties for removal
Meet with my refusal.
Clothes stack up in massive heaps
In hushed anticipation –
Will the washer or the drawers
Be their next destination?
Catalogues lay scattershot,
Their pages marked and folded.
If I were a child, I would expect
That I’d be scolded.
Luckily, my favorite shows
I summon on-demand.
Watching them the first time ‘round
I never could have planned.
Still, I get to everything;
I’ve got it all controlled,
Although I’m often reading news
That’s two or three weeks old!
A poem is just a bunch of words
Unless somebody reads it
And, like a plant, will droop and fade
If there's no one to feed it.
It doesn't need a lot of care
To help with its survival,
Just someone to acknowledge it
And welcome its arrival.
A quick perusal will suffice
Though surely there's no onus,
But if more readers get on board,
Of course, that is a bonus.
The poet writes because she must
And plants her words, not knowing
If they will wither on the vine
Or maybe keep on growing.
I went to heaven before my time,
In dentist’s chair through sky did climb,
And in his goodness, verve and youth
The dentist took dull pain from tooth
And when the empty clot in gum,
Said write your name and date on bum,
He must have felt my life a poem, or
Orchestra with Barenboim?
Then seven times and seven more, I
Saw St Peter at heaven’s door, he
Handed me a fresh-rolled spliff,
Then in came Hendrix with a riff
The wind cried scary, not sublime,
And all along the watchtower’s shine
Came Ginger Baker’s rasping whine,
With riffs and drums, percussive beat
Took up the rhythm with his feet,
And Jaqueline Dupre with legs apart,
Jumped on the heavy metal cart, but
Weight of Jim and Ginger too and Dan
And me pushed axle through
Then crew looked hard for help from me,
He who only made the tea; I said now look…
I am not known, my name’s not Baker
Or Shamone, here in this place we’re
All the same, the dental gas…it’s plain
To blame, sugary sweets, not eat again
So listen here and worry not, about hot hell
Or heaven’s plot… neither’s there!… it’s in
Our heads, when in our youth we outran feds;
So open book and pull chilled beer, take
Hand of loved one…heaven’s here!
Peter Lewis Holmes 29/11/15
The experience of writing
your thoughts and feelings on paper
for the perusal of others;
offers instant satisfaction
that must be experienced to
be truly appreciated.
While letting your muse guide you to
a deeper awareness of your
humanity and surroundings,
Poetry empowers the ink
that reveals the artist within,
whose pen morphs into a paintbrush.
The power and enlightenment
of poetry, inflames your soul
when it's your thoughts embroidering
the page, and the poet in you
desperately wants to be heard.
The page is your canvas to fill
any way your muse may dictate.
Don't let critics deny you that
opportunity; ignore them
when they only point out mistakes.
Hypochondrial Delusion
A mind corrupted canker
Of cystic self failure
Even gastric anorexia
And fluttery throb to alight the fear
An adrenaline generated tachycardia
That matches respiration
And causes hyperventilation
With invasive pacy rhythm
And palpitating violation
To anxious infarction
In schizoid arrest
A hepatic paranoia
of dermal yellow
And lily liver assault
That feeds a life non start
Of malignant low self esteem
A delusional malaise
Of apoplectic panic
And stressful apoplexy
A localized dorsal twinge
To further worry
Lumbar or thoracic or
Renal calculi or a case of
Bulimic nausea and peptic ulcer
To stoke the festering psyche
Of somatic obsession
Embolic anguish that leads to
A hypertensive strain
With muscular tremor and distorted vision
And a full blown occulogyric crisis
Ensued by catatonia
Comatosed by
Psychotic breakdown and
Inactive body systems
A perusal of the medical book
Confirms the diagnosis of
Life threatening
Hypochondria
Going to get a “haircut” today
Actually getting all of them cut
Cutting just one would hardly be noticed
Now I'm being a silly nut
There's many other sayings similar to this
English is overloaded I find
Wanna hear some others I've discovered
Well stay tuned it'll blow your mind
“Keep your nose to the grindstone”
Now THAT'S gotta smart I'd say
See what I mean, don't follow this advice
You'll feel pain from here to Sunday
How about this one, “eye candy”
It certainly has me bamboozled
“Less is more” is another that's confusing
Looking for others for your perusal
Here's another, “left in the lurch”
Pretty sure they meant left in the “church”
“Dead as a doornail” as dead as you can be
Gonna do a little more research
To “peter out” means to dwindle away
Has a certain sexual connotation
Put it back in, it's a public place
You'll be arrested for excessive potation
“I rest my case”, now here's another one
Wasn't even carrying a case
Okay gonna “put this thing to bed”
Yikes! Can't wipe this grin from my face!
© Jack Ellison 2013
POTATION
• the action of drinking something, esp. Alcohol:
I intend to abstain from potation.
• (often potations) a drinking bout:
the dreadful potations of his youth.
The poetical books are nearly, by me, complete;
Next follows those once-furled, parchmentlike
Scribal tablets on which were calligraphically
Indited the books classified as
Naught but "prophetical"-
After the major and minor scribes,
The authors of which, and those of the first grouping of the
Newer set of scriptural books:
Those of the evangelical order;
The momentum engendered by the narrative flow:
The alacritous, celeritous, positively propulsive flow:
Of the Bible then stalls out,
Mired in and run aground
Amid the impenetrably deep
Bedrock of the various epistolary, predominantly Pauline books
(Paul, being Mosaic in his inditing of just as many and more books than
Those writ by Moses' own hand, for one has the tally of a mere five or six to his
Luminous credit, whereas the other has something on the order of ten, at least, to his).
Not that those, the Pauline books, are of a very poor quality,
But to segue from the narrative and story, poetry, law,
Prophecy and history and the narrative flow thereof:
To turn from these to abstruse missives
Of a yet abstruser philosophical
Bent, then one finds that one yearns anew for the levitical, mosaical books,
When their perusal of books biblical desists before the gates of the
Sadly boring New Testament-save naturally for the gospels,
Which are themselves poetic and narrative and fast-moving.
Such, at least, is my appraisal of the matter.
Here’s my poem for your perusal,
Though I’ll not grand first refusal.
It’s your privilege to reject it,
But I’ll not let you correct it.
Words transmitted to the page
I have no way to judge or gauge
If others deem a worthwhile read;
Despite that fact, I must proceed.
My target audience, you see,
Consists of no one else but me.
I love when friends or strangers read it;
It feels great, but I don’t need it.
Some would claim such self-expression’s
Nothing more than pure obsession.
Though there’s truth within that statement,
Don’t expect a poem abatement!
The Little Sisters of Divine Disapproval
A holy order with a long long history
Known to women but to men: still a mystery
For ascendance of our gender we are crucial
The little sisters of Divine Disapproval
When your men are being tiresome, acting stupid
Disregard kind impulse and the darts of Cupid
Make a call - for fast stupidity reproval
To the Sisters of Divine Disapproval
If your husband’s being stubborn a real pain
There’s no need for you to argue and complain
You will find us if you go on line and google
‘Little Sisters of Divine Disapproval’
With lips tight pursed and frowning eye brows darkly set
We will shovel on the guilt and shame, you bet
Til they realise their protests are all futile
For we’re the Little Sisters of Divine Disapproval
Call on us whenever men are acting badly
They’ll capitulate, surrender to you gladly
If you follow all our guidelines with no scruple
The Little sisters of Divine Disapproval
There’s no need for words aggressive or of violence
Don’t forget cold shoulder and the stony silence
Just hold on and he’ll confess, make no refutal
To the Sisters of Divine Disapproval
When he comes back with the boys from a bender
He’ll be wise to not make jokes but surrender
Should be cautious looking sheepish, a bit rueful
In the face of your Divine Disapproval
If he fails just one more time to clean that plug hole
There’s no need to shout harsh words in his lug hole
He’ll make sure of every blockage’s removal
For the Sisters of Divine Disapproval
Behind each great man a woman goes along
To keep him abreast of all he’s doing wrong
We are proud of guidance given them for perusal
By the Sisters of Divine Disapproval
Let us all unite in fearless sisterhood
For we know we do it for our men’s own good
Without us life would be hell painted by Bruegel
So God bless the Little Sisters of Divine Disapproval
Let poetry be your candle in the dark...let its flame burn in your thoughts,
fueled by the wick of your pen.
It's your literary voice, let it be heard;
for it's your connection to other sentient souls.
If you have a story to tell,
or merely find words and phrases weaving through your thoughts;
trust in your muse, yourself, and your feelings.
The skills will come in time as you connect with similar creative souls
that reveal themselves through their pens.
Poetry is a shared experience between the poet and the reader;
it can inflame the heart, stroke the ego, and appease the soul.
Capturing your thoughts on paper or screen for the perusal of others
offers a certain inner satisfaction that must be experienced to be appreciated.
Your words will guide you to a deeper awareness of self,
there is nothing like it...I promise!
You don't need to master any poetic form.
Just be the best poet you can be,
the rest will come with time and practice.
I sought refuge from the onslaught of life's compromises,
and I found it in poetry.
Poetry transposes my feelings into words, words that others can relate to,
and for a brief moment in time, we are one.
Beauty beheld by a devil
Would fury and lust incite
Taunting him to revel
At things lovely and bright
And only annoy and dishevel
The beast like a collar too tight.
Ugliness happened upon,
Say, a carcass that lay in the road,
By a being much wiser prompts parallels drawn
Between dead dog incisor and silver and gold
For to only a saint would it ever dawn
On the saint as a thing to behold.
Far be it for us to decide
If the tendency, blessing or bane,
Gives the zealot convenient places to hide
Like a judge too lenient on those who bring pain
Or the serial killer a lovable side
Excused for his natural drive to disdain
Or the servant, content to serve,
Feeling blessed for being alive
While the privileged scoff as they take an hors d'oeuvre
As he earns just enough for his child to survive
And never once thinks of the nerve
Of his master, blinded by drive.
If neither side can be dissuaded
To yield this same elective,
Their perusal, predicated
By stubborn refusal to wax objective,
Leave both cherished and hated
Victims of perspective.
Dedicated to Kyle, my son ... my smile
I recall many unique meals of special appeal
but one dinner replays on a fav memory reel
that I shall never forfeit or agree to forget.
This meal was years ago yet still remains clear.
I will not err as I share about this meal so dear:
1. One box of complete HELPER contents
2. Two six-ounce cans of tuna that to item one are lent
3. One can of lima beans as chosen by ingredient number four
4. One eight-year-old son excited for cooking fun
Once ingredients were gathered and patience near battered
from repeatedly explaining all preparations while choking
frustrations at ingredient four's refusal to voice them over
and over for maternal perusal, it was time to pretend with
a bent peace of mind that cooking could begin. I know,
because this is when four said with nervy ease, 'Out the
door until I'm ready to serve. Please.'
While waiting, cardiacs were avoided so dinner wasn't aborted
before four, smiling grand, served the tray held in his hands.
All dismay was forced to abate while viewing the plate.
Four's enthusiasm should not be parent zapped
just because he served unknown brown and red crap.
A smile was forced as he explained that he spiced it up
by adding his own creatively thought up stuff,
Chocolate Sheen Beans and Cinnamon Bazooka Tuna.
... CayCay
July 31, 2019
(A Dedication To All Poets Everywhere)
In the perusal of other Poet's,
Poems and Prose in metric lyric script's
and their celestial writ's,
Which thaw's the Heart of Winter's Cause
to come cascading down with heavenly poise
with noetic phrase's, warm applause,
Some oft' time blending with free verse glee
that makes morose reflections flee
To feast refreshed again, on Summer's spreading spree.
You were like the proud king lion,
Strong with thick main,
No hair out of place deliberately.
Constantly parading by your pack;
Commendation stood tall in there,
No questions, phraseology or rubs,
The podium harmonised plans,
To scrub up for an alighting,
Before medium light settled;
Hereward stood better than the rest,
And all needed to agree with you,
Then you roared at me with jesting jaws.
You were like a bird,
Not specifiable,
Except by the RSPB,
In a crowd which could only brake,
Under a focused eye,
One son too unstable,
Flying through the clouds,
In a flock,
Only falling for a reason.
You were like the hawk’s eye,
On me, all the time, relentlessly,
To see if I wanted to follow,
Or else love the arm amputee;
My friends were not yours,
Your mind was not mine,
I was your perusal,
but I was also your feed,
To sicken or to satisfy.
You were like the bear,
Dangerous because you swear,
Calling people skanks,
Just for walking able-bodied;
Separation has its faults,
And Hereward students,
Were only assisted anyway,
To love able-bodied people,
For their sameness to us,
In mind, body and fashion,
In heart, beliefs and views,
In vision and in choices.
You were like the sheep,
Most truly, conclusively,
With secrets and shyness,
Insecurities filled your vision,
Until the leader in you died:
You resided within your norm,
Of wheelchairs being normal,
Mounting the ewe in incest,
To your sacred inside.
But you were frightened inside really,
If the truth is to be told,
Of enrolling in Coventry University:
Your Hereward lane,
Of educated brains,
Of medical people and care staff,
Of other disabled students,
Who had been in physio like you,
Made you recline into your sleep,
Didn’t let you live or jirate.
But you were my sheep,
And you lost your white coat.