Best Pick Out Poems
I went to my closet
To pick out a mask
Many to choose from
Am I up for the task?
The image of sensitivity
Or do I want to appear strong
Maybe the mask of co-operation
I can pretend to get along
Do I dare go with ugly
Can I pull off being mean?
Perhaps I can go with sexy
Or try dawning obscene
This mask that is two faced
I have had it on before
It got me in trouble
I won't wear it any more
What about pious
The mask of a saint
Or maybe this clown
Colored with paint
I wouldn't mind being a hero
At least for one day
I could be a philosopher
If I had something to say
All of these masks
Here in my pile
I think I will discard them
Just be myself for a while
The walls are stained by my fingers,
raw from trying to scratch them away,
but they’re unharmed and unmarked
on the random spots, here and there,
where I broke my knuckles
thinking I could knock them down,
and the lies and truths that passed me by,
and the things I couldn’t be bothered with,
were opportunities gone a-begging,
moving lips, I couldn’t hear a thing
and I don’t know what they said.
I don’t remember the things you told me
but I do remember you telling me,
and I believe the worst of it
and I don’t care for the rest,
I might have loved the design, though,
and I know the machine was ruined
before the engineers and the technicians
even knew that it existed.
The TV is on for now,
a million faces and a million voices
and a million unthinkable miseries,
they knock on the screen from inside
and they cannot reach me,
it’s all white noise, though, anyway,
unless I apply an ear well enough
to pick out a particular sound or two
and make of it whatever I will.
I’m not quite sure of what it was
that you knocked into my head,
but I wish to God I could only know
half of what you knocked out of it.
7th February 2019
I won't pick out one special Poetry Soup poet
None of us are worthy of being a poet Laureate
Choosing just one who has skills shouldn't be a goal
It's like separating a favorite sheep from the foal
Saying its wool has the most beautiful fleece
doesn't seem to be the right way to have peace
There are many poets who write with quality
and if I choose only one, I'd owe an apology
to those I didn't honor by using their name
I don't want to be guilty and won't take the blame
for entering any contest on Poetry Soup
that might hurt someone's feelings in the group
Picking a favorite could cause further division
I don't think alienating any poet is a good decision
Congrats to those who earn it with great writing
No one deserves to be overlooked by slighting
It's my opinion so I have the freedom to say
If peace is to exist in PS, it won't be found this way
Some great poems are written as lyrics to a song
but naming one above the others seems wrong
Tell those you admire by making kind comments
Prevent hurt feelings and ill will before it ferments
Such divisiveness might hurt another poet's heart
It's not pleasant to taste buds, too sour and too tart
Just me and my granddaughters, two sweet cute tweens
eating up pizza. It’s “No-night” for greens!
I tell them old stories about family.
Their own funny stories they tell back to me.
They’ve brought a nail file. One files my nails
while I tell more stories with juicy details!
We play on the internet for a short while
then chat about things like our favorite hair style.
It’s now after ten, but tonight is for fun.
No going to bed till well after one!
We pick out a series on Netflix to watch.
At last we discover one that is top-notch.
I with my popcorn and they with ice-cream -
we’re living it up while living the dream!
Oct. 12, 2019 for the contest of Line Gauthier: Living the Dream
to my cyber love
whom i may never see
who's words are my comfort
who loves me with keys
you who writes to my soul
apart of my life i give control
between us we share
a box with words
that instantly care's
and feelings preserve
we try to give
some sorts of gifts
but unlike other lovers
we cannot kiss
but give what i can
to you this day
to make you feel special
in my special sort of way
have you ever seen lovers
look up in the night time sky
and one pick out a star
and say that's yours and mine
of all the stars in heaven
i've chosen the best one
the star i chose for you
is the star we call the sun
of all the stars in heaven
none compare to it's light
it's beauty and majesty
to everyones delight
it warms and makes you happy
and even makes you grow
to say the least a lot of other things
that you may not even know
it will always be there
tomarrow and tomarrow
just a simple gift
need never have to barrow
so when morning comes
and you see the dawns first light
think of it as me
sneaking in to your life
(This is dedicated to the one I love.)
The Day The Dog Died
The very day her dog had died ;
she sat alone and cried and cried.
He'd been her companion for many a day ;
she thought he'd be there when SHE went away.
She wept and wept all through the night ;
somehow, her husband would make it all right.
They got in the car and went to the pound ;
she, so discouraged, just looked at the ground.
"Pick out another", her old husband said ;
"You have to face it, your boy dog is dead."
Then the old lady walked slowly outside ;
tears rolled down her face, she wanted to hide.
Up rambled an old dog, a female was she ;
crawled into their car, as bold as could be.
The dog sat patiently waiting there ;
not moving a muscle, going nowhere.
"She just picked us out !", the old lady cried ;
"I thought I'd have no friend till' the day I died."
Now both the old girls sit in a chair;
discussing the world and going nowhere.
That little dog had a very sad past ;
now, she has someone to love her, at last.
She's given the dog a name, Dee Dee,
she listens intently, her chin on Mom's knee.
They pass the long hours being together;
in rain or snow, through all kinds of weather.
So, if this is a "dog's life", lucky is she;
there's just not a better place to be.
Perhaps they will leave on the very same day,
for, to each, there is no other possible way.
I think of them often....they'r gone from this earth;
I'm nearing her age and I not nearly her worth.
Although. three little dogs sit on my bed;
listening and playing and tilting their heads,
at each and everything I say;
like it was important in some sort of way.
I understand the importance of each little creature ;
to someone, somewhere, for they are the teachers.
An only child on grandpa’s farm
I idly dream my days away
in hidden nooks or wooded glades
where elves and fairies go to play.
I race the wind in open fields
in shades of yellow and plush green;
supine I lie watching the clouds,
pick out blue patches in between.
I chase the pigeons, shout in glee
at lazy goats and grazing sheep.
Beside the lake I sail my boat
and in the water go knee deep.
Sometimes I fish with homemade rod;
that’s when the ducks come in a flash.
I give them bread out of my bag,
with cries of joy they quack and splash.
The ducks and I get on so well,
our days are spent without a care.
We have become the best of friends.
It’s love for nature that we share!
She said.....
When you took the lover's moon
Out of my horizon....
You placed in in another woman's sky
Memories in teardrops.....
You've really got me crying.....
And they're staining everything in sight
Like a watercolor painting in the rain
What was oh so beautiful has made a sudden change
Once love runs down a face it will never be the same
Like a watercolor painting in the rain
I said.....
We can can have it painted over
Then, pick out a new frame....
So everything will be alright..
She said.....
I tried to call the artist
And the voice that answered...said
I'm sorry, but the painter died last night....
I guess that leaves our love like......
A watercolor painting in the rain
What was oh so beautiful, has made a sudden change
Once love runs down a face, it will never be the same
Like a watercolor painting in the rain
Just....a watercolor painting.......in the rain
Protected by copyright
All rights reserved
There goes my hero, he’s ordinary,
like in the Foo Fighters song
Carries no airs or graces,
makes me feel like I belong
A family member perhaps,
even a workmate, or friend
Someone who can be trusted,
on whom I tacitly depend
There goes my hero,
out in the rain mending a fence
Standing at the back of photos
not overpowering the lens
Cleaning blocked up drains,
unafraid to pick out nits
Struggles in the charts for decades,
without any major hits
There goes my hero, she’s loving,
rears her dead sisters child
Puts the kid through college,
works nightshifts and smiles
Seeks nothing in return,
a little thank you will suffice
Salt of the earth person
that only gives solid advice
There go my heroes,
all extraordinarily mundane
Not looking for recognition
having no time to complain
I’m certainly not one of them,
comfortable on my own ground
Real heroes have stamina,
going forward round after round
Could be my hero’s Cobain
who blew out his brains
Cared damn all for money
and even less about fame
To Honor My Hero Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
07/31/22
Your past should be a reminder,
Of how far you have come.
Your past should be the key to the present,
Not to a ball and chain.
Your past should be a line in the sand,
That you never step back over.
Your past should be a record of past mistakes,
Not re-visited.
Your past should come with a map,
To buried treasure,
Not a bowl of rotten fruit.
Your past should spit you out,
Not suck you in.
Your past should leave you with a pair of Tweezers,
To pull out those annoying thorns in your side.
Not a microscope to pick out the nits.
Your past should send out some echoes of laughter,
Not waves of pain and regret.
Your past should be all present and accounted for,
So, you can stride confidently into a brighter future.
How sad, a mere mortal can promise forever?
In any context, forever doesn't exist,
Forever falls apart sooner or later,
Or when they say it gets better soon,
How long is soon? Good far is it?
How can a pathetic human foretell the future?
How do you know I'll be better? Or even if I will be or not?
How do you know what's in my brain? You know the words I tell you.
The pieces I pick out and display to show I'm not perfect, but hide the ones to scare you off,
How can you say I know you when I don't know myself?
I don't wanna grow up, I don't plan to.
Not in a nostalgic way, but in a way I won't exist.
I won't exist for that future, no matter if it's better or not,
I don't want to live in this world,
And if I end up sending myself to hell, I hope that fire gives me warmth.
I hope it's comforting like how my mother's arms are supposed to be, or I hope I burn until I don't feel.
You say I don't care about you if I wanna leave, I'm selfish I agree, I'm a hypocrite, but you'd want to see your friends fine too? Even if you're not.
Fixing others when you can't hold your own pieces together.
How can I get better, when I've seen people still the same,
How much effort can I make when my hands get cracks and I can't lift?
How much can I bear, when a ship sinks if too full?
How do I hold the pieces when I have two hands and the shards are too many, cutting into me as I gather.
i simply cannot bear this
Have A Great Golf Game
My belief in God is as firm as it can get
He rains down heaven so I will ne wet
With all His love along with very being
Even when off on golf course am teeing.
With God golf weather will be great
May be with much vigor or sedate
And when on back of crucifix rub
He helps me pick out perfect club.
Energy is everlasting and not draining
God is thoughtful teacher when in training
Has a golden rule which is to take a bean
And do gently roll it slowly down the green.
Now that you have found slope and flow
Way much better your golf ball will go
And God makes sure game will survive
By continually keeping your drive alive.
When you will allow God to be your map
He has been known to have your handicap
No longer surprising like a rising star
But somewhere near or equal to par.
So will have a great golf game or SWAG.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
I make the appointment all excited
for my feet look like my dads, uninviting.
I anxiously wait until the day of my arrival,
expecting...who-ha’s...claps...and grins.
None of this sort grabs me, instead it is
pick out color...pick out color...and then she turns with chagrin.
That is okay...I am still excited...I try to crawl into the big chair,
but I am only five feet, and she’s practically shoveling me in.
I have on a dress you know...hello...can I have towel?
Oh my gosh, the sky is falling...I did not pick out my color!
And, so we begin, she really is my friend.
This is my favorite place to be, and I love her best of all.
But, she turns on the water, and oh...I want to smack her.
My feet are going to ignite from the heat!
I just want to sit here; I do not want the chair to go off like a rocket,
massaging every ounce of my being, things falling out of my pocket.
I came here to relax, my feet are burning, and my voice is quivering.
Good gosh woman, turn this thing off!
Things finally settle down...we begin to talk around.
How’s your daughter...How is your mother?...Can I have some rice from the kitchen?
She laughs at me...I smile at her...
Oh, no, I forgot to pick out my color!
Her husband comes by.
I say...sure, I will give it a try!
I admire my jellybean toes and pay her the dough.
We hug, she laughs at me, and tells me luv ya!
"Humor Me" Contest
©Holly P. Moore
October 2012
by: Poet destroyer
I investigated many poems today
Friendly people on this (Love Boat)
Everybody different in their own way
The evidence I found is hidden in every poetry line
Mysteriously, one poet comes from (Fantasy Island)
I am filing charges on the lady
Who welcomes you to the soup
Leaves you a comment, without reading your identity
Today I read a report on the supernatural.
Billies demons vs' (Charlies Angels.)
Investigating a woman who poets you advise, gee's how nice
I will give her a ticket, for making me feel guilty as can be
How about the clown who does not wear a rubber nose.
He puts on a show with his pen and paper (THAT IS TALENT)
He is using his ego another way
He makes us laugh, with one whip of his Belt
I will not release the name on the depressing poem I read
For her, I will stop traffic, and move everyone out of her rain
Her words made my heart bleed
A warrant goes out to the girl who used too much imagination.
I actually got to see tongues to tongue vividly.
I will never ticket the poet queen
Murder she wrote and got away,
I do not know who is the John Doe I found today.
I will be reading his poetry file.
To make sure, he is not misleading this investigation.
I also confiscated an old antique or two
Unique skills found in their retired war shoes
I did my undercover work on a serial killer case on the soup.
That is one report I did not want to picture
I hope the writer will bargain for a life sentence
In a paradise so Green.
I will soon end my file, and turn in my report about Big Foot
After I arrest them ladies who write about butterflies
It is against the law to lead us on a goose chase
We are nowhere near (A highway to heaven)
I have to go join a (S.W.A.T.) team.
To raid the aliens who invade (The little house on the prairie)
I call this group the (A team)
You know A-liens team who you are.
Someone just posted bail
For the girl who blinded us all
She wore her neon converse a straight ticket to jail
I am on a manhunt locating a molester
Every time she is spotted in a pick out line
She comes back and deletes her trade
Erasing her only profile, just to edit all over again
This coming from a crooked cop, (Magnum)P D
Reporting live on the poetry soup
thanks
cute boy
that shall be left unnamed.
thanks so much
for taking up so much
space in my little head
that I can't not think about you
for more than...
well, a second
and thanks so much
for running through this mind
of mine
so much
when I lay in bed
that hours pass
as quickly as....
well as quickly as
my heart can break
and before I know it
the sun is rising
and I have not yet slept.
and thanks so very much
for becoming the subject of every
little think i write
that no other intellectual idea
can bubble to the surface of this
sometimes shallow mind.
and thanks so so much for
occupying so much room in my heart
that it hurts
when I try to remove you.
like trying to pick out pieces
of a shattered mirror
that then fell into a bowl of jello.
thanks,
it's been fun,
falling in love with you,
about as fun as a paper cut.