Best Pile Poems
How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die
Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry
But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death
The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth
See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene
Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens
Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail
Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale
These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk
Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked
Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts
I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash
Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree
Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see
Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged
Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage
Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square
Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare
What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist
When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist
Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise
Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids
If your going to post propaganda, to further some game
Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained
By
David Kavanagh
I attended a large gathering and took some time
to observe the great assortment of shoes stacked on the racks
I saw new shoes, pricey shoes, and shoes not worth a dime
and shoes that seemed to have crossed many paths and tracks.
I saw dainty sandals and flighty high heeled ones too
I saw sporty sneakers and rough and tough trainers
I saw both the laced and the leathery buckled shoe
Then I saw the humble yet hardy pair of slippers.
I saw pointy shoes, furry shoes and flatties as well
I saw flowery ones and those studded with trinket gems
Some stacked neatly in pairs, others thrown about pell mell
Some recently repaired, some coming off at the hems.
I saw long boots, rubber boots and
there were glittery Indian styled stilettoes
I spotted fragile glass sandals and metallic brass sandals
and soft comfy ones for comfort of feet 'n' toes.
And while I was thus lost and engrossed
in watching the great assortment of footwear
The old caretaker, to me, a cheap pair tossed
saying, ' here's an extra pair if you've lost your shoes.
She was too busy and distracted to be in my shoes of muse
So I'd to slip out thinking of some quick excuse
She didn't even notice I wasn't actually barefoot
So I had to take them elsewhere, both my muse and my boot!
Ah, and long ago when once we could afford only a 'shoestring' budget
I once hadn't enough bucks to replace a worn out pair of shoes
I was sad for not having even a good goody two shoes
Then God showed me a wayfarer's shoeless pair of barefeet
and then one hapless one with no feet at all!
So I could imagine life being in their missing shoes.
(Footnote*
Wonderin where I saw so many shoes off peoples feet? Well, in our religious gatherings say for prayers in the mosque hall or even the religious lecture hall, we've to enter barefooted and sit down crosslegged. So that's where you come across all kinds of shoes on racks provided in the cubicle.
Actually in the Disney movie, 'THE PRINCE OF EGYPT', i marked that even Moses took off his shoes before talking to God.)
America, trillions in debt
gives to many nations!
Alas, what for, we are seen
as a selfish nation?
Homeless populate the streets
of LA.(thanks to governor Newsom)!
Yet don't you get it, we have
no extra money to pay.
No hidden vaccines do we store.
But all nations yelling...
More, more, more.
We are not a vaccine store!
I have no idea why we ever
helped our allies?
They do, to this day, forever
despise us
I would not come on an international
site.
Insulting any nation, as though what
they had, was my right.
We are on the road to becoming
Venezuela, two.
People waltz in here, like
we owe them a living, too.
Besieged with Covid at our
borders.
Thousands for a free monthly
check plus medications, such
hoarders.
There are people legally, wanting
to move here.
Overrun by gangs, the Cartels,
who have no fear.
I grew up in Chicago, quite
international.
Relatives, legally arrived when
LAW was still fashionable.
But we are expected to take all in,
as if we are a bottomless money pit.
Don't you understand, we've
surpassed our money limits?
Stop lying and saying we are
hoarding vaccines.
You are listening to the Cancel Culture
station, in itself, worse than the disease!
3/16/2021
~3~
From life to vivaciousness
wood chips will nourish with nutrients' fix.
Ah... whiffs of fresh pine sift as temperature rises,
steam swirling from this pile higher than I.
Should I climb upon it and slide down,
I could drown in the sweet smelling heat.
Woodland bits would grip garments like embellishments,
pokes groping my skin as I whimsically wince,
pinecone punctures perceived as pleasures.
My hair would wear the wilderness afresh,
twigs twirling between tresses to rest.
With sought satisfaction of childhood carelessness,
hugging trees' sacrificial splendor,
I plunge in and spin.
2/29/2020
A poem, lovely as a compost pile,
One lingers, sifts the elements awhile.
At first unclear, not all is evident;
Sharp images emerge as time is spent.
Though pieces, separate, may cause chagrin,
When taken as a whole, beauty's within.
To mull, to stew, to tease suggestions out
Though time elapses, ere they take shape, sprout.
For oft, a new direction is deduced,
Organic thoughts are grown, notions produced.
A poem such as this is never spurned,
But contemplated often, gently turned.
————-
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the "A poem lovely as a" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Margarita Lillico
Written 03/03/2022
Her spouse wise or unwise, who can tell. Does he dream in midnight hues? Oh why doesn’t he wake up, or at least spit out that last sleeping pill. He might choke on it. The still of the night rattled by the movement of the boundary, like a lion’s hungry stomach. The moon roars creating goosebumps, pricks upon tender white skin. She barely breathes. Did anyone leave snacks inside this circus tent… Please...please...please. Helplessly she lies as the khaki quavers, heart frantic. She’s never thought herself mad, but like in a Poe story, the tell-tale… She imagines the lion with reflective eyes, baring full gums, toying with her...this is no cuddly kitten. Would her full-sandman spouse wake up, wonder where she’d gone, as the kindly sunlight blinded him to the truth. The truth is she would kill him, if only he’d open his eyes. Could she forgive him… At long last, darts race toward the roaming moon...she imagines that ghastly animal tumbling underneath the skirt, landing at her feet, swirling dust, an incomplete thought as the ferocious tongue lolligags onto her bag. Her husband smiles and turns over satisfied as he kisses his dream wife, moaning with pleasure; danger the last thing on his mind, as the hunters drag away the predator whose smell lingers in the morning coffee, the cigarette’s ash, the wife’s nostrils. And all the community can do the next morning is make fun of the snoring gun, the gray-haired spoon, and midnight adventure.
the pile of gumdrops
sparkle like dew for kitty
here kitty...kitty
11/2/2020
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
old and alone,
sitting on a wood pile,
making it his own..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
listening and wondering.
Why has the sky grown dark?
Could that be thundering?
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
here comes the rain..
Fur now soaking wet thru an
orange matted mane..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
drenched as can be.
Are you waiting there for
a free meal from me?
f*ck justin bieber
f*ck harold and kumar
f*ck huey lewis
f*ck star trek
f*ck everything that isn't classical music
f*ck art that doesn't make sense who the f*ck would pay
5 billion dollars for splotches
of
paint
f*ck mariah carey
f*ck reading books
get a kindle god dammit
it's 2012
and people still read books
and listen to the beatles
what the f*ck is wrong with you troglodytes
The Dead Word Pile
My fault, sorry, the writing’s on the wall.
Awesome, pretty, don’t matter none at all.
The words just have to join the pile
Where all dead words will go.
Their time is up, it’s over, done
No longer in the flow.
Jiffy, knickers, no silver linings here.
Awesome, very, I’ll cry them in my beer.
Selfie, twerk, will move to take their place.
And words like cool, too long in use,
Will not keep up the pace.
Perhaps if I could hum them and set them to a beat.
I’d roll down all my windows and blast them to the street.
I’d use them one more time and mix them in a rant
I’d use them all together to give them a new slant.
I’d bounce them off the Dairy Queen, the Laundromat, the Mall
I’d shout them out just one more time
And try to save them all.
But really now, their time is up
It’s too late for the save.
I give them up, forevermore
And cast them to their grave.
Whoops!
OMG
Another one bites the dust.
Down the drain!
MY BAD.
A pile of pennies built strong love,
Childhood memories so sweet,
As they look down from above,
Helped make me feel complete.
Childhood memories so sweet,
Playing Rumoli using the penny,
Helped make me feel complete,
Laughter grew from so many.
Playing Rumoli using the penny,
Summer was a bonding time,
Laughter grew from so many,
Family dinners so sublime.
Summer was a bonding time,
As they look down from above,
Family dinners so sublime,
A pile of pennies built strong love.
Written by Lee Ramage
September 7, 2012
For the contest
“Rhonda and Cindy’s Penny Pantoums”
With a mag called POETRY, I spent time
Hoping to find verses sublime and sage
And for all I read, not two words that rhymed
Just chopped up prose splayed all over the page.
This left me just a little bit perplexed
So I decided to investigate
What I did find on Google left me vexed.
It seems that rhyming is so out of date!
Some academics, who think they could note
A cultural conservative leaning
By meter and rhyme: For whom I would vote
An implicit Bourgeois type of meaning!
To which I exclaimed out loud, “Shucky gee,”
‘Tis such a shameful verbal undressing.
The poems that I write are not P.C.?
Imagine the poor folks I’m oppressing!
perhaps if I wrote a bunch of random
words
and arranged them
bizarrely
on the page and didn’t
capitalize
and ensured a total lack of rhyme or rhythm
then, then some establishment of
Persuns
who make their living criticizing other people’s writings
and maybe even write themselves
would call it poetry?
I thought the idea here was to communicate?
How naive!
Oh the stuffiness
Self-important silliness
Such puffiness
Self-conscious no-frilliness
Whoops! I hate when I do that. Such a chump!
Breaking into rhyme like a “middlebrow.”
Kneeling at the poetic shrine of Trump.
Please, Mr. Self-important, show me how!
My thoughts on this are as follows: Bollocks!
This steaming pile of misinformation,
Your verbal equal of Jackson Pollock,
My heart’s best means of communication?
I want to have the “right” feelings and thoughts
And express them just like all you smarties.
Sans emperor’s new clothes, I have been caught
May I go to your frankfurter party?
3/11/16
There once was a joy to behold,
A glorious pile of gold,
But the riches were cursed
Making folks do their worst
So their gold pile would grow by twofold.
Pretty papers piled perfectly perpendicular
Pappy’s preference prefers papers piled properly
Patricia Pappy’s precious princess plunders pile
Pappy painfully piles papers properly precise
Precious princess packs precise papers perfectly
Pappy pondering protecting pretty piled papers
Purposely purchases proper padlock protection
Pouting Precious Princess Patricia picks padlock
Pappy paddles Pouting Precious Princess Patricia
Form:
The wind whirls
Around the trees
To gather their foliage
Around their base.
Brown and red
With remnants of summer
In a sprinkle of green.
I feel a sudden
Rush of ecstasy
Jumping in a pile of leaves!
I land on my back
In this textural bliss
Hearing them crunch
As they soften
My landing.
The child within
Cheers with delight
Jumping
In a pile of leaves.
Written September 3rd 2022
For the "Fall Flavours" contest
Theme chosen: Jumping In A Pile Of Leaves
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
There once was a man from San Marcos
Came home to a strange pile of carpet
Didn’t know what it was,
Scratched a chin full of fuzz,
And said, “P’raps I’ll take it to market”