Best Pilfer Poems
Trinkets and treasures, given away
Something for nothing, what can I say?
Jewelry or gold
Some artwork of old
A gift for someone on my mind today
Shopping, searching, a second hand store
Pirate and pilfer, the bargains galore
A want or a need
Obsession or greed
It all depends what you're looking for
Recycle a relic, admire an antique
Killing some time, in a brownstone boutique
Whatever the find
Be it crude or refined
A gift for a friend, guaranteed unique.
Daniel Turner
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
What is truth's pure golden nugget?
A debt-free real balanced budget!
The concept is known
But history has shown
Great figures know how to fudge it
Author's note: The right wing wants to pilfer nature's bounty and destroy the natural balance to make us rich because god says it's OK. The left wing wants to do the same--only more slowly and without god. In the end, capitalistic greed is the real evil because it is taking us to a critical point of no return. We really need to stop using smoke and mirrors and do an honest accounting.
To the teams of rescuers on the front line in Haiti
The Pilots, the Soldiers, and Truck Drivers
The Doctors, Nurses, and the Aides
The Clergymen, Volunteers
To the average Haitian giving of themselves
To meet the needs of their fellowmen
Your light shines bright in this dark hour
As a beacon to all the world
Rewards more precious than priceless gems
To you and yours are assured
In a place where time can neither erase nor robbers pilfer
God blessings to you all
Part One
“The Kurral owes much of its popularity to its exquisite poetic form. A kurral is a couplet containing a complete and striking idea expressed in a refined and intricate metre. No translation can convey an idea of its charming effect. […] The brevity rendered necessary by the form [composed in the Venpa metre] gives an oracular effect to the utterances of the great Tamil ‘Master of the sentences.’ They are the choicest of moral epigrams. […] Tiruvalluvar is generally very simple, and his commentators very profound.”
Rev. G.U. Pope, Former Fellow of Madras University
[Pardon these futile measly words from your great Potiya height: they can hardly belittle your true worth.]
Under what leaky hutment roof by stamped-mud floors
trembling clair-oscuro straw-wick kuttuvilakku
on the stark anvil of crisp phrase and sparse syntax
by the raging nama-nir rhyming brine
at Mayilapur’s S.Thomé sandy doors
while peacocks danced to your innate pulsating chimes
have you chipped away at uncut gems
Those the Yavanas brought with the monsoons
or such as your sea-daring captain friend Elela-Cinkan’s
Even those the Christian missionaries preached
in daredevil enticement
after St.Thomas fell to a vel stuck in his bosom
or of those like you who were stamped underfoot
Caste in cast-iron strictures
Priest only to the proclaimer paraiyar drum-beaters
The warp and woof of intricately woven venpa verse
elevating your weaving clan to fresh artistic heights
YET
in the humbled ways of your birth
on whose steps have you pitched your ears
whose wisdom have you had to pilfer
filter
whose ways have you had to ape
whose mere thoughts have you then had to set aright
ennoble
and remould into inextinguishable lines
Or had you tread the ahimsa path of gentle-foot Jains
Treading gently the earth for fear of loping boot pains
(Continued in Part Two)
Summer beneath clear sky,
Squalling seagulls swoop to pilfer a bit of food
hurl up high.
Boys bask with joy
in the sun breezy playful mood.
Enjoy.
Blue sea,
honey-sand you'd
see.
Kites fly in open sky
as they run in a cheerful mood.
See!
1/12/2021
Sun And Sand Minichu Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mohan Chutani
1. This is a New form of Rhyme named MlNICHU (proposed by Mohan Chutani)
2. Total12 lines (4 stanzas of 3 lines each)
3. Rhyme scheme: Aba, cBc, dbD, ABD.
4. 4th stanza consists of repeat of 1st line of stanza1, 2nd line of stanza 2, and 3rd line of stanza 3.
Poem should stick to a chosen theme through all stanzas. A twist can be introduced in third stanza, if required by the theme, to make it more interesting.
5. Syllable count :
Stanza 1: 6,12,3 (3 times 2,4,1)
Stanza 2: 4,8,2 ( 2 times 2,4,1)
Stanza 3: 2,4,1
Stanza 4: 6,8,1.
with collars turned up,
we warm hands in our pockets...
winds pilfer the trees
~
The acorns have been bouncing like brown raindrops
If I could sell them, I would open a shop
~
As leaves somersaulted in masses from all the russet trees,
small children were running to classes, along the littered street
~
Brisk autumn winds, weaving through grass
twirl bright golden leaves, fluttered and spun
blushing like children, who tumble and laugh
playing gymnastics, having their fun
with cart-wheeling antics, under the sun
__________________________________________________________
Four Forms: Haiku,Couplet,Free Verse,Quintain
For Contest sponsored by Silent One "Poet's Dozen"
11/6/15
‘Do you like Pigeons Dad’
“Oh No”
‘But Why?’
“They’re scummy things
They’re Rats with wings
They’re vermin of the sky”
‘That can’t be right Dad’
“It is”
‘How So?’
“They pilfer seed
They breed at speed
And harbour disease you know”
‘Are you sure dad’
“Oh Yes”
‘Since when?’
“Since the Rock Pigeon flew
And ended up in a stew
Since their domestication by men”
‘But I like Pigeons Dad’
“I know
You do”
‘I like how they sing
I like the shape of their wing
So you should like them too’
“But I don’t like Pigeons Son.
Not now.
Not ever.
Their walk is bizarre,
They crap on my car
And they’re really not that clever”
'But Daaaad…
...they wake me in the morning,
With their delightful coo,
Their plumage is wonderful - an iridescent blue.
They look good in the garden Dad
They don’t make such a mess
Do you like Pigeons Dad?’
…“Yes”
[This poem was the result of being asked this question many, many, many times by my son. My son is on the autistic spectrum - he has Asperger's Syndrome to give the official diagnosis. He is a lovely human being & I love him dearly. But one of his most irritating traits, is the fact that he asks the same questions continuously all day every day. No matter how you respond, the same question will be posed minutes later. Currently and for at least the last 2 to 3 years: 'Do you like pigeons daddy?' is his favourite/most frequently asked question. Now that you know that, perhaps you can really feel the exasperation in that final ..."Yes"]
this is the tale of ed jeeves
notorious friend of thieves
each fall he will rise
to much darkened skies
and pilfer neighbors red leaves.
Like a knight in shining armor
You rescued me from a place of somber
Eager to know, eager to see
A man like you, can it truly be?
With your speeches of serenade
My loneliness begins to fade
Man of chivalry and full of charm
Swept me away in your securing arms
But soon, I realize behind that breastplate
A plague in your heart lies a hideous trait
A man in disguise, you hide behind
All your destructive intentions and ruthless lies
Needed my trust to seal the deal
Wisely, you have mastered how I feel
A sly expert at the art of deception
My heart is now in your possession
Impressed, you trained yourself very well
A cold heart hidden away, not one could tell
You played me like a fool, I really must say
But please don’t stop upon my dismay
Body and heart I gave; my trust you stole
Now it’s time for the next victim to pilfer her soul
Quickly you fled; distance at its farthest
It seems I fell at the hands of a con artist
Twelve and twenty black birds baked in a pie
Sounds to me disgusting, would probably make me die
I hate those big blackbirds that pilfer on the street
I can't imagine that they would ever taste sweet
What kind of baker would bake them in a pie
Sounds like he was drinking or probably getting high
I like my pies with fresh fruit or creamy custard
I can't even imagine a pie that's filled with black birds
Sometimes those authors of Mother Goose rhymes
Must have been with Edgar cutting up some lines
Or maybe with that Lewis Carroll smoking opium
For the things they wrote back then were more scary than fun
Living in a shoe, or being Jack so quick
It seems ridiculous to jump over a candlestick.
Thanksgiving Day
~ pretty weird that it is necessary to have one day allocated during the year to give
thanks to the harvest or anything else we might and should be grateful for during
the year and I do not suppose that turkeys approve of this pagan feast when we
stuff ourselves with bird flesh digestives condiments from the gravy train of riches
Hallelujah for burgers wine and soft drinks Coca Cola Mc Donald’s Gallo’s Alamos
on consumption’s battle fields entrenched in modern living praised be the Harvest
Queen the God of Wall Street the Guns and Drones that feed our seeming needs
the wants of affluence and exploitation the fig leafs of sweet environmental humility
You sow the wind and reap the storm and flatulence and bloated waistlines waste
lines of reason’s indigestion shed fatty malnourished winds of tempest’s thunder
Armaggedon in the waking waiting helplessly for paradise at least in our neck of
the woods the Global North’s power broking houses of doom injustice domination
Far from honouring the beauty the Dominatrix yes mother Gaia is female and
should protect ancestral love and kindness from the milk and honey breast of
feeding body mind and soul and spirit communal comprehension ancient modern or
just timeless cycles of sustainable responsibility we pilfer rape and pillage desecrate
One day of feasting praising what we otherwise forget lest we remember leaves
three-hundred and sixty-four periods of moon and sunlight spinning out of all
control and we’re oblivious to the warning signs of plenty erase the gift we should
pass on to our children lineage progeny now left with massive mess and no Messiah
Were we more honest we would solemnly acknowledge that what we’re praising
in hypocrisy and neglected conscience is human depravation the demise of dignity
loosing the plot the fields and garden from where our harvest needs to prosper
would in frank and serious good faith admit that what we garner and amass is
Genocide…
05th November 2016
Moon is silver
A quicksilver
A cloud pilfer
The wheel of love
He is stealthy
Staying healthy
Plenty ,wealthy
The peace of dove
DESIDERATA - Poetry Contest
Sponsor nette onclaud
Theme:” Remember what peace there may be in silence.”
rhyme scheme aaab/cccb
syllable count 4444/4444
Poet: RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
December 06 2014
In silted apron blossoms baby
Incubating heat fondles canopy
From leafy trellis sprouts progeny
With briny tears, warmth grows quickly
Acorn melded to fertile tree
Succoring streams flow freely
Ballasted perch shared dutifully
Fragile shell tendered stem's realty
Paternal arms clasp twig-end tightly
Structural beams foster stability
Nutrients funnel expanding the cavity
Well-rounded hull with shared identity
Truant winds the bond doth atrophy
Shaking strands that clutch lovingly
Ripening acorn longs new vistas to see
With heavy heart falls from caring tree
Dry, barren ground leaches each gratuity
Rotting leaves fondle exterior incessantly
Surface ambitions soiled by limited mobility
Predatory marauders pilfer each, bright opportunity
Acorn will not stray far from security
Paternal shadow hovers patiently
With overarching wings shield calamity
During trials, trickle down tears of empathy
Let’s celebrate Pearl Harbor – and why not?
A pretext for a party? It’s terrific!
It simply wouldn’t do if we forgot
that evil bid to conquer the Pacific!
There’s one aggressive nation, poised to strike:
it has, somehow, to come up with a ruse:
the victim is distracted, zombie-like:
“we need to manufacture an excuse!”
I’m talking not of Arizona, Shaw
or Utah, but a stealth attack on Spain
so slily undertaken years before:
I’m talking of the sinking of the Maine.
In February eighteen ninety-eight,
Americans (the new kids on the block)
were throwing round a bit of Yankee weight,
and bombed a warship in Havana Dock.
What’s wrong with that? Why, nothing – if you think
that killing folks to start a war is fine.
The vessel that the hawks picked out to sink
was US Navy, stricken by “a mine”.
The yellow press of Pulitzer and Hearst
demanded Cuba and the Philippines,
defied Don Juan to do his wimpish worst:
he’d blown our mighty Maine to smithereens.
A special corner is reserved in Hell
for those who hate the truth, and help it vanish:
for Pulitzer and Hearst knew very well
the culprits were American, not Spanish.
The “mine” account (excuse me) was exploded:
investigators sent out from Madrid
found nothing to support it. Dice were loaded.
The Yankees yearned to start a fight – and did.
The Sampson Board (American, of course)
with comic opera characters in place
(Commander Converse!) said the use of force
was fully recommended in this case.
Why can’t we be content with what we’ve got?
Why pilfer from the other person’s plate?
Two hundred US sailors died – for what?
So Uncle Sam could steal some real estate.