Best Plaudits Poems
My soul filled with pride and my eyes misted as the parade passed in review.
'Twas the annual hometown Veterans Day Parade that I was privileged to view.
Veterans, young and old marched behind the flag that they vowed to defend.
They sacrificed so much to uphold the liberties we enjoy in this land!
A Medal of Honor recipient served as Marshal for the parade.
Lively music provided by the local high school band was played.
An honor guard led the procession with Old Glory held high.
Old veterans along the street saluted with a proud tear in their eye!
There were survivors from the December 1941 Pearl Harbor Affair.
No doubt this day recalled memories of comrades who yet lie sleeping there.
Grizzled heroes of The Battle of the Bulge marched proudly with resolute stride.
Wearers of the Purple Heart rode aboard a float with heads held high with pride!
A company of Korean War vets marched representing the war in which they served.
Viet Nam vets received long overdue plaudits from the crowd they so well deserved.
Young men and women still on active duty, some barely out of their teens,
Represented the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and United States Marines!
Those gnarled hands that once held the terrible weapons of war,
Now beckoned for peace that we shall know war no more.
The hardships they suffered for liberty's sake we shall never know.
So much, so very much to each of these brave men and women we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
This moment I've been awaiting for a number of years
To see ones heroes live see them crunching their gears
I'm on my way to Glasgow with workmates and friends
To finally see live their fantastic tracks they have penned
Anticipation now flows into the concert arena we await
It's the buzz, the hungered wishing, terrific time trait
The moments now close for the lights start to dim
For this three piece on song a most wonderful vim
Strobe lights, Bass intro, my awaiting now starts
To us fans they're our hymns soon singing our hearts
Shouting cheering hearing the first vocals now voiced
To the chorus now reached such incredible rejoice
Mellow chords to lead guitar which slice through the air
Decibels so loud for we simply sing and just stare
Drum solo so immense it's orchestral to our ears
So energetic melodic sublime, to magnificent tier
Thanks, plaudits are shared, encore after encore
It's not just their lyrics, it's their quite beautiful scores
This moment I've been awaiting for a number of year's
To see ones heroes live, I have to admit there were tears
.
MY OLD BOSSES FUNERAL
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Went to the funeral of my old boss
After several speakers I was at a loss
Who was this person they were eulogizing
Kind words and praise was so surprising
I knew him well for many, many years
Despised by family and also his peers
He was a tough boss that never praised
The toil of his workers, most thought him crazed
One speaker after another had bountiful praise
They must be mistaken or in a mental daze
Like I said I knew him well
Being around him was a living hell
His ex wife had nothing to say
His two daughters couldn’t make it today
His son sent a card but forgot to sign
It said” hi mom” are you having a good time?
I had an eerie feeling throughout the service
These lauding comments were making me nervous
I had to make sure I was in the right place
Walked up to the casket and stared at his face
I had to touch him to see if he’s cold
Lipstick and rouge made him look old
Underneath the makeup he was turning gray
Get him underground don’t wait another day
Sure enough the old codger was dead
But I couldn’t believe the plaudits said
He was a bitter psychotic misanthrope
He was cheap a bigot a total mope
He was intolerant abusive and never approved
To belittle and disarm was his every move
The praising went on like a marathon
It sounded as if they’re sorry he’s gone
It must be that he had more than one side
They’re talking about Dr. Jekyll I knew Mr. Hyde
BOSS’S FUNERAL (2)
Later I learned what the praise was all about
He left a fortune for his rep to dole out
Total discretion for his rep to give away
To anyone that had something real to say
Everyone here and others previously chosen
To say a few words about the recently frozen
They all praised and offered exaltations
Expecting a big payoff for their commendations
But when the will was officially opened
Not a thing awarded to those who had spoken
Instead everything was willed to his son
Cause he was best to continue his fathers run
Of all of my kin and friends it was easy to see
My son is a son of a ***** just like me
So he gets my wealth and also my genes
He’ll succeed using unscrupulous schemes
When its his time to turn from ecru to gray
He can expose the hypocrites as I did today
They never understood him,
But in him burned a spark.
Peculiar, a genius
A man who'd leave his mark.
And leave his mark he did,
His mind an unknown road.
What he saw they couldn't,
He broke the nazi code.
No plaudits though for him,
Invisible was he.
His role, it was top secret
But led to victory.
His private life would end him,
It would hound him to his grave.
His only crime was being gay,
Which society thought depraved.
How ungrateful and forgetful
Society can be.
Suicide his only balm,
A hero though to me.
Entry for HERO - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
21/11/2017. Placed 3rd.
When a puny mind
with no virtue of humility
Tries to reach the heights above
But threatened by a fall into
the depths below
A life with no intentional destiny
No bivouac
No ideal but tedium
Quivers full of arrows
But with no fixed target
An unforetold obscurity
A menace only to whom who wants
The plaudits of men
Listen close, I want you to know,
my dearest wish before I go,
is not to be a posthumous poet!
So if you’d give praise? Let me know it.
As I write to satisfy my poetic drive,
praise that’s priceless when I’m alive,
means nothing, if and when I’m dead!
Accolades that you shower on my head
are what I appreciate and treasure,
So please, deny me not the pleasure
of offering me your congratulations,
if you enjoy my poetic perambulations?
Although receiving praise is not my purport,
I enjoy kind words, that lend their support,
for goodness knows, I get few enough!
Though writing rhymed poetry can be tough,
this is the genre found most suited for me,
being the one I use for writing poetry.
If on the day I’m asked to give cause
as to why, my ‘plaudits” are sparse? I’ll pause
before suggesting Rhyme, my cherished form
which was, in earlier times, the established norm,
is not so popular today. Erstwhile, Free
or Blank Verse, genres, not practised by me,
have attained accolades from devotees
and fans, who find such genres please.
On my final day, when I’m regarded “Late”,
my eulogy delivered in rhyme, I’d appreciate.
A short, sombre piece might beguile
mourners, if rendered in my chosen style,
that would suit the situation very well.
And strike a chord, but who can tell?
However, today I’m alive, wondering why
so few plaudits, in the short by and by,
seem to be awarded for rhymed poetry.
Is it a dislike of rhyme, or simply me?
Meanwhile, any comments you write,
provided they’re not insulting or trite,
encourage Rhymers to compose
more poetry in the rhyming prose.
For offering kind words is, as I’ve said,
far better now, than when we’re dead!
For these, as I have earlier stated,
helps this poet to write. When elated
I’m inspired to write more rhyming poetry.
I’m alive and as such, I enjoy a little flattery!
But as a “Posthumous Poet” I will never hear
a single word of praise or criticism, I fear.
Rhymer. September 1st, 2016.
What in heaven's name would we ever do, oft' I wonder,
If not for the humble pencil eraser to correct our every blunder!
Plaudits to Mr. Hyman Lipman for his inventive intellect,
For patenting this mundane gizmo for our errors to correct!
A pencil eraser is also useful for musing bards to chew on,
While striving to concoct verse when their cleverness is nearly gone!
I've even observed folks surreptitiously cleaning both of their ears
With a pencil eraser that would cause alarm to an otic doc and his peers!
A weekend golfer's pencil is sans an eraser and for good reason I suppose,
Otherwise, with certain "adjustments" to their scores they would all be pros!
In this enlightened and technological age, correcting mistakes is much neater.
No eraser needed - just click a button on the computer called a "deleter!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Honorable Mention in the "Rub It Out" Contest - June 2010
No one appreciates the forthwith moon!
So we procured it's fullness in reverence
We rode til' the moonlight singed our backs
Til' pattering of our pedaling inflection
Boiled to a howl at our feet
Til' loquaciousness burned the rubber
Of dialectic wheels
Even philosophy urged our impediment
As we exercised every impression
So we could finally lie them down
In the softest plaudits of silence
Leaning our bicycles amongst them
Switching ideas gears unto rest
To beat another dead Marxist horse
Another day
The Last Walk Together
Shrouds cast purposed a dire malaise,
inscribed plaudits hallow tombstones,
absorbing bores coped brimmed blase,
a raised veil, e'er wet-eyes stream blued,
stays balanced, shifted acquiesce,
resume pace, neglectful of mood,
umbrae molds clear, a mien shone glit,
poised calm prosed a pious meek speech,
laid wreaths, last steps rounds a life flit.
*Used HMS & RZ
2020 October 23
*3rd Place*
Writing Challenge - Tercets
~~Constance La France
Sunrise
Warm amber rays
Greet me with morning light
Softly peeking through my window
A welcome voyeur is this peeping Tom
Who wakens me in time to hear
sweet trilling of songbirds
Plaudits to the
Sunrise
July 17, 2022
Radical Rictameter Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
Journey's end evades, ever evading
Pleasures trampled upon, beached, down wind
Though hopeful, lone strangers keep rescinding
Flights of wanton fancy bedazzle me
Hard facts in consequences I have binned
Though in searching no-one seems to agree
Overland territories in spatial climes
Amalgamate in their entirety
Fingers filter currency, cents and dimes
Cast off to foreign shores, I would be bound
Oh to be wealthy wise, accrue plenty
Feted, lauded, plaudits crowned
Journey's end evades, ever evading
Overland territories in spatial climes
I'm always the supporting actor
I've never been the star.
It seems I'm always the chauffeur
driving someone else's car.
I've always been a loyal player
never the captain of the team.
It feels as if I'm playing a part
fulfilling someone else's dream.
I've always been a Joker
I'm feel happy playing the clown.
I find a sense of humour
helps make this world go around.
I'm honest and I'm loyal
although it doesn't always pay.
Some see it as a sign of weakness
where they can have their Way.
I do things without question
never asking what its for.
I let others share the plaudits
knowing I've helped is my reward.
After all is said and Done
we should be happy as we are.
For if God made us in his own image
then everyone's a superstar.
Join me inside the noise
Dark, sleek, cool gestures
Exascerbating the tales of whoa
Incinerating wisdom
As the embers and ashes fly
Float, crash land in displays of
Rudimentary insolence, let go
The sense freed
Of their solemn platitudes
Taking favors, sipping gently
Sparse deliberate crowds
Tip their hat
And everyone else's
The signal strength is mine to
The blue power
And all the (dazzling), (luscious)
Shades that wave the pointed wand
To the brilliant, buoyant
Unhindered hip
Chatting their teeth
On the nearest
Piece of flesh
Seasoned to their liking
My eyes view the foreign scene
My ears see light
Drawn out hypnotic beats
And Marley-flavored taunting mood
Is deprived, (destined), tapered
To plaudits
Given by the spurned wonder kids
Sowing their grains
And slandered ineptitude
Deep, swallowed
Diluted into sublime mantras
They beg to take their turn
On felonious stages
Scream, yelp
Exhaust the violent yearn and rage
Deny emblematic sieges that
Fire at will, their will
To bottle this tangy elixir
Closet bulging from exceeding capacity
But room for you to taste
Just pass baton
Mind to mind
Wistful pleasure hates it
When you cage it even
A moment too long.
(6/27/05)
Robert Burns - P is for Poet.
Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.
At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.
P is for Poet
Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn
Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink
Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.
RIP ROBERT BURNS.
When I listen to Eminem I purr at his work,
it perks me up.
I'm then lured to write some words
and create a new verse,
that's rife without purpose.
No clichés are surplus,
and I've no nerves on the surface.
It's just an urge that occurs
wanting me to nurse to life a rhyme
as my digits tingle and fidget for playtime,
ready to mingle, in the meantime my brain feels no limit.
Set out in a stride that flows like the tide under bridges,
with a strive to blow minds and entangle sublime rhymes,
that I interwine between the lines leading in time
to a chorus that I hope to be glorious.
Set with the wind in my sails
and a drive that supplies the hammer and nails,
that wield together a motorised thought weapon,
with a complex that threatens,
to propel me like witchcraft
as I spell to fast
with the sails at full mast,
catching wind that's pushing this raft
and blasting through my mind as I draft
both good and daft rhymes.
Which seem easy and slide through peasy,
thanks to the greasy ease of a motion that doesn't freeze,
but travels at crazy speeds that please me.
It's not the work of a degree,
it just gives critics and plaudits a read
that they can witness
with it's dense intense thickness.
I don't care if it's rubbish
it's not written to be published.
I just like how my left hand smudges the ink,
as there's no time for it to dry as I rapidly think.
I just let it flow
and I know
like the tip of my nose
or the nails on my toes,
that it's simplistic
and explicit,
no need to be drastic
and complicate it.
I just like to glide like a cable car ride
because I'm able that's why.
I just like wordplay and syllables
that prevent the event of me feeling miserable.
It's just a cure that's what it's written for,
just a rhyme to read once and not once more.