Best Player Poems
Your bow - my violin we do unite
on rhythmic notes of ecstasy we fly
entwined our heartstrings vibrate through the night -
emblazoned love songs burn across the sky.
Susan Ashley
September 22, 2020
~ Third Place ~
An excerpt from: Making Beautiful Music Together (written April 15, 2018)
Submitted for contest: Sept. 22, 2020
Premiere Contest: Rithimus Divisa 6
Sponsor: Gregory R Barden
Not friend of man or beast, or kind to any soul,
not even their own.
Perhaps compassion deserted them, along with reason
leaving not even an even-tongue..
in a dangerous clouded head.
Or maybe found under a curse from a long ago wrong.,
cast at birth or last dawn' cropping season, ill thoughts
impure to many.
Maniacal in gaze. Sees.. but doesn't see,
no feeling left..
if ever there was any.
When encountering something perceived to be weaker,
don't respond the way most would.
As I write this, feel so sorry..
for all smaller creatures in wrenching hands..
crushed without a twitch of remorse.
Talk in whispers, don't wake their ire..
you can't outrun or outlast them..
not in words, or mannerisms, no chance.
Don't cross them, or fall hard in love..
they're already jealous., quick to anger,
always seething, like a kettle ready to boil.
One with nothing left to lose.
You are a player in an unfamiliar game..
tilted off balance of normal,
just a prize for them, all the same.
It's easier to be anyone else than the others.
Standing out in a cold dark night looking..
at the warmth that true companionship brings.
Life's best to live, and to give, though sure and not sure,
were it your neck so close to break.
Be the soul of leniency and mercy.,
send prayers, show kindness, and in kindness judge..
if you must.
Though never invest, or feel too sorry..,
nor trust what you hold dear..,
and never turn your back on
the others.
~~~~~~~~ Dedicated to Stephen King ~~~~~~~~
Internal Quote by Albert Einstein
On the eve of the invasion, the world braced for an upheaval.
Two ancient foes were poised for war, a war between Good and Evil.
For things are deathly dark and unsavory when Satan's soldiers ride,
and only acts of heroic bravery can help Good turn the tide.
So we watched with pessimistic dread as soldiers circled ‘round Kharkiv.
We feared so many would soon be dead, we feared what’s up Satan’s sleeve.
In numbers seeming infinite, his warring hordes were drawing near,
when we watched a young Ukrainian boy, a boy who showed no fear.
He would play on a grand piano, he would play a soulful song,
he would play sweet chords of calmness in the face of the warring throng.
He would play with skill and feeling, he would play with a touch of class;
while the rest of the world was reeling, he was kicking Putin’s ass.
Electric chills spilled down my spine and there was nary a dry eye,
while we watched and prayed he played unafraid of missiles from the sky.
Will he live to see tomorrow? And what about his family?
Will we learn their fate with sorrow? And can we cure insanity?
For nowhere in this universe could crimes of cold cupidity
be justified and understood but for human stupidity.
And I'm not sure who will win the war, if wars can be won or lost --
the one thing I am sure about in the universe is the cost.
For the cost of freedom is bloody steep, the consequences grave,
if we fail to battle bullies, and if we won’t stand with the brave.
And while we watched him on our big-screens, this boy’s bravery was clear;
just don’t think for a single second “it could never happen here.”
Submitted March 18, 2022, for the Kyiv Poetry Contest, sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann (First Place). This is a substantive revision of a shorter version that was submitted March 11, 2022, for the Keola Poetry Contest, sponsored by Hilo Poet.
As of the date of submittal, news sources reported that the fate of the boy and his family is unknown.
I'll be honest,
I gave into anger,
I gave him what he desired,
But I played the roll of the looking glass,
Only to realize, he was blind.
Oh and if I could be a recording instead,
I would not want to be his record player,
His words cast wounds that might break me,
for breaking beautiful things is what he loves.
Scratches tarnished on my gypsy black skin,
dancing circles round and round again,
to play his words with mal intent,
- a lost cause to hope he might repent.
So no, I would not be his record player
- forced to repeat his cruel words over and over,
If his dark nails touched your skin,
break free and sing your own song instead.
I can write for days
Keep on planting trees trees trees
Tell the world not to run out of seeds
That paper is useful
I write with it
Not a single writer's cramp live in my body I can write for days
So tell the writers cramp player haters to watch out
what you say about me
because now you hitting up my line asking for advice
I can write for days
so watch out what you say about me
No single writers cramp live in my body
Hitting them from left and right
By the morning time I wrote a thousands more poems
You can never stop me
Its even worst that you trying to have skills like me
You can never beat me
This gift was embedded
Keep on writing
I let you know if you can ever ever reach my level
Mean while keep on watching
You know the old saying
Practices makes perfect
Writers cramp player haters stay away from me
Don't even try to waste your time
Trying to get like me
I can write for days so watch out what you say
You hitting my line for advices
Piano Player of Jesus Music -Painter of Jesus Portrait-
If I could paint, I would paint Jesus face;
Upon the canvas, it would be wonderful;
It would be so great—
To see those many colors awesome and bold;
To tell in print a portrait never been sold;
I would add colors brilliant and bright;
Florissant ever so bright to be seen at night;
Painter of Jesus Portrait;
If I could play the piano;
This string instrument I would gather;
All the notes to strum to pick to touch the keys;
I would patiently compose a theme of the beauty of you Lord;
Melodies, vocal harmonies I would finger strike each and every key;
Merrily I play, I sing, Alleluia;
Just for you Lord, only for you to hear Jesus
Piano player of Jesus music
I would paint your face;
Brush in hand paint you in amazing grace;
I am, I can I will--
Upon the canvas, it would be wonderful
It would be so great—
To see those many colors awesome and bold;
To tell in print a portrait never been sold;
I would add colors brilliant and bright;
Florissant ever so bright to be seen at night;
If I could paint, I would paint Jesus face;
Piano Player of Jesus Music -Painter of Jesus Portrait-
I am a Piano Player of Jesus Music and I also is a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
I am a Piano Player of Jesus Music and I also is a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
A Piano Player of Jesus Music and a Painter of Jesus Portrait-
4/17/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019 ©
It doesn’t
come natural
to me
I wish it did
I wish I were
but
a team player
I’m not
never learned
wish I did
wish I had
I prefer
to do it all
on my own
I wish I didn't
but always will
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Posted on March 15, 2019
10
I sprint as I cry in pain
Coach yells, “ RUN, PASS, SCORE”
9
Blocking out all the screaming
And the chaotic noises
8
From the sidelines
I dash through five tough defenders
With everything that I have got
7
Out of breath I devour the last of energy
I can use to score the winning goal
6
Ball zigzags in between my bright orange cleats
As I fly through many obstacles that
Get in my way
5
Five seconds left in the game
Will it make it in I think as my fingers are crossed
4
All the pressure is on that ball and I
As it soars over the field where I am myself and
Flies to high for the other team players to get
3
The ball tears through the goalie's gloves.
No one can drop the confidence level I have just received
2
The ball collides against the net, and I have caught a joyous victory
That exact moment pays up for the backbreaking, painstaking work I've put in
With every goal I score, I rule the world
1
That’s why I am the Power Player of the team
I don’t give up because I’m all determination
For my love of Soccer
There is an old fellow I know,
Who just turned 96 years old.
His health is not bad in the usual sense,
But with his everyday memories he does fence.
Oh, he can remember specific things,
But day to day, he has questionings.
It is difficult for those around him you see,
To put into perspective this reality.
They love him as a father, brother, and friend,
But against his barrage of questions is hard to defend.
He doesn't know how it hurts them so,
To see him wandering to and fro.
Yet, there is One who watches all,
And one day He will come to call.
For another chair will open for Jim,
There's a seat there reserved just for him.
And another card player will join the crowd,
That plays card games all day and laughs aloud.
I can only hope that for me will be there,
Some day, an open place with another chair.
Because the Lord deals all the cards,
For us on earth, that is what's hard.
We know not when He will our pinochle deal,
But when He calls the trump, our life has been sealed.
As things go here, we can only play our best,
And when our time comes, trust Him to do the rest.
The player inside
As one stands on the first tee
a straightforward start with pumping heart
should be easy enough for me he he
with an arch of the back
a thundering crack
a look from my eye up through the sky
looking for my ball to see
an iron I take for my second
and again look after my ball so keen
then with a skip and a thud it ends up on the green
glove off putter in hand I line up with the hole
with a positive roll it rolls into my goal
1 under par a birdie so rare
Is today the day I wonder
then all hopes are dashed when my next drive hits a tree
after many a shout and searching about
my round of promise some hours ago has gone as all before
but I will be back with new balls to whack
to the game that I adore
MB 2013
JJust an old trumpet player with a worn out horn –
Seems he had played it ever since he was born.
Sometimes his lively music put dancing in your feet.
Then there were times he rendered tones so tranquil and so sweet.
So many came to follow this magic little man
That soon he was known as the best in music land.
He drew the best unto him and formed a little band
And added perfect talent to the world of Dixieland.
Sometimes he would sing a little verse or two
And he would make it sound like it was just for you.
He was known the whole world over - heaven watched him too
And his music was so soulful it could sometimes make you blue.
In his life we witnessed greatness only artists can provide
And even heaven’s angels cried the day sweet Louis died.
Some say even Gabriel didn’t know how to behave
The day we put old ‘Satchmo’ in his grave.
So, gentle trumpet man, may you always rest in peace
We recall an instant, when you left us, all the music ceased.
Written by John Posey
9/11/14
The old piano player tapped a tune but none could tell,
His hands were stiff and frozen, eyes stared into hell.
Tears fell from his cheek bones disappearing in his sweat,
As the lyrics told the story of the demons he had met.
Oh, he played with such emotion, his raspy voice sincere,
Yet the crowd paid no attention to the music in their ear.
They were there for drinks and laughter, forgetting for a while.
While the old piano player sang away his life's last mile.
There were countless roads he'd traveled, with companions now and then.
Fortunes gained, treasures lost to iniquities great den.
Many gods had been before him, he embraced them one by one.
Weaving webs that he had crawled on, now the last was being spun.
Still, the good crowd didn't hear him, as he sang into the night.
Life limped slowly through the rhythm, when the end came into sight.
Then, someone touched his shoulder. "Play a song we know," he said.
And the old piano player, fell upon the keys --- quite dead.
Once upon a time, there was a boy called Tyler playing with his soccer ball. He was a ten years old boy with black hair and green eyes. Every afternoon, Tyler played with his friends, imaging they were famous soccer ball players playing in a stadium. Near Tyler's house was a river with rapid streams. Tyler's mom, Debra, advised him and his friends to do not play near the river.
One day, as a challenge, a friend of Tyler told him to play near the river. Tyler disobeyed his mom warning, and went to play near the river. Tyler slided and fell
in the river. He had a dog called Lolita, who started barking. Debra heard the
barkings coming from the river area. Tyler was grabbed to a rock. Debra rescued him from the river. Tyler promised to his mother to never play again near the river.
Ten years has passed. Tyler is now twenty years old. His dream came true. He was a succesful soccer player known worlwide. Five years later, he met a young lady called Heather. After one year of dating, they married. Two years later, when Tyler was twenty years old, Heather had a baby boy called Spencer. Fiveteen years later, when Spencer was fiveteen years old and Tyler, fourty three years old, Spencer was a famous soccer player as his father.
The End
4-23-2016
plays more than one base
the utility player
good player to have
Not all my hits are home runs,
many of them miss the bat;
specators respond with boos...
right there I expect to lose,
and getting angry, I toss my cap.