Best Playing Poems
The smile on my lips
is forced and coerced
I pretend to pay attention
give the best possible advice
everyone praises me
I'm so kind, polite and nice
It's all just automation
I rarely actually listen
certainly don't care
all I'm doing
is playing human
blending in
fitting in
I'm so perfectly hidden
you'll never even
see a curtain,
from where I stand
Majoring in social events
Put on a pedestal
for computing with you
I'm so perfectly hidden
smiling from time to time
Labeling those
with all sincerity
open mind every day
Passing along appeal
continuing to fit in
blend in
pretend
force program
Is it just me or
am I the perfect human?
The farm
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
orange dawn.
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
from corn
to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
being heard
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
can grip.
Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
lived.
The girl turns to face
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
open mouth.
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
'I want you to use all your powers and your skills
I don’t want his mother to see him like this
Look, look how they massacred my boy'...
Don Corleone (Marlon Brando) in “The Godfather”
-------------------------------------------------------
Playing the game. It's a game isn't it?
Life is but a game, but a dream isn't it?
I drove home by that road many, many times,
that very same short-cut country road that you took
that road where our lives crashed, exploded and shattered
shattered in jagged shards of Silver-Saturn pieces
(This is where you must have seen the swerving headlights
What were your thoughts? Were you worried? Were you alarmed?
This is the spot, oh God this is where, where it all hap...
What were your LAST thoughts? What were your last words
when that pick-up jumped, jumped and flew out of that ditch?
You always said "WHAT THE"...Yeah, you must have said that)
Driving myself to madness playing the 'what if' game
What if you had driven just a little faster?
A little slower? Stopped to pick up something?
DIDN'T stop to pick up something? (Did-didn't-did...)
Stayed at work a minute longer, or left a minute early?
(What-if-what-if what-if-why-where-what-how)
Just what are the odds? Just what are the chances?
2:AM? Maybe one car, one car every 2 hours or so?
If it were a head-on collision, you may have survived
If on the rear side, perhaps only a violent spin
But no, no it had to be on the driver’s side door
It was 'perfect timing, a 'perfect' flash in time
(Perfect-imperfect-perfect-why-where-what-when)
I drove home by that same road many, many times,
that very same short-cut country road that you took
that country road you were driving; innocently driving
just trying to get back home...
Yes, playing the game. It's a game isn't it?
Life is but a game, but a dream isn't it?
ISN'T it.
He scooped and he packed
He rolled me good and round,
When all was done, I stood there
Only three feet off the ground
I had wondered why...
Why did this teenage boy,
Build me up this way
No bigger than a toy?
No bigger than his dog
In fact, we saw eye to eye,
I looked around for answers
And still I wondered why?
Then I came face to face
With an answer that was clear,
When the boy in the wheelchair
Slowly came rolling near
With his teenage brother
Lending him a helping hand,
He placed a smile upon my face
A smile so wide and grand
My eyes, two big buttons
From Grandma's sewing kit,
My scarf, one of their Dad's
Was striped and hand knit
From their Mom's kitchen came
My nose, a long gnarled carrot,
My arms, two maple limbs
From the family's tree I did inherit
My heart, warmed by the boy
The boy who could not walk,
His eyes laughed when he saw me
Though he could not even talk
No prouder stood a snowman
That towered, oh so tall,
Than me, the littlest snowman
The proudest one of all.
the smile on my lips
is forced and coerced
I pretend to pay attention
give the best possible advice
everyone praises me
I 'm so kind, polite and nice
its all just automation
I rarely actually listen
certainly don't care
all I'm doing
is playing human
blending in
fitting in
I'm so perfectly hidden
you 'll never even
see a curtain
from where I stand
majoring in fronts
put up on a pedal stool
for computing with fools
I'm so perfectly hidden
smiling from time to time
labeling those
with all sincerity
open solitary
passing along an appeal
continuing to fit in
blend in
pretend
force program
is it just me or
am I the perfect human
for p.d's collaboration contest but I wont say who wrote what part.
Riding off into the Ivory Palace sunset,
in a pitch-black limousine, no less
Hear the heavy metallic chariot roar,
leaving exacerbated fumes echo deplored
Aural palette, enamel pestilent pain
on burnt crimson background grain
Scorching prairie brush fire
was the cruel comfort desire
It’s aghast portrait in pandemic grief,
pyramid scheme exit of paucity relief
The curtain call, pulmonary rating king
is a modern-day Nero
His favorite numbers (violin strumming)
are the printed zeroes
Fashioning a Fourth Reich,
naked emperor be blew Lenin unsound
Ballot dropping the psych,
bosom burning the divided house down
With a teary grift posturing diddle,
Amerikan Nero is playing the fiddle
Rearview rolling one last Rublecon riddle,
carny Fahrenheit was the plucking piddle
Crumbling democracy
was brimstone seen through the smoke
Ash trail of hypocrisy
left an urn nation crematorium stoked
12-29-20
Playmates illusion
Feline stretches on its back
Pup engages play
Leaps into air with surprise
Scratched nose, engages again
By Eve Roper 11/20/2014
Oh, how I cherish that bright sun! But, she
must turn me often lest I grow deformed
and stifled in my quest for too much light.
And at the faithful window, day by day,
that glow appears- my sustenance of life.
Instinctively, I lift my leafy palms
as if to catch each golden ray and lean
to kiss the glass- back arched in thankful prayer.
And she, like God, keeps turning me around
to make me straight, aware that I must work
to find the light once more. An endless fight,
this turning, turning, cutting short my time
to fully drink of sun. And what despair
for me to face again the shadowed room-
to gather strength- confront the task at hand:
my twisting, writhing, standing tall, erect-
then leaning, reaching out for light again.
And yet, I grow in beauty, health, and grace.
The secret lies in proper tension kept
between her God-like care to keep me straight-
and my strong will to seek and worship sun.
Once A Wild Child, Playing Barefooted In Deep Snow
Until you have walked the hard path, felt its brutal cold
stopped believing this world, in it great lies being sold
do not ever step forth and dare try to ridicule me
for I am a seeding planted beneath Truth's great tree.
Taught from birth, Nature is far greater friend than foe
once a wild child playing barefooted, in deep snow
now a man that has lived with his eyes wide open
never deceived into being another blinded token.
Truth came in with my birth and Native American blood
later knowledge of Nature's gift like a raging flood
I sleep and dream of earth, virgin as once it stood
Yes, I would remove man's many stains if only I could.
Until you have walked the hard path, felt its brutal cold
Stopped believing this world, in it great lies being sold.
R.J. Lindley,
April 22nd 1978
Sonnet,(Nature, Native Blood And Wisdom)
NOTE- I have been ill these last few days. Could not write and even this morn can only post this very old poem, unedited. Forgive me this lack of new writes, I am trying to post and finish some of my old poems and many fragments..
Around since 1885,
These playing cards contain
A fascinating history
That Google helped obtain.
My favorite fact’s from World War II.
(It’s more than rumored lore.)
Some special decks were sent as gifts
To prisoners of war.
These U.S. soldiers, held in camps
In Germany, did learn
That moistening the cards would yield
A map for their return.
Escape routes cleverly concealed
Within the layered cards
Would likely not be noticed by
The German soldier guards.
In Vietnam, as well, some decks
With only Ace of Spades,
Were sent to the Americans
To use in jungle raids.
The Viet Cong were so afraid
Of how this Ace appeared,
Just seeing one would make them flee
So villages were cleared.
While we are playing Solitaire,
Casino, War or Spit,
We should remember how those cards
Helped troops, if just a whit.
Playing With Fire
Afraid for your miscreant soul
While the Devils licking tongues of flame at your heel
With oh so dirty thoughts
Afraid for the flesh
As you are lead to the pits
All the torture there in of your imagination conceives
Be pleased, to afflict on someone else
Swallow your morals
Like a sanctity pill
A Eucharist aspirin swilled down on holy water
Fear the flesh you stalwart middle class
While the upper-class
Enjoy what you cannot
As you wallow in the resistance of sin
And narrow your life to acquiescence
Puerile in such judgements
Of fickle moralities pleasure
Live a life unlived
And all its pleasure turn to guilt and reprieve
Salvation will come
When it ends
Ascend then, the Jacobs Ladder to heaven
Never knowing what it meant
To kiss with abandon
But rather, suckle to demon lips
All those desires in their fetish of flesh
One last look at the skin you left
Untested
Resist my swarthy middle mass citizens
And ply the trade
Of your own oppression
Condemn me, I dare you, to some raging inferno
Where the appeasing of your righteousness
Knows no bounds
In another climactic prayer for torture
I will play with the bonfire
Rather than mess with poor dripping candles
I will stand proud and defiant
And declare that I
Am Human
for Christie
GIRL PLAYING LYRE - by Tadeusz Styka
I'm a sweet girl,
Playing my lyre,
Music does whirl,
Quenching heart fire,
Hair flying free,
Eyes lost in dream,
Lyre defines me,
Sad strains soft scream,
Song of the lyre
Calls out to you,
Hands do inspire
Melody blue,
I look for you,
As hands thrum tune,
And implore you,
Hear my soul croon,
Lyre chords haunt you,
Fingers strum slow,
Love notes taunt you,
Air set aglow!
25th March 2023
Playing the Hurt Victim
5/27//2025
People really, really don’t care!
They want a poet with the strength of a agrizzly bear.
Grown-up people, oh yes, we all get hurt feelings,
Stop blaming others, it leaves us all reeling.
Nobody, but nobody can ruin who you are!
You are God’s own special poetic star.
Stop sucking your adult poetic thumb,
No actions by others can make you dumb.
Practice humility and glorious gratitude,
Be the winner you are, with a forgiving attitude!
Pen a poem, that sings of your God’s glory,
Be an inspiation, disappear your victim story.!
>Playing games with tennis balls?
Men, playing games with tennis balls!
Earn far too much dough.
In the game of tennis you know.
Some male players are now acting tough.
Saying they aren’t paid enough.
For playing games with balls not too rough.
Now they say they want more pay.
Than women, who with their balls do play.
Dragon, that last line sounds not right.
Might be read wrong, on first sight.
Guess someone will soon complain tonight.
We’ll blame it on AI, that’s right.
I’m glad they’ve all got the same dough.
When winning Wimbledon you know.
I still feel sorry for all them balls.
When served so fast into the air.
That’s the thing, I don’t think’s fair.
Why is it when men play ball games?
They insult women so.
Them that play tennis, with those tennis balls.
Some men really do you know.
If women should with those tennis balls play.
Men should never complain anyway.
For when women serve those balls so.
Men can volley them back you know.
Women may not be as strong as men.
In all sport games they play.
But neither do they throw tantrums.
If match points, don’t go their way.
I’m not a keen tennis viewer, that I must declare.
As I watch those poor tennis balls, whizzing through the air.
I had a job explaining that, to my friend Planet Nine.
He thought they were small planets, being hit for fore.
I said that was another sport, best we do ignore.
I wish all sports ball game prizes, were at least the same.
Played on a fair smooth plain
Not on a plane that flies so high.
You can’t play those ball games, in the sky.
So come on you men, do play fair.
Pay all prize money equally so there.
When women play, ball games with you.
They can be on equal pay too.
What else can I really say?
As I play with balls every day.
But as a poet, I don’t play swell.
Nor am I paid as blinking well.
Well done Dragon and you Spellchecker, sorry but we will have to divide the royalties with Planet Nine. Why? That simple he is bigger than us. Bye everybody. Stanley (The mad Author)<
I found a word inside my head.
It would not go away.
It pounced into my life,
where I watched it purr and play.
It wrapped its fur around my feet,
and then around my pen.
And now it feels quite welcome,
to bring her friends right in.
So when a word,
or worlds of words,
stick in your mind and stay,
give them a home in a
story or a poem,
and let them loose to play.