Best Plot Poems
I am immeasurably honoured to have been invited to collaborate with as fine a poet as Robert Lindley. Our first collaborative process has been very quick, very instinctive and very natural. Thank you, Robert, for a very rewarding joint venture.
As I Plot Just One More Day
A collaboration with Robert Lindley
11th October 2018
Desperate as the waking at blackest dawn
I seek only moments within eternity,
for the day upon me is long
and I do not ponder its end.
Forever the blackened door beckoned
in tones of promising delights
who can know what lies in its beyond
perhaps a cure for the world's pains
I walk halls leading to its hurts
echoes that resounded as if playing
with no malice, future screams at my hesitation
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.
Decadent as the lust of gloomiest noon
I am immersed in the consummation
and overpowered in the contest, yet hopeful
that still I may embrace eternity's devious charm.
Never ending cycles eat into a wanton soul
they are all too familiar
and their boredom becomes a chain
a rasp in my dying breath
I hear its rhythm and each echo speaks
O' that parade of desires hides deep within
as the dark expands its borders
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.
Dire as the languishing at darkening dusk
I seek an eternity of moments
to sate my lust and to quell my rage,
to forgive and to be forgiven.
As I Plot Just One More Day
Desperate as the waking at blackest dawn
I seek only moments within eternity,
for the day upon me is long
and I do not ponder its end
Forever that blackened door beckoned
in tones of promising delights
who can know what lies in its beyond
perhaps a cure for the world's pains
I walk halls leading to its hurts
echoes that resounded as if playing
with no malice, future screams at my hesitation
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day
Decadent as the lust of gloomiest noon
I am immersed in the consummation
and overpowered in the contest, yet hopeful
that still I may embrace eternity's devious charm
Never ending cycles eat into a wanton soul
they are all too familiar
and their boredom becomes a chain
a rasp in my dying breath
I hear its rhythm and each echo speaks
O' that parade of desires hides deep within
as the dark expands its borders
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day
Dire as the languishing at darkening dusk
I seek an eternity of moments
to sate my lust and quell my rage,
to forgive and to be forgiven
A Robert Lindley and Lawrence Sharp collaboration
10-11-2018
Poetry Note-
I am very pleased to have found a new and fantastic writing partner
that presents fantastic free verse poetry in its top form. This our first collaboration was a true pleasure and great joy to create. We both found ourselves in tune, as we worked to present this dark free verse poetry, that depicts the darker side of this world, past wayward youthful experiences and a look at what even today our youth face in this unforgiving and to oft deceptive, corrupt and tempting world that rewards darkness, and giving in to wanton desires.
The magnificent verses my writing partner contributed to the creation of this piece sincerely awe me- as I am learning of the depths, beauty, great and high artistic value in creating and reading free verse poetry, Both my thanks and my appreciation come from a sincere and very appreciative heart.
Put bird feeder by my stone,
so I will never be alone;
plant a tree, apple or pear,
flowers to give the spot some flair;
at least some grass, but do not trim,
so people might come on a whim
to share the earth with one below
lined up along this cemetery row.
A marbled bench would be so nice,
or birdbath for some added spice;
I do not want my resting place
to be unseemly, lacking grace.
I saw the undulating belly of the sea
Sensuous and beckoning me
Frilled dress of tides pulled up
Over white thighs of sand
Ripples of fingers from a caressing hand
My eyes took the portrait like a cup
My tongue lingered at its rim
The siren's lips singing seduced me to sup
And through the rocks my desires swim
My hunger could not leave her supple thighs
Softly whispering promising things to me
I cross the hesitant beach to joy in glory.
A GUNPOWDER PLOT
The 5th of November is a day to remember,
Children get excited from September,
The sound of fireworks reverberate,
And bonfires with effigies of a life like
Guy Fawkes commemorate
What might have been a very bad turn,
If Parliament was then to burn!
The origin of this story began on the 5th November
Sixteen hundred and five,
Beneath the houses of Parliament, Guy Fawkes,
The traitor was found, and so King James did survive.
Our traitor/hero was brought up in a
Family with an outward Protestant belief,
But the reality was that he was Catholic
And to this day is recorded on leaf!
However, Protestants and Catholics are still
Divided in their faith,
As to which side of the fence Guy Fawkes should haith!
Guy Fawkes sent a letter to a Catholic acquaintance,
To please not stay, and be far away,
On this planned explosive gun powder plot day!
But plans went awry, and this secret letter
Landed, in the lap of James the King,
Who sent his guards to go find this rebellious ring.
Guy Fawkes was found with six barrels of gunpowder, and
Immediately sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered,
But this meant a death of real suffering, a miserable
Horrible fate of been slaughtered!
This for him was unthinkable, so he jumped from the
Gallows and broke his neck.
Young children are not told the gory
Side of this famous story,
For it would wreck
A child’s belief in this day, destroy their enjoyment
Of bonfires, fireworks and loads of fun,
And even recognized as a hero by some!
The skeletal remains are being chalked out,while mystery and intrigue are engraven, cryptic.Lying beneath, this freshly seeded idea;upon these grounds, the words are etched,what are you looking for and how will you get it,for these are but the bare bones of a story.The key alone is in your closet, slowly turning,as you opened the creaking rusted door.You slowly peep inside the mausoleum of your mind,where cobwebs hang on every angle.Suddenly, a cold swift draft blows across your spine,as if someone has just, walked on your grave. You look up to see, all the entrapping’s laidbut then again, you are still lying in a good plot.
Here lies the Count of Monte Cristo
Who got to settle a few scores
With stevedores and commodores
Before stretching out below
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 20, 2020 for contest POE-ETIC VERSE POETRY sponsored by CHARLES MESSINA - RANKED 2ND
catalyse of chalk
circles sooted box, reveals
the vortex inside
stakes open her eyes
pries into her private life
draws blood with madness
insists a deep cut of ties
a vampire’s bite sucks
glistens under moon-lightning
with darkening of iris
the rectangle shut
and discomforting inside
the satin lining
that swaddles her until when
feeds the lack of blood pressure
buried in the earth
instead of mausoleum
means she is fated
until flood rains dredge her up
bitterly famished and ripe
her tormentor’s plot
enjoying her plight of pangs
and her screaming fangs
that engulf her first victim
she begs a silver bullet
…and who will shoot first
the gun, with no reflection,
or the too-white teeth?
does lover want to join her
or distribute her ashes?
the two quick rounds nail
tormentor, his protogé
bloodthirst vanishes
end of bad day, sky’s crimson
and the hungry are looming.
It’s a fine line you see between pleasure and pain…
And I will make it my pleasure to drive you insane.
The time has come to put put things right…
All your wrong doings will now come to light.
The truth will reveal as it always does tell…
Now your own rewards will be three times the spell.
Karma has come and it’s time to pay…
You’ve upset the wrong person, now it’s my turn to play.
Who can tell the payment rate?
Your deeds of wrong, the risks you take.
Whether it’s good or bad it's the choices you made…
Maybe you’ll be rewarded or maybe you’ll be afraid?
You should s always put out what you would like to come back…
Because one day for sure Karma’s waiting to attack!
So think real hard before you act…
Because when you least expect it…KARMA’S BACK!
Wild Leafs flutter in a hue-laden town,
windows creak open, spritely faces gleam,
cheerful air burgeoning, no need to frown,
sweet fragrant coffee dock, a gust of hot steam,
just rejoice as the heavens don their gown
Bus stop close at hand, joyous high alert,
laughter billows skyward without panic,
rainbow veneered archway, daylight concert,
broadcast on the pavement, sound of manic,
street painter chalk marks granite slab, dull gray berth
It’s autumn and those colours bound to show,
bright clad walkway, budding Rembrandt canvass,
red hot sun trail blaze, smoldering, aglow,
ice cool fall in situ, magic atlas,
urban setting nod to season wide flow
Power lines a home for migrant songbirds,
they chirp at streetwise citizens in train,
who brave the latent chill in eager herds,
huff and puff swarm enduring tingly rain,
rapture in a plot for winter blizzards
oh that wretched hand
keeps pulling me to one side
I cannot see, but feel comfortable going
where there is no direction
blinking eyes mean nothing here
things are the same opened or closed
one step after another, the stubbing of toes
for all I know the same dog
has bitten me thrice
everything looks the same
smells the same, taste the same
dammit I’m not even sure what I’m after
but I cannot stop moving
oh there goes another stubbed toe
and this one appears to be bleeding
or is that maple syrup
this way, this way, this way, always this way
where on earth is the exit door
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
A lone woman visits the graves,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
She speaks, but her words are not loud,
She whispers and calls them by name,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds.
The deceased has grown to a crowd,
She speaks tenderly to the dead,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
With the handgun she kept her vows,
As her victims entered her net,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
They came strutting and oh, so proud,
And many more will find her web,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
Her name is Danielle of the Marsh,
She hides her real name, Black Widow,
When the moon is blocked by gray clouds,
She wears a black dress like a shroud.
©December 18, 2016 / Jerry Pat Bolton
My co-workers, like clowns, are laughing.....
plotting against me; I get an eerie feeling.
I am the nicest fellow,
sharing joy and sorrow;
guys have secrets they shouldn't be telling!
Why did He knit so many twits?
(Weak of Mind and lacking wits)
No Thoughts of their own-
Like Sheep and their Clones:
Well, what's the point of it?
Does He live His life through His Creations,
Feeling every single sensation?
He's in every Atom we can fathom-
(One never knows what will happen)
And that's the Truth of it!
Upon a time, a story once composed.
Across the pages dancing letters waltz.
Met eyes. Together, him and her apposed.
The villain, against them, inflict assaults.
It leaves us guessing, due to twists and turns.
However, does the hero save the girl?
Distressing times until the girl returns.
A fight against a dragon, swords unfurl.
Heroic. Saves the girl, and dragon slain.
Afraid no longer. Village folk’s delight.
Wedding. Love is true. Continue to reign.
Espoused, and she is pregnant. Future bright.
Life is less a book, and scripts offhanded.
Plotless stories. Rules unwritten. Candid.