Best Pointedly Poems
yellow, orange, red, ribbons stretched across…the brilliant sun
the sound of a rooster..,a fiddler on a roof, above Anatevka
where roads are muddy and tradition is a foundation…milky
town comes alive…chop, chop, choppy…and doughy…fish
feathers…generations…heavy bundles and matchmaking
questions, seriously funny with portentous blessing…worship
peace and harmony interrupted by troublemaker, dancing
dragging his boots down muddy or dusty…near chimney
the bow strides across strings, pointedly…dramatically
the sky still in lullaby state, far above all…it sadly waits
God only knows what will happen next…
In shadows, we all, knowingly or in denial
cross the boundaries from the past to tomorrow
in our present, we levitate, our worries like birds
tomorrow will soon be our yesterdays, faraway looks
no one can traverse nor enter, perhaps lean into
but never mine…embrace not…feel sorry for
not their fault…the split of friendship…waving
bye bye, forgetting the punch line
God only knows what happens next
eventually existence ends and if we desire
we may know the why and wherefore
but likely we, gadabouts, will be checking out
the horizon that is His hem filling heaven’s temple
Goldie, my peculiar but beloved cat,
has certain affectations --
she prefers, most times, her own society
and shuns her housemates.
But, sometimes, she cuddles
or will join the others
to laze around -- in the living room,
the dining room, a hallway, or
in the kitchen.
An inside cat who, early on,
suffered the indignity of
"the operation,"
she asserts her independence
by darting into the front yard
when a door is opened --
and she pointedly ignores
any calls or pleas to come inside.
But when the door shuts
and no one is around, she is fearful,
immediately climbing up into the ash tree.
And there she stays
until I come to coax her down.
She may climb high up
and, finally, shakily manage
a descent to allow me to pick her up
and carry her back inside.
She never leaves the yard
but does enjoy ignoring me
when I am in a hurry.
She will dart about and run
from one side of the yard to the other.
For her, it's only an infrequent game.
And, as my treasured pet,
she certainly deserves to play
while testing the limit
of my affectionate, chagrined
commitment.
I will NOT allow
ANY POET
to make assumptions
On any of my poems
Or make personal comments
About my life
Any comments on my poems
That violate my space
And my privacy
Will not be taken lightly
I am a loving, honest, sweet friend
I am a formidable foe
Consider yourself duly warned!
Jade
I've had a poet before post on my work asking me pointedly who the poem was about. That is nobody's business but my own. I will not take lightly to meddlers.
Disclaimer: I've made my own share of assumptions as well. If the person is someone whom I care for, I have asked him/her about it. It all depends on the level of friendship, I guess. People who don't know me...have no right to assume anything about me or my life.
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
i never saw the doornail die
never caught sight of a fox that sly
i didn't cure a dog so sick
didn't steal a glance of thieves so thick
i can't walk tight a rail that thin
can't see some sight as ugly as sin
i didn't ever take any punch so pleased
or been flashed by lightening that slippery greased
i can't light bituminous coal so black
or pointedly aim as sharp as a tack
didn't touch a witch's tit so cold
- i'd feel it's not as good as gold
i can't squish in any mud so clear
or finger a lobe cute as a bug's ear
folks shout i'm as deaf as a post
in fact i'm even worser, than most
i can't hear a fiddle so fit
in fact i don't give a - damn
a simile is as cool as winter's rain
so i utter them like, again, and again
true, i'm as buzzed as a bee so busy
but i don't think a bee's like a simile, is he?
© Goode Guy 2013-03-06
let's start straightforward with an A
and always be cool and demure that way
whisper nonchalantly what we have to say
of alpha to omega between bourgeoisie
'cause cool is cool 'n' hip-hop is hip
even if the straights can't get a grip
and pointedly roil with pointless guilt trip
to turning feng shui and sipping green tea
the patricians will try to be your killjoy
but play it cool boy - don't be a stool boy
you can be yourself here - sit back 'n' enjoy
picking fruit from your own berry tree
'cause the world has always been that way
old versus young with new lines to say
but it's really the same old verses to play
all bring experiences to life's tree
you sit, maybe stand and take in these words
maybe muse, WTF, the whole notion's absurd
the slope of your slant is patently heard
in your own sensibility to a tolerable degree
the universe is full of universal unknowns
yet naturally, we try to clone our own zones
still my mind is mine alone, ain't no bones
but everyone's here to live life ostensibly
so we work a way through our shared alphabet
and glean from our lives, all we can get
experiences and desires, our appetite to whet
always returning to what will be, will be
© Goode Guy 2013-06-16
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/240206
With ear to the ground
I felt a slight tremble,
like the stir of a whispering breeze
breaking its covenant of silence.
Stoically solemn hills
partially cloaked in roaming shadows,
the sun swiftly swimming,
across the edges of dawn.
Large crackling trunks,
with gnarled limbs pointedly misshapen,
standing huddled, accusingly transfixed
against a backdrop of mangled silver.
Clouds growing grimmer shades of pale,
as they swell with sadness,
to hang forlornly
upon realization’s icy horizon.
While glass houses of man’s dreams,
reflect the barrenness of fruition,
acid tears bleaching clarity;
Leaving hazy mists
for humans to draw lines of denial,
with fingers of blame.
And nature is naught but empty ark,
grounded upon the shores of our wasteland.
For we greedily drank the waters of her womb,
swallowing whole the seeds of needed fertility.
Now a fruitless humanity remains,
spitting only salt,
into her infinitely gaping wounds.
High school's like a jury - let us all be judged
the righteous and the wicked and especially those in love
The jury's always watching - it has a thousand eyes
it's in constant deliberation and it hears a million lies
some think there's popular immunity and that's how the system works
but celebrities are piquant targets - it's one of the systems quirks
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury - I address you here today
to plead the cause of justice, for a girl who was drugged astray
I know this girl’s not popular - she's known as "what's her name"
But the *prominent* guy who “seduced” her used methods vile and lame
I work cloud-like opinion and gossip pointedly outside stalls
I direct lunch-time chatter and I'm "overheard" in busy halls
I'm a regular Bader Ginsburg - you WANT me on your side
and If I'm coming for you - there's no fu*king place to hide
On my way towards the castle made of gold and silver
I saw something which made my stride falter
It was the sight of a child
Sweet, innocent and wild
She was like an angel
So beautiful, with the spark of a most precious jewel
Oblivious to everything around her
She danced, and danced, and danced to her own tempo!
Stopped I in my stride,
Wondering at the cause of this masquerade
A masquerade yes, for the child danced while no music was heard
The child danced and sang aloud
Was it part of a show, maybe a circus show
I wondered, how would she end, where would she go?
I stopped, right on my way, sat under the shade of a tree
And watched, her, this child, dancing to the tunes of mystery
The child cared not about me
She danced and danced for the sake of being free
She danced till the moon showed itself
She danced all night till dawn showed itself
Then, she stopped, looked at the skies and breathed out heavily
She was tired, but, she would start again, she said so humbly
She needed some rest
And that was when she came to sit next to me
Why do you dance that much I asked her
What is there to do in this world, sick with fever
She told me
While looking at me pointedly
People just run after their needs, satisfying their greed
People run after life at fast speed
Caring not to appease their soul
Why, life here in this world, does be so dull
If death does be the end of it all
Why, why should we care to run after castles of gold
Take the time, like me, to dance and glorify the skies
So mysterious, they do be there where the beginning of it all lies
Listen, she said, listen to the bells of angels
Listen to the call of Heaven
Listen, pray do listen
And dance, for they be the only true music, in this world, so fallen
Listening to that child,
I felt my stride getting all mild
I let go of my chase
And became, like her, a spirit living up to the rhythms emanating from space!
I dance whenever I hear the music
That one, being called as mystic
I dance and care not about anybody's opinion
For, they are all blinded by the false show of this world's oblivion!
30 Sept 2015
Pointedly poignant points portend pointillism.
Pontiffs pontificate pointless pointers ponderously.
Pompous poems populate Pompei pottery potently.
Porous *********** portrays Portuguese porta potties.
Poppies pop Popeye’s popular popcorn.
Populist populism pots ponies properly.
Blithering blather blots bloody bleeping blips.
Bloomberg blogs bleach bleating bloated blinks.
Bluebloods bloom black blackberry bloopers.
Bluetooth blizzards blame blurry blackboards.
Blithe blighted bladders blatantly block blades.
Blazing blasts bleed blooming blenders.
Fumbling fumes funerals fast.
Feuding fluid furniture flutters flaps.
Fighting flatulent flamingos flounder.
Floating flotillas flee flying flops.
Families foment future futile forms.
Freaky frozen French fries frighten frogs.
(while trapped in Pottstown
Memorial Hospital parking lot).
My humble apology to those,
who posted uber up lyft ting messages
to this Macbook Pro Facebook keeper,
without said scrivener swiftly
tailoring timely acknowledgement
from one harried styled leaper,
thus feel free to take
leguminous litigious licorice flavor
flav can deed extra-legal
imprisonment against my liberty,
(though catty, I am pusillanimous,
sans feline nine lives cheaper
by the dozen), plus verbally ejaculating
out gee golly jeeper,
or more pointedly
calling me a mother f****** bleeper,
for seeming to appear unresponsive
as a stale petrified marshmallow peeper,
and yes quite understandable
bitcoin torrents of rage runs deeper
than a blockchain though close call,
yet just lemme explain,
how during my most recent sleeper
state, a clear as bell curve
living dream nearly
saddened Matthew Scott Harris as,
cuz he got subject to grim news, viz
inducing him (yours truly) to become
deceased within a split second,
upon dropping to sleep
while all around, an
inconsolable weeper
wept sorrowful seas,
more so those family,
and facebook friends
many fine companions
linkedin thru Internet
invaluable cherished persons as keeper,
but believe this secular humanist,
he, who (honest to dog)
unexpectedly subsequently got engrossed
with the grim reaper,
discussing local, current (national), global,
and cosmic events, superficial,
and/or somewhat deeper
(topics oh...and as a non sequitur
d'ya know the name of original
Glen Elm occupants are named Leiper),
anyway Xmas universally
renowned throughout space
yes, jolly saint nick with his farout trappings
topped off with electronic digital beeper,
yepper siree he gets touted,
lauded, and celebrated be
leave ving with whatever
dogmatic faith hen knee
dear rabbit reddit reader doth embrace,
or perhaps being atheist like me,
(albeit I most likely appear
as somewhat highlee
beatle browed from across the universe),
nonetheless, whether er rather,
when still alive this chap aimed to - dee
light, enlighten, and playfully
frighten alien nations
(even those pizza peace loving
inhabitants resembling free
ranging gregarious teenage
ninja mutant turtles)
coming out their shells with glee.
Quickly and thoroughly as I possibly could
I scanned the pages in front of me.
The air, from the outset,
had been thick with dread,
in this place it often was.
So intimate and close a witness was I
that I couldn't help but wonder
if I may be incidentally decapitated
while she was pointedly decapitated.
I might or might not have wondered
if we'd all be incidentally deafened
while she was pointedly deafened.
Strands of hair, torn from her head,
waited a moment for still
before settling, alarmed and trembling,
on her shoulders,
and some on the floor.
I was so intimate and close a witness,
separated by no more
than half a tenuous yard,
and a hatred took root that day.
Quickly as I could,
it may well have been too quickly,
and thoroughly as I could,
which was not very thoroughly at all,
I scanned the pages in front of me
and wondered if I might be next.
14th August 2018
My husband often says to me “I wish I’d married a woman”.
I am usually sitting spread legged in a chair, scratching at the time.
Or I am pointedly not picking up a huge mess for two weeks.
I always roll my eyes, knowing what he really means.
He means “I wish we had married a cook, cleaner and maid.”
I am none of those things. Sure, I used to pretend to be.
Since this incarnation God poured my soul into a female body.
Not my idea, believe me! I resented this from childhood.
When Danny H always got by with yelling out the answers.
Without raising his hand, but if I did it, I got lambasted by the teacher.
I knew better than to point this out after the sixth or seventh time.
She was a mean woman, and partial to boy bodies, not girl bodies.
Then menstruation happened, which was more horrifying.
Boys never have to deal with all this blood and inconvenience.
Being a girl was not my goal in this lifetime believe me.
I feel we are neither male nor female, rather spirits who rent.
Some lifetimes we rent female, other times we rent male.
How I got this wrong this time, I do not know but….
I hate cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, and doing the dishes.
Luckily, my husband knows this. He is doing the laundry now.
He is also buying the groceries and running the dishwasher.
I think it is fair. I am thirty years ahead of him.
I used to do all the housework and the yardwork.
He would work his measly forty hours and rest.
I am resting now. It is my turn since we did not “marry a woman”.
Conceived In Sin -
Cincinnati, Ohio
(most Up To Date Virgin)
Any attempt for fecund woman
to successfully counteract biologic
reproductive force to whit
deserves grudging testes
meant to garner at least tidbit
sans, ejaculated kudos (by Dickens),
where aborted squirt,
viz skin flute, gets writ
off as sad sack pit
tiff full seaman unwittingly spit
outside sought after vasocongestion
swollen phallic doth intuit
thwarted down thrust trend,
where offspring of genetic
inheritance since Eve soffit
a dam nibble prickly outcome
braking abrupt copulation,
where half cocked drill bit
attempts to hit
bulls eye included with animalistic kit
and caboodle born toward illicit
propagation of species,
this indomitable overbearing gen nit
till foreplay to liberate dill lib writ
lee, pointedly and instinctually
continue human race,
where a bajillion threads did knit
world wide web steeped with lit
richer replete with orgiastic nit
tee gritty prurient details
recounting bacchanalian debauchery
nun such breakable classless habit
ah what a dog send to gift
and empower women to inhibit
unwanted pregnancy (of childbearing age)
equipped with superhuman heft quit,
while erect phallus unable to lyft
uber penetration, no doubt miffed,
especially in throbbing throes far drift
from coital provenance, one agitated fitbit
feeling royally screwed
particularly virility predicated
on loose sing penile glue stick
within secrete slit.
I sneeze, and everyone follows suit.
Curiouser and curiouser.
I laugh and half of them laugh.
Two of them pointedly laugh louder after the rest of us quit laughing.
There are always two in every class.
I try to move and step on two of them.
How they magically got under my feet and out of their chairs I cannot say.
Teaching preschoolers is like herding cats.
They are hilarious, and it is a lot of fun, but they are magical.
One second here, the next gone.
I admire anyone who can do this on a regular basis.
If I did this every day I would be taking a nap with them.
Which might not go over well.