Best Posterity Poems
Why are politicans always so sure about the future being better any whichway?
whilst they are continually addressing past mistakes all day?
that were never going to happen in their future anyway!
but they never want to go back to their past either way
and why can't they just be happy with the way things are (today?)
Joe Maverick
so tell me then illustrious men
who've wandered far beyond the ken
Of we who strive with words and pen
to tell the world of cock and hen
who roosted in the way back when
in lofts of thatch and wicker den
resting in the soggy fen
Or tending hind in mountain glen
Beside the hearths so plastered then
with ashes mixed in salted mud
to hold the heat of hand split wood
beyond the time of burning
well past the times of yearning
like cockled eggs and oaten whey
to hold us through another day
Until the long ships make their way
Into this mountain sheltered bay
to give us news of how they fared
so we may write and spread the word
far into times ahead of all our men so dead
who sailed the seas and conquered dread
while we who shiver in the night
and stubbornly record our plight
weaving rhyme and beating time
with words to be remembered
Each is the difficult sentence,
its essence unfolding
into the intangible...
second by second,
wisp by wisp,
to glean the question..
wherefore simmers
our common wreck?
is it lit ablaze,
like the final pyre,
or let drift
like the Viking dead,
to know our fire,
to know our fire...
to reach a common end..
does Eliot bloom now
in his final bed?
perhaps posterity will know..
I write my poems for posterity:
To be trapped and preserved
In the pages of moth-eaten books,
To be discussed at universities
Hundred years after my death,
To be selected in syllabus and taught in
Classrooms of schools in remote lands,
In schools and exams to be summarized,
Shrunk into precis or its lines
Taken out for RC, Figures of speech,
Thought expansion-
I know my countrymen will ignore me
For every poet is ignored by his times and his homeland.
Poetry, like rolling boulder, gathers
Momentum and velocity as it advances
Deep into dark valley of time
I do not write for my country for she
Considers poetry a pastime, not a profession.
Neither spouse should ever forget -
In marriage, the courting never ends
~Paula Swanson
Placement: 9th
It happened..To happen, its perhaps how best to explain.? Dietrich wrote about some ' tators.' In the footles vein, i hope its
Plain.? I then made a comment.' On another slang name known.' Causing her to recalibrate..Too taters..
Ler it be shown.' So
Now it seems there is a standerd..On how to mis-pronounce.? Will we influence the Mirriam-Webster.? Might they weigh the terms, just like the pound or ounce ? So it
Seems we've achieved the improbable.' Where, a slang word is reccognized.' Will we end up in Paris to receive a sorbonne
Prize.? The possibility's seem endless.'
When you try this out for size.' Even
though post-eriors must
take up the sacks
if
We stay low, and this stock sells.' Though
Thats not
My point, its just interesting, to be part of lifes flow )
THE POSTERITY OF RUDOLPH
‘Twas the night before Christmas and the reindeers played tricks.
The twinkling eyes of the posterity of Rudolph in a riotous mix.
There was the mooning of Santa Claus, his britches on the North Pole.
The elvish-boots tied together and stuffed with chalky bits of coal.
Children’s toys were strewn about the snow, having been blown
by giant straws and how those cookie crumbles must have flown.
Those uproarious Rudolph’s progenies doubled over with ice cold tears.
Meanwhile Santa’s in a snit, not at all jolly nor filled with holiday cheer.
Red noses, beeping and blaring, poking out, jumping, scaring
on this Winter-white night when the sled should be ready and raring
to leap to each home, slide down chimneys or their substitute holes
and put smiles on cherubic faces but for naughty reindeer out of control!
11/26/2018
The Night Before Poetry Contest/Joseph May
In men I see the future and the past
What could have been and what might be
Promises echo in stone caverns
I step on dusty footprints of déjà vu
I hear that familiar thump
Firelight flickers on well-worn walls
Fire that burns in a throbbing heart
Lights up the souls archives
Past and future streaming
Hope and desire relentless
In men I see posterity wrought in dust
~ Posterity May Not Understand ~
Why I traipse five miles a day
to whittle time away
Idling in a safe daydream
gazing at a listless stream
The Live Oak Tree offers its shady limbs
As protection against the sun's beaming rays
It moves as the warm breeze flows churning hymns
About the oak in its younger days children played
Some little boys climbed 'pon its strong branches
Hidden behind its stout stable wide firm trunk
Not far below runs a small trickling branch
We wanted to play there maybe get a dunk
The nest that houses a squirrel family
Up high above the activity below
Has been there many years, those gangly
Posterity now play high and low
So like the humans who played under its limbs
Now grown, gone, some to prosperity and some tales grim
Written Thursday June 13, 2013
While waiting for Cody at the Nursing Home
Sonnet Somewhat
Written: June 12, 2024, For Constance la France Contest
Quote "Dum loquimur, fugerit invida Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Translation" While we're talking, envious time is fleeing: pluck the day, put no trust in the future."-Roman Poet Horace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are fortunate to have the gift of time,
You can't foresee what may occur tomorrow.
So, each day, we should have a solemn rhyme,
Living daily to avert a slippery path is hollow.
Don't wait and worry over every strife,
Leverage any opportunity to bear action.
Each of us must step out and discover life,
To fulfill our desires and reach satisfaction.
When you reckon wisely, goodness will arise,
Negative ideas tend to exacerbate woe.
Face odds that lie ahead with comprise,
Rather than just merging amidst the flow.
Time is squandered on procrastination,
Carelessly discarding instances undone.
When it comes to straightforward relations,
There is still plenty of time for leisurely spun.
A cosmic present, the current moment,
It's something to appreciate and embrace.
Opportunity prevails, yet they are opponents,
Regardless of the challenges that lie in place.
Posterity
Adam, the man, was up early and stood on the terrace
his body was pale as the unborn sun
sitting on the low wall on the terrace, he evacuated
down to the roof of a neighbour.
Since he didn’t have paper, he wrote on the wall
“I shat here!”
Later, the woman who makes the breakfast and
clean the house came; an elderly maid, who had
seen it all.
While Adam was breakfasting came to the terrace
hosed down the offending words.
Adam’s pathetic attempts to be remembered for
posterity was in vain.
We find deep inside ourselves
The traits of ancestors therein dwells
Grandpa’s eyes, our Mom’s hair
Our stature from … who knows where?
What we claim as thought process
We may be forced to re-address
Twas Grandpa Lee that caused, you see,
Our newer minds to think like he.
Our gait, as we walk around
Has origins in history bound
Great-aunt Edna, strolled about
With identical strides – long and stout.
And talents that we think so fine
Are not all yours, not all mine
For somewhere in our ancestry
There lay originality.
Our composition, it is made
Of melded steel that made our blade
For all our ancestral kin
Provided steel to place therein
We flaunt individuality
But in truth, it’s not just we
‘Tis ages of posterity
That comprise our totality
Posterity, tell me now
who are you in this world?
everyone is talking about you
everyone is waiting for you
it seems you are the miracle
the savior eagerly waited for
Do not hide away from us
there is security for you
no time is time for you
come in haste to save all
that day you bring your face
the world shall celebrate
PRESERVED FOR POSTERITY
awesome sensations
compliant
rapid
prodigious
astonishing
a visceral
drifting into irrelevance
a cluster
of strange nostalgia
into memorys lane
a fragility
of existence
fusing emotion
a meditation
on mortal
summoning subtlety
with a distracting
aura
such allusions
of grandiosity
manipilated
recalled
by
experience
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived