Best Posthumously Poems
LIGHT YEARS
Some advance before their time, they
Shine so bright they seem to blind.
Those who undermine can never see,
Unless they change their frequency
Dull minds, can never over-stand
The brilliance of a futuristic man.
Every generation has something to say,
Yet few will recognize your worth on earth;
Especially if you’re light years away.
But go ahead say it anyway, even if most are unable to agree.
When the world catches up, and is awed by your shine,
The future will read writings, from your wisdom divine.
Keep in mind “you are ahead of your time”
So, if the world to which you’ve been assigned,
Does not with your thoughts agree.
Have faith in the future’s passionate child...
Who’ll become your disciple; Posthumously!
I do not like you folk
I do not like you woke
I'd rather you not spoke
Your throats I'd like to choke
All you do is criticize
See things with an evil eye
The embodiment of cancel culture
The predator we call a vulture
I do not like the clothes you wear
I do not like your unkempt hair
I do not like you here or there
I do not like you anywhere
I do not like you folk
I do not like you woke
Your opinions are a joke
I hope you end up broke
May all your plans completely fail
Then all of you wind up in jail
And if you try to ban this poem
I'll put some ants into your scrotum
~ Theodore Geisel, posthumously
The pierce, the flame of gypsy eyes, that roam
about your cheeks aflame, that throb at knees.
The negligee reveals bride’s honeycomb —
a poetry of bees, posthumously.
Recover not from burn of jealous lips —
Soft greed of ruby smooth, the tender slide,
the way she moves - compare to buoyant ships —
they trim your sails, so succulent and wide.
You must come down to earth — the dock awaits
its berth. Noncompliant lovers doth crash
against the water’s edge with crazy eights.
It’s much too soon to squash its tease and splash.
Her eyes astir — their closed next to your heart.
The wild rose of her hair — your counterpart.
2/28/2020
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
He’d spent nearly a decade on death row
Praying for appeals that were not bestowed
Had a solid alibi
One the courts would just not buy
A death sentence he’d have to undergo
DNA exam proved him no killer
But there’s a sad angle to this thriller
Tests performed posthumously
Executioners agree
Evidence came too late; what a chiller!
*For Miranda’s “Behind Bars Blues” contest
Just Visiting
While my visiting days are over,
I am left with another gift,
Fantasizing as a butterfly
Landing softly on a cruise ship.
I don’t drive down the Texas highways,
Where once bluebonnets thrilled,
Though in my mind I still see them,
Spreading on a hill.
A visit to my daughter is two-fold foiled,
For planes just cost too much money,
And she has steps from which I recoil,
But she flies to me, that honey.
Look I toward visits to a grocery store,
Fresh faces, bright colors and such,
I visit the world in my head these days,
In a chair, with a cane, and no not even a crutch.
****
Other Visits
Not to be morbid, but I visit old family friends,
Those gone to me now, always present in my heart,
In a quiet moment on the deck under rustling trees,
I can visit a face, two or three, make a party.
We can remember the silly things we did,
To soften the griefs or stress we all bore,
And when we were sharing parenthood,
Hoping the children would land safely on adulthood's shore.
We shop now and then on a day trip,
Stop in at some little bistro on the way,
A visit posthumously to my old friends,
Can pass a piece of the day.
???•?SAVE HIM FROM DELILAH'S DELIVERANCE?•???
Who is being delivered here?
Who is the one that needs the deliverance?
Is it the deliverer or the "deliveree"
who seductively came with her delivery?
Son-of-man tries to cast Satan out of her.
But the deliverer's hidden Satan tries hard,
not just to make its presence known
but also to get out of son-of-man's trousers.
Oh no! What a protruding Satanic Cucumber!!
What is going on here? I wonder!
He commands Satan to come out,
but his "third leg" insists on coming out.
Son-of-man, be careful what you ask for!
Truth is, man's got the anointing, no cap!
But certainly not the man between his tighs.
They are two different species or entities
What does dirty Delilah come for?
Deliverance! Deliverance!! Deliverance!!!
But the deliverance isn't 'deliverancing' ooo
In this deliverance, it seems the deliverer needs a deliverance.
The man in-between his legs has his own mind,
you can't control him if the mind can't be controlled,
he doesn't get angry if you don't welcome trouble.
But if you allow the temptation, sorry...
the world will hear the whole story:
"How has the mighty mighty fallen."
Who's gonna save him from Delilah's deliverance?
Seem pastor has posthumously been possessed
by the possessions of a possessed poisoned princess.
Though they say: a princess oozes glamour & grace,
Daisy Delilah deals dirty in her dangerous dress.
Now, who will deliver this deliverer from deadly Delilah?
???•?VICK MANUEL POETRY?•???{VMP}
Form: Free verse.
Art by: Chigbu Joshua
Copyright ©? September 2023.
Green gadabout, her knees grass stained.
Posthumously caretaker’s plot.
Will anyone tend to her grave?
Such lovely gardens, she refreshes.
Posthumously caretaker’s plot;
Works hard, so kind to her neighbors.
Such lovely gardens, she refreshes.
Will foul winds blow; tears wilt the soil?
Works hard, so kind to her neighbors.
Her name on a bench; a stranger.
Will foul winds blow, tears wilt the soil?
Do you hear a ghostly stirring?
Her name on a bench; a stranger.
Will anyone tend to your grave?
Do you hear a ghostly stirring -
Green gadabout, her knees grass stained…
Animation I grew up with,
Bride of fantasy stories.
Comedy with action I watch,
Death of worries I snatch.
Earth of penitence is
Fist of imagination I sense.
Girdle of suffocation, I sike
Hinterland of minds, I hike.
Insatiable finds take off
Juggernaut of marvels thereof.
Kommandatura with style,
Love of sequels I file.
Mysteries of lifestyle are not farfetched,
Nincompoops play unwretched.
Over and under a replay of streams --
Posthumously acclaimed.
Quondam penners survived,
Reminiscences of sets --
Sets of scenes and takes,
Travesty of the reclaimed.
Up, up and away
Victory not far away.
Wonders of life in a bucket
Xanadu of strife in a socket.
Yabadabadoo!
Zen of life.
Described as “patriot of patriots” by Mahatma Gandhi
His Words, ‘Give me blood and I shall give you freedom’
Are still ringing in the minds of each and every Indian.
He stood for unqualified Freedom with the use of force
Meaning quite against with Gandhi’s non-violent ways.
Subhas Bose presumed to have died on 18 August 1945
On Taipei Airport in a plane crash but with no evidence.
The mystery of his death and survival haunts the Indians.
The inability of the three commissions to unravel the truth
Spawned umpteen conspiracy theories left people in awe.
First commission visited Japan in 1956 and got testimonies
From army surgeons conducting blood transfusion to Bose
But he succumbed to death on August 18, 1945, at Taipei.
Second commission carried its probe from 1974-78 and
Declared its inability to arrive on any definite conclusion.
The verdict of the third commission was quite amazing
It simply said Bose was dead, but didn’t die in plane crash
How and when? No answer in the absence of any proof.
Concluding report tabled in parliament in May 2006
Declaring that death was staged to facilitate his escape.
And there are lots of evidences showing that he was alive
The first being the soviet angle of Stalin and Molotov
Discussing as to whether Bose should remain in the country.
In 1991 a letter written by him found in the KGB archive
dated 1946 that he had safely reached the then Soviet Union.
And there are conspiracy theories abound on Bose’s death
Allegedly both the Congress leadership and the Government
Afraid of Bose’s possible return to India and his impact
None to stop him to come to power as worshipped by people.
He was posthumously awarded Bharat Ratna in 1992,
A highest civilian award but later withdrawn on the ground
As the Award committee failed to give evidence of his death.
Even the Taiwan Government confirmed of no plane accident
And U.S. Department of State supported the claim of Taiwan.
=====================================================
Second Place win:
Contest: Unsolved Mysteries by Carolyn Deveonshire
*Inspired and credits to the reports published on the web*
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
True story, my uncle was a famous safe cracker
Before becoming a soldier in World War I
Known to police in New York City for robbery
The army wanted his skills against the Huns
Employed him to defuse bombs the Germans threw
In the trenches around the front lines
And also to defuse all the mines around them
Till the end of the war was showing signs
Dying in the war he received a medal of honour
Posthumously for his heroic bravery
Made amends for his past so unsavoury
When I came along I was named after him
Quite a hero I always looked up to
Before the war, a criminal known to police
After death got the recognition he was due
© Jack Ellison 2015
Created a little ditty about hypocrites and
double standards, racists with drawing boards.
Media dinners with dubious
double meaning placards.
The Spade of hearts.
The Jack of Swords.
An adversity of diversity,
assorted stuff for their hating,
tarot cards,
racial fits in the music awards,
and a grammy for
"sex in the city."
Man who is that dude on the Grammy, Satan?
Jean Luc Picard with Baphomet itties?
Idols for idols, adverts with priority
misplacement, Universal standard.
Mesmerized tazement,
enter lame-ment.
Amazement for sheep enslavement under
black candles.
As the hypnotizing blow is more than
a psyops experiment.
But here we go,
gonna run at it hard while I vent-so.
Everyday I listen to the same old thing
Tune in to VH1 or Mtv, see what I mean
Only degradation gets attention, is it ADD?
No, they know the words, they are listening intently.
With a mother****** this and a dead *****dat. Posthumously-
Gangland in the home with a baseball bat.
Un-Just like liberal Congress across the nativity scene.
Is it positive reinforcement?
Or New World Laws Enforcement.
Fasting for lent?
Come get your sisting y'all.
Come and get bent!
In genre hostage making,
30 year experiment?
Yo Mtv raps, yeah I get it
(about murder $$y & pot leaf sense)
I guess when the airwaves got a monopoly
from the Lord of the Air and GoogleBerg
Hall Monitors.
Not the Right, but the wrong
afraid of debate, running away, running with impunity, running with devil- the PMRC, the CDC ,FCC,
FEMA and Columbia University.
Now you want to talk about Satan,
check the connection between Crowley and JayZ.
On how you get chicks for free
and money for nothin, nothin but devil worshipping,
special sales from wolves making sheep
clothing and accessories.
Accessories to many of the things you see.
Destiny
Sordid, shoddy succubus
Culled consciousness
Mottled, beguiled muse
Hungry for hope
An eruption of erudition
To be showered with praise
Cleansed pride
Chloroformed strife
Where dreams tease unkempt hair
And eulogize tear stained verse
Sacrificed on stripped oak altars
Trembling hostages of insatiable sermons
Sterile sunrises
Mourned by cramped, fertile fingers
I pray to my paranoia of invasion
Voices
Viscid footsteps
Shadows of salvation
Which pass without query
Again
Chortling echoes of obtuse obituaries
As I lie shackled to tomes of obscurity
Tortured
Starving
Undiscovered
Dead
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.