Best Preceded Poems
You gave me wings
to experience the
freedom of flight
my love.
You let me soar
the skies and beyond
into other universes
where consciousness
has no boundaries,
feels no weight,
nor limitations
of the earthbound,
only coherence with other
soul travelers exploring
the many dimensions
in light form.
How could I keep
begging you to stay
when your earthly body
yearned for that same
freedom of flight from
a world without
which you will not
return in my lifetime.
We joined our hearts in vows of
“until death do we part”
and I know I must accept
your departure with all
the love you would
have offered me
had my departure
preceded yours.
We always said that death
is but a station
on our journey home
to the afterlife.
It is my turn now
to give you the same
freedom you gave me
when we met.
I often see you now in
my peripheral vision,
just a ghostly glimpse
that lets me know
you see me
and you are still looking
out for me as the protective
mate you were.
I continue to fly now
but mostly at night
as my body sleeps.
I miss your masculine
embrace and my
heart still often weeps.
June 4, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest~N/A~
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
~Nineth Place~
Flight Premiere Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
**Dedicated to those who preceded us and gave their blood, sweat and tears, so we can have the luxuries they could not**
The wind whispers, the wind whispers ----
the wind spreads her wings,
so all can sing her lonesome tune;
An old wind blows, older names gust
and whirl and chime,
remind those unfinished pacts of days gone by,
plea they deep in the night
when the arbor grates the house...
The withered barn is grey to dark
and the yard chasing with ghosts;
whisper in wind of forgotten oaths,
to freedom in day when sun is high,
justice takes pleasure even in shadowed realms,
even the gales cease their roar and great wars die
and the end shall end anew;
What in the wind, with tethered and sleepy heads,
do they ask, do they plead
and have us do?
The truth was concealed with many branches. Countless
are the days I happily lingered in the comfort of your shade
before passionate winds revealed each of your limbs as too
weak to support natural, core growth. Your delusive roots
cannot grab substantial hold in earth while fertilized by
pretense’s charade. Only hollow echoes resound within your
skin of splintered bark and your shadows of nothingness grow
ever longer.
Under a warming sun, I joyously gave my heart in open palm
to you. At the time, I ignorantly embraced your breadth and
sum, for your apparent beauty preceded your tells of long
developed and craftily hidden inner rot, sure to disease all love
given in deep, steady, heartbreaking spurts. I can no longer
tarry beneath your deceptive branches and chose to depart with
no thought of ever returning, but I leave behind my tender pity to
witness your inevitable withering.
I stubbed my toe ...
(I do this a lot since turning fifty-five,
when everything I picked up to read began going to
arm's length in order to be visible,
and "readers" became a permanent style change -
I see things in the lower part of my
vision through wire-rimmed lenses that ride low
on my nose, and the mid-to-upper
views are naked eye, hence my feet are nearer
to objects than they seem,
and my podiatrical digits pay the price)
... and though this particular piggy-pounding
was as intensely painful and bloody as any of the myriad
bashings that preceded it, and while the air around me
reverberated just as rhythmically as it ever had with
streams of well-placed and frustration-relieving profanity,
and though my fists pounded just as relentlessly against
my thighs in anguish as they ever had before, (the purple/
black damage there to be tended to at a later date), and
while my face grew as contorted and red as was humanly
possible, THIS specific stubbing, was entirely different ...
... for when the aforementioned processes had run their
rather ugly (and noisy) courses, THIS time I smiled,
reached for my sublimely-timed Frozen Blue Margarita,
raised it to the direction of the accident itself, offered
a heartfelt blessing to that marvelous twilight air, and
TOASTED the very object I had stubbed it on ... a tree.
But you see, THIS tree was surrounded by cool, white
quartz sand, was near a lagoon that shimmered with the
colors of a peacock, and was festooned quite wonderfully
and perfectly and tropically, with PALMS ...
... battered toes ... be damned! ;-)
Bring your guns
Bring your boats
Boats filled with ghosts
Boats weighted with chains
Chains that will one day break
Chains that will carry
Carry us to Zion
Carry our pain
Pain born of separation
Pain that preceded
Preceded our birth
Preceded our rising
Rising here within a new nation
Rising for we know
Know that Ja is merciful
Know that Abraham smiles
Smiles upon the righteous
Smiles though our tears
Tears that lift
Tears of joy
Joy born
Joy gained in freedom
Freedom that we took
Freedom we reclaimed
Reclaimed by us a strong people
Reclaimed by transcendent men
Men of purpose
Men who are Ja's chosen people
People who know our purpose
People who cry
Cry for our babies
Cry for Mother
Mother Africa
Mother of all children
Children who ripped from her
Children who grew pale
Pale as papyrus
Pale for they lack compassion
Compassion died
Compassion exchanged for greed
Greed that intoxicated
Greed for flesh
Flesh of coco
Flesh subjegated to their wanting
Wanting more power
Wanting things to stay the same
Same for us men
Same promise to set free
Free
Men
For Marugu MO's "Race Relations Contest".
I can hear them in the distance when the air is bright and clear
They bring back bitter memories of a long ago yesteryear
The whining of the pipes I can remember well,
As they set the cadence for the men, who marched into pure hell.
They were preceded by their banner - A Royal Scot Brigade –
These tartan clad musicians were never known to fade.
They always kept on playing as to battle they did go;
The weather did not matter - blazing sand or bitter snow.
When heroes of the clan are called and laid to rest,
A single piper can be heard filling a last request.
The one, who paid the piper, in our hearts, will ever be –
His place will forever be a part of bagpipe memories.
The whining still is heard and the wars continue on
And will be with us forever until the pipes are done.
Written by
John Posey
12/22/14
We gathered for our thirtieth class reunion at Lydia's Smorgasbord.
I'd avoided such past events since in school I was largely ignored!
But my spouse proclaimed we would attend, thus ending that debate!
The dreaded encounter is expressed in verse below that I will now relate!
A social hour preceded the buffet where the booze freely flowed!
I looked about the room to see if I could spot anyone that I knowed.
I hardly recognized the campus queen - she had acquired a heap of weight!
That once haughty snob now tipped the scales, I judged, at one ninety-eight!
I saw the big-man-on-campus who was named most apt to score success.
He had a dearth of hair, an ample gut and an astonishing lack of finesse!
Some gal with purple hair staggered up to me and planted a slobbering kiss!
Must've been one of my old flames as I mused, "Now, who in hell is this!"
Guys gravitated my way boasting about this and that bending my ear.
They bored me with nasty jokes and trivia that I really didn't want to hear!
Of course I told all how great they looked, staring them dead in the eye,
And asking the Lord's forgiveness and crossed my fingers for telling such a lie!
The jocks were trying to impress one and all with their waning capabilities.
Most were hobbling about with canes discreetly masking their disabilities!
'Twas an interesting eve and the grub was great, of that there is no doubt,
But for our fortieth, fiftieth and sixtieth reunions, please include me out!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Trump Has His Supporters
What are they saying about the Trumpster
What he did was discovered in a dumpster
And we have also heard some others say
Lives there and likes throwing things away.
What other great ideas did Donald dispense?
Of course, none of them had made any sense
At all every time and we have also heard
What he said as usual was completely absurd.
Had heard much clatter preceded by clitter
Looked in dumbster and there saw all the liter
That Trumpster was saving for a rainy day
From bottom to top which was all on display.
After all of his hind end roaring what resulted
Everyone again had horribly been insulted
Provoked us when he was acting like a clown
So that to voters level could bring things down.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
True Christmas Miracle True Story Full version written by Wendy Horder. 2020
Huddled in muddy trenches, the soldiers heard an eerie sound.
Troops were English, French & Belgians, and as they looked around,
The sound was coming from the German enemy lines just 50 yards away.
It was singing, and the German soldiers were approaching on that day.
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen.
Between France and Belgium, The Western Front, was the scene.
As Germans left their trenches a cry of “Merry Christmas” could be heard.
Our solders could only watch without saying, even one word.
The German solders looked so jovial, it didn’t seem to be a trick,
Our soldiers hesitated, slowly coming out, their actions were not quick.
Soon they were striding up to the oncoming soldiers, accepting their invite.
The beautiful singing drew them in, even though they feared it wasn’t right.
There was laughing and joking, and they all exchanged gifts sent from home.
Seemed all men were the same, didn’t matter from where they roam.
They smoked and showed each other photos of their children & wives.
For a short time, they were comrades not one bit afraid for their lives.
As night fell, drowned in soft moonlight, German carols filled the air.
For the first time since the war began, each soldier felt comfort there.
Laughter resounded, and the allies began O Come All Ye Faithful, in tune.
Germans sang the same Hymn, in Latin Adeste Fideles, under the moon.
I wonder if it crossed their minds “Just what are we fighting for?”
How extraordinary, enemies singing together a carol in the middle of a war.
By morning gifts of cake, smokes and clothes were exchanged by each side.
Men chatting as a magician and a juggler were enjoyed, with eyes open wide.
A barber in civilian life, gave haircuts. Soldiers had notes they addressed,
Hoping to be taken to their loved ones in France and England in the west.
Soccer broke out. The game went hours, that history making Christmas day.
Soldiers on both sides spent time burying their comrades, to their dismay.
Soldiers who had been killed in fighting that preceded that wonderful truce.
A truce that should be an example of what we humans can willingly produce.
A true show, that men aren’t killing machines, everyone, a husband or a son.
A true Christmas Miracle from the bloody chapters of World War One.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
He looked in my eyes,
And took hold of my hand.
He took my breath away,
Made me want to fly.
The twinkle in our eyes
Could be seen for miles and miles.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
He whisked me away
To lands untold
And there these events preceded to unfold.
He took my breath away
Made me want to fly.
The twinkle in his eyes
Could be seen for miles and miles.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
In these mythical lands
He took my hands,
And then he told me...
He took my breath away
Made me want to fly.
The twinkle in my eyes
Could be seen for miles and miles.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
He told me he loved me,
And he was my all.
I gave my heart,
And he threw it at the wall.
He took my breath away
Made me want to fly.
The twinkle in my eyes
Died in all his lies.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
He stepped on my heart,
Made fun of my love.
And all in all,
Ruined my visions of love.
He used to take my breath away,
Used to make me want to fly.
Till the twinkle in my eyes
Died from all his lies.
Guess what happened today?
A cute boy stole my heart away.
But he doesn't know what he's lost,
Can't begin to fathom his loss.
He used to take my breath away,
Used to make me want to fly.
Till the twinkle in his eyes
Shined for her thru many miles.
Guess what happened today?
Another cute boy stole my heart away.
Hopefully this time I won't get hurt
Though by this time,
You'd think I'd have learned.
Now he's the one who takes my breath away,
The one who makes me want to fly.
The twinkle in our eyes can be seen
For miles and miles.
Form:
Why are you enchanted
gentle lady?
My mind
every day gets worse,
It's my rambling heart
is not here anymore ...
No longer poetize
as before ...
That one who
preceded you stole it
and now ?
Now only rime
memoirs...
Don't be enchanted
sweet lady...
The verses I write
they are not for you ...
They are for her ...!
An immigrant nation
Imprisoning immigrants
Not equally born or not born
Of its natives and considered
Criminals is indeed oxymoronic
In a country founded by immigrants
Thru usurping and uprooting indigenous
People of their bordered lands
And nearly extincting them
Via hue-skin oppression
In a supposedly new found nation
Baptized with the the blood of those
Who simply became natives of a new
Claimed land that would no longer be theirs
Saved their newly assigned residential bordered
Land areas whose nourishing earth-grounds
Were later re-stolened in oxymoronic thanksgiving
Thus today’s oxymoronic musky trumped oligarchy
Should be no surprise to those who have survived
All the worst that has preceded our present day
Mayflowering defecation on democratic equality;
As with previous oppressive demonic political oppression
Let us dawn our liberating-overalls and get to work on
The new needed political repairs required to flush
Down political oppression over the coming years
In our continuous fight to be truly liberated
From any and all oxymoronic tuslated
Oligarchical power-mongering
Trumped political governing
Now being live streamed
And televised, 24-7:
Counter-revolution
Against us!
P.S.: Always be aware that liberation must be
Fought for and won and is never given;
Likewise let power never be bought:-
sylvia
***this concerns several books I once owned.
Some were written by Rod McKuen, others by
Richard Brautigan, others by others…***
i discovered that words are
like some decadent dessert
too small to cause harm but too big
to have a second helping
in the margins of tattered books
were scribbled lines i hoped to someday share
with someone who still had tears in her eyes
from last night’s disappointment
for years i had filled my bible margins
with illegible scribbling
some printed words i had crossed out and rewritten
but never those of rod mckuen
or the bible
today i grew older simply by watching
days roll in like a warm ocean breeze
waves taste the sand so slowly
and so it is with rod mckuen
but he was going nowhere
in his rush to cross over some
imaginary line of demarcation
i once owned many books
hundreds aligned to make room to make room
imaginary for new things to be pushed aside
i’m still yearning for a phone booth
where i can make a call for two bits
i’ll always wonder if maybe
i had called sylvia plath if she would have answered
there was no need
her answer had already preceded the question
© tolbert
Obesity worldwide epidemic followed by worldwide epidemic diabetes
17 billion Americans have diabetes
16 million at risk developing diabetes
Than people who are normal weight
Diabetes a major problem in US characterized by inability to keep blood-sugar levels consistent
2 types of diabetes
Type 1, Juvenile diabetes
Type 2 maturity onset or adult onset
Does not require insulin
Type 2 diabetes preceded by obesity
Condition called insulin resistance
60% of the money spent on type 2 diabetes due to obesity