Best Preset Poems
liberty in verse
atypical on the Soup
born a free-spirited caballero
I’ll not dangle
from another poet’s noose
jigsaw puzzles presented
by contest sponsors
jump through hoops
win their accolades
who’s to say what makes good verse?
flash your PhD at me
“Oh yes, oh yes, you are the best,”
most wholeheartedly agree
those who compromise
win a nebulous prize
preset rhyme patterns
syllable and word counts
twisted forms, multiple forms, mega-forms
atrocities created
messages secondary
to prescribed presentations
poetic constipation
forced by over-regulation
Four walls.
Barricades.. built out of strong brick, but flimsy cement -
Strong force, but weak purpose.
It was ironic, she thought.
Society had set up four confining walls,
and yet was an unlocked door just there.. mocking,
beckoning those with the nerve to throw it open.
She was sure of it.
It angered her, these biased convictions.
She wasn't let to school. No work. No freedom.
And why? Why not, rather.
Simply because she was a 'she'.
But she would show them, she notioned.
She would show the world the suppressed would rise,
and break through the boundaries preset for them.
She would show them the women of the world could revolutionize it.
She would tell them,
and she wouldn't stop till her voice resounded beyond the four walls of the world...
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Dedicated to every woman reformer!
Hope is never hope
Without a wonder?
Hope is a slender
A jest reminder
Hope is the preset of FAITH
While there is a sun to light up the day
And a moon for sight at night,
I wonder why there are stars,
So numerous, that fills the sky?
Is it there as a screen
To veil the vacant vast,
Lest you feel lost in the night!
Or is it there for a lonely traveler
To play the game of dots,
Finding the preset pattern they make.
Or perhaps they're there to make a rude look,
That a pride woman’s diamond look fake!
Or may be there, just to set an Engineer in awe –
“What glued those flickering lights up there
That they never fall!”
Or perhaps to whisper to an abandoned child in sleep,
That there are thousands of loving eyes, up here,
Watching him and wishing him ‘sweet dreams’.
Or perhaps they are there to carry God’s loud voice
To that youngster who lost heart,
That, “Life is great! and dreams have no dead end!,
Come on dear, soar up high
Shine as a star, whose twinkles never end”.
7/9/2018
Looked up and down, right and left
Wondering why life suffers a theft
Subtracted beauty from my chin cleft
If I deserved and preserved the best
My love could lavish to attest
Why my love passed a preset test
Under dodgy durations of circumstances
Pummeling endeavours made in instances
That diminished and dwindled distances
Acknowledged to reveal robust character
On a bus, on a train, on foot, on a tractor
Where we determined adversity no longer a factor
In consolidating the love we feel
Grows by leaps and bounds despite the bill
Your family sprang on me to deal and kill
The foundations you and I have built
Over the years to fight to the hilt
Any machinations to pour heaps of silt
Into our love cogs
Meaning love should don cogs
Saunter under coercion in bogs and fogs
To prove its strength
Walking on hot coals at length
If truth should pervade and invade love width
To delight your parents
So worried and harried by overdue rents
We owe for domestic tents
That accommodate our nights and days
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
Shared with supreme care
Far beyond compare
Even when evil eyes stare
Willing you and I could disintegrate
To delight the flight of the ingrate
Who wishes our relationship could migrate
Into Dante's Hades
Struck by full blown Aids
Enfeebled and disabled in beds
Where to detractors we surrender
Stuck owing bucks to the vendor
Who dares to crush our love in his blender
Administering his coup the grace
As we lie panting on yellow grass
Listening to soothing sounds of brass
Whispering osculation and consolation
Amid an attempt at immolation
Our love sustains not in isolation
But in tandem
With a hustled harem
Which sings its ultimate knell anthem.
Miscommunication, is fabrication of reality
When actually it’s a matter of perspective.
She was a standout, with a name similar to yours
With pure intentions, painful convictions but losing to her own dispositions.
Deprivation of her moral mentality structure crumbles
Caused by misadventures of her past life
Blighted with horrific memories
Tragic upsets that shake the very foundation of her soul.
Lead by the goals of our society
To keep the mindset that anxiety… controls you
But who understands?
Those who demand you to over expand your capability of toleration to your demons?
Pharmaceutical apprehension to be your companion in this never-ending struggle?
School systems have programs
That program you to say
Everything’s okay
Just get over it and move on
But you see there is no off switch to pain
No preset to reset her experiences
The hand that she felt
A seatbelt that would strap her into a horrible roller-coaster ride of misery
You see, there is something wrong with this picture
Its missing something
Someone…
You?
Maybe everything that she needed was a frosty before third period on a March afternoon
Or maybe, an almond milk macchiato on finals week at Delos across the street
Or even an acquainted silence of tears while she spilled her heart on the dashboard of your car.
She needed a home
No not a bed to sleep in with complimentary breakfast
No!
A resting place
That’s laced with people who care to hear the response of how her day is,
Or how’s she’s doing in school
Or why is there scars on her…
Arms to be held in when she needs comfort.
Sometimes we’re the only savior that people see,
But what saviors are we when we’re preoccupied with our own self-indulgence of social media.
Temporary satisfactions from addictions ever going,
Distracting us from having true meaning in life.
We need to make a stand,
To withstand this generational curse.
Of carelessness of peoples pain,
But first, let me update my status.
I am a prisoner of my personality- locked behind bars of firm reality,
I am a prisoner of my society-dressed in stripes to stand me out from the world’s uniformity,
I am a prisoner of my sincerity- set apart by the blind for opening their eyes to obvious reality,
I am a prisoner of my conformity -forced to endure my decision despairing in silly absurdity,
I am a prisoner of my beauty -chained in a hole too dark for a charming humanity,
I am a prisoner of my ideologies- driven through life conforming to borrowed priorities,
I am a prisoner of my ignorance- bound by the shallowness of my desire to connect to life’s significance,
I am a prisoner of my religion-forced to one track my mind and depend on a preset decision,
I am a prisoner of my addiction- posted behind a wall of unbreakable brick by brick satisfaction,
I am a prisoner of my universe- checked and controlled like sand in an hour glass that cannot reverse.
COPYRIGHT. freeflow 2012
If my words could be fashioned into a weapon,
I would write a poem for each of my brothers on the other side of the world as a means of self defence
against one false accusation to the next,
to the constant failure to pass an "innocent appearance" test
due to the misreadings of an ill-literate society that have been preset
and extended to triggers that are pulled without an ounce of regret - but then;
it seems that words have been deemed irrelevant
and all that exists in this reality
are the faint sounds of sirens, gunshots and protest cries
that soon evaporate into memories,
condensing into injustice
until precipitating into yet another life lost
all while the guilty hide under an umbrella of privallge - the cycle continues.
Sir Studly put out his cigarette
when the band played a minuet.
Did he ask me to dance? You bet!
And that’s when I began to sweat.
No lessons had I, least not yet;
still I stomped on the floor like a vet.
Sir Studly soon began to fret;
an assault on his toes I beset.
Two small feet became quite a threat,
not to mention my toe ring baguette!
He did not see me as a coquette,
as he came after me with a net.
I must say I have no regret;
there’s a lesson here I won’t forget:
Make sure your dance steps are preset
‘fore you dance with a studly brunette.
January 9, 220
For William Kekaula’s “First Time Here – Any Monorhyme” poetry contest
The Indecisive State of My Life
Like the rainbows of the sky,
Like the new moon before each month of Phoebe,
My life switches, dusk to dawn, dawn to dusk
I’m confused.
What is next? What coming next?
What is preset for me?
Will you answer, oh dear Forgiver?
Would you please soothe my endeavor?
I’m bit tired,
Nothing of my life expired,
Still why do I feel like expiring soul?
Whenever there is a hope,
Few spaces to start or a little scope,
I feel like I’ve retired.
No one is touching my soul,
Nothing is happening at all
Cause I don’t dare to do.
I really need some pace,
For settling down in this place
I look for a friend but don’t know who.
I love the evening sky,
The scene when the birds fly to their nests,
I’m not so sure, where to go,
I wait to fly;
Just as the sun would lie
In the sea-bed after the tiring day.
Then only I’d feel
Why am I not standing on the hill?
Neither on my heel high,
Finally it pains,
My tender heart cries,
Who’s there to console my tries?
Thrusted onto a stage preset.
You look around,
Encompassed by an audience that seem to surround.
A susurration of voices erupt from the darkness.
Whispers of eclectic emotion -
A scene so sharp, so vivid, so real,
It cuts deep.
Leaving a scar that shall last an eternity.
The lights are on you.
You are expected to preform,
Conform to the human norm,
But you are so much more than that!
The audience looks to you,
“It is time to read your lines,” they say.
You look to them, script held high and before your eyes
You rip what is known to be the fabric of time.
A gasp ripples from the crowd,
Silence,
And then a standing ovation.
P
E
N
D
U
L
U
M
S
Pause
To protest, paradigms of
Patterned positions, pathways
Pegged precise. Postpone the push
And pull of passion prostrate, to push
And pull in planned pulses... in preset
Partial pirouettes,purloin the progress of
Premeditated peace. Pressing, pacing,
Perspiring,to purchase a panacea
Of prisoners… The present
Passes-Past.
.
Hades and Tormented Souls (the Dwelling)
(presenting a fragment of the second part promised)
Where the dark wind blows, lies abound
deep into a ravenous, hellish pit.
Lost souls cry and moan deep under ground
under evil torture each must submit.
Dark Hades, ancients called this gloom
agonizing souls, cast into Hell.
Hideous monsters working in every room
death's stinking odor the smell.
Shrill cries from pain immensely great
as tortured minds see so clear.
The miseries they and others sadly ate
embracing the dark seeds of fear.
Panic in one room, terror in another
burning brands searing souls.
So sweet the agonizing cries for mother
as demons reach their goals.
Each torment according to its worst sin
eyes gouged , for depraved acts.
Hearts sliced, tossed into a burning bin
tongues torched for lying facts.
Hands crushed for stealing other's gains
whips slashing across bloody backs.
Every torture imagined for greater pains
even burning in oil soaked sacks.
Deepest level, reserved for special guests
darkest demons there get to play.
Inflicting deeper pain by evil's requests
to those that thought never to pay!
Where the dark wind blows, lies abound
deep into a ravenous, hellish pit.
Lost souls cry and moan deep under ground
under evil torture each must submit.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-07-2015
Previous Note from the Acheron poem:
Previously presented was part one-
The Tumid River of Acheron (the journey) Part One-Revised.
The journey into HADES by way of crossing the Styx.
The river Styx is actually an offshoot of the Acheron
that splits into the Styx and the Cocytus.
Part two now has two lines written. It will be titled ,
Hades and Tormented Souls (the Dwelling)..
I have no preset limit to the second part, may be
longer or shorter. I suspect it will be even longer.
I hope the readers enjoy this write. I wanted to do
something dark and move away from all my love, romance
and Nature writes. A bit of variety to stir my
imagination...
I have made several corrections to this poem in the last
few days.
Like a sweet child in ballet
toe steps glide across the archway,
A graceful pirouette holding breath and heartbeat
balanced then suddenly rising like modern athletes.
A rhythmic cadence hustles across the days
when life is simple and living all game play,
Then the day waltzes methodic 3/4 weeks
sashaying manic tango pause then slips away piqued.
The merengue drags bodies closely touched
sweeping lags across the room in two quarters clutched,
bolero sharps and turns spinning like the fading years
lost in the frenzy of living fast and freely shed tears
A twisting stomp to slap the earth
quick tarantella wild winds giving birth,
a shuffle into polonaise gentle and lullaby eyes
slides to rest in minuet reprieves and haunting cries.
Too soon the days are months turned to years
and decades lost to the aging cheers,
gone is the youth of preset times
lost but not forgotten holding their prime.
Like the dance that stirred our spirits long ago
dream and memory holds steady in life's shows,
there is no end for life's pawn,
the dance lives forever a youthful swan.
red lights blinking rapidly
I didn't make the connection
as soft music floated unseen
from cars heaving with undulating motion
gentle, rhythmic, but forced upon
as ruby lips pressed into service
with legs spread wide, most welcoming
a toll bridge where the final cost
was negotiated and never preset
lying sighs to the different beats
hissing throughout the dead of night
expressing love, but was truly only
an example of cheap gratification
seen within heavily mascaraed eyes
wandering slowly, wondering about their lives
what story or lack thereof brought them to this
fumbling in the back seats of foreign cars
leather smells, the scent of money
or cows, depending on how they are perceived
of fish net stockings, with their scaly look
to hook ones attention, with come hither smiles
even in this seedy world are seen class distinctions
from the two dollar whore to the elegant madam,
who spreads their legs wide, while she reaps the rewards
untouched by the stench of leftover sex
that seeps from the pores of the overused
the numbers counted only upon her gold card
and the status that it so readily affords her
as her girls line up at free clinic doors
curing the diseases of the body but not the mind
what of the two dollar girls, lives exploded
in the harsh glare of the red light district
of addictions that drive them to sacrifice their bodies
let alone their souls to feed the hunger
always present, deep within, gnarling, crawling
an urge that never subsides, only controls
they no longer care of what happens to them
all that remains is the action, or as they lie
covered with another strangers body, the inaction
leading only to the ultimate reward of payment
yes, I visited the seedy underbelly
asks the questions and wondered aloud
but as I left looking back to see those blinking lights
I still made no connection to the lives
that are so sadly parked upon this lonely road
that surely leads to nowhere except their ultimate demise