Best Proctor Poems
Sam Ebenezer
a sad ol' geezer
was lamenting his shrinkage of late:
my worthless ding-a-ling
is a bell without ring
my manhood in diminishing state
From whence I salute
is thin as a flute
and soft to the touch as cashmere
I search with persistence
it offers resistance
on nature's call to appear
On heeding that call
no waterfall
a few errant droplets at best
where once from the middle
I gushed, now I piddle
and half of my load veers west
Both feet on the urn
pushing forth from astern
I chant 'emerge hocus-pocus'
with my punctured esteem
watch the pitiful stream
dwindle to drops as Limp loses focus
Our wee-membered friend
wished his size to amend
the stiffness rerouted from his joints
have it rise to occasion
and stand to attention
consulted ol' Doc for his viewpoint:
My snake is dead
no flesh; just head
lies comatose and useless
my garden hose
once warmed my toes
now wrinkled, dry and juiceless
The senile old doctor
by name Alfred Proctor
had most of his wit in absentia
his breath smelt cheesy
Ebenezer felt queasy
Doc clearly suffered from senile dementia
Doc's hand took a dip
to just 'neath his ribs
as Ebenezer voiced his concern
Doc smiled all the while
said: your hopes are futile
there's no cure for your vanishing organ
I lost my virility
before my senility
long mourned my lost pride-and-joy
put my plight to rest
on realizing I'm blessed
to have in hand my own built-in toy
**************************************
The elves filled Santa's sack with toys
For all the good little girls and boys
When he lifted it up he used his back
Instead of his legs and he tore his sack
An elf gave a band-aid to Santa, their proctor
Santa said, "No, I need to go to a doctor"
But sadly a doctor he would do without
There was no time, so he started his route
He stood up in the sleigh, his jewels in a brace
Yelling, "OW, Merry Christmas!", all over the place!
I’ve come to believe that dirty laundry
is alive.
Just when you’re down to one batch, you turn
around and there are five.
And I also believe that laundry runs around
at night by itself.
“Cause “no one” gets it dirty, or takes it down
from the shelf.
“I don’t know where it all came from” is
what I always hear.
All those towels have a mind of their own, is
now what I fear.
There’s four kids, three adults and seven days in
the week.
How that can turn into twenty batches,..to this
question, the answer I seek.
If I’d just invested in Proctor and Gamble when
they first went on the market,
Today I’d have a Rolls Royce, along with a
driver to park it.
HAIBUN
You are electron microscopic size, but you possess infinitesimal power. Just a single strand of encapsulated RNA, yet you and your brothers SARS and MERS can sicken and kill more complex life.
Covid-19, virion unseen
Bring humans to their knees
Cowering and trembling
You spring up suddenly from nowhere and spread like fire in a parched forest. Devastating stock markets, stopping sports teams, halting concerts and forbidding gatherings over 250 souls. Quarantines of ships and planes. People greedily grasping, fighting and clawing for the important things in life: toilet paper, masks, cleaning supplies, paper towels.
A boon to corporations
Johnson and Johnson, Proctor and Gamble
Secretly happy you are around.
World wide you spread, showing no regard for race, boundaries or politics.
Italians, Iranians, Chinese,
Americans, Norwegians,
Japanese, Brazilians
The world caught unprepared. Scientists scrambling to develop a vaccine. All will breathe a sigh of relief when you cease your rampage. That is until you return, mutated, the same but different and we start all over again.
can i get a back beat
my doctor
is a proctor
not to be bothered
about your father
so go further
blur blurring vision
deciding decisions
yo
begin again
begin again
i've never sinned
casting stones
throw in the towel
after a awhile
fashion fashionably
late for a date
yo
no make up
making me make
taking a take
a second glance
a second glance
yo
yo
yo
loca mujer
hair dyed rojo
afro fantastico
don't know when
even then
then is now
bow to you
you're my Muse
muse about
get it all out
no leather couch
here where
all are chairs
take care
take your meds
bed is bedtime
time i'm instead
writing about her
again about her
again
yo
vinyl record scratching
back records show
you're good to go
yo
yo
you're good to go
te quiero
te quiero
I'd been throwing up a lot.
My food stuck in my throat,
So every time I had a meal,
I'd cough and gag and choke.
I went to see my doctor,
Time and time again.
They gave me Barium swallows,
But found nothing in the scan.
For seven years they fooled around.
One doctor even retired.
Then they'd start all over,
'Stead of looking at the priors.
Finally I had had enough.
I went to see my doctor.
You must do something, after all,
Of my health you are the proctor.
You've given me those swallows,
Umpteen dozen times.
You never find a single thing.
Let's try a different line.
Let's do some X-Rays then, he said,
And then an Ultra Sound.
What a capital suggestion Sir,
I think that's quite profound.
Next time I went to see him,
The doctor said to me,
I think it's time we sent you,
To have a biopsy.
The lab report came back at last.
The doctor called me in.
We have good news and some bad.
Now where shall I begin.
We've found that you have cancer,
In your Thyroid gland.
I looked at him and took a breath.
Well now, ain't that grand.
Would you care to elaborate,
On your diagnosis?
For this you really must admit,
Is more than halitosis.
It's the slowest growing cancer,
And the easiest to treat.
We'll just remove the Thyroid,
Then you'll be fine, you'll see.
So now I'm waiting to go in,
To have my operation.
I'm really not too worried,
'Cause God knows my situation.
Until The Lord will call me,
Nothing can take me out,
And when my God is ready,
I'll leave here with a shout.
An old lady went to the doctor.
Soon the nurse came in as a proctor.
Her face was blushing red.
She covered up her head.
“Relax and think of Davy Crocker.”
© August 19, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
THE OLD INDIAN
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
A story making the rounds about an old apache
Who said, I remember everything thats happened to me
A New York newspaper picked up the curious news
Invited the Indian to the city to explore his views
An ace reporter was assigned the task of verification
To see if the story was false or worthy of accreditation
Met in a New York hotel and started the conversation
Where born? In a tipi just outside the reservation
What was the name of the doctor? There was no doctor
I was brought into this world by a midwife named Proctor
What was the name of your first grade teacher
It was a man called William Bailey, a Baptist preacher
What was the date and the time when you met your wife?
It was may 29th at 3:50 pm, the most wonderful day in my life
Your brother joined the army, you said he left on a train
Yes, on the bullet express 5:15 pm, during a heavy rain
Every question answered with an authentic reply
The old Indian was accurate none can deny
Your long term memory is right on the money
Your short term memory may not be as key
What did you have for breakfast, the question begs
The old Indian said got up early and had some eggs
The reporter satisfied the Indian was for real
This interview is over chief, your memory surreal
Thirty years later the reporter retired
Moved out to Arizona to a condo he had acquired
On his morning walk he saw the old Indian, as he ambled
He raised his hand and said how, the old said scrambled
Be what you see in present tense,
One way shapes truth in actual voice;
Believe and be what you dare sense.
Promptly live proof in poise and choice,
Reach to know why you can succeed;
Obey your heart when mind speaks clear,
Clear focus buys the fate you seed,
Trust in fond start that attracts cheer;
Open to goals that you achieve,
Reap the firm feel that impacts plain.
See what unfolds through self-belief,
Align sure will to accept gain;
You think you can to prosper well,
Seed a sound plan as action tells.
Leon Enriquez
04 May 2015
Singapore
Helped by his fellow candidates
And blessed by the proctor
He passed the exam
Who is the culprit?
Naani Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Date: 12-05-2022
Place: 3rd
Simple things like love arent easy to understand
My pen trembles, my thoughts scramble
All my monsters are weak in her presence
Its sad how they no longer seem ugly
she says I do not write poetry for her no more
I found simple pleasure in her presence
Thieving a man from his madness
Like a candle forcing the darkness to speak
We still play but no longer keep score
She is my poetry but...
But she says I dont write poetry for her no more
I left that role to my daughter sitting in her womb
Her tiny fingers like thunderbolts and tornadoes
She catches placental waters like raindrops
And scribbles like her father
Silent as the night before a revolution
At a bonfire listening to insects recite their stories
About their evolution and our revolution
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
In a world full of fury, sin and silence
Choices choose us. We got nothing to lose except strangers
I live poetry through her beautiful life
The beautiful matrix of our creation embedded in her belly
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
I let my faber castell assault the paper
I write about non existent revolutions
Spread propaganda like a library of lovers
No full stop to my literary nonsense
I m like tepid pause in a witch's cauldron
I m a poetry proctor peddling my stories to wishing wells
I m a failing bridge giving her away to the chasm below
In one life there is a trillion choices
But in two lives there is none
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
Her feet burden with the weight of my world
My secrets and sins between her toes
I rub them off whenever I get a chance
Her legs long and divine like the history of my lineage
They follow behind the absence of my steps
She says I never write poetry for her no more
In my head I found answers, tenfolds of answers
Answers too complex to pronounce
So I decided to scribble this love poem on her maternity dress
She says I dont write poetry for her no more
more...
http://illegitimatepoets.blogspot.com/
Along the glass of a lazy stroll,
The jar popped open the doctor,
Or so I thought, ‘cos attachment,
Honour and protection was proctor.
Amis of gel, congruence and ear,
No disk did move my larynx clear,
Undue was the throat inside instead,
Which elongated my sinews head.
The cerebral hemispheres dance,
To reason’s sediments glance,
The axiom nuclei of radius fodder,
Taxonomic from a cooling splatter.
But my chair collapsed, was rejected,
And my sweated foot bounced unsaid,
Four legs not two around about, head
Their arms detached from pout affected.
Oh the seventies did collide and mix,
With solemnity’s roles and grades,
Under the blankness of the stare,
Came the tare that ripped unaware.
Contingent upon my father’s books,
Magic cards and imagery games,
My piano, pencil drawings, TV flicks,
Starwars did not renegade flames.
Not continent upon the bible black,
Therefore not continent upon the kin,
So not deluded or emotional, gone,
Won the neighbours hearts, pimm, grin.
Silence comes upon the beholder,
Not upon the glancer to extract,
When friends and lovers folder,
The broken heart that stays intact.
Knight the darkness, loon the light,
Put the bedding out into the light,
Bring the muscle into view as stringy,
To by the pound shift the loofah pingy.
Medicine’s chalice guilds the sweep,
Of the dopamine in inner scales,
But when the neurones skirt fit ham,
An ombudsman should call it maam.
Poor Jeremy Squires.
Jeremy Squires a strange wee breed
would cough and sneeze all day indeed.
So Marjorie Proctor sent for the doctor.
She asked that he come real quick.
Before Jeremy Squires and his coughing expires
then he'll no-longer be sick!
Well, said the doctor, if I don't come quick
and Jeremy Squires is no-longer sick
he won't need a doctor Marjorie Proctor.
Is that what you've just said?
Yes! Said she, oh don't you see
cause Jeremy Squires will be dead.
"Magnification of the Proctor"
****************************By Ricky1024*******************************
Written on July 19th 2015 at the general sect, priesthood meeting in East Brunswick NJ.
"To order to subjugate the 'Inner We' we first need {yes indeed} to hone our spears and message the 'Creator...
"God knows well that we need {yes indeed} to subjugate our world with more of our principles."
...
"To 'Honor and Respect'{what the HECK} through religion is important and well needed so, so, very much like a tree without leaves, a boat without a sail, or a blind man without guidance, lets take a deeper glance {by chance}".
...
"A tree with no leaves will not produce shade, a tree with no substance will produce no roots so no wood {as it should} but we can assist!"
"Resist and join my band!"
"Take your brother and sister's hands! "
If not there will be no lumber to heat and slumber!'
...
"We need to spread our leaves and proliferate, the subjugate.
"We need to grow tall and produce the seed{ in need}.
"Then and only then my fine, writing, friends} will we be...
"As tall as a tree with leaves that that block the sun and display as we {each and every day} on this great planet of Earth {the place of all human birth} as we...
"Are...
"More then we have been...
"Amen."
I live for vacant white nights:
devoid of stars and ocean hues,
a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky
that's just a whisper short of true.
Life's metronomic father points
his stale batons toward my mind,
though only to be broken down;
alone, I left him ticking blind.
The homeless shadows beg of me
for concrete shells to live within,
though I would never hesitate
to fill my inner evening den.
I am the author of my dreams;
I am the paper and the pen!
I sleep for chronic impulse:
the resonance of ceaseless bliss,
a feeling wrapped in brittle dust
and formless like a will-o-wisp.
Life's bittersweet horizon peers
into my deep nocturnal space,
though only to be torn apart;
I had no need for such a face.
The boundary linking earth and sky
does not exist for chainless hawks,
so like a bird, I'll take command
and pave the path I want to walk.
I am the proctor of my dreams;
I am the blackboard and the chalk!
I muse for vibrant futures:
the pliant maps of mental jumps,
a polychromic destiny
that topples every other trump.
Life's bland reiterations ring
around my silken paradise,
though only to be cast aside;
I needn't play with faulty dice.
The mirror to my distant past
is calling me with whispers faint:
"you must retain your future's seed
and tend to it without complaint."
I am the artist of my dreams;
I am the canvas and the paint!
No reality can keep its grip
on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!