Best Producers Poems
Forget about futuristic wars
between nations, race against race
country against country
tongue against tongue;
soon the populous will know no
borders, continents no boundaries.
“The New master”
Is awakening manoeuvring
stalking, his plan already activated
The twenty second century will
see his bidding become
formidable, the pocket, whims,
thoughts and desires
will be his to regulate, what
to eat, drink, lay on ride on, he
will control, no law will hold him,
he will be the law!
Politicians will become
his directors and producers
will guide his script, play his media
trouble shooters
his bounty hunters, seeking out
the moralist, the Salvationist,
no competition will be his aim,
manipulation of all things
one world
one God
one Board
one CHAIRMAN
“The ultimate ONE COMPANY”
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Rappers represent
Modern day correspondents
In the hip-hop age
Producers present
Orchestrated sound agents
Musical front page
water weeps wildly
whilst washing away your
jesting foolery.
I saw the sun annihilated
Against backdrops of liturgy
Lethargic activity that earns
It’s title as the Earth’s endearing child
Against backdrops of monogamy,
Pedestrian thinking,
Accelerated usage,
Lapping up mentalities from bowls of pulled poultry,
Doing nothing for the Universe, Yet stealing all unities,
Dissention and green lights and babies birthed and apostrophes in time,
Influencing the way we work on thinking of ourselves as HUMANS, As people, not things.
Growths, from children to adults, the contortion of time, the peeling of fate, the sweet sugar coating like a scab on your life,
Bleeding out of your heart and seeing out of your eyes and feeling through your brain and feeling through your synapses.
Here are the producers of the broad way show of assimilation
Here are the problems, Here are the irregularities with the hole in the boat, But don’t worry everything is now under…
Black as a burn on white , yellow as a can of
Cream, not yellow at all.
Not nothing but irregularities we perceive as
Potential ingredients in life.
But in greed, is what we are, in need
Not so much, Thinking SO outside
Of the box, that the box has grown
Legs and walked away and has grown
A full beard and a full head of ideals.
And we are trapped outside of this fully
Matured matron of mystic answers.
And we are pleading to God to be let
back in...
But you know something, GOD IS IN THAT BOX TOO.
And you know something else, inside all of us
Is a little box opening when
It's ready to breed a plague of
Insatiable urges.
A quest for self.
A journey through self.
Black and blue benches where a man sits,
Breathing, he breathed.
Waiting for his anti-matter mother to annihilate him,
But less than he believes because anti-matter
Kills not what it touches, But what it needs to
Kill itself.
A piano, might be boxy and Brute-Like
But might mean more than piano
To you.
It might mean the 'end is nigh'
For music is the sound we hear to
feel forsworn,
to feel filthy inside of ourselves.
GOOD, GOOD
But remember, the Doctor is here
And he is watching from inside
The box, and he's sitting over a cup of tea,
With GOD,
In that BOX
I have her nineteen fifties' Trifari
fine costume jewelry, which I hold dear,
since my sweet mom bequeathed it all to me;
when worn or touched, I feel her presence near.
The ritzy, sparkling rhinestone matching sets
showcased in satin-lined, faux leather case,
were treasured as high fashion; no regrets
when given as a gift of style and grace.
And too, are pearls embedded in bright gold
with settings of such intricate design.
I love to look at them, to fondle, hold
these precious pieces treasured now as mine.
I wear my mother's gems from time to time
and feel her basking in the lovely glow
that once adorned her beauty in its prime
and graced her loveliness in stylish show.
So I devotedly take tender care
of these Trifari gifts passed on to me;
her treasures shine with special love we share,
safeguarded through her cherished jewelry.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Old Jewelry or Just Old Things
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 11/06/2016
Since the1920s, Trifari has been one of the most respected and admired producers of costume jewelry in the United States. Founded in the1910s by Gustavo Trifari, the Italian-immigrant son of a Napoli goldsmith, the company has designed jewelry that’s been worn by countless high-profile clients, from Mamie Eisenhower to Madonna. Trifari costume jewelry is highly collectible today.
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Country this guy they detest,
And save armpit noises he talent had none,
He thought they were funny and thought they were fun.
He thought that his 'talent' would make him a star,
But no one did care for the young Lochinvar.
He left San Francisco and charged straight ahead,
To Lower Manhattan is where he was lead,
But ere he was granted his first interview,
Producers were tipped-off and everyone knew,
His act was so silly and really bizarre,
They wouldn't audition the young Lochinvar.
Yet boldly he walked into Carnegie Hall,
And tried to astound them and tried to enthrall,
He made armpit noises and tried to impress,
(The day was quite sunny, but here I digress),
They dropped him in feathers and rolled him in tar,
'Twas nearly the end of the young Lochinvar.
"I won't be discouraged", he told them that day,
And then made his mark as he waddled away,
With sticky black footprints of feathers and tar,
He walked to the corner and bought a guitar,
Thinking, "I will be wonderful, I will go far",
But life would get worse for the young Lochinvar.
He took a few lessons, the Chet Atkins way,
With that and his armpit he started to play,
The audience booed him and tossed him outside,
He fell on his ass and it injured his pride,
And Lochinvar whispered, "Twere better by far,
Had I stayed with the armpit and scrapped the guitar."
He went to a bar and he drank a few beer,
He thought it would help him and give him some cheer,
But all it did give him was heartburn and pain,
And from that day onward, was never the same,
He'd never be famous and never a star,
'Twas the end of the line for the young Lochinvar.
He moved back to 'Frisco and rented a room,
Was the height of the Hippies, with flowers in bloom,
At Ashbury Avenue, corner of Haight,
They thought he was wonderful, thought he was great,
Now people throw dollar bills into a jar,
It's life in the '60's for young Lochinvar.
producers and consumers
an ongoing war must exist
the battle cry is abundance or scarcity
abundant goods in an open market is the list
scarce goods in a protected market is a calamity
abundance leads to less sacrifice
which is never bad for the consumer
scarcity of goods leads to a higher price
good for producers but not the laborer
lower prices leave more money to those
the greater amount saved the greater the wealth
producers want a window to close
the longer the line the greater their health
government directs traffic to the wrong side
the road to prosperity is an open divide
Improved quality of food shall surely benefit man.
Quantity increases will feed the hungry and poor.
To the common man, at first, it sounds like the perfect plan.
Gene changed gorgeous fruits adorn the produce store.
Genetically changed super plants manipulate God’s world.
Seeming positive at first, scheming power at its worst --
Undermine the little man; devious research unfurled.
Appearing beneficial, redesign is by greed cursed.
Third world countries co-align as those in power hold their hands.
Their research advancements are supported from sea to seas.
Genetic exploration changes God designed croplands.
New producers thwart small farmers; they manipulate bees.
Homestead farmers feel the pain; sterile seeds do not grow plants.
Meanwhile the power hungry cannot quench greed’s growing thirst.
Generational practices work hard to keep their stance.
But into microscopic life new laws of order soon burst.
Lobbyists seek to stop homesteaders that grow their own crops.
Sterile seeds and dying bees are the super’s starting spot.
Rooftop beehives and small farm home-crops try to mend teardrops.
Changing God’s world is the backdrop to a shifting hilltop.
12/29/2018
FORM QUESTION: I know that this is written in quatrains, but there is a form for poems that try to influence reader's opinion ... or religion. What form is that? Does this poem fit in that form?
The feeling of getting rocked for the first time is
like losing your virginity. How I rise from the producers
decides if I like going down or hate getting up.
Yeah, they saw it. Eyes on me. The ubiquitous
air is still hear. My ascetic body
still functions on this field of men.
Fighting for friends, flying around full speed.
Go! Go! Go! Epitomizes our support.
The brain yells stop, but the heart whispers fight.
Hard work minus teamwork equals intact pants.
Hard work plus teamwork squared equals a smile.
Perspiration in the eye, never felt better.
The weakest link of our chain better power up
because he who pays the piper will call this tune.
Turns out, I couldn’t cry over spilt milk, if it didn’t spill.
As celebratory we were, we endeavor to looked opportunity
in the eye and purloin her work clothes,
before she is out of sight and out of mind
The beans come from tropical South America.
The biggest producers are Brazil and Colombia.
When you drink that first cup early in the day,
just remember your beverage traveled a long way.
With all the coffee houses in town everywhere,
do you thing their patrons give a damn or care?
3-3-5-7-7-1
Christmas shop..Till you drop..
Every which way but loose..
For some rawhide, Wishbone fried..
Gil Favor big on flavor..
Some!
Jo se Wells…Eastwood Tales..
As I knew he would..
Clint Eastwood, did very good..
Being so well on his…way..
Act!
Cattle drive…Eastwood drove..
From Rawhide he came..
Droving them doggies rolling..
Improving his western…game..
Bang!
Lee Van Cleef…Just beneath..
The Clint Eastwood leaf..
Did some neat trick in Clint’s flicks..
For just a few dollars…more..
Sing!
Spaghetti…Confetti..
Italian a..
A very long shot movies we got..
Producers had little hope..
Yang!
But did soap…they did rope..
Block busted some dopes..
Mean machine like Steve McQueen..
One Eastwood movie with Sheen..
Yen!
One big star…Clint you're made..
Riding in your cade..
Now it is you who controls..
Fans seek your movies in…rows..
End!
11-3 09 johnmosesfreeman
Wasted landscapes without proper tenureship
Evicting the true owners from their habitats
Tensions between the economic and survival
Leached sands, eroded banks of stewardship
Artificial substitutions and the phobia of bats
Nature besieged by ignorance and the political
Denude of forests, wetlands, and pollute the seas
So producers and consumers are soon decease.
My Profound Thousandth Poem
Dedicated to England and also
world renown poet Terry Cooper.
England is exciting place to be
Will enjoy it in every opportunity
People of pageantry are such a site
Forty in Round Table and were a knight.
There was Marlowe and Shakespeare
And Gainsborough to see far and near
Cathedrals, mighty castles with a moot
To see does require much time to devote.
In England is Rugby, Lacrosse and Soccer
Manchester being beaten is a real shocker
Weather will be cool and then end up warm
May need to be prepared for a mighty storm.
When you leave will want to return again
Which is exactly what we both intend
Was it mole in hole or pied piper in wall
Whatever it was old me just can't recall.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
and one of top 40 Poetry Soup Producers.
SPEED – JOURNAL XII
It’s hard to keep up
The world is
changing so fast
On the news, fast
talkers
We ancients need
motorized walkers
What once was
considered speed
reading
has,
apparently, become
the norm
Eyes travel slowly
over familiar
phrases
These trigger
memories, disturb
concentration
Lines disappear
prematurely
Fiction-wise, there
are, for us
experienced sages,
no new plots
Even the variations
are multi=traveled
All interest fades
in a fetid pool of
boredom
Film producers are
wise to the
over-taxed plot
And try to stimulate
public interest with
fast-
moving, noisy,
violence
Which manages to
lack any sort of
sensible
organization
No, all is chaos, at
least to us old
timer’s tastes
In these last few I
shall try to harvest
those few
inner moments
Which stir a sort of
over all activity
This I call
faking-oneself-out
...Oliver had saved up the cash
to buy into his employer’s franchise,
bought his own store, aggressively courted
every rancher in the countryside.
Soon enough the cash flow was well in the black,
so Oliver and the bartender wed,
bought their own house and were soon expecting,
he cared nothing for what the people said.
Jack, still drinking, played the Hollywood scene,
was a fixture of the wild nightlife,
soon he was in the tabloids again
when he knocked up a girl he knew one night.
He managed to keep working in film,
supporting roles were the best he could get,
with alimony and child support
he found himself slipping into the red.
When he crashed his car into his front door
he was quickly shuffled off to rehab,
in what would be the first trip of many,
the addiction had a grip on him bad.
But still he managed to get some work,
and when folks saw his face on the air,
they’d look at Oliver, mumbling how,
“That brother never went anywhere.”
Now Hollywood is a hot-bed of rumors,
and a disturbing percentage are true,
soon tales spread of Jack’s early acting days,
and all the things a new actor has to do.
Rumors of giving favors to producers,
insinuations of oral sex,
some said that was why her drank so damn much,
and why relationships left him vexed.
Whatever the case, on the internet,
the rumors became an ongoing meme,
his reputation thrown in the toilet
by GIFs and infographics obscene.
Oliver, back in fair Nebraska,
really had no reason to complain,
he had three kids and sold big equipment
to half the ranchers on the Sand Hills range.
Nobody was making memes out of him,
no reporters were snooping through his trash,
tabloids were not undermining his marriage,
and he was making more than enough cash.
He had six stores and a seventh coming,
and a hundred acres tied to his home,
a life or both family and friends sincere,
the general public did leave him alone.
The only thing that could worry Oliver
was what would happen to his brother Jack?
How many stars had walked down that same road,
and how many of them had never come back?
Though Jack’s state would weight hard on his mind,
and hear feared to see him drowning in despair,
Oliver couldn’t help but laugh at the folk
who thought it was he who was going nowhere.
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital
which political philosophy
incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,
mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead
despite being cased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red
dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed
ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.