Best Pronouncements Poems
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.
Not in the flash of gold or diamond's gleam,
Nor in the roar of crowds, a fleeting dream,
But in the quiet whisper of the breeze,
That dances through the leaves of ancient trees.
Not in the grand pronouncements of the bold,
Nor in the tales of empires, bought and sold,
But in the silent courage of a heart,
That chooses love and plays its humble part.
Not in the dazzling lights of stage and screen,
Nor in the fame that's fleeting, fickle, keen,
But in the simple beauty of a dawn,
Where shadows fade, and hope is newly born.
Not in the chase for riches, power, or might,
Nor in the fleeting pleasures of the night,
But in the depth of kindness, shared and true,
A single act of grace, for me and you.
Extraordinary lies not in the grand,
But in the ordinary, held within the hand,
A moment shared, a smile, a helping word,
The echoes of compassion gently heard.
King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like
he really means them—actually he means them not.
King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.
King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.
King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.
King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy,
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . .
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.
King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda,
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who
had the very best Soviet teachers.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . .
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???
“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
(Free Verse)
Summers' thunderings gather in brooding, heavy clouds
Soundless masses with shuddering voices
Calling through an untamed sky
Shaking above the meeker Earth,
Pillars of rain, shot through, flashings in their depths,
Electric fires running through the close, wet darkness -
Thunderings assemble to make their pronouncements,
In booms and growlings cast through the winds
To tongue-lash an unruly world with elemental admonishments,
Bearing reminders of old forces that never die,
Waiting and spreading through vast spaces,
Breeding strength, coalescing.
Between the group of walls they live in,
He and she circle 'round,
Eyes seldom meeting,
Casting flashes of hurt when they do.
They hold within their aching hearts
Black shards of anger born of their quarrel,
Acid thoughts brew with the thunder's boil around them
It walks with its giant's tread above the roof,
Growling mindless sentiments
In tones that set the windowpanes ashiver,
Bitterness tends to the feeding of itself,
Savoring the cold fare
Of unforgiven words, thoughts both spoken and silent
While this summer squall of tattered love rises to rage
Ends in their dark unease;
The slow burn of anger between them
Has settled to smoking grey ash gradually piling up in their sombre souls
As the sky above flares through rushing sheets of clouds
Wind tearing by, laughing madly.
Natural Processes
That basket, the one that sets here, on this table, this table where he leans, leaning heavily upon his elbow, khaki left leg cocked-up. Where is it, his self-sought? In that rack of pipes from which he gestures, gesticulates with the stems, smoke, hot air? In that Bentley, in the basement carved out under the deck cantilevered over the brook that once powered a factory and made ribbons, is in pieces, in pieces in precise order? In that life lived under shadows, in the long partnership not waiting for answers not found in his corner, his pipes, his pronouncements? Is that the arrogance of the commonplace, refuge of the soon forgotten, those natural processes?
I hesitate to carry on, carry on, fearing what I might find in that brook, that basement, under the shadows.
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Beyond the trembly weald to glassy glane
beneath the wooden breath where thoughts remain
'twas a harkened land called Wordingtane.
The Wizard of Words ruled this land
in grips vernacular he had sturly hand, gimbly grand.
None in Wordingtane fair match for him
he needn't fiat, he could whim
his ekel pronouncements in spelling fusion
for peasants quiet conclusion.
Speaking by riddles it's easy to say,
save a fool, the perfect way.
Long swiffen over time to mumbly masses
in rhyme, it nestled in just fine.
Amber all who would argue
fribbled and frambled tied up
and scrambled, brains rambled,
fell off trillig tracks while
simpering sloggers couldn't get back.
The Riddler tacked to try who came
from afar he posed an answer assert
that vored in abyss and he lost his head.
"No place for his hat", the Wizard said,
"That was that", the crowd anored
in callactic dord their cries flayed
and all obeyed.
Then the Fiddler spun his music trick
and the Wizard metered in time,
felled him with a trocken rhyme.
Then proclaimed the silly Fool
entered his aclaim so tangled a wordmess
he'd profess, using words unheard,
the Wizard unslurred, spinning in a web.
So rilly and rich the "Wiz" confused began
a twitch to twitch he did till flabbergast
through the night till morning past.
Whence he fell asleep at foolish feet
with his verily own vorpal blade in hand
the Wizard's head, in a wreck left his neck,
and the fool would rule in grim humor
this land to tell so trundly true,
the end 'twas justine jewel.
Now the sky is bright, land just right,
'tis the wave whilst the Fool did fight
and twisted foils stretched in hand
he won his refrain, startling reign.
Black or White
They hide behind masks
They deceive the cathedral masses
They have no names
They have no real face
They preach
They poetically sing
They postulate like peacocks in a ring
Yet silently they slither away
The preacher with the loud voice
The Politician like a trumpet
Promises they have on offer
They are the usual suspects
Loud in pronouncements
Silent in moral disguises
MY DRIVER
I rain from the sky amidst saints who are priceless
My paradise was wooed by a womb man
The driver of my journey to this warm place with surface
Without anxiety i considered to my joy
For her pride is not only new experience from another haven
But also have a property to call my dividend
This juliana from the 7th heaven
My personal pride
My under rated fortress
My indispensible
My representation of god
My motivation to hanging on
My loyal fan from embryo to testimony
My reason to be happy always
My little camp of knowledge
My consistent value maker
The heart i carry evermore
A story i cannot tell enough
A many reason to continue God pronouncements
The why i will always push
MY OWN FIRST LOVE
IYA TOSIN IS MY MOTHER
poet : oluremi eliasta
On Learning To Become A Guru...
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Hey, Mr. Politician, look,
Just look, what you’ve done
Stuck me back in combats
And carrying a gun,
Bayonet, spare mag,
Primed stun grenade
Sent to sort out the mess
You bastards have made.
I ain’t a fly boy
Whistling overhead
Not ever seeing
Their wounded and dead,
I’m just a foot slogger,
Feet firmly on the ground,
Seeing face to face
The chaos all around.
Mr Politician I’d like to see
You marching by my side,
Flush you out from all
Those places that you hide,
Uttering pronouncements,
Barely pausing for breath,
As you condemn a few more
Thousands to their death.
You murder by poxy
In the name of The State:
Rather than compassion you
Preach intolerance and hate.
When will you learn
War’s not a computer game
No reset button to
Return things to the same.
Those aren’t just fake bodies
Scattered all around
Those are the real dead
On your chosen killing ground.
And when our mission is over,
When it’s come to a conclusion.
Will me and my mates
Possibly face a prosecution.
Attiudes can change
With the passing of time
Accusations easily made
Of Historic War Crime
Hey Mr Politician,
I hope you don’t die well,
And, if such a state exists,
Spend eternity in Hell.
Although I've taken a break I've still been reading regularly and couldn't not publish this after reading Wen Horden's fine poem about the 1914 Christmas Truce. I performed it to mixed reactions at a Remembrance Sunday gathering. Veterans approved, not all others did.
I saw there was a mow-down in Las Vegas
of country western loves.
And also heard our President
was about to share his view.
But before he had his chance
to enlighten one and all,
I figured his best solution
was to hope before the next time
we'll all do our patriotic duty,
go out and buy the best automatic multi-repeating rifle
with scope that we can afford to buy,
so everyone can keep a well-scoped eye
on all the other country western wise
before we blast each other's patriotic duty
to stand and salute both our flags of equally good history,
leave no child with any color standing,
left unpatriotically behind.
Rising tall
in the thicket,
cresting with
force nestled
behind matted
fur and eight
fresh gashes
scabbing
firm,
the elder
intimidates
with rattling
force only
guttural
pronouncements
designed to
instill fear
or
spark
resolve,
pivoting
an element
of battle that
shatters poise.
On learning to become a guru...
The following artfully crafted back in the day
(actually poetic endeavor presented below
written a few scant years ago) in response to
unexpected positive feedback received on
the most popular social media platform.
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Patience Young Grasshopper mine alter ego spoke
when yours truly figuratively chomping at the bit
more accurately fretting with anxiousness when
boyhood body of mine underwent metamorphosis
impossible mission to thwart biological transformation.