Best Propped Up Poems
While moon makes place for sun
dark sky duvet pushed back
stars close their eyes
The restless few
their beady eyes
small marbles
see all
and everything
hip ceaselessly
don't find peace
The intellectuals
philosophize the dark away
invent intricate
solutions
to external worldly
problems
and internal
personal dark
Morning light
moves deep inside
propped up on walls
shines a soft glow
that brings peace
if only for a short while
***
October 15, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
I shore up my doubt, behind a loosely bound hope
Which in turn is propped up without foundation
Cynical of a life, at the mercy of luck
Collateral damage feeds my reservation
I shore my up tomorrow with what I see today
Without conspiracy or investigation
I place trust in all that’s completely unfettered
For fear, I’m left to this present resignation
I shore up my life with whatever came before
Not hindsight or academic education
The oblivion traversed until I was born
Strings along primal echoes of information
I shore up my conscious with bliss and ignorance
Interspersed with indifference on occasion
It’s not I don’t care about suffering and death
Rather, I’m desensitised by their pervasion
I shore up my denial with an open mind
Which is nothing except raw interpretation
This planet spins correctly, even though tilted
Not by wishful thinking, but strange gravitation
I shore up my boredom, trying to fall asleep
When really tired, will attempt hibernation
Anything to forget this human condition
After remembering, I’m long past salvation
I shore up my heaven, by creating a hell
Balance looks more appealing, in an equation
Gaze upon purgatory, and share what I see
Not because I’m kind, it’s more my destination
I shore up my poem by claiming it’s my own
But in truth, it’s an open collaboration
I conspire with the musings of all that’s unclear
They dwell inside me, in flawless aberration
- - - - - - -
better to face hell alone ~ than bring the whole world along for the ride
said the moon eclipsing the sun ~ who replied son I’m right behind you
By
David Kavanagh
jampacked city streets
that jangled and banged
in the raucous jarring day
shifted
from business to boogaloo
squeezing into moonlight
party lights
gin and lime-kissed
gimlet sequined dress
strutted
in studded six-inch heels
riveting flair
provoking jive and jazzy nights
to tame this lion of New York
The bed swallowed the evening
sucked-up in slumbered
sobering snooze
exhaling the drunkard’s stench
while the warmth of whiskey
and you next to me
laid dreamy still
popped up and propped up
restless and ragged
realizing the changing view
through the dirt-stained window
a pool of placid sunrise
igniting
colorless clustered towers
bulwarks and girders
scraping the sky
out of the easterly clouds
a creeping golden palette
arose
touching every crevice
defining each silhouette
your body stirs deliberate and slow
rainbow hued eyes
slenderly slitted catching
the new-found light
opening, tenderly revealing
the landscape of your smile
disclosing
a cozy contentment
waking with hello
as I fall into your dream
and a new day
For long I have been an aimless vagabond
I strayed far, the world being enormously wide.
Traveling to lands foreign, I searched my fortune.
At the end, fed up with all that was alien,
And wishing to withdraw from the world’s bewildering stress,
Decided to set out in search of my roots and my people.
Parents dead, my faint connections with my folks were gone.
My ancestral home was occupied by my brother,
With whom I had hardly any correspondence.
But when I was choked by thoughts of my dear home
And the yearning to visit struck me as an irresistible urge,
Without second thoughts, I boarded a plane,
And headed to my native village with dreams many.
From far I saw my house perched high on a hill,
Dappled in grey, squinting across the field.
Nearing it, my heart began to beat in pounding thuds,
In the excitement of a reunion long overdue.
Alas! There was none to receive me, only some creepy spiders,
Busily spinning gossamer webs over closed windows
Its vacancy haunting me, I tried to ring the doorbell.
But the rusted contraption sat silent on the cracked wall.
What had happened to the family living here?
Have they migrated to some far-off place?
A hundred questions propped up in my mind.
Wished to ask someone, but seeing nobody around,
I stood silent in the weed grown courtyard for some more time.
I thought of the heydays of my life, with a deep yearning,
To run round the house once more as a child
And be under its shelter, to lie down and dream the dreams of old.
Everything looked so forlorn. Feeling suddenly orphaned,
My eyes got welled up with tears as never before.
Hesitant to chew the unpalatable truth that this house will no more board me,
Casting one last glance with a heart laden with memories,
I turned my back from that spectral home,
Which stood silent as a symbol of UNWRITTEN ABSENCE!
It started growing in a field
Billy Stover watched it grow
Because the corn was tall
Because Billy Stover was small
No one knew
Now one saw
No one saw how the tiny boy watched by the hour in summer's heat
Even from the top of high elm trees by the road
who could have detected that small lad stretched out
on his stomach leaning on his elbows watching
On stormy days Billy watched from the closest window
elbows propped up on the sill
He knew it was growing though he couldn't see it
He'd be down in the field now in the mud watching
but his mother forbade it
"What do you do out there Billy all by yourself?
What is it you do out there instead of playing?"
On certain days when the wind swayed the green stalks
and nipped Billy's cheeks his eyes would light up
He fought back a burning desire to run into the white kitchen
to tug at his mother's apron to bring her out
and show her his one spot
He jumped up once when the flames leaped high
started running for the house
"Mother! Mother!" he silently shouted
Every part of his small body shook with joy but
The bleak white walls of the kitchen
his mother her hands dipped in bread dough....................................
It started growing in the field in the dirt in the mind of Billy Stover
And no one could have kept a secret better than Billy
(Base USO club, Zweibrucken, Germany, 1963)
Of a lazy afternoon, I sit
propped up,
Bones aching, sorely tired from
lack of work,
And dutifully read the comic
strips
With bored eyes while my mind
dozes.
I sit enveloped in my peculiar
Grayish pallor, which clings
And will not disappear,
And martyr myself to the gods
of convention.
I smoke acrid-tasting cigarettes and
Loudly chew a cud of gum, popping it
Absent-mindedly, and I turn the
crinkly sounding
Pages, one after one, slowly
and intently,
So as not to disarrange the sheaf.
The dryish smell of printed
comic strips
Irritates my nose, but I don't
sneeze --
Merely wriggle it a bit for some
relief.
My brightly polished shoes are propped
Upon the table and I lean back and tilt
the chair, and my hair
Is closely cropped and combed with care,
no strand
Out of place, pomaded and arranged.
My clothes are neat and clean
and stylish
And I brush away a nonexistent
crumb and
I slowly chew and loudly pop my gum,
Moisten index finger, moisten thumb,
And turn the colored printed page
of comics,
Snicker at the antics pictured
While I glance about.
And wonder.
With no toilet seats carelessly left propped up
Oh, now I can be such a comfortable pup
Please take your Playboys straight out that open door
Then shut it quickly; I can take no more!
Be gone with you, take all your shoes
Your hairspray, make-up and your girly blues
Three weeks of the month you loved me fair
For the other week, I lived in fear
MY shoes? Why you foul beast! Your odor eaters
Didn't work! Your smelly boots rest in sewers
Where they belong with that greasy hair goo
That left ugly stains on pink pillows once new
Your pants were too tight, I couldn't get them off
I can now wear my own; no longer you'll scoff
And as for your cooking my health has improved
Your name on the rent book, phew! finally removed
The credit card tab from your pub is gone now, too
That hussy barmaid can deliver it to you
And your shavings that clogged up my bathroom sink
Will be mailed to your mistress fast as you can blink
At least she knew how to look after a man
In bed with you was like a flash in the pan
At least barmaid Betty purred when this Highlander taunted
She was sensuous, delectable and she knew what she wanted
I'll remember you most when viewing pond scum
You sure were a loathsome son of a gun
I'm leaving this pit, too, so what the heck?
I'll send a new address for the alimony check
You'll get your money like you earned it before
Dancing naked on the pole in the floor
I took you in, clothed, cared and fed
But it wasn't me that was in your bed
Dr. Seuss: “How did it get to be so late so soon?”
I sat down to write,
but no thoughts would come.
Still thinking and thinking,
I said, “This is dumb!”
One look at the clock,
and what did I see?
I’d started at one
and now it was three!
The page of my tablet
showed white like the snow.
Where, my friends, where
did the precious time go?
I got myself up
and decided to clean,
but people kept calling -
You know what I mean?
My sister, my mother,
then old Uncle Fred.
I couldn’t believe it.
I thought he was dead!
I glanced at the clock.
It was already five.
The only GOOD thing:
Uncle Fred is alive!
I needed to go
to the gym and the store,
but I just couldn’t get
myself out the door.
The gym I postponed.
So what else is new?
I just had too much
of housework to do.
Outside was still day light.
I thought I’d get done
By seven at least
when still I’d see sun!
But once I got started,
I just couldn’t stop.
I vacuumed and scrubbed,
then danced with a mop!
I looked out the window.
The sky had grown black.
Saner folks now
would be hitting the sack!
Propped up on a pillow
I sat down again,
this time on my bed
with that old shoulder pain.
My poem wrote itself
by the light of the moon.
So how did it get to be
so late so soon?
For Brenda Chiri-Carroll's Funny How Fast Time Flies Poetry Contest
Note: There is no Uncle Fred!! Just some poetic license!
propped up in her bed
cuddling the new pink bunny
her wan face lights up
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Easter Haiku/Senryu
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placed 1st
© 14th April 2017
Propped up against the wall
two shoes, neatly placed there
laces intact, leather shiny as new
multiple holes in both their soles
disparity in presentation,
so what is their truth?
You didn't shake
as much in
the psych ward,
possibly because
of the medication.
A cocktail of
paxil, seroquel,
lithium and sedatives.
The white walls
dimmed your
pale complexion.
The pink rosed
paintings on the
wall reflected
the first bit
of color returning
to your peaked
gaunt cheeks, and
big sad eyes.
You'd get so angry,
trying to hold back
cries...stressed
from all the secrets
of your condition that
the uniforms and
clipboards kept
from you.
We'd walk the
circular hallway.
My black work loafers
and your socks
circumfrencing the
middle ground of
sanity.
We'd hold eachother
in the corner, under
the light wood
safety rail.
You, propped up
against the wall.
Me..pressed againt
your chest.
You'd envelope
me with your
long arms and
whisper in my ear
between your tears
that this...
couldn't last forever.
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
Can't help but to recall this famous quote from Sir Walter Scott...
When one reads the latest revelations on the financial scandal that is 1MDB...
Touted as a sovereign fund to help the economy of the Malaysian Nation...
What has been revealed so far is a tangled web of deception for the nation...
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
At the onset of of the saga of 1MDB, it was a sovereign fund entity....
It sourced for billions and billions in cash money for seed capital initially....
Taking out monstrous loans using guarantees from the government...
No red flags were raised, despite reservations from the management...
When the numero uno signatory is the Finance Minister himself...
And it being so he is also the Prime Minister, who is to question...
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
The wheels of international justice are turning, investigations are revealing..
Convoluted money trails of obscenely huge amounts to the tune of billions..
From Singapore to Switzerland to Luxemburg to Australia to the United States..
And a couple of other countries with highly principled banking standards...
Are seeking to unravel the this global money scandal with the highest stakes..
Wall Street Journal expose is churning out scandalous information of the investigations..
While in the home country of Malaysia, political warlords brush off all revelations..
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
A single plea of innocence was well propped up with tales of donation...
As gifted from individual or individuals, ultimately from a dead Arabian King..
Stalwart political warlords were nevertheless resolute in defending...
As a much tainted political leader wisely maintains a eloquent silence...
Even as political foes and the knowing public cry out their frustrations...
Horrified and anxious over the repercussions from this 1MDB financial cancer..
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
http://malaysiansmustknowthetruth.blogspot.my/2016/05/1mdb-buck-passes-on-to-malaysian.html
http://malaysiansmustknowthetruth.blogspot.my/2016/05/leaks-show-how-bank-used-by-1mdb-jho.html
http://malaysiansmustknowthetruth.blogspot.my/2016/05/1mdb-wonderland-saga.html
The Last Hope, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : Dernier espoir
There stands a tree in the cemetery
Thrusting itself up in total freedom,
By no means the fruit of bereavement –
Spreading itself out on stone unobtrusively.
In this tree, be it summer or winter,
A bird alights to trill clearly
It’s sad song of such fidelity.
This tree and this bird do us bind together :
You the object of my thoughts, I the absence
That time takes stock of in evanescence…
Ah ! To live again propped up against your knees !
Ah ! To be alive again ! But stay yet awhile, my lover,
Let not the void be my chilling victor…
At the least, say : I live but in your intimate core ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Afternoons the sky shuts down around the swamp's warning tapes
propped up with restoration piping and dirt leak fencing.
We’re fleeing toward the wild, seeking the names and shapes,
the same way the Cedar Waxwing flit and grip for berries tree to tree.
Canada Geese are easy, they lead off down the lane leaving residue,
Widgeons have green stripes and gold stripes, one American
the other European, and they’re all mumbling our family phew-do
they didn’t burn the kid, they can’t keep the house clean, drugs…
Blink away the cold wind tears. Forget all that, only remember
Shovelers have the long low profile and the long bill from studies
in New Zealand, like a deep breath, we set aside work, unlimber
spy the race of killdeer away from their guarding territory in gravel.
Our boss didn’t try to replace us, he ducked out to a new job
leaving the crime ringing in our ears like the police car roaring past.
Head down, we tunnel under the high way finding the dunk and bob
of mergansers and their hallowed or red heads,
remarking differences when the sudden scream of honking
mallards flee up river. Caught off guard, we wonder did we cause
all this pain? The rise and dunk flying goldfinch happily chirping
cling to the thistle, their favorite waste near the waste water
ponds where all the Black River water flows for cleaning
spilling into the nesting lower stages of the tertiary treatment.
That’s all this is, treatment for the shock wave week riding
current events on our shoulders, almost like the red-tailed hawk
that screams and skims our head, rising up to the setting sun
turning the sky purple and pink and bruised. That’s when wood
ducks skim into view, our breath captured and then steaming undone
but soon the heavens offer confirmation, blue angels
with their huge oversized wings soar in pairs down as gift.
We hold each other then, let screams silence, detail enriched.
As I walked into the room,
the fan turned slowly,
beating a gentle rhythm, singing a gentle tune
stirring the warm air overhead
while down below, blankets and crisp cool sheets,
opened onto a large fluffy bed
in the corner a small lamp burned low
columns of light danced in the air
and sunlight streamed thru half closed blinds
While A fly droned on somewhere
a low voice from the radio
talked on and on into the now emptied mind
The books pages blur , while the head starts to nod
And the feet propped up on a stool keep time
To a quiet room and a sleepy mind
Dreams gently called with wakefulness gone
Of lazy days and warm green places,
And the stars shone on into the night
While the heavens turned slowly in their eternal paces