Best Protagonists Poems
Tongues loose, tongues in a hangman’s noose
Wag without care to declare nonsense
As wisdom salvaged from the sluice
Where nonsense whacked common sense
Lost in a sea of error whose terror
Harmed victims concealed by protagonists who opted to promote
The cult of nonsense whose defence mirror
Plunged into reverse gears that chose to demote
Common sense when tongue waggers
Congregated in an occult cabal to upgrade gossiping skills
As though grapevine daggers
Staggered upper echelons of wisdom whose quills
Spilled reason in dark corners where tongue waggers shared nonsense seeds
Plus fertilizers of idleness and the icing on cakes of lies
Whose taste on tongues that wagged feeds
Total belief in naked gossip sties
Tied malfeasants together tighter
The better for them to wage war on common sense and desecrate workplace etiquette
Which is anathema to tenets of ultimate gossipers rate lighter
Than curses the wisdom ticket
That caught gossipers red handed munching grapevine beans
While sharing tins and pins of sins
For which gossipers scrambled when grapevine means
Came under close scrutiny when truth queens
Declared grapevines illegal in Wisdom Land
Where any culprit convicted of spreading gossip propaganda
Would be stripped of the royal brand
And punished for the gossip blunder
Committed without shame
To discredit the truth and integrity
In solemn worship of the blame name and claim
Would be sent to Coventry for eternity.
The Perfectionist is Listening
the rich are committing suicide
and taking us with them
the prosthetic limbed bastards
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the masters of the universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the hard on of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around
even their machines were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but not lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color hell
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
petulant and stupid gods
thought their figures included all the angles
sword point conversions gun point perversions
now their carcasses are steppingstones
what quirk of an infinite being
makes this burning plague village
of a planet so alone and necessary
of course none of this is protection
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft in the arms of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Bring me a cup of Java, honey, and put some coffee in the water, will you?...
Whoa there! Bet you can feel the withering sarcasm in that simple phrase...
People, I welcome you to the world of crime novels by James Hadley Chase...
With cryptic titles like I'll Bury My Dead, it's a crime novel befitting even the dead...
The protagonists in every novel, Mr Chase humanized each of them in good stead...
As a crime writer, Mr Chase has no master, or even an equal of his calibre...
Dialogues, suave and cultured or in the low life lingo, is excellence beyond compare...
Most of all, the many believable twists and turns in every one of his crime story...
You'll empathise with the hero and the heroine, and root for them in each story...
What Is Better Than Money is yet another master yarn uniquely spun by Mr Chase...
About how a piano player bidding time tangled with a junky beauty with trilling vocals ....
It is amazing how you will identify with the struggling two bit piano player as he grapples...
With the opportunity of a lifetime to hitch his economic wagon on a less than perfect starlet..
In No Orchids For Miss Blandish, I remember rereading the same book twice over...
To be thrilled and to savour how the master story teller spun the story altogether...
Mind you, I was back then just a little boy, given access to the senior section of the library..
Faced with rows and decks of all kind of books, I was a bewildered boy lost in the library...
Then I spied a rather worn out hard cover book entitled No Orchids for Miss Blandish...
Small in print, yellowed in pages and looked slightly misbegotten, but the title intrigued..
Reaching home, I could not put down the book once I started reading that slim book...
I was thrilled, I was truly engrossed in a fascinating tale of crime found within a book...
Etched in my memory to this day, I recall vividly the awe and the joy in novels by Mr Chase...
Little wonder through the years I often read and reread crime novels spun by Mr Chase...
James Hadley Chase, crime story teller supreme, without any cheap graphic x rated scenes...
He is the ultimate maestro for story characters and crime tales that electrify your senses...
Readers, Mr James Hadley Chase, he's The Man for grippping realistic crime stories....!!!
"Bildungsroman"
childish things
become children
the sweetness
leaves them
when the dream
in reality leaves them
to walk hand in hand
with the nightmare
of what becomes
us as adults
protagonists are
sometimes heroes
sometimes villains
inside us all dwells
a versatile shadow
we save ourselves
by extracting
the unwanted
familial
in our marrow
antagonists
challenge the
villain in our heroes
we are torn in two
walking down
the middle path
a territorial line
safe and blunt
drawn from
the grey of
sharp black being
and null white seeing
dull dotted lines
wanting erasure
signatures
we are footprints
walking out
all our contracts
time stipulated, then
broken
for better or
worse
driven to Bildungsroman
a complacent district
insouciant
no longer kicking
and screaming
tokens passed
between malleable
lips, minds slipping
softly
marshmallow
into the long kiss
good night
children again,
dreaming
becomes us
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"A Dream About You" / Airshade, Dreamscape
https://youtu.be/lt0_ql7duDg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bildungsroman
Quietude instills itself within my psyche
as I most
facinated with The Wilton Diptych created by an artist
unknown
marvel over deep royal blues and sparkling golds
as the shimmering wings angels surround the protagonists -
this is what peace must be like I muse
a non doing of the physical body
of sublime centering
and contemplation
while beauty strikes an etheral poise
and balances itself
upon a tower of smooth grey stones that are seemingly fused together
impending and surreal moments of serene bliss
grip my inner thoughts
driving all confusion away
as the Diptych takes my breath away
it's glorious
portrayal
painted forever.
Canada
A small boy is playing baseball in a Summer afternoon.
Imaging that some day would be a famous baseball player.
The group of girls are training to compete someday in an
Olympiad.
They played sports for hours to achieve their most desired dream.
Tim hits a home run for first time in his short time of being playing
Baseball.
He runs the nine innings to assure success in his sports life.
Determination is one of the most valuable traits of Tim.
A star is shining, promising to be an unforgettable Baseball player
to the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Christie and Marien dream to be famous gymnasts in a far future.
They go to the park every day with Tim to let free their imagination.
Perseverance and discipline will be the factors to fulfill the children dreams.
Time will tell if our protagonists reach their goals in life.
Twenty years has passed in Tim, Christie and Marien lives. They are grown up.
Tim is a famous Baseball player known worldwide. His name appears in the
Baseball Hall of Fame.
Christie and Marien compete in an Olympiad. Won gold medal in a gymnastic competition.
Reach for the stars. Every worth while deserves to be tried at least once.
For Oil Paintings 4 & 5
Sponsored by Eve Roper
Third Place
Nayda Ivette
11-19-2015
Halloween poem for kids
Kids, do not forget your costume. It's Halloween Night.
Carved orange pumpkins are part of the decoration.
Trick or Treat around the neigborhood collecting sweets.
Caramel apple, sweets, coins. Goodies shared with your friends.
Horror stories and scary music is part of a Halloween party.
Costumes of witches, vampires, princess, heroes.
The protagonists of this fantasious night.
For Halloween Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Poet Destroyer
Seventh Place
(In the early years of the 16th century,
the artist Pinturicchio was employed by
Cardinal Piccolomini to decorate the
library of Siena Cathedral with fresco
scenes from the life of his ancestor, Enea.)
The Contract
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master's hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He'll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan't
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can't
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I'll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.
Life is comparable
To a sports event in a game;
Like a race, it has both
A beginning and an end.
Similar to an athletic match,
Rules are observed by each player;
All are required with certain codes
Of conduct and behavior.
It closely resembles
A championship bout;
Protagonists aim at a precious prize
By fierce fight, going all out.
While the will to win
In their hearts does dwell;
Many yet fall short of even
Getting close to the jewel.
As in the case of a race,
Some runners stumble;
They even miserably fail
To make it to the golden goal.
Those who get dog-tired
Would withdraw rather;
Caring neither ignominy nor pain
They bring on each supporter.
Losers readily concede,
Thinking they did their best;
They reason not the win or loss
But how they played matters.
In life, we're not mere spectators
But are the playing athletes;
Aiming at the glorious reward
At the end of the race.
While there are similarities,
There are also differences;
The fight isn't between runners and us,
But between us and the evil forces.
We cannot afford to lose
In this crucial contest with evil;
Neither can we choose to retreat
From the spiritual big battle.
Struggle toward the finish line,
For there is no graceful exit;
Amid the din and the pains,
We cannot give up and quit.
We ought to shake off the burden
Of sins right in our face;
Run freely with determination,
Let us finish the race.
Gathered as a swarm of bees,
He stands poised with swollen knees,
Squinting forcefully towards fleeting
Dreams, beyond the dreadful, scum sucking
Incumbants, bathing in their own excrement.
Eyes opaque like a hard boiled egg;
Squishy, bleeding yoke chased
By morbid impulses and frenzied statements.
He was then approached by a herd of hallowed
Holograms, draped with voided encodements borrowed
From sagacious salamanders, and the like. It's priced
Similarly to what can never be bought.
Open wounds salved with the next bloody
Thought, entangled incessantly with petty
Constructs protruding simultaneously, with
Belligerance graced by drunken discourse.
Fingers dance to the beat of the force
Ash pummels perverted protagonists perched
Precociously, pompously, perpetually a passage
Penetrates related, inflated, deflated Ids and egos.
Happenstance leaks out in porous rivulets linked
Like DNA strands sullied, salty, sacreligious
Particles, still he permeates into tinctures
Possesing glorious stimulations with sphincters.
In the expanse of the vast blue canvas above,
Where birds tell tales in the silence of flight,
Their wings, artisans of an unseen story,
And the wind, a subtle bard, whispers concealed longing.
Nature, a poet draped in the hues of twilight,
Clouds, the orchestra composing a captivating melody,
An unspoken symphony, beauty defying verbal capture,
The sky, a vast canvas, and nature, a graceful dancer in unwritten verses.
As morning unveils itself, the sun, a warm storyteller,
Leaves murmur tender secrets in the gentle wind's embrace,
Hearts take flight on the wings of elusive dreams,
Love poetry blossoms in the profound silence within.
Suns embrace the world with tender arms,
Flowers bloom, each petal weaving a tapestry of hope,
Amidst the foliage, love unfolds an endless narrative,
This poetry, a rhythmic cadence guiding our steps towards a harmonious dusk.
Night, a silent painter, blankets the world in darkness,
Stars, brilliant jewels adorning the cosmic tapestry,
Soft light pirouettes upon the water's surface,
The silence of the night, an artistry of unspoken words.
Poetry of the night emerges from immeasurable beauty,
Moon shadows sketch dreams behind veiled clouds,
Silent stories meander through the tranquil darkness,
This poetry, a symphony of night, resonating with the gentle notes of peace.
Winding through a city that never slumbers,
Footsteps echo in harmony with swift-paced lives,
Concrete and towering edifices frame the stage,
Hidden tales of hearts, protagonists in the clamor.
Street poetry etches itself in the pavement's embrace,
Concrete walls, stoic witnesses to life's unfolding drama,
Stories folded like origami in the asphalt trail,
This poetry, a reflection, a sonnet to a city that ceaselessly articulates.
Rain, a choreographer, orchestrates a soft ballet on rooftops,
Each droplet, a note in a melodious composition,
Earth, a grateful audience to the sky's generosity,
Rain poetry, an eternal serenade in liquid verses.
Every drop, a strophe written by the nimble quill of the sky,
The rustle of rain, a dialect translated by the earth,
Earth and sky entwined in a ballet of grace,
This poetry, an ode of gratitude sung by the vast expanse of the timeless cosmos.
For years I'd written myself notes
with names of some I can't remember.
Those I've cheered; stood and applauded.
Protagonists who played Romeo
to my Juliet. Shakespeare would've lauded.
Scribbles that should've been love letters
that would've made me a better person.
There were more than a few endearing roles,
romantic ones, comedies and life's dramas.
Names that have faded on the playbills.
Sometimes I struggle to remember them all
as I recall tears of both joy and sorrow.
There were times when love was undeserved.
Times when I swerved off the virtuous road,
and followed the wrong path that led to heartache...
Regretful am I for having played around
and like a fool, I broke hearts, including my own.
I realized that I had to love myself to be worthy
of love from others. Not the kind that smothers,
but the type that gives free rein to roam and return
instead of burning bridges on paths I'd walked.
Learning to love myself allowed me to see
that there was no need to give up the stage
and wage war in a rage at the time-stealing thief...
the makeup artist who painted wrinkles on my face,
and silver hair that causes a thespian grief.
Age... that sordid bandit who addled my memory.
No standing ovation for comedy that's not divine,
nor for refusing to recite my farewell lines.
My scribbled notes have become love letters
that I should've boldly written to myself long ago.
My emotions are still engaging, for I mourn
the absence of loved ones who are gone
but often appear in reveries and dreams.
I walked in their footsteps but not the light
that gleamed in their eyes on opening night.
Stars still glimmer and shine in mine
but I'm no longer star struck with delusion,
for I stopped wearing the veil of illusion.
It's not what I've done or the words I've said
that I should love about myself. No...
the One I thank and love the most is God above.
The novelty of truth has lost its true meaning
The nobility of man has lost his true being
Human being, you've lost your morality and capacity
But practically death is an eternity from liberty
And life that is part of your wife and a few cents less short of a Rand
But the few take the stand to understand
The great demand of the few who make this continent
Dark or bright, black or white as our society is stuck in the prey
Today we pray for the people that lay
In sorrow, pain and anguish and their fire they burnt bright,
Which is and distinguished
Losing our birthright: religion; culture relinquished
And embellished the truth that is kept from our youth
That society creates; the nemeses and protagonists
Giving us hugs and kisses; blowing us into pieces
Leaving our lives increases
But the true killer is out there let it all be clear
That they are spoiling Africa's tapestry
Killing a living philosophy
Draining society’s sanity
Spreading evil exponentially
This is a mental interaction so do the inspection
Because they might be in your reflection
My life is like script
Conscripted to dance to the rhythms of distortions
As a clown of western audience,
I fool around, monologuing before my protagonists
A cast of extortionists party on my identity
A half devil, a half human, so I am in their volumes
A victim of their intellectuals’ metaphor
A paradox I am in the comity of decisions
At the mercy of their conference table my fate is tabled
My dialect forgotten, my humanity question
My tongue tamed and trained to their dialects
In the confluence of their dialects I grope
Who am I? A script or, a history.
awoh awoh
“Adults fear their youths who see through hypocrisy and won’t be silenced. Told to stop disrespectful behavior and not to fight ~ though it’s adults who taught them to stand up for what is right”—Poet
There is a book burning
Nine months since the banning of books,
The politics of fear are rising from minds bent
Into a Muslim camp they are sent
Seventeen-year-old Layla and her parents
detained inside, her boyfriend on the outside
Even though they’re citizens. What does he do?
Comparisons to the Japanese camps in WWII
White supremacy, a chilling coincidence?
Should Muslim Americans fight back for their independence?
Parents struggle just for survival,
under an unscrupulous Director and his guard’s evil revival
What takes place in determent is no mystery
It has already happened in history
Truth is hidden by the dictators
Bullies, cowards crass with words cruel, blustery,
Controlling, sparking fear unfettered, in this story
Freedom is traded for a false quote
Fascists and authoritarians never remote
Our voices will not be silenced
Power to teenage protagonists!
As a high school teacher Samira knows,
Teenagers always speak out to those
Show they have power, fear young hope collectively
Our privilege, use it for what’s bigger than we
Conflicts parents who shield their child to the nth degree
Meanwhile those children have gleaned from their parents
“You raised me to ask questions for injustices and now you shut me down”
Marching encouragement, teenage Idealism, hope
Duty to fight for justice is in wide scope
Youth who gaze toward the future can make a difference
They have perceived corruption in their world
They shall fight with persistence, resistance
Young activist with a desire
Unbridled zeal afire