Best Public Square Poems
Tyrants fat upon their moon
With untold minions to command...
Knew a diversion would be needed
As malcontent laid waste the land.
They yearn to cast aspersion
By letting forth a hellish storm
Against those of us far far away
With thoughts different from their own.
What about the children?
They shriek about the public square.
We must squash their parents' freedom
To show truly how we care.
Children are the future
And must parrot what we say.
It's up to us to know what's right
When parents lose their way.
Mount your horses... beat the drums...
We must forge our discontent.
A child is far too sacred
To be left with those of ill intent.
I know scant about these people
But know their moon's a mess.
It's odd their eyes have strayed so far
With local grievances to address.
It's an illusion old as time itself...
To cast a weary outward gaze
On those who differ from themselves
To foment some distant craze.
So here I stand... sword in hand
As they mount the castle walls...
While Tyrants mark a distant hill
To watch my city fall.
If only a word to bend the ear
Of those who wish my end of days.
Your rancor is misguided...
Let the children find their way.
But I knew the cost of liberty
Where a penance now was due.
As freedom has a shelf life
When you share not the Tyrant's view.
The End
One's poetic ability, yea willingness, to speak
Truth.
To stand, soul-naked, as it were...
Whilst your poet enemies stone you or avoid
you in the online public square.
To swim with the sharks, though thou
might be their delicious repast.
To be be happily avoided because you
don't follow the crowd.
You won't bow and scrape and sell your
soul nor your country out, no how!
In this battlefield of ideas, the small of
mind will shame you.
Brandish your sword of courage,in full
view!
A stalwart poem with three hundred reads and
comments, but two?
Shows that popularity trumps truth here,
So much so, I want to permanently vanish!
Or have 38,000 poets here to the famed,
"isle of Denial" be heretofore, banished!
~~~~~~
July 13, 2020
10:30 pm PST
I stood too long
in the public square
strangers wearing masks
desecrated my presence
tossed paint upon my visage
roped and toppled me
shattered my past
erased my future
all because I paused
to gaze upon the beauty
of a common ground
John G. Lawless
7/16/2020
Religion in the public square is becoming an endangered species. - Mathew Staver
the lavender moon, in silhouettes of blue
paint my thoughts in melodies,
hues of grace and gentle peace, silent flow
tulips, roses, lilies blowing in the wind,
who breaths her hope across the meadow,
laughing, dancing, singing wistful
in trembling verses, stirring the delicious
vision of gifted words, healing
hopes that break away from the past
shatter the shadows with an overcast sky,
burdened by melancholic gray,
broken by the memories who prey
on the spirit, the soul, the wisdom of a knowing…
dressed in aster’s kiss, flames of gold
hesitating, burning away the doubts,
flavoring the heart with a feeling,
flowing beyond the still, cool crispness
autumn’s elation, praising, amazing
chanting to the moon, the stars
blessing the thoughts of those who hear her,
whispering, rustling through September,
passing by the rust colored truths,
embracing the silence and erasing the fear,
who comes to those hearts
listening to the rarest crackling of a tear,
edged in grief, distant calamity…
testing the waters, challenging the thoughts
who hear her mysteries,
unconscious bias, darkening the wings
who soar over the dreams,
fighting back the urge
to forget the joy that sees
through the catastrophic brink
insanity, the folly
beneath the doubts, the fears
tears blended with salty songs,
quietly pleading, praying, praising
because He is never wrong
His love leaves the moment calm,
soothes away the distant panic,
replacing her phobia
with assurance… He is silent,
while blessings fall over the spirit,
in secret promises, forever
written on the heart who sees Him,
in the secret places, always
saving souls from the darkness
of eternity without hope,
eternity without love…
unconscious bias tells me, forever
I’ll sing the song of thanksgiving
because, with this love He reveals
I know what it is to be fulfilled,
I know what it is to be assured,
I know what it is to be loved,
with love that is my soul’s joy,
love that is the moment I knew
the light of the world,
the light that is pure,
the light that glows so I know
the wonder of reflecting the love
that grows and grows…
so I know – He is living, deep in my soul!
A Renga:
Midmorning sunlight
White roses climbing the fence
Next to the driveway
On a Saturday in May
A rooster pecks at the ground
"It's in the details,"
The lawyer looks at the case,
Sifting evidence
Of geological time
Displayed on the canyon walls
Snow on the ledges
Shadows rapidly lengthen
As days quickly pass
Her daughter is a stranger
With friends and views of her own
Light from the stained glass window
And candles of remembrance
Mingling with the sharp incense
And the sound of falling leaves
Rolling down the street
On his well-dented skateboard
Jumpng the high curb
Busy shoppers holding bags
Purchases from here and there
Moonlight can't compete
With the glow of the city
Or the internet
This is their first face to face
They first met in cyberspace
What will people read
From the books published today
Centuries from now?
"It really doesn't matter.
I know you didn't mean it."
The afternoon heat
Makes it hard to concentrate,
To apologize
At the fountain by the store
In the city's public square
There's a rainbow in the air
Between clouds of gray and white
I was born with an empty packet
filling it with enticing products as I grow
I’m yet to be forty and kids at ten
are already wearing stained jackets
What is this gene inherited from generation to generation?
haven’t we learn how it manifests,
as it gradually closes the gap between humans and other creatures?
A sweating conscience is still covered
with the blanket of misdeeds
empathy and pity more alive in the dictionaries
human kindness, practical only in poetry
as love is squashed by the strong rackets of our minds
The world has now become a public square
pack full with moderators of rights movements
but the ball of human responsibilities
completely plucked out of its socket
Perversion has drastically shortened its skirt
now getting almost bare as it attracts more lustful admirers
good deeds, treated like a worm
dropped into a Bucket of swimming Tilapias
The Alarm is ringing in emergency
triggering a staggering wonder
about the generation my kids become grandparents.
What has become of the mind which is now the chalk board
to daring adventures and extreme experiments,
with all ideas focused on romancing the other side of human nature?
Morality, now a tile to which curiosity walks upon
and sense of humanity greatly subdued by greed
we’ve been eaten up by this decadence
and our bodies supported by biscuit bones
the society will be completely consumed
unless we stop this cycle
which has reached its end-stage terminal process.
A few of my favorite things
A few of my favorite things
Looking at paintings of Cezanne Rembrandt Van Gogh and Rodin
thinking of their lives and of their times
of where and when they painted
of why and of who they where with
These are a few of my favorite things
Listening to music of Coplan’s Appalachian spring
Beethoven’s ninth symphony jazz of miles monk colt rain
songs of Dylan chimes of freedom and blowing in the wind
These are a few of my favorite things
Thinking of the past
when Robert Kennedy touched a small black Childs face with a tender
hand and asked if he had eaten that day
and of his speech when he told the crowd king had died and quoted the Greek poet
Aeschylus
even in our sleep pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until in our own despair
against our will comes wisdom
through the grace of god
When Joan Baez in Sarajevo during the surge in bullet proof vest
changed places with a street musician Vedran Smailovic who plays a cello in
the public square she takes his place and sings amazing grace
When jimmy carter befriends a little boy Mattie J.T. Stepanek who wrote poetry of just peace and a message of hope in his short time of life
Of the first responders who went fearless into the falling towers to save lives
These are a few of my favorite things
When in the wilderness and mountains peaks or lakes and rivers
seeing wildlife in their habitats amongst the swarms of morphing swallows and sunbeams and rainbows the quite springs and moving tides
and gulls in their nests
These are a few of my favorite things
Sitting in a café with a friend or a quiet walk along the shore
talking about books and ideas of the day
of feelings experiences and such things
of creating something of beauty to share with others
These are a few of my favorite things
prices goin' up,
prices goin' down;
quit playin' with our pockets,
we're wearin' a funky frown!
every time the prices drop,
our hopes are ridin' high;
just when we think the price is right,
you "sock" us in the eye!
you sit around in fancy suits,
rich as hell and greedy;
you suck us dry like a fat mosquito,
rippin' off the poor and needy!
let us gather our whippin' sticks,
without negotiation;
we'll beat 'em all in a public square,
for crimes against our nation!
Spiritual truth, is like an elephant in a public square.
When its the only one, it can't hide anywhere.
So, How do you hide an elephant in a public square?
Fill it with a thousand more, then,
Try to find it if you dare.
John Derek Hamilton October 24,2015
There are monkeys on the television
Making others unaware.
There are monkeys practicing politics
For those about the public square.
There are monkeys teaching ethics
To make worse this sad affair.
There's nothing wrong with monkeys
If utter mayhem be the point.
As monkeys have no rhyme or reason
With no particular direction to anoint.
And despite their best intentions...
They end up just stinkin' up the joint.
My parents are extremely busy monkeys
With various sacred bananas to pursue.
And regarding all my siblings... well...
They are monkeys through and through.
As for that monkey in my looking glass...
I guess I'm a monkey too.
The End
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
For western civilization, is this our contribution?
The king is staging another public execution.
Even though blood will be shed, it will get plenty of attention.
It will happen in the middle of our summer fair.
The executioner’s block is right in the public square.
They consider capital punishment a deterrent to crime.
I think witnessing this thing will hardly be sublime.
I know the executioner’s name is Max.
He has his black hood on, and he is sharpening his axe.
Another poor fool will be losing his head.
Living in this place, I think he will be better off dead.
There once was an old man from Thomaston
Who was lying, cheating son-of-a-gun
Out in public on the square
Nailed was he in open air
Still dodging bullets as swiftly runs
Sponsor: Black-Eyed Susan
Contest: Nailed Or Failed
Theme chosen: Nailed
Click on about this poem
Waiting For Butterflies
Waiting to go on
Waiting to get on
Waiting to get caught
Waiting for the start of a poetry reading
Waiting to get on with my life
Waiting for the stars to recognize me
Waiting for my light to shine
Waiting to move on to the next step
Waiting on the steps
Waiting on a park bench
watching life and people go by
Children running barefoot in the grass
Dog owners walking dogs and dogs walking people
People of the same sex flirting with each other in the public square
Waiting to find romance and even love again
Waiting for the next job interview
Waiting for my cell phone to just f-ing ring
Waiting for some kind of positional transformation
from rags to riches
from lonesomeness to couples playing footsie under the covers
Waiting like Godot or the second coming
Waiting to catch a butterfly
But how do you even catch a butterfly
its been said that you don't catch a butterfly
A butterfly catches you
Still waiting
Reply Reply All Forward
iconoclastic, aortic valves..
toppling through stone nerves
seperate the steel brow, the cement
tongue
and holy mother from her child.
yet still the public squares give birth,
doing a little more with the willing.
see the skinny ones wander.
all those holy incarnate youth who
highlignt
the shadows at night with their dark
hooded coats.
some have pockets filled with tin saviors,
some condoms and some ciggerett's.
shake, shake, rattle and shake.
robotic graffiti filled fist poured out like
liquid
prayers forgives a few of the more
common spaces.
ugly bertha with her iron curtain veiled
about
her spray painted in rich angelic colors
refuses
to remain silent any longer.
unvielling her aged face, revelling the
gray mortered
lines who crippeled so many.
ugly stomped out bertha crumbling
naked into every public square.
she cry's a little from her unsentimental
paved skin.
all those sterile cinderblocks baptised
and forgiven
with the rattle of a tin can.
tagged and made holy under the
lamplights with shades of
citron and bright orange.