Best Rationed Poems
I tell you I like, that Wayland a bunch
He'd be the guy, to be there in a crunch
Not afraid of humor, he paves the way
With clerihew words, he loves to play
Let's talk of Eileen, the Queen of passion
Her verses of pleasure, will not be rationed
She causes men to rise, women to weep
Many a farmer, have stopped counting sheep
Then there is Shadow, who is a bright light
Her name suggests darkness, but that isn't right
With a pen and paper, she loves to play
Out of the Shadow, poems brighten our day
There is the woman Donna, she is filled with charm
For her animals, she'd give her left arm
Still here in the soup, she adds her own spice
She's a little bit hot and a whole lot of nice
When it comes to Eagles Montery's the last word
She's not in a flock she's a solitary bird
With her strong wings creating a breeze
Verses dance on the wind with the greatest of ease
I can't forget about Richard, now there's a man
He teases Eileen, just because he can
Yet within the humor, his clever exists
His poetic talents, impossible to miss.
My friend Vicky T, has brought me to tears
She possesses insight well beyond her years
A voice from the wilderness, please take heed
Wisdom resides in her poems that we read
When it comes to nature, our Nette is the girl
She makes mountains quiver and pretty leaves twirl
To angelic worlds she causes us to travel
Brooks are helpless she makes them all babble
Our Andrea she is well beyond great
Her words are profound they carry such weight
Regardless of form, many contests she wins
She's top of the heap, before she begins
Becca's a doll, with a sensitive pen
She writes of the now and also the then
Her words magical, a muse guides her pen
Capturing my mind again and again
This place amazing, a Mystical Rose
A unique handle my creative friend chose
Perfect for her that woman has style
A perfect seven at the top of the pile
My buddy Drake he has really mad skills
With words like honey the airways he fills
If you are lucky he'll let you co-host
To him I raise a glass to happily toast
Others must wait I'm running out of Rymes
I will write of them some other time
Until then I must wish you all goodbye
Have a sip of my soup, give it a try.
Inspired to try my first Clerihew by
Wayland Bunch. Hopefully I have got it right.
Just as everyone before her,
she walked through this life alone,
leaving footprints we can follow
as we struggle on our own.
She, woman of many talents
rationed what she let us see.
Wit and wisdom she exuded
in her unique poetry.
There are others who have judged her
as she played another role.
But perhaps we knew her better,
a true poet bares hr soul.
The doc says I need a vacation
My energy just can't be rationed
Seems there's been some depletion
leading to get-up-and-go secretion
He told me to take a few weeks
Get rid of those brain-draining leaks
Stop pushing myself so darn hard
to become a real-life bard
So, as I bid you all adieu for a while
I hope to do up my time off in style
Ask the Missus what needs to be done
deferring to her whip and her gun
~ I'll miss you, Soupers! ~
See you in a while*
*Will be checking Soup mail, however
>I do love food.
When I was young, food was rationed.
So much of this, or that, you were allowed.
Each person had a ration book for adults and a child.
So much butter so much sugar, a few ounces of meat.
If you grew your own produce, fresh veg was a treat.
And what was put on the table, you did love to eat.
Many years have passed, and food is not rationed anymore.
The choice on the supermarket shelf, tells there is no sign of war.
Now we are leaving the EU, what will the supermarkets do?
Will the shelves be empty and bare?
Or will more British produce be for sale there.
I do love food, so hope it’s there.
British, nice with a price that’s fair.<
There comes a time,
in the early, but
not so early, morn
when, and this is key,
if a portion of an instant
rationed a morsel of a moment -
but a crumb of that fell free
and it cast a deep shadow
whose depths made mockeries
of spelunk;
which you may remember
you'd dreamt of in some past
life and, if from this minusculity
sprang, the littlest offspring,
a hint of a glance of,
a coup d'oeil
the last of day,
the half-remembered,
prior life
when, if you glimpse
the newborn gold,
your heart'll still,
your mind'll still
and yes, your stillness
be distilled into
stiller still
if your heart and eyes
don't again conspire
to draw your mind
to your routine
of first and, perhaps
only, taking in the
most of things
the highlights and the
canopy's myriad meanderings
the rootings at their footings
supposed but rarely seen
in dark, in secret but
carrying no wrong
rather though
in the tree trunks'
simple middle
for a briefest, gilted
eternity, the trees
will burn not from
their crown
nor from their feet
and, despite the ice,
the sparkless space,
the cold steel
darts of insistent
slanting rains,
the trees will burn,
the trees will burn,
and all-at-once
the peripatetic sun,
its whims having won,
will dance along
and share its breath
with everyone
Put on word welfare by the poet gods
They've rationed my "Inspired Insanity"
No one could ever calculate the odds
This blatant act of inhumanity
No longer can I find words to describe
Blue eyes that generate a winning smile
Condemned, left with my profane diatribe
And sentenced as a poet with no style
Yet I am not that easily deterred
My simple lexicon is not a curse
There are so many meanings for one word
This poet still can write a simple verse
It will be rough but surely I'll make do
I might just borrow words from some of you.
Daniel Turner
Those yanks in their tanks never got many thanks
The locals moaned, ‘they’re over here’ *
We Brits had the ration, those yanks sought out passion
With cigarettes, chocolate and beer
Girls couldn't rely on a whiff of a nylon
So legs got the tea or the gravy **
Eye liner pencil sufficed for the seam
The trick was to not make it wavy
But Typhoo and Bisto for fellas from ’Cisco
Was something quite hard to explain
Those girls would do lock ins with painted on stockings
All thankful that it didn't rain
Then with the war over and husbands at Dover
And Uncle Sam’s troops on their toes
Wives by the dozen had buns in the oven
And those baby’s dads were John Does
——
* Over paid, over sexed and over here - a reference to American GIs
who came, seemingly, laden with otherwise rationed goodies.
** In the absence of nylons/stockings, women would ‘stain’ their legs
with tea and draw on the seam. According to Mr Google, some even
used gravy. Neither were waterproof and rain (in Britain?) was to be
avoided at all costs.
Behind A Brothers Bond
Always there amidst your decussate despair, behind the wall of sleep
A heart to share with your ensuant err, comforting your wall of weep
A simple soul to make you healthy whole, a brother in my heart I keep
In their goal with a rationed role, they are the guardians of their sheep
With a brothers bond there’s a quick respond, a strength we may reap
Never conned with a giving spawned, a brother’s love in a divers deep.
The Hollies - 'He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother'
June.18.2018
When line SIX is a perfect FIX.
Sponsored by: Silent One
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
Each author takes a turn to read heart prints
while others contemplate the words to wit:
Will this dispatch appeal to all, or none?
We search to bring unique pathos to life,
to pull the reader's thoughts within our own
and form a link to flame a stranger's heart.
The writer's wage cannot be weighed in gold
nor can his joy be rationed as a meal.
His words will die as drivel flung in air
fit only for the buzzard's taste for spoil
unless we glean and bring forth shining pearls.
If so, those words will spin as golden threads,
forever shine a light to spell the dark.
A writer's wage can then be weighed as gain.
Can you care to much
Love to strong
Give away your soul
Problems help her to resolve
Who knows a woman’s mind
I walked that extra mile
To watch her drop my heart
Is it too much to adore
Should caring be rationed
Love measured out
Who knows a woman’s mind
When is the time to walk to the horizon
Turn and wave goodbye
while still holding tears in your eyes
Who knows a woman’s mind
Set some goals
Set out bulbs
Bulbs planted in garden
Bulbs planted in beds
Beds filled with blooms
Beds are warm
Warm days bring flowers
Warm beds rest
Rest equals health
Rest for weary
Weary souls faint
Weary hearts mourn
Mourn love lost
Mourn departed
Departed is gloom
Departed is pressure
Pressure creates diamonds
Pressure can explode
Explode from anger
Explode from dynamite
Dynamite dangerous
Dynamite has use
Use has purpose
Use for things
Things for jobs
Things are inventions
Inventions make life easy
Inventions save time
Time passes by
Time is rationed
Rationed are minutes
Rationed are seconds
Seconds make minutes
Seconds compose life
Life is good
Life is granted
Granted are your days
Granted each year
Year makes lifetime
Year make one old
Old people die
Old people get weak
Weak seek God
Weak need help
Help comes from God
Help is a sustainer
Sustainers keep going
Sustainers are awesome
Awesome
Going
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fluorescent buzz hums
like a choir of tired angels.
I hold a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread
and think about miracles~
how mine don’t quite materialize.
My hands, soft from keyboards,
have never split a sea
or pressed into a wound
without recoiling.
I flinch at the sight of blood and
the weight of my own shadow.
The clerk sighs,
counting pennies like regrets.
I want to tell her that
the Kingdom is hers,
but my voice cracks
into something small
and human.
At home, my love
is measured in teaspoons~
just enough to sweeten,
never overflowing.
I keep my rage
neatly folded,
my mercy rationed
like discount wine.
God must get so tired
of my arithmetic.
They have come from the dim rooms of sorrow,
Where light was rationed and laughter broke like glass.
They have slept beside betrayal,
And woke to its perfume of ashes and iron.
Their smiles are stitched with memory’s thread,
Each gesture mended from the cloth of loss.
They have been burned,
Yet they offer warmth.
They know the texture of cruelty’s hand,
The weight of a promise dropped in winter.
So when they touch you, it is with care,
As if your soul were a wound they could not bear to reopen.
They recall every small humiliation,
Every word that sliced and stayed.
From those scars they learned gentleness—
A dangerous tenderness that disarms.
They kill with kindness,
Their weapon a cup of tea,
Their armor—listening.
They bleed empathy,
They breathe forgiveness.
Do not mistake their softness for surrender;
It is the strength of those who have died and returned.
They know what not to do,
And that is their quiet revenge.
Love, for them, is not a luxury—
It is survival in a velvet coat.
Extremely nice people,
The angels with broken wings
Who still remember how to fly.
The beauty of passion
In a poisonous fashion
Attention feels rationed
It’s a fatal attraction
Ravenous biting
A scandalous whisper
Addicted to fighting
With Lady Love’s sister
A burning temptation
An aching sensation
You lose all orientation
When she’s on rotation
She makes you melt
Can’t take the heat
Best lips you’ve felt
They taste so sweet
Perception is cloudy
Her lips turn pouty
Her touch is inviting
She keeps things exciting
She sneaks up from behind
Takes control of your mind
She’ll rob your heart blind
And keep you confined
She’s the primal urge
The desire to merge
To be skin to skin
It’s the sweetest sin
She’s love without trust
Pure chaos that’s unjust
Push her away if you must
Or keep dancing with Lady Lust
It was the year of Nineteen Forty One
when I was a young, new bride,
there was a sneak attack upon our ships
and so many good men died.
Our president announced we were at war
and we knew lives would be changed.
How dare they attack the USA?
Are their leaders all deranged?
Eager to defend our loved homeland,
we volunteered our everything.
What we gave was all but necessities,
to no luxuries did we cling.
Every able man was declared ready
to go fight the enemy.
The women filled essential jobs
to protect our loved country.
We gave up our loved silk stockings
and went bare-legged without shame.
We inked seams up the back of legs
and just hoped pen had good aim.
Most items were carefully rationed,
sugar, coffee, meat and much more.
Groceries were doled out to us,
it mattered not were we rich or poor.
Gasoline enough get to work,
there was none for casual driving.
No new cars or toasters or non-war items
were in stores or show rooms arriving
We learned how to make old things last,
turned our yards into Victory Gardens
and raised our own food for those long years.
Laggards earned no grace or pardons.
Those who gave the most were soldiers,
who were happy to answer the call
and the families they left behind
were the ones who gave their all.
But we all gave for our country.
We united to win the war.
We each gave what we had to give
and would gladly have given more.
7/1/14
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