Best Regimented Poems
I would have loved Santa to have visited us here
In his coat of red and his eight brown reindeer
Sadly there is no atmosphere left on earth
So we moved to Mars, it’s the place of my birth
Hushed secret stories are told about Santa Claus
But he’s outlawed here it’s against our laws
We have a very regimented regime
Images of Santa must never be seen
We use the Internet to buy what we need
Things are delivered next day at lightning speed
I’ve been told about Santa and the days of old
Just to mention his name on Mars is very bold
Ancient history tells us of the amazing glory
Of Jesus’ birth and of the Christmas story
But during earth years it became very commercial
With over indulgence which was controversial
Sadly Martian children will never understand
The delights of Christmas which forever is banned
Finished too late to submit in the Futuristic Christmas Contest
01~01~16
They stand in regimented
order, lined up on the seawall,
all facing into the wind.
A slight turn of a body
catches a squall and sends
an errant gull off balance
forcing it to take flight.
Overhead, some hover,
others bank and sheer off
into the distance,
coming back to hang
in the air before
descending to the ground.
Seagulls are masters
of the wind, feathers tuned
to ride each gust and gently
float the chaos that boils
beneath their wings.
The air is home to them.
Then suddenly, such mastery
collapses into to a ball
of feathered fury, all grace gone,
fighting over the remains
of a big mac flung out
of a car window,
but leaving the pickle.
The eleventh month, November, the month that takes a breath,
As it's waiting. Waiting for a fickle sun to decide.
Though sun's decision ever is to skim the sky with stealth,
As if a painter's hand the vibrant stars of night has 'plied.
The short days of muted light unwrap autumn's cold beauty,
While thick blankets on a bed ensure an even slumber.
This month of regimented hours calls us to our duty---
The great preparation for December's Holy number
Friendship in a Covid world. (C) Arthur Abrahamson January 2021
My Facebook friends photo stares back at me from the blue tinted screen
A 13 -year-old photograph, the hint of a smile, looking cool looking mean
What do you look like now I wonder, older?wiser? angrier? calmer?
Prematurely aged perhaps by life’s little dramas.
“You can choose your friends but not your relations” an often repeated mantra from my father
who was as right as he was contrary.
Our real friendships oil the wheels of our lives with friends, lovers, husbands and wives,
they age with us and care about us as they would a sister or brother, we are their cherished sibling
unattached by blood.
My Facebook friends are regimented on my screen like dissolute soldiers in various stages
of readiness about to march onto some unknown battleground far away in the ether.
They have funny names Krafty Q,,Lucy Luck, Donald mouse and Mickey duck,
Send me a PM they say but I’m not Whats apping today, I won’t get back to you right away.
Face-to-face in real time I can see the glint in my friends eye, a sudden smile chased from their
face as the conversation moves on again,
Real friends can see my gain, my loss, my joy, my hurt my pain
They ring me at unexpected times, we chat, we sigh, we laugh and cry they’re familiar voices
provide a source of comfort to me like an old favourite jumper I’ve worn for years.
We chat about the highs and lows of our times together, telling each other cherished jokes and
stories that are the markers in our coveted relationship.
They are real, they are the people, although not always seen, who are there in spirit to turn to
when I’m emotionally bereft, or lose a loved one to a Covid death,
They, who I move towards when I need a cuddle when life at home becomes a muddle.
A wall of silent photos on my computer screen I have 396 Facebook friends,
I’ve only ever met 22 the rest are silent never ageing, still in particular poses
I much prefer my real friends who I can see to embrace and hold when this horror closes.
A thousand bees never settling down,
buzzed within his head.
Their confused drone, into a ruffled rumble grew,
lengthening into frenzied drum beats,
taking the might of roaring waves
or gaining the momentum
of a plane, prior to take off.
Mind lacking coordination
limbs receiving discordant commands,
he suddenly hurtled into the streets,
stepping out from regimented norms
and breaking loose the tether of reason,
never walking, never running
but scuttling from side to side
like a piece of driftwood over the current.
Hearing the cawing of a crow
suddenly, he into a prophet grew.
stood with arms outstretched,
waiting for the crumb of bread
to be dropped in the manner Elijah was fed
by the raven in his lonesome cave.
Seeing the audience swelling bigger
he was enthused, greatly cheered.
The riff- raff and the scraps
swarmed around to see the show.
Mounting the steps to the pulpit,
in unfaltering voice
and with fire in his words,
to the congregation,
surveying him with fun and sneer, he thundered....
“The Doomsday is near”
With finality in his tone, he said-
“Repent and flee from the wrath to come.
The tree that doesn’t bring forth,
good fruits shall be hewn down,
and cast into eternal fire.”
The transition was quite easy.
He scurried from Elijah to John the Baptist
and from John the Baptist to Elijah
oscillating between--
sense and non-sense.
The storm was unrelenting,
Possessed of a fury unmatched by anything he had ever seen.
The wind blew the rain towards the ground in regimented and precise layers,
Legions of droplets descending on the earth like some vast army.
In stark contrast to the disciplined layering of the falling lifeblood of the clouds,
Sheets of water whipped violently about in intricate patterns on the path,
Raging and frothing forward in the manner of a screaming barbarian horde.
He stood in the midst of it all,
Watching gusts of wind propel walls of rain at him.
As they hit him they dispersed into their separate components,
Letting him feel the sting of each individual droplet against his chilled body.
All of a sudden the heavens erupted, spewing forth a bolt of lightning
With a peal of thunder mightier than the most glorious battle-cry.
He watched it race to earth,
Forcing the night sky to shed its dark cloak and reveal all in one awe-inspiring moment,
Captured in time and memory.
Blue sky forms the fortress of their world
I can picture them- the ebony and white
velvet stripes, the arch of necks, the
flint-edged hooves
Beneath the weather-regimented trees
they gather in the heat- to rest
Heat waves and the dreaded grunt of beasts of prey
then the hegira, enmasse
following
the calling of the rain
a vital splash of life-
they heed the voices
of the seasons change- along the hidden
pathways of
the sun browned plains
Suzanne Delaney
he•gi•ra also he•ji•ra (hi-ji'r?, hej'?r-?)
n.
1. A flight to escape danger.
2. also Hegira The flight of Muhammad from Mecca to Medina in 622 A.D., marking the beginning of the Muslim era.
[Medieval Latin, from Arabic hijra, emigration, flight, from hajara, to depart.]
When we were young, we'd freely roam
While supervision stayed at home.
We played the seasons' major sports
On vacant lots and playground courts.
No tryouts or permission slips.
No uniforms or coaching tips.
No judges, umpires, referees,
Or grownups whom we had to please.
Whoever came could join right in.
We'd choose the teams and then begin.
No clock was used to time the game.
We played until the darkness came.
We mended balls and broken bats
And yapped and scrapped like dogs and cats.
In worn-out shoes, we'd all day run
And tanned by sun with friends have fun.
Together we would strategize
And future glory fantasize.
With candy bars as fuel we'd play
And straggle home at end of day.
We taught ourselves what's right and wrong
And how to play and get along.
We sought no trophies nor acclaim,
But played because we loved the game.
The regimented kids today
Obey whatever coaches say.
They sadly do not know how free
A game among themselves can be.
Dedicated to the Officers and crew of
USS Columbia (SSN 771)
Goodbye Sun
We are welcomed by men in
immaculate whites
Through a hatch
we descend a steep ladder
into "The Last Slider"
From a narrow corridor we enter
into the brain and nerves
of this vessel-
To my untrained eye the confusion
of cables overhead is bewildering
This black ship of stealth
tracks the world outside,
silently invisible itself
Rows of monitors, sonar devices
high powered periscopes
all with a myriad of buttons to push-
A marvel of technology -
yet men are the heart and soul
of this great ship
They are Submariners
They say goodbye to the sun
for months on end
Week after harrowing week they spend
day after day on grinding drills
where the only thrill is their daily meals
Systematic, methodical
They are human- in a ship of war
but a ship that exists for freedom
The Officers guide us through each section
The ship at rest has released them
from an endless commitment but
with a practiced eye
they are still attuned to every detail
Commanders almost prescient
so in step with every procedure
they can sense malfunction in their sleep
I notice the commitment to excellence
I note the pride behind the
preparations for our inspection
Blue curtains with the ships insignia
are drawn on bunk beds
Shiny copper engine parts, clean bright paint
reflects the values of those who
keep their vessel, ship-shape
Now I stand in the nose where the
weapons rest
The metal tubes look benign
for all the power they contain
Ironically in rows, directly above,
the crew's bunks are located-
in tiers of three -even sleep
is regimented
Photos of family are the only
human touch in
this dark, black, whale
of a vessel
The sense of duty for each individual
seems overwhelming
There is a spirit of complete trust
between them
This is a world for honorable men
"Victory is Silence"
I try to imagine daily living
the self-containment
the steely discipline
the choosing to go forward in the face of
uncertainty
Precision and man - morphing
The pact between Submariners is
absolute.
They move as one.
BRIAN'S CHOICE K,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/19/2020 12:08:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd Place
Venice, Italy, is a crazy shamozzle of new and old
Where junk, graffiti, decay, stunning beauty,
history and culture poverty and opulence, all reside side by side, bobbing.
Water dominates the landscape, canals and waterways replace all the roads
Everything is carried by boat, food, people, garbage, produce, industrial supplies.
Ambulances, fire engines, delivery trucks and police cars are all replaced by boats.
The disorderly rusty ferries ply the waterways, jostling along with gondolas, magnificent polished wooden water taxis,
Occasionally the historic scene is ruined by modern fiber glass runabouts
with huge outboard motors completely out of place.
Next comes barges with cranes, garbage collecting boats, delivery and construction supply boats, and the many service vehicles.
Grab a table beside the canals and watch the parade of boats old and new jostle and bobble on by.
Walk through the tiny crowded streets and enjoy the kaleidoscope of people of many cultures enjoying themselves.
There are many surprises. Tiny shops with feet in large glass tanks being cleaner by fish.
Everywhere there are places to explore and things to enjoy.
Looming off in the distance you may see huge cruise liners dwarfing the buildings,
These vessels are seemingly populated by ants, as the ships are so big.
The ancient church bells in Venice chime as the ships depart arrive and depart, in homage to the new god of tourism.
The Palace art is simply overwhelming, overloading your senses.
Ancient art is everywhere and often ignored.
Venice is beautiful, but one gets the impression that all the photographs taken in Venice
are gradually sucking out the life force out of the structures, hastening their decay.
There are so many dimensions and experiences, places to explore that you never get tired of Venice.
The more times you visit the better you will like it and the more you will find to do and see.
You have to laugh and ignore the hassles, the jostling crowds, the regimented crowded ferry system,
the pushing and shoving of the crowds in the tiny streets,
simply laugh and have fun.
Venice is crazy, nice, with diverse multi-faceted attractions and lots of things to do.
You will love it!
Venice Trice is Nice.
When words quiet my mind and awaken
my spirit, I feel the seasons of life
harmonize. But tedious thoughts and busy
days return too fast, so I pocket the retrievable
words, the simple notes of poetic music; my unsung
lyrics and the rhythms make sense of chaos.
I write in an explosion of feverish passion;
I attempt to grip the hands of time. Words come
out to dance in fiery night. I feel more alive,
I feel in control of what shatters my solace,
all that cracks my narrow path - the internal thunder
from my own crashing cymbals. Regimented steps
will never heal my wounds, my woes, so I write.
Wishes made on lashes, copper pennies, or remains
of half-lit candles may never come true, so I pray
for my peace. A song escapes to heal a broken
heart and pounding head, a song more hypnotic
than a whirring wind of carefree souls in a weightless
flight. I want to rise, enraptured within a bold sky
of somersaulting clouds. In my eyes, sleepy horizons
rest upon earth’s warm surface. Heaven gives birth
to miracles and this day blushes in sunlight upon
rosy cheeks. It seems my poem, with a life of its own,
needs to rock gently, breathe in, maybe pass the time
in meaningful contemplation. Only then will it climb,
dangle above me, cling to my memory and glide on
(separate from me) full, bare, uninhibited in a new,
white-cotton sky. Intangible impressions shrink
to fit on a tangible page until words are free.
Then and only then does my poem fly over
a weary day's setting sun and a cooling horizon.
Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
for the author - male or female, prince or pauper, playboy or priest - of the
THIRUKKURAL*, the reputed "bible" of the Tamils, the principal Dravidian race credited with having engendered the first literary heritage of the Indian sub-continent. Only one thing might be said of him with certitude:
he tamed the language like none other and was more alive to his "times" and his literary, inter-personal, romantic, religio-philosophical and political environment than any prince, philosopher or priest ever since. In my view, whoever he may have been, he was an unjustifiably oppressed individual like King Wen who wrote the judgments on the hexagrams and provided the explanations of their images and the Later Heaven arrangement of the Yi Jing, the Canon of Change.
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Words come asunder blown on road side-table
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Long-gone ages singe the stylo his work shone
Who knows what diamond crumbs spill disable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Sans case-endings morphemes participial pun
Regimented feet in seven steps enable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Who confined meaning in drumbeat phoneme moan
Lest envy upper-caste knowledge expose enable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
None know who he was nor what age saw he sun
Savants pat cheeks his lines to render readable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
While lordly conferees seek to feather nests own
His sculpted riddles tease meaning and jumble
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Debris of wanton collisions intone
* Thiru=Sacred; KURAL, meaning "short" or epigrammatic composition in the form of couplets (1330: ten kurals allotted to each topic in three books with a short introduction), composed and ordered according to the rules of a strict classical prosodical pattern: the "venba" metre while adhering to complex rhetorical features, such as, alliteration, assonance, initial-rhymes and ellipses. The author was known as Thiru-VALLUVAR. One of the earliest commentaries on the Kural, still extant, was made by a Tamil scholar PARIMELALAKAR during the 13th century.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
The Materials of
Criticism
- by Bob Atkinson
to look upon a word
fixed art
for value of the
whole or parts
begins a journey
demonstrated
to frustrate each of
the five senses
do we? could we? can
we?
here in the "here
and now"
produce our cultural
standing
by lining words in a
row
can we? do we? could
we?
put value on our art
or would it suffice
to percolate
ingredients in a pot
that which makes up
the whole
contains some parts
plus simple hope
many seeds of doubt,
some blind faith
loose fundamentals
warmed to percolate
boil this stew in an
open pot
wander over meanings
uncovered
string appetite of
mind along a line
of selfish devotion
to an adept mind
thus craving
credentials and
accolades
with independence of
well written pages
try as nature
creates a need
molding most to firm
fixed greed
avarice dependent,
an encircled fire
aspiration drawn
toward life's desire
direction fielded,
ego supplemented
when open rawness
becomes regimented
broadcast to those
who care about
this person's rage
who loudly shouts
simple signals of
directional flow
mixed with endless
personal selfdom
all nuance
transmitted within
the hope
of mending what's
perceived as broken
broken carries
diverse meanings
when seen with eyes
of different
teachings
broken, to some,
fits life so tight
the critic's words
lie dormant,
unlighted
when not in tune
with rational heart
words have no
meaning, a useless
art
art fulfills some
need of nature
to analyze for form
and flavor
tenderly we read
their stuff
then regurgitate our
lunch
13 Years
Rolling wheels,
Through fields of heather,
Browns and purples,
Steel blue of cold,
Regimented act of military manoeuvre,
It's perpetrators oblivious of its repetitive farce.
As we enter this erie caledonian mist,
A sleepless and dream like state,
From our early sojourn and departure,
Our purpose to reach a distant grave,
Accomplished under cover of night.
Dreams of fresh, crisp, loch pine air,
Diluted with local village coal,
A visit made in tribute,
To a lost or unspent soul.
Differing feelings of mourning,
Expressed with silent thoughts,
the drifting scent of roses,
As they bob gently from the shore,
An incident barely spoke of,
Just great sadness....disbelief,
Has become a surreal transcendental feeling,
More of spiritual connection than of grief!
Copyright
S.Rose
Guns in Sweden
Sweden has problems with too many guns
shoots hole in the night.
Many refugees came to Sweden, who thought
when the refugees discovered a Nordic paradise
they would become Swedes overnight.
The inhabitance of this Eden has a discriminatory heart.
The glance of an eye tells the truth.
There was a clash of culture.
People of the same philosophy likes to live close to each other,
for them, Sweden has a cold heart.
No work no education, guns are easy to buy.
I don´t know the solution
Perhaps the Nordic people, are too regimented
and it will take time to change this attitude.