Best Reined Poems
ENVY
(Words inspired by Casarah)
Our faces are turned toward Bangkok
That buzzing hive of humanity
Where folk brush against each other
As they twirl and dance
In an effort to maintain direction
Not that we were going to Bangkok
Not that we were currently going anywhere
We sit defeated
Restraining our combustion engine horses
Their promise fuelled motors straining
Wanting to accelerate into freedom
A few fleeting moments
Before being reined in again
By the brakes
Unlike those in the north bound lanes
Unlike those with a clear path before them
Piloting their roaring beasts
Who revel in their delight
Eating up empty kilos of asphalt
In their haste toward a distant destination
A cosy castle or a sweet vacation
HORSE
Hell-bent stallion muscles led the mustangs through the plain,
On their heels rode hard a hired man –his job to rope the best--
Rearing high the stallion—urging speed as autumn winds dance thru his mane.
Sheets of lighting limned silhouettes as they pounded toward the west--
Enchanted now the man reined in—this day let beauty rule his breast.
Nyx opened black arms
threading her twilight fingers
and cradled my awe
to turn my hair, white
she filled my eyes with stars
firing a comet to
the core of my heart
my second breathe
carved dragons of fire,
as Aeolus filled each lung,
Terpsikhore sang music
into the life and death
of this epic
~~~~~
I taste a southerly breeze
catching it on the tip of my tongue
rolling it into my lungs
I sing appegio
to throw a shadow of night
the circle of her arms
has tightened,
and the nebula
in my eyes,
threaten to shoot
from their sockets
I have finally
felt the meteor
lodged in my heart,
move in its longing
for one last blaze
of release,
only the breath of God,
holds for revelation
~~~~~
TERPSIKHORE (or Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai,
the goddesses of music, song and dance. In late classical times
--when the Muses were assigned specific literary and artistic
spheres--Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and
dancing, and represented with a plectrum and lyre.
AIOLOS (or Aeolus) was the king of the winds who kept the
stormy Anemoi Thuellai and Aellai locked away inside the hollow
heart of the floating island of Aiolia. At the command of the gods
he released these to wreck devastating storms. Since the Winds
were often conceived of as horse-shaped spirits, Aiolos was titled
Hippotades, "the reiner of horses," from the Greek hippos ("horse")
and tadên ("reined in tightly").
Such explosions of love ecstatic
from fumbling youths and naive romantics.
In wedded bliss when passions flowed
two people alone in honeymoon glow
Flammable pleasure, ignitable moments to treasure,
we did love, we did fight, You and I.
Like awaited episodes of a reality show,
responsibilities began to gnaw as they grow.
The candle of love flickered with breath abated
claiming its due from fires deflated.
Though loving was tender still quick to temper
we did love, we did fight, You and I.
The children gone and the house deserted
alone again with our quality time protected.
A simple touch, a gentle nudge then smiling,
at such an age one mistake saw patience flying.
Eyes bleary, hard or hearing but recalling clearly,
we did love, we did fight, You and I.
The rocking chair now sways to silent music
only in the eyes can one realise, such beauty.
Smoldering fires of love and reined in emotions,
memorising every tryst with pledges of devotions.
Blessed with so much given and oceans of raw passion
in abundance we lived as God promised, His love unrationed.
still we hated, we had to fight, but we did love You and I.
O my heart, why?
Why do you despair?
Why not be more patient?
You wish for the unwishable,
Love is but an elusive maiden
A wistful illusion…
Who has ever reined in the whimsical wind?
Who has ever ensnared the sunshine?
Who has ever fettered the waves of the sea?
Who has ever restrained color?
Who has ever confined beauty?
Forbear, my heart, make no such efforts,
Know you not
that love is fraught with longing and loneliness?
Why then,
Why do you yearn in vain?
~08/09/22
~Contest: Strong Emotions
~Sponsor: Emile Pinet
~Emotions:- Love, despair.
Unswallowed lumps of lobster immodest
Crustacean returns to pincers persimmon
Waitress whisk indiscernible clears linen
Custom of one equates her eight hour day
Has It All Paul wipes away gourmet residual
Exhaustion frightened by frothy latte
Fingers in pies finance necromancer denies
Bulging funds fail to complete, coins conflict
Periphery rebuffs, enough is finite, endless leers
Goblet of gluttony grape broth overflow inflicts
Victim of vanished virtue, bon vivant declaration
Transmutes rules, outruns consequence
Guidance glued in buttery dough glides rhetorical
Yacht reined in quay quiver, another arrow for Cupid
Entertainment timed to change with shifting tides
Inglots tossed overboard drown in debauch
Drunk playboy Paul while vulnerable divulges
Disdain for greeds' steep scrag, perpetual pursuit
Outdo, prove prowess for those who never realise
Incongruent grapple for further forgets to cherish
Partners relent, resources force caucus to submit
Patronising Paul procures boardroom obedience
Inundating debt retards bombastic boon reward
Promise of association silences indulgent sin
28th June
Plenty Stimulates
With President Trump, no country should mess
unless her leaders and citizenry crave hyper-stress
Two weeks in office, he’s reined in three socialist wannabees
Columbia, Mexico, Canada ~ already pleading, down on their knees
Sanatan Dharma in Hinduism means
Universal religion, eternal truth, Ankh
Globally it means Universal law.
Religion is like the peel of banana
and spirituality is the banana.
Speak the truth which is preferable that
Intelligent one prefers it while the
Ignorant one selects the pleasurable.
Do not speak the truth to manipulate
Do not speak to please someone.
The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over;
Thus the wise say, the path to Salvation is hard
So begins The Razor’s edge of Somerset Maugham
Who visited India and met The Saint Raman.
All these leads to Yoga, so the wise one thinks.
When the senses are firmly reined in
From distractions a man is then free
for Yoga is the coming-into-being.
as well as the ceasing-to-be.
===============================
Ninth Place winner
For the contest: Broad Horizons by Deborah Guzi Subject- Sanatan Dharma - Hinduism
========================================================
*The word Sanatan means ‘Eternal’ and Dharma means religion. In broader sense Dharma
means spirituality.
*Salvation is hard." taken from a verse in the Katha-Upanishad - 1.3.14. Maugham had
visited India in 1938 and met Ram, the great Saint of India.
*The words Hindu and Hinduism came from the usage of the term Sindhu. "Outsiders" who
encountered Sanatanists living near the Sindhu river in the western portion of Bharat (the
original and still used Sanskrit name for India) referred to them as "Sindhus" and their unique form of worship as "Sindhuism." Though there was a Sindhu river, Sindhu is actually a generic term for river, and many believe this term was used in a metaphorical sense implying the river or spirituality that flows through all thing–in other words, Sanatan Dharma. With this understanding, the terms Sanatan Dharma and Hinduism become interchangeable with an identical meaning.
I looked up the word 'boor' in my Funk n' Wagnalls to verify the truth.
I found that, "A 'boor' is one who's ill-bred, crude and somewhat uncouth!"
I find boors obnoxious and inconsiderate jerks when they flaunt their gall!
Their disgusting, rude and churlish behavior nearly drives me up the wall!
I detest loud-mouthed youths (and adults) who I suppose vie for attention.
Their total lack of respect for anything is beyond my comprehension!
Their public display of putrid language is offensive to others' ears.
Free speech is fine but public vulgarity could be reined in, it appears!
My eyes glaze over when gasbags bore me with trivial conversation,
And don't get to the point and babble on and on without cessation!
In a fine cafe why don't boors stifle cell phones and let people dine in peace!
Their chattering is akin to a pair of magpies or a skein of honking geese!
Teenage boors practically make love in malls that is offensive to many others.
Aren't kiddies today taught be a bit more discreet by their pops and mothers?
They tote their boom boxes with 'music' blaring throughout the 'hood.
I'd like to tell them where they can shove those things if I legally could!
I loathe smart aleck boors who tailgate and impair my driving vision.
Don't they know this lack of common sense is apt to cause a collision?
I reckon I'd better wind this down and not bore with further dissertation,
But no doubt by now with boorish boors you can sense my frustration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in Linda's "I'm Bored With_____" Contest - May 2011
" The Horse and The Storm Cloud ... "
(From The Solomon Studies Series) # 4
(Eccl. 3: 11 / Prov. 6: 6 / Matt. 6: 26, 28, 29)
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Have Thundered Over The Plains
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Race and Are Hard To Restrain
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Rise Then Bolt Like Arrows Aimed
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Desire To Reach Fruits and Grains
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Upon Hilltops Have Reigned
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Have Glistened With Heavy Rain
Tho' One Is Ridden and One Never Reined
Both Have Wild Beauty Forever Untamed
Tho' One Claps
and One Paws The Ground
One Neighs In The Wind
& One Wears Lightning's Crown
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both Characterize Nature's Fame
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
GOD Made Both Unique, But Flash The Same
The Horse and The Storm Cloud
Both, GOD Will Make Sure - Earth Retains
Written & Copyrighted ©: 1/7/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
_________________________________________
Growing up in West Texas (oh yeah, I love horses) ...
there was a riding ranch that opened up near my family's
home. So, I've ridden horses ever since I was in my early
teens.
I came to appreciate that the horse is a sensitive, noble
and beautiful creature. Hence, I felt I had to state my
affinity and admiration for this unique beast, (not just
with one poem but two)
The horse has been in such close association with man
and mankind's history ... So that is why I wrote the posts
enumerating the qualities of the magnificent creature
that is the horse ...
Now, I'm not the greatest equestrian (by any
means, but I've got a good seat for riding (lol)
And if you do, find yourself on a sunny day, with time
on your hands, take a leisurely ride on a horse and you'll
be hooked for life (I know I am) (All you Horse-Riders
out there, know what I'm talking about, I know)
Hope readers enjoy ...
MoonBee
The goal of a poem: its intrinsic I.D.
is grab folk: to show them; to imbue imagery –
to say something profound and to then sculpt the words
into a form that’s sound and is pleasantly heard.
Note that augmentation, achieved by devices
Like alliteration should not pose a crisis
But should more go with flow: more embrace than a grope;
Less stagnation than growth … to surprise Alex Pope.
So “caesura”, don’t cease: use sensuous metre.
With reined rhythmic release; caress – don’t just beat her.
Steal past each armoured guard: have Words blithe crash each scene;
refute yon jaded bard who ‘dissed’ Alexandrine.
(Blame Game)
I sat down silently praying
Lambasted and humiliated
Before my stunned peers
My blood boiled, perhaps even curdled
Simmering my almost roasted brain
Skinny sinews tightened
Cheeks like two red hot sizzlers
As anger lashed against my ribbed skull
Writhing in agony for volcanic outbursts
But the pounding heart retraced
The tongue reined tightly
She was my teacher
Her day had begun badly
Our principal had fumed at her
His car had broken down
He was late for school and in
The vicious melee of blame game
I became an easy prey of
Uncontrolled tempers
Wondered at the pedigree
Of maturity and immaturity
Though my exam was ruined
God, perhaps had
Planned an unknown layout
Exclusively for me.
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: the Choices We Make In Life
The old man and his grandson viewed
A barren bladeless ground.
When to his left the young lad's eye
Saw bleached bones scattered 'round.
'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay
There exposed to the sun.
It seemed more like a battlefield
Where only death had won.
The old man saw the young lad wince,
He reined in close behind.
As memories of what took place
Came flooding through his mind.
A century turned, but not his luck,
For rains had failed again.
He slowly watched the dams dry up
While cattle died in pain.
A little water still remained
Though sought by feral stock.
Some brumbies which came down at dawn
Still often used the block.
In good times no one cared that much,
But not so any more.
The young lad's dad and this old man
Both knew what lay in store.
A high log fence closed off the dam,
The timber they had sawn.
Suspended gate it lay in wait
For piccaninny dawn.
Then as the last mare ambled through
Wood gate it dropped like lead.
A wood rail race seemed their escape,
But death lurked there instead. Their capital had all dried up,
No cash for lead and gun.
To execute the feral stock
Took knife and old man's son.
With legs astride the wood rail race
Son grimaced as he drew
That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein,
Then slapped the victim through.
Each fleet foot spirit faltered there
A hundred yards away,
While blazing eyes showed fear of death,
Mouths gave a weakened neigh.
Then one by one their weak frames fell
Onto the dusty ground.
The racing hearts of those poor beasts
Then gave their final pound.
The slaughter did not save the stock
For all the dams went dry.
It fin'ly broke the old man's son,
He watched the grown man cry.
All this the old man told the lad,
The picture was now drawn.
On why his dad then took his life
One piccaninny dawn.
The young lad then took from his head
his father's sweat stained hat
And as he wiped the tears away
He said, Gramps thanks for that."
I'd always had my doubts you see
About the way Dad died,
But now I know the truth at last
I'll wear this hat with pride.
On the outer Paroo where most septics are few
And the outhouse has still pride of place;
Poor old Toby McPhee worked a small property
With his son and his darling wife Grace.
When the milking was due and the harvesting too,
His son Fred seemed to just disappear.
Though they looked everywhere this bewildered old pair
Found no trace of their poor little dear.
I've the paddock to plough and I need the boy now
As the horses are harnessed and ready.
Then he saw the smoke rise and to Toby's surprise;
'Twas the outhouse that hid his young Freddy.
"So the silly young bloke seems to fancy a smoke.
Well I've just the right cure then for him."
As he led the horse team Toby's eyes gave a gleam
And the lazy lad’s future looked dim.
He then hooked the team to the log skids on the loo,
While the slack was worked out of the chain.
With the reins in his hand he then gave the command
And both horses then took up the strain.
Poor young Fred he was perched on the seat when it lurched,
Though soon ended up down on the floor.
With Fred's pants 'round his knees Toby heard his wild pleas,
But he goaded his horses some more.
The lad's *** hit the pan and a fire soon began
With the paper and sawdust alight.
Then the skids hit a hollow and what was to follow
Was one hell of a horrible sight. That pan flew in the air and though Fred crouched in
prayer
All the angels they must have been out.
For the team in a trot had sent airborne the lot
And the contents were scattered about.
Toby's lungs out of air he then reined in the pair
And the curing had come to a close.
Fred emerged from the door looking terribly sore,
While the pong was quite strong on the nose.
When there's work now to do on the outer Paroo
Our young Fred McPhee's work is hectic.
For he saves all his dough, but it's not for smokes though,
As their place is now going septic.
The nation in question is a world largest oil exporter
It citizens is be deprived of what she has
Involuntarily long queues from night
In petrol stations till dawn outside the same stations
Makes the danfo drivers angry and happy with price hike
Who will be sorry for the stranded commuters
Is it the profitless street sellers
Or the red hotted conductors?
You then see a divided country
Each citizen angry with and harmless to the government
Frustrated citizens walk miles to chase Molues
No one cares for the other the aim is to get home
Though some do, the poor ones.
Who says it only touches the proletariat
Even the rich are touchable
You will see big fat men exercising in their cars
Suffering from the traffic jam created at the stations.
Who will condole with the cying lady
That cannot manouvre due to her twisted hand
And clucth ridden legs?
A country were urchins
Take to the streets as black marketers
The hoarding stations having collaborated
With them sell the gold four times its price
All moneyed men will buy from the law breakers
The owners says it is due to vandalism
What a suitable lie
For it is likely that the political skirmishes
Has reined on the innocent citizens
Even our eight year leader
Will not address us on the issue
Who says it this is not a dividend?
I say it is.