Best Relented Poems
Just a regular curbside puddle,
It really wasn't that big.
But it had the look of an ocean,
To a sweet little puppy named 'Pig.'
"Your paws might touch the water,
No chances that you will drown."
Pig looked at his master- all crazy,
And was frozen like ice to the ground.
"It's only a wee-bit of a puddle,
You'll easily make the grade."
But Pig wasn't ready to listen,
He stood there and was very afraid.
On a leash Pig's brand new owner,
Tried in vain to nicely persuade.
But Pig just wouldn't listen,
To pleas that his new person made.
Again -"it's only a little puddle,
You really won't get very wet.
You could see Pig was thinking,
"Wets wet! And I'm not ready yet."
"But the water is only a trickle,
If you try you'll see you can wade."
No matter all the sweet talking,
That pup just couldn't be swayed.
The pup felt a tug on the leash,
The water was coming too near.
So Pig started his squealing,
And squealing was all you could hear.
Discouraged -his person relented,
And lifted the scaredy-cat Pup.
He bypassed the wee little puddle,
And lost, by picking Pig up.
I wanted the end to be funny,
With a moral to find I could spin.
Yep, a guy with a pup he'd name 'Pig,'
Has a pup that is smarter than him.
a hallway. offices. tinted sunlight.
people who have forgotten my name.
but i am here.
and then a room. and a meeting.
and i am unprepared.
“you’re up” says the leader.
and my lungs fill with heaviness as they all turn towards me.
my mind screams.
my throat locks.
and then a word fights through the scream.
and i breathe. and find a voice.
and then another word.
and a thought.
then relevance.
i am moving.
and eyes do not wander.
but the scream fights on:
they will find out.
i was connected at one time.
so the scream would fade.
but not now.
these many years later.
“we could use you again,”
he had said.
and i had relented.
but why? boredom? faith?
the scream of fear vs. the scream of isolation?
or a familiar voice dragging me back from madness.
“what have you been up to?”
he had asked.
and i had lied.
and now my mind all scrambled between work and stupor.
“what on EARTH are you talking about?!”
demands the one who should have taken over for me.
and the throat locks again.
and the scream rises up.
and he knows it.
but sympathy has no place here.
so i struggle with the scream.
and find the words to hide the Fraud
as he shakes his head in disgust.
and i remember why i left.
so i wade in the scream until i am done and take my seat.
and the scream that never dies whispers, “what else is there?”
In low tones we chatted
On the steps to her porch,
We talked of the decades
Since I’d carried her torch—
Of love we knew nothing
During young naïve years
Of kissing and fondling
‘Til I left her in tears,
For the navy enticed
With ships and adventure:
I sailed away keenly
Aware that I missed her,
Each ivory cloud roiling
I watched sculpt her face,
And the foam in ships’ wakes
Emulated her grace.
How her leer glowered down
With each floozy I’d bed;
Her glare did accost me
From the face that I wed.
But that marriage was fey,
On a short vine it died:
I had loved only once
So to find her I tried:
Thus we sat on those steps
Last night swapping stories,
We confessed of our lives,
Our failures and glories …
And the kiss that welled up
While lightning bugs popped,
Led haltingly bedside
Where our slack clothing dropped.
We then gripped and embraced
Through a torrent of mirth—
Time relented at last
And our love found rebirth.
October 22, 2016
1st place: Long Distance Love Contest/October 19, 2016
For 1st Place Only Poetry Contest
Laura Loo
Chipped the factor of maybe days,
Wondering sweet tooth cracked in the night
And the cap spilled parallel, baring the nerves,
Electrical jolts from a tin foil bite.
She hurled back her head and laughed aloud,
So her neck made a finger snap sound,
In massacred leaves and juniper groves
Arched her longbow spine on the cold winter ground.
Strobing snowflakes abandoned in her hair,
Glitter bugs gleamed by a vampire moon,
Hewn blue-rose thighs buried life alive,
In a freezing of flesh, it was over so soon.
A harbour relented, cheaply complacent,
Moonstruck asylum, the member shrank small,
And tucking her womanhood moistly home,
I died for to her it meant nothing at all.
When I met your beautiful soul,
it was clear as day
That you were meant for me,
I saw it no other way
When I persisted and you relented,
and gave me a first date
I knew from that day forward,
it would end no other way
When I groomed you to be my bride,
you were in blooming resignation
But you kept all your reservations inside,
and showed only joy and elation
Whereas, I had no doubts that day
When I said I do ... then kissed you,
your eyes opened wide, and you knew
in an instant
It became clear to you,
so very clear to you
Clear as a ringing wedding bell,
that I pursued you across time,
to meet you at this future day today ...
This showed you how deep my love for you would always be,
it revealed to you how my love for you flows endlessly
You now knew how much my love for you shines radiantly,
as bright as a sun swept day
Such a fine, clear day ...
we were always destined
to begin our life together this way
Us being able to see so far
into each other's heart,
on such a beautiful clear day
Long ago, in the fastness of the north
lived a people known as the Inuit.
They lived in perpetual darkness.
Although they had heard of light from Crow
they at first would not believe him.
They made him repeat this fairy tale
many times, for it sparked imagination.
Imagine how long they could hunt.
Imagine seeing polar bear before he saw them.
They begged Crow to find and bring the light.
“But I am too old and daylight is far to the south”.
After much begging the old crow relented.
He flew through many dark miles of the north
and just as he was about to change his mind
he saw light - - - just a speck on the horizon.
Suddenly light burst upon him as the daylight
world exploded around him in brilliance.
He had to stop and rest and comprehend
this wonder of wonders called light.
He noticed the blue sky, the blue stream
and the young girl walking back to a village.
She carried a pail of the blue water as she passed
beneath the tree in which he rested.
Turning into a small speck of dust,
she did not notice Crow as he drifted into her parka.
As they neared the village, Crow saw a young boy
playing with a ball of daylight, bouncing on a string.
Crow flew from her coat, and grabbed the ball.
He flew into the endless blue sky,
the ball of daylight trailing along behind him.
Waiting impatiently, the Inuit saw a tiny speck of light
moving towards them in the darkness.
Soon it grew brighter and brighter
and Crow dropped it in the center of their village.
It exploded into a burst of light, revealing everything.
It illuminated every dark corner and chased away shadow.
But as the Inuit danced and celebrated
Crow told them the light would not last forever.
The ball of light would have to rest for six months
each year in order to gain its strength back.
“Half a year of daylight is enough” the Inuit said
and to this day they build their lives around
six months of day and six months of night.
An Inuit myth retold by S.E. Schlosser,
made into this poem July 15 2012
By: Charles Henderson ©
The Old Car
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
Remember when we used to say
“I’ve got to trade this car”
it hard to start in the mornings
and it won’t go very far
The linkage to the gears all shot
the timing just don’t time
if I find someone silly enough
I’ll sell it for a dime
Just when you think your minds made up
and tomorrow it’s a trade
it seems as though it reads your thoughts
and steps it up a grade
It started great this morning
and the linkage worked just fine
I’ve driven quite a distance
and the timing seems in time
She seems to know what I’ve been thinking
and is trying to change my mind
and show, even if I go looking
a better car I just won’t find
I know she has done this before
the decision’s been prevented
and I have not shown her the door
like a fool I have relented
but this time she just has to go
she just cannot be trusted
she’ll start it all again I know
but this time, she’s been busted
ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.
© Ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.
© ron wilson aka Ron Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
With bent torso, fenced horse Corso,
Tows corpulent gent Morse into a Kent forest.
This portly source torments tense Corso to such a contentious extent
That he sends them off course with vehement force to show his discontent.
“Whoa”, vents the incensed Morse
With voice tense and hoarse from onerous discourse.
“Endorse a gentle course,
And dissent from one so dense and coarse.”
With sore torso resentment, Corso forewent his horse-sense and sent
Enormous Morse into a torrential watercourse from Trent.
“You senseless, offensive, violent horse,”
Chorused the tortured, drenched Morse.
Yet, Morse lamented and swore to descent his portly content,
As soon as Corso implements his chores back in Kent.
And to mend his sores
From his hell-bent horse,
Reinvented Morse reinforced his orders
By tensing the cords toward extensive fence borders.
With a consenting snort for repented gent Morse,
The contented horse, relented pretenses and wended a short decent course.
For Sheri's couplet contest
ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
I'm an orange monkey
in China I was made,
stitched with much affection
and garlanded with braid.
Purchased then on eBay
and wrapped to make a gift,
I was posted to a friend
who felt a little miffed.
I felt I wasn't wanted
when stuffed into a drawer,
would I be forgotten,
and nameless evermore?
From that home some months on
I was taken out with care,
taken on a journey,
though how could I know where?
It was in the Village Hall
as part of a display;
in company with others
we made a fine array.
People drank their coffee
accompanied by cake.
No one offered me a slice.
Oh how my tummy ached!
They paid for orange tickets
each with a lucky number;
and orange gave me hope
waiting there in wonder.
Standing close beside me
the caller said, "Be still."
The tickets duly stirred,
I felt an inner thrill.
He drew one folded tight
revealed as seventy-nine.
Forward came a woman
and chose a vintage wine.
Another one was drawn.
I was filled again with hope.
But the winner from the back
picked out a box of soap.
Ticket after ticket drawn
one by one the prizes went,
and I was left alone
all sad and discontent.
It was at the very end
that I was claimed at last.
Trailed behind by my left arm,
I felt all hope was past.
In a nearby village
I was offered up once more.
The prize that no one claimed,
squashed in another drawer.
I languished there with socks
all folded up and clean.
For such a sleepy friendship
I wasn't really keen.
On yet another venture,
out shopping I was taken
and left at AgeUK –
unless I am mistaken,
– displayed upon a shelf.
There customers looked round,
a few were glancing up
to see my sorry frown.
Then one day a child came in,
held close by his left arm.
Looking up he caught my eye.
Like me, had he suffered harm?
“That's my favourite colour,”
he called aloud and pointed.
“Please, oh please! give me! give me!"
At last his Mum relented.
There he held me oh so close,
now at last feeling safe
and wanted as a friend.
It was a long embrace.
And now I have a name
which makes me feel right special.
I thought I was a boy,
but no, he calls me Cheryl.
If you seek a moral
in this happy ending:
Do not bin unwanted gifts,
persist with fresh befriending.
Sir John met the fair maid Pam and then he sought to woo,
But Pam told him to wait a while and then she would want to too.
Sir John asked how long he must wait and keep his love concealed,
Surely Pam wouldn’t resist him once she glanced at his sword and shield.
And so he suited up in full armor and stood beneath her balcony,
Then he paced along the garden path or waited on bended knee.
“Good Lord,” he said to himself, “wherever can she be?”
“I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, I shouldn’t have had that last iced tea.”
Sir John could hold it no longer and he slipped behind a tree,
Just as Lady Pam relented and stepped out on to her balcony.
There’s a story that the Lady now tells about her knight she is braggin’,
Because from her vantage point it seemed he was wrestling with a dragon.
So when Sir John had finished she let him climb in up her trellis,
I’d tell you more about their night but it would only make you jealous.
Sometimes the most important rules are the ones that don’t need stating,
And sometimes the best ladies are the ones that always keep you waiting.
How many years? I'm not even sure
It was late in the day, as the sun turned to rust
I was holding his hand, and trembling with fear
Kicking up dust with my Mary Jane shoes
filled with concoctions of sugar and goo
Looking at him for assurance and trust
I remember our feet boarding the plank
as if on the brink, of a life or death prank
My Dad, (for the fourth time, a smile on his face)
had offered a chance to back out with grace
But I was determined, insistent and firm!
How many times, had he taken a turn...
with my brother in tow?....While I watched from below
confined like a babe of the infantile row?
Dad finally relented, to my mother's chagrin
then took my hand,.......and my bravado began...
Sticky the heat, and so were my hands, ...we waited our turn
while a tummy would churn
We boarded the Cyclone, a faceless contraption,
that seemed quite familiar...the seaside attraction
that brother had made on our living room floor
with his Tinker Toy set, and the toys we adored
A strange looking man with a raw sunburned nose
and a head that seemed too small, like a small cabbage, posed
escorted us on, into a red metal bucket,
strapped us inside, like mice in his pocket!
The sound of the metal, was skimming the track
Winding up slowly, then full-on attack!
I buried my face in the arm of my Dad....
Blinded by fear, never once looking back
The Cyclone, I'm sure was fierce as could be
I wanted to look, and was too blind to see
Finally it stopped. We departed unharmed !
But never again... I was........NOT to be charmed
I only remember my two shaky knees,
barely walking the plank into my mother's arms !
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
5/21/14
A few years ago, one of my younger sisters said to me, “Daddy was a bully”.
I never thought of him as such, because I felt he always delivered his threats; But I was forced to ponder the possibility as we continued our conversation.
We were relating a time involving our older sister who wanted to attend
An innocent Jr. High School Prom event; but daddy said absolutely not.
Both mother and my sister pleaded with him, and the discussion became loud and heated.
All of us younger kids gathered and looked in upon the show, but daddy said, “No!”
Then the unthinkable happened. Yes, my sister stood up to dad saying, “You are wrong!” We all knew that it would be the end of our sister, and waited for her to be slapped to the floor.
Had she lost her mind? Did she not know better than to argue with daddy and risk his wrath? Had my sister grown tired of our daddy having everything go his way, whether right or wrong? I could not imagined what possessed my sister to risk it all; but instantly, she became my hero. Shocked and awed, we had witnessed the unbelievable when daddy relented and consented.
The lesson was not one of defiance, but one of courage in the face of fear and intimidation. And there was the lesson that our father was also human, and needed to understand his family
02062015PS