Best Routinely Poems
There once was a little mighty ant
Who was extravagant and arrogant
Known to be exorbitantly militant
She was so combatant and petulant
They nicknamed her My Commandant
One day she came across an elephant
Elegant and obviously dominant
She started on her typical rant
Then stopped and decided to recant
Both agreed it was all very insignificant
They chatted, it turned out the elephant
Was actually the ant's aunt
Suddenly the intolerant ant
Has become cheerful and exuberant
And now routinely breaks out in chant
Read on air by invitation ~ May 26, 2020 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: 2nd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2020
Time's running out for whooping cranes,
the buffalo, and prairie dogs.
For they've been predominantly
replaced by cattle, sheep, and hogs.
The elephant and the blue whale
may share the fate of the dodo.
For these species are endangered,
like the dragons of Komodo.
Alligators and crocodiles,
tread the fringes of extinction.
And the California condor's
future hangs on its distinction.
Seal pups are slaughtered for their fur;
otters for the fish they've eaten.
And the wild lions and tigers,
are routinely caged and beaten.
In sanitized utopias,
we plant the occasional tree.
But in this plastic paradise,
there’s little wildlife left to see.
I start my day with bubbles on my skin
and water nearly hot when I jump in!
Replying to friends' emails makes me glow.
A quickie breakfast; off to work I go!
My work is pretty nice; I teach each day.
I can't imagine any other way
to earn my keep; my job is kind of fun.
I'm sure it's not like that for everyone.
I make a big production of my lunch
by heating soup or popcorn I can munch
while reading poems online here at the school.
By 5 or 6, I'm home. My nights are cool. . .
I fix a lovely dinner for my honey.
My sweet indulgences don't cost much money.
We chat and watch TV. I feel extremely
content with things I simply do routinely!
Written 2/3/15
WHEN MOTHER PULLS THE CART
Way back my classmate of middle school
Lost early on his father in the clutch of cancer
Destitute family cart mother was forced to pull
Clouds of trying times in the void sky he saw gather.
The study expenses weren’t easy to meet
He thought from the school he would drop out
But his mother said he needn’t, should never do it
She would soon find the way out, without any doubt.
He had no idea what that way could be
He was so assured, didn’t lose sleep over it
For he knew mother would do her best to see
Her bright son finished the school study with credit.
He woke up in the middle of a winter night
Found his mother’s bed empty, not slept on
When this happened routinely night after night
He decided to find out where she could’ve gone.
In the dead of cold night he went out to explore
Saw from the antique room a streak of light seep
He peeked through the keyhole of the closed door
She was stitching cloth bags, eyes half-closed in sleep.
January 23, 2019
Contest : All Yours (Feb 19)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Every morning upon rising
Routinely searching my vital signs
As a poverty stricken person
Searches pockets for spare change.
The grim news reports,
The skyrocketing death tolls,
Mausoleums more populated
Than the emptied churches,
Many desperately seeking God
From the confines of their dwellings.
I remember the time, early in life,
When I use to peer from my window
Into the darkness outside
For the headless Dullahan at the reins
Of the Cóiste Bodhar (coach-a-bower),
Its four black black horses
Powerfully pulling the death coach
Up to my front door, as I ruminate
On the words of Yeats, casting
A cold eye on life, on death.
Life, death, such separate entities,
Or so it seems, on the surface.
Yet, forty-two years of lessons
By grieving families have only
Taught me the oneing of life, of death.
As the beloved Anchoress of Norwich
Gazed out the window of her cell
Upon her nation devastated by
The Black Death and war,
So I gaze out my window on a world
As broken by plague and political violence,
And am comforted by the word of Christ
To this simple Middle Age mystic,
“All shall be well, and all shall be well,
And all manner of thing shall be well.”
(c) 2020, Robert Charles Wagner.
Sometime after midnight, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned rubbish
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’
You look in the mirror already aware
He is back
You can feel him in the damage of you
He is here for you again
As if you are not broken enough
Get up while you can
Go back to confirm the routinely bad news
You will get through this
Again
Maybe
You wonder what he will bring this time
Maybe less
Maybe more
You fall just once
And your bones break like little toys
He is here to cause more pain
You already know
'Foggy' location seeds were from, curiosity won
Five months later, wanderer from roof tall trellis hung
Violet globe pods were bitter but oddly addictive
Several dozen daily dose, sour juice inflicted
Soon supplied smoothie zing, purple milk vibrant
Irresistible, the youth inducing effect they provided
A year after planting, I'd positively lost ten
Face entering wrinkle free twenties again!
Friends amazed by results of youth fruit blessed
After eighteen short months, I appeared adolescent
Freely sharing my vivacious treacherous discovery
From her desirable rewinding hand, no recovery
Benjamin Button's slow motion journey ridiculed
- My eight year old routinely tucks me into bed!!
9th August 2020
Where have all the heroes gone
In this nation facing war
Do you have faith in government now
You reap what you sew, no more.
A mother waits for the return of her son
A father is waiting for the war to be done
A son is praying for his Dad to come back
A daughter cries out, the night seems so black
Tension keeps mounting, tears have been shed
While Washington routinely tallies the dead
Where are the heroes, do they exist any more
Are the heroes the ones' protesting the war
I would die for my country and I would die proud
But over this war hangs a horrible shroud
We hear empty promises from our president's tongue
We're not saving the world, we are killing our young
There is only one fact that should not be refuted
When terrorists are caught, they need to be executed
If we don't follow it through, we can't protect our land
As death is the only answer they understand
Please don't tell us this is a necessary war
Repeating Vietnam, we've heard it all before
Tell us now as this war rages on
Where have all the heroes gone?
Life seems to be a chain of highs and lows
That we routinely deal with come what may
But there is one that seems worse than others
Have you seen a vibrant city decay
For eons filled with bright lights and romance
Where ambition and laughter fill the air
And then one day the traffic seems lighter
The city seems to be stalled somewhere
It takes time but the lights begin to dim
The laughter of children becomes restrained
Houses - once homes - sit empty and weathered
Once full bank accounts become slowly drained
And then one day it is completely done
A city sits decayed and all alone
Dogs roam the empty and broken sidewalks
Their future like the city's is unknown
9-22-20
Contest: Decay
Sponsor : Constance La France
"Spring is a wonderful season making itself vibrant when hearts beat to the rhythm of music, when butterflies flit around flowers and birds break their interim wintry silence with sweet carols. The magic of spring is overpowering." ---- By Poet
From a music maestro’s harp string
The chimes of a melody ring
Colorful flowers awaken
To greet the gently approaching spring.
The wintry chill’s silence is broken
Everyone, to birds’ sweet chorus hearken
The tight strung guitar plays mellow and deep
Happily welcoming spring unbidden.
Fresh buds awaken from winter’s sleep
Eastern winds from far gently sweep
Heavenly vibrations, resonant beats!
From under cover, rodents creep.
Splendorous sunshine with warmth greets
Cycle of seasons routinely repeats
Change in nature is so lovesome
Spring presents umpteen visual treats.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
No we may never have fought in a great war,
or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.
People wave to us, but few know who we are
and most on a good days run could care less.
Like the organ grinder's monkey from days of old,
we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.
We do a job few would even consider doing
and most would not even attempt to try.
A job burdened with ever growing responsibility
due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.
A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession
designated part-time by thoughtless administrations
that mouth how important we all are once a year
only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.
If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years
without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb
on the altar of a fearful self serving public face,
you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
The tolerant souls that routinely put up with
a few rude demanding manipulative parents
and their insolent misbehaving little darlings
just to be able to serve the greater majority
of decent well meaning thoughtful parents
and the precious treasures of tomorrow
they have temporarily entrusted to us.
Like a hamster running on a little wheel,
we go around in circles every single day,
but unlike the hamster we must summon
every instinct and learned skill to insure
every turn we make is executed flawlessly.
We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel
by the deliberate hands of a caring heart
and the many small souls seated behind us
that come to trust us not to make a mistake.
We are the one person in their little lives
that are not allowed to ever let them down
for neither of us may be able to live with it.
We are their school bus drivers...
A time is reached in life if one remains
Alive to tell the tale: those certain things
He once performed routinely, ascertains
The notion, habits must desist which brings
About awareness: His mortality.
Employment ends; Retirement is here.
The monthly saving wanes. Frugality
submits to lavish tastes. The thirty year
Installment loan is paid. But now he’s glum.
He now forbears purchasing bananas
That are unripe for fear his death may come
before they ripen. Shakespeariana
Unfolding: Final act that yields a frown:
The man’s demise, they ring the curtain down.
1 Would you say that you’d like to write better?
2 Keep writing whether book or love letter.
3 Great writers don’t quit, they write quite a lot.
4 If tempted to stop they simply did not
5 The best of the best, I’d even dare say,
6 Wrote not a few that they just threw away.
7 When eyes of blank pages stare up at you
8 “Quitting makes perfect,” has never been true-
9 ly the more that you practice you’ll find
10 forsooth erelong you shall broaden your mind.
11 The pen is a sword of limitless might;
12 If something is wrong, words can make it write.
13 Words are like arrows that target the soul.
14 They twang, zip, then thump when shot with control;
15 Untrained words injure and never strike true.
16 So religiously write, routinely review
17 For words are the lamp, through darkness lighting.
18 So always, forever just keep right on writing.
8.28.18
Contest: A Litany of Poetic Devices
Sponsors Line Gauthier
Literary Devices by line:
1. rhetorical question
2. internal rhyme
3. consonance (t)
4. inversion
5. parallelism (and superlative)
6. litote
7. personification
8. antithesis
9. enjambment
10. archaism
11. metonymy and metaphor
12. pun (homonym)
13. simile
14. onomatopoeia
15. dissonance (via harsh consonants and uneven vowels)
16. alliteration
17. hyperbaton and metaphor
18. pleonasm
COLD HANDS by J.D.C Ahumibe ([email protected])
COLD HANDS.
An embrace that awaits us all,
The finality of every living thing,
An appointment not to be missed,
A date enshrined in stone.
An unseen guest that stalks every clime,
An unwanted visitor that needs no introduction,
The unseen that knows humanity by name,
The passage of time brings it ever closer.
It once took my cousin away,
While I was away,
And took her to a place far far away,
Where the living stay away.
Be happy while you still have life,
Make the best out of every moment,
Weary not your soul,
There lies the compass of your existence
Be not deceived,
Believing that you could wish it away,
It is a package that must come to you someday.
A package that one uninvited visitor must deliver.
Weary not your soul,
Trouble not your conscience,
Unless you are unprepared for this eventuality.
The ticking of time makes its view ever clearer.
Oh cold hands where lies your strength.
Why do you smite me with fear before you devour me?
If only I can have the courage to defeat fear,
To eternal bliss will I routinely prepare for, once my time is up.
J.D.C AHUMIBE.
NEWBRIDGE, COUNTY KILDARE.
REPUBLIC OF IRELAND.