Best Satireme Poems
"Hindus" that call themselves,
Regard It as a holy tree
Which alighted from the sky--
Originated from the churning of sea;
One of the fourteen 'Ratnas'
I happened to have a look at,
Which has as its guardians,
A bunch of bearded religiocrat:
Whilst I was nearby it,
I looked at it as I'd at any other grove;
Not even once it occurred to me--
The thought of its sanctity--
I was in a state of emptiness;
I had only come here to enjoy Nature;
This is when I made a move...
...Insensitive to anything but blissful greenery
Prevalent all around,
I made a jump to pluck off a leaf--
Just overhead,
And lo!there were issuing sounds
From the mouth of the sagacious,
And miscalculated words were hurled
For me as a curse...
But what could I do?I stood there,
In an imprudent fashion and kept smiling
At the miserable state of their thoughts:
They abused and mouthed obscenities,
They asked me if I was Indra
Or an inhabitant of Swarga--
The abode of the Holy tree--
I had no answers and no other expressions
Tried to cross my face--
I smiled and looked at them
In a state of serene calmness...
By the by, I took a look at the Parijat,
That Arjuna had summoned to earth;
Then I witnessed the blue heavens
And walked away as another gust of wind
That had rustled the leaves on the Sacred Tree...
"He is brave and a warrior fine--
In a stroke, killed twenty-nine!"
Thus went word from town to town,
Only to come back around...
"A better man there be none,
Seekest thou a finer one?"
Crept-in a common sight of doubt:
Who's it they talk about...?
"'tis the Tailor from this land--
He hath the strength of Heracles' hand--
There he goes, tall and proud..."
Seeing whom, approached the crowd.
"Tell us, O Courageous one,
How didst that you have done?"
"Tell us, tell us!"cried the throng
Only to shroud his path along:
"I know not what 'tis ye talk,
I'm in a hurry, ye impede my walk.."
"Don't be humble, tell us about't",
Jumped up He, whilst all shout't;
"I will tell what you want to know,
About what, tell me though...!"
"Tell about your twenty-nine",
Sang all folk in a line:
"The Twenty-Nine",so he thought,"that I kill'd,
For me an éclat this has built..."
"I am glad I talk to you all,
Of this emprise--this caterwaul...
When on a fine, wintry morn,
I sat sewing pieces worn,
There came a lady selling jam",
He gazed,"I called--Ay, ma'am!--
Who, sensing a prospective buyer,
Told she had the best of Shire",
Again he stopped, all looked rapt:
"So I bought what I thought apt;
Now then, I stitch and stitch and sew,
There's buzzing-humming and the numbers grow",
He saw they'd still eager eyes:
"That's when I strike at the flies!
And behold--I kill 'em folk,
I kill Twenty-Nine in a stroke!!..."
_______________________________
*it is based on a story i once read as a child...though its plot was different, my poem just derives the 'tailor' and the initial 'killing spree' from the original story to combine with my own ideas..all comments appreciated...
Mr. Webster defines "impatience" as a dislike for anything causin' delay.
Alas, my paucity of patience I am reminded of each and every day!
'Tis a subject upon which the Lord and I are in constant consultation.
Lord, help me in my quest for more patience is my earnest supplication!
On Sunday morns I squirm in my pew listenin' to the preacher pontificate.
His interminable oration goes on and on - for my football game I'll be late!
Again that very afternoon I lose all patience with my favorite football team!
Their fumblin', stumblin', bumblin' play just makes me want to scream!
I have little patience with slow movin' traffic causin' me to lay upon the horn!
Others extend a finger in response! (As I understand it, that's a sign of scorn)!
I impatiently wait for the leaves to blossom on my trees around the first of May.
In the autumn season, my patience is taxed rakin' those infernal leaves away!
I lose patience with the government always intrudin' in my life,
With their inane and meddlesome schemes that are so very rife!
I'm impatient with folks who babble on and on when a word or two will do,
Or retellin' a story I've heard a dozen times - 'tis a classic case of deja vu!
Forgive me Lord when at times I even become impatient with Thee.
If impatience is a sin, Lord I pray that You'll show mercy unto me!
Help me in my quest to be more patient is my earnest supplication,
But won't You please expedite Thy accomodation is my exhortation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The place, New York City, downtown Brooklyn. The time is two thirty in the
morning, the job, stake out, Red Light district, yeah, you know the place, full
of full of vice, graft, corruption and every other kind of crime. Oh Yeah ! name's
Rodney, Rodney Townsend, my friends call me Brick, don't ask!
I'm here looking for what we call at the twenty third, the Rip. Just our name
for a modern day "Jack the Ripper" Real nasty, I've seen his work, see I work
for the Vice squad, detective sgt., so I got the lucky draw for this assignment,
Six women in all dead, sliced and diced, with one exception. Last week, in
Central Park, same MO, she got lucky....she lived!
In the report she kept saying something about a shadow, a shadow that moved
like the wind.She said this "shadow" attacked her attacker. She said the shadow had a "
Big sword" and took one swing and killed the perp. But when the cops got
there they couldn't find a body, gone, lots of blood, no blood trail, no body. I went
to the park to check it out, nothing much to go on there, strange!
Damn, I gotta go, just heard a scream not to far away. "William thirty Baker, requesting
back up at Lindsey and forth, by Momma Spinelli's bakery" Rounding
the corner, " oh my God" "William thirty Baker, I got a dame covered in blood, and
it aint hers. I also got a stiff, better send the wagon.
One look at the stiff tells me he's been cut, cut deep! From neck to knees, and
he's colder than ice in a scotch on the rocks. "Lady, ya wanna tell me what went
down here?" That's the first thing us cops ask, ya know. A.......A.... Shadow, it...it
was just a Shadow" " Come on lady! " And it had a....a.... Sword!!!!
The Samurai Returns
To be Continued!!!!!
I'm SICK!
The pain won't go away!
Could it be the chili dog for breakfast that I ate?
I'm SICK!
My stomach is aflame!
I feel it in my ovaries, I swear it is doomsday!
I'm SICK!
My head is a balloon!
Give me pills, give me shots, the end is coming soon!
I'm SICK!
I hear noise, what's that ruckus?
It hurts in places normally only my swimsuit touches!
I'm SICK!
Don't stand there, tapping your feet!
Call up House M.D., E.R., get Gray's Anatomy!!!
I'm SICK!
My time is drawing nigh!
Take me off the donor list, these organs here are MINE!
I'm SICK!
I'm too young for heaven!
Please, God, I can't die, I have kids and a wife, so don't take me, TAKE THEM!
I'm SICK!
Wait, what's that? Snow outside?
No school today? I Feel OK! Don't worry so much next time!
(a love poem for my son)
Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window
in colors of May
slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;
patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object
is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.
A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,
sitting in question
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.
The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,
wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.
This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.
Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence
useless to anyone but you.
Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!
The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,
rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.
Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal
like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
among the tradition of the ashtrays.
On this day I have forged a new goal, it is
an eternal promise made from my soul. With
honest eyes and good intent, it was a my
promise to myself that I really meant. A
better me and a new destination, no more
foolishness and no more frustrations. I
leave behind me much aggravation and oh
yes, let me not forget my old temptations.
I also promise to make it to my holy place
each and every seventh day? Except if there
is a good football game... and maybe an
occasional rainy day? Well maybe I'm being a
little hard on myself? An occasional curse
word has never hurt and maybe I could have
just one last drink? Come to think of it...
maybe next year I could do these things? Yes,
these promises I have made will be my goal for next
New Years Day!
For me or against me?
Do stay out in your uncertain nest,
Go to your heart desire,
Follow your real heart
If i am not enough for you.
Really,it's sometimes difficult
When my pockets seemed dried
And empty,
I failed in action when such happens,
At harmattan things seemed even worst,
For the pockets get even drier and smaller.
I know i will smile one day.
No longer then twist me and tell
Me lies...
Or flying around me like flies.
Be for me or against me
For good.
I know the symbols
Of your deceptions,
Writing all over your smile
And speech like the words of Jezebel.
The movements of your waist
Like wind from nowhere to anywhere
Are all relics of your coming and going.
Then be for me or against me,
For my heart is tired,weak and feeble
As i wait to see if the next will
Step in and stay for good.
Once upon a sullen silence, I sighed, I sighed about the Cullens.
Crazy, dreamy, drowsy fans, oh how it made me sore;
Muscular, masculine vampire men with shiny skin gave me chagrin.
Their paleness, ageless, alter less lives gave me such a bore.
Guys abhor this whole love lore, “where’s Harry Potter?” I implore.
This Twilight book girls opt for.
Meyer’s tale is mildly cheesy; the protagonist makes it look so easy.
Edward sinuously stalked our dear Miss Swan, which many girls adore...
When suddenly there came a tapping, tapping on the tall window;
Our happy Edward leapt right in, in black Goth clothes galore.
His ominous outlook, his empty stare; if only he had a councilor.
Only this and nothing more.
Since when did vampires sparkle in sunlight, now why are werewolves so cute and
cuddly?
These addling attempts of harrowing humor make my head too sore.
Rabid fans now buy icepacks and glitter, Volvos, old trucks, furry jackets and such.
Meyer’s has made mounds of money from unfortunate fans, the movies, and more!
Please stop these callous and crazy cults of women I implore,
None of this Twilight anymore!
(For: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
(for: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
I see in you the angel that you make of me...
I can keep close to you, yet never see.
You entered into my life like a morning sun,
You promised your life to me in the long run...
And now you'll leave me back all alone;
Like you were the sun which never shone?
Spare me my life, my heart, that's with you;
Give me back my angel, cannot live with an angel new...
"and don't forget the pretention"
###########
everyone nodded along as
the first line Hit
cut w-/ Posh .. chugging
stars , throats end to end slit.
Schemes o'er everything
I realise now that you need
these 'things' ,
imaginary or other wise. Anything
to keep the Belief that
Life is worth living.
By their ridiculous Forgery
to emphasise insubstantial shapes , mutilated
text , colour & breathing connecting Heart
to Pen under strict obligation
to remain Nonsense
Above seperate Action.
I just want to be Honest
o'er the vicious Cycles of Trend
inspiring by reflection
We replace real life as we all
like Motion Pictures
Lost within Code
he might be you or me Beating
the walls as we try
out these twillight eyes switching o'er
to Terra's Remote viewing
zoom ignites thy Bone's hollow Fractures
happening, pure & simple , we errode
in a sudden glass moment ...excuse me
& my obvious slander .. Keeping it real may soon dismay
at a pulse of Cheekbones ; Paper artic traces flickering on
nervescreens before our pristine chords reciting
"Nobody's story" revolving round
nothing really ... simple words.
Oh Lord its so clear
All Places & All Times
its just us
trying to make faces in the sky....
and scream no more dropping
for
your daily optic reset calibrating
BRAND NEW
Our CCTV standard view
declining to smash utterly as Minute
Splinters
prevent such ink immediate
between Mind & Matter ,
Powdered Charcol , meaning the whole
Legal Judgement satisfied
Logic there in
Personal reasoning & Multi - simplicity
Leftscreaming up the curb
as if
you were just walking by... Society's Needs
cackling inhuman . Adverts scattering w-/ only One
Purpose rocking aby sentence.
Cast Calm to Create.
A small speck of dirt on my floor
is worse to me than brutal war.
Gritty grime and nauseous noises;
ruin Perfectly prime Poises!
Once you're put together we'll talk,
I'll watch your details like a hawk.
Oh, us early birds get the worm,
if you're late, you'll make me squirm!
Foul bluntness never held my charm,
radicals just cause all alarm...
Life should be like a golden scale,
Beautiful balance never fails!
Beth Watkins
ALIGN WITH YOUR STARS!!
06/05/11
I've sold you your car so just sign on this line
we'll finalize all that you'll need
A little bit here and a little bit there
Can never be tied in to greed
We want to make sure that your problems are few
for a small fee we will undercoat
I see that you notice the smile on my face
it is not my intention to gloat
I know that you'll want to have air in your tires
and a valve to make sure it will stay
It's one of the things that were doing for you
and it's worth the small price that you'll pay
Because we are nice, you get one extra key
there is no charge I'm sure you can tell
We can't give you a spare, we don't have the room
but your donut will serve you as well
Our cost for these items is covered by you
it won't even come to five grand
this is the way that we always have sold
don't tell me you'll now take a stand
You didn't know this and you didn't know that
stop whining now, you make me sick
your vehicle cost you much more that was said
you act as though it was a trick
The cost on the sticker had nothing to do
with the price that you finally paid
we are in this business to make lots of cash
so next time you won't be dismayed