Best Sayer Poems
Hope
I care not for the odds
Spoken by sooth sayer voices
They are blinded by statistics
For a seemingly sure concept
Though a bleakness dampens
Every fainting ray of light
There exist an unexplainable God
Characteristic of sensitivity
Endowed to man by birthright
To no other creature but he
In my bleakest hour
I dare not say
I do not believe
What I search for is an impossible concern
A thing so obscured
There seemingly just isn't a way
I trust not in mortal man
He does not grok the serverity of his own plight
For God my Father has just the plan
My wants are as heavy on my heart
As a weight to a drowning man
I can not save nor free a single sinner man
To heal the unhealable
Lame to walk again
To save the dieing
Breath to life again
I view both the rising and setting of sun
I walk in a light not viewed by temporal man
The wretchedness of worldly life
As I seek to do what is right
Infringed by fear of plotted death
What so ever to be my plight
Hope sustains when all reasonable efforts are tested
Hope- the belief in worldly impossibilities
Hope -the sweetest of God given characteristics
Hope -the strength to endure the unimaginable
Hope -the force of movement to that which would make still
Hope -the song for the heart when all instruments fail
Hope -the submission to death for there is life yet awaiting
Hope –the gift from God for our rejoicing
super boll
boll weevil twin brothers: one was great, one the lesser of two weevils
you killed my father, prepare to die
three-legged dog in a saloon: "looking for the man who shot my paw"
a news headline i'd like to see
buddhist avoids novocain wants to transcend dental medication
somewhere in the middle
she once told me i was average i said she was just being mean
that would be a real night-mare
he tries to not talk like a horse doesn't want to be a neigh sayer
what's a particle like you doing in a place like this?
neutron asks "how much for a beer?" the bartender says, "for you, no charge"
eleventh one's the charm?
i entered ten pun contests hoping one would win
no pun in ten did
Happy New Year to all... may your 2023 be filled with smiles
Whatever happens I'll always love you
Cheftik bi nhar kanoun
W tala3et bel sama
Elet ya rab lech sayer majnoun
Hayda 7elem aw hayde 7a2i2a
Njoum el sama kella
Saro yebermo 7awalayke
W hadafon bi hal zyara
Ysir ydawo metel 3inayke
Lebnen ya balad albe
Kif m5aba hek raw2a
Jamela malak el denye
W kel el2loub bi 3youna
Abel ma te5la2e
Ken el kon bala me3na
Hala2 bi ma ennik mawjoude
El 3alam le2a amira
Ba3ed ma 7adan stehal 7obik
La2ano ma fi 7adan men moustawa jamelik
Ktir mabsout enne t3arafet 3alayke
La2ennik cha5ess byeswa el jane
5alike mabsouta ya amira
Kermel kel hal denye
De7ektik ya zahra
Bet waze3 kel el ma7abbe
Ade is a 2.5 wheelchair basketball player,
Who was born in Lagos in Nigeria in 1978,
His home town is Liverpool, a Mersey sayer,
In Spain club BSR Amiab Albacete is a date.
He lives partly in London, joined the Bullets,
And he’s travelled with the sport worldwide,
German, Italian, Israeli and South Korean sets,
Sunshine is his normality to love and abide.
In 2003 at the Europeans in Sassari in Italy,
Ade and his basketball team won the bronze,
And in 2005 at more Europeans, Paris’s sway,
The GB squad came second with silver cons.
Then in 2007 at the World Champs, Germany,
A silver was wrought, and in Beijing in 2008,
TeamGB won a bronze to the podium occupy,
And in 2011 a gold fell, Isreali Euro freight.
2013 and TeamGB won the Euros, Frankfurt,
2015 they won another Euro gold, Worcester,
So in 2016 at Rio Ade contributed to support,
His team to add a bronze to this large cluster.
Ade was jailed by Liverpool Crown Court,
For claiming over £33000 of state benefits:
Housing, council tax benefit, income support,
In 2009 he spent six months with jail slits.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Twenty-Eight
Other media meanwhile busy with who’s sleeping with whom
Relying on New-Sweep and Thyme to make loud front-page zoom
Mainly of those who leapfrog into top power palaces
On whether de Beauvoirs or transvestites be given more room
Dohr took dire toll on the High Prelate’s laboured vocal chords
And just as the Chief pow-wowed with advisors and legal boards
So did His Holiness with a delegation come from afar
The results as well as can be expected turned out: Discord!
The wily Franquist woman counselor slammed the Chief’s car door
And bee-lined the barred gates of the trysting hotel’s portico
The Chief sent Commandant in hot pursuit of bent-backed woman
Scarf drawn over pockmarked scalp limpet-mouthed suction sore
As the dohr throngful of the Faithful streamed out queues formed for asr
The Commandant waylaid the Imam come out for some air:
“…ad subjiciendum… Omar…Tent Maker’s prodigal heir…”
“Means thou Umar ibn Al-KHattap…Exalted Caliph Sire?”
Non-plussed the Commandant looked hard at Writ in his thick hands:
“Your Holiness! Be it thy pleasure to peruse these commands!”
One yea-sayer read aloud: “Oooo..maaaar ibn al-Khaaayyaaaamm…”
“Who? Must be that drunken half-Turk by rich widows favour finds!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
it's kind of funny
how time walks away
i don't feel like
saying grace today
everything hurts
much more then they say
tuesdays no longer
remember your smile
scars are the souvenirs
of the loneliest child
the memory itself
writes you away
i don't wanna be here anymore
my hearts felt the dust
no i don't wanna be here anymore
sail on sooth sayer, sail
it's like sometimes you can't win
but then again i feel like
i could never really fail
through the mirror
i image an image pale
restricted for commerce
like a prostitute
trying to make the proper sell
here we are behold unearthed
true to the soul,
spirit, body and mind
it's kind of crazy
how you can capture more momentum
starting up from the bottom
being beaten and coming up
from the land down under
may the perpetrators be kissed briefly
slaughtered later
love letters from a bastard
to kind of a raped mother
grab the extinction cord
i already duck taped the other
the youngest of nine children
last man standing
out in the wonderland withering
see the ocean set apart from the sea
relax the your head darling
and come hither
i don't wanna be here anymore
my hearts felt the dust
no i don't wanna be here anymore
sail on sooth sayer, sail
she said
i don't understand
your goodbye
questions,
all these questions
why, why, oh why
I told her i said,
every thing's rhetorical
despite you and I
stars burn
in the sleepless sky
as the candles dim
and night falls alive
between you and I
and it shines so bright
that i can't see a thing
but sometimes
i see it all
i've been used
to losing touch
but i'm kind of wish
too far gone
a shooting star
one miracle away
from being
exactly who you are
the rain dabbles
in the face of the sun
and sometimes life
is all heat and no fun
but sometimes
you have to say goodbye
to where you're coming from
and kindly walk away
to a better day
and just like that
she went into the dark
she sang out,
i got seizures to spark
and true life
it's some kind of bizarre
she put the needle in her arm
and sang out
never mind who you are
never mind who your are
I don't give a Fck who you are
Scott Joplin, Paul Simon and the Beatles pop,
The Stones, Dire Straits and, Yes & ZZ Top.
Bob Dylan plays his heart out, Northern Soul,
Rod Stewart, The Traveling Wilburys do their stuff,
And as if that isn't enough, there's Jeff Wayne,
With his War of the Worlds in a musical vein.
Cajun, Bluegrass and Dueling Banjos to boot.
I got Spike Jones & his city slickers, what a hoot.
Bill Haley, Leo Sayer, and some Monkeys abound,
Each one giving out their awesome own sound.
Now Meatloaf is a band I love to hear.
Coming close behind is the great Chris Rea.
Eric Clapton always stops me in my tracks,
Charlie Parker and Stan Getz on their Sax,
Some great big band sounds at their backs.
All this and more on my headphones tonight,
Just listening to music has been my delight.
I have cleared all the shelves, nothing is left,
All on my spare hard drive, I'll not be bereft.
I hope the charity shop this stuff can sell,
So more folk can enjoy this music as well.
© Dave Timperley 25/10/2018
April 7 Scripture Meditations Based on 2Chronicles 33-36
Key Verse – 2Chronicles 33:13 And prayed unto him: and he was intreated of him, and heard his supplication, and brought him again to Jerusalem into his kingdom. Then Manasseh knew that the LORD he was God.
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR HEARING MY SUPPLICATION
Thank You for hearing my supplication-entreaty
Whenever I humble myself before You in my infirmity
Truly repentant with utmost sincerity
Surely seeking Your forgiveness-security.
Thank You for hearing my supplication-request
Whenever I yield myself to You to be heavenly blest
Truly eager to please You in my divine quest
Surely enjoying Your precious gifts, always best.
Thank You for hearing my supplication-plight
Whenever I submit myself to You along bliss-delight
Truly thankful that You grant my heart’s delight
Surely trusting Your heart from selfishness’ flight.
Thank You for hearing my supplication-lamentation
Whenever I offer myself to You, devoid of shallow consecration
Truly diligent in overcoming worldliness’ temptation
Surely depending on You for my maturity’s fruition.
Thank You for hearing my supplication-earnestness
Whenever I surrender myself to You with faith’s fullness
Truly expectant for Your answer of graciousness
Surely waiting for Your favour’s goodness.
Thank You for hearing my supplication-prayer
Whenever I entrust myself to You midst doubt-slayer
Truly joyful by Your Word that’s wisdom-sayer
Surely needing Your presence against soul-destroyer.
April 7, 2022
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Twenty-Nine
“Sire!” cried a lame yea-sayer: “I know this mad hookah addict!”
“Then drag him here by the scruff of neck be it hook or by trick!
But first when thou seest him Jap-slap him before and after!”
The unfortunate crony jerked crab-wise for fifteen slabs of brick:
And came toppling back: “Your Holiness! What Jap-slap really mean?”
“Slap him when you first see him and then slap him after seeing him!”
“Oh! How might that be, Sire? Right at this hour Abdul dreams deep!”
“Well, pluck him from Widow Zaynub’s lap! Shake down his heroin!”
And even as blood thawed in dragonfly under water veins
The dribbling pitter-pattering rains unclogged the stubborn drains
Hidden stifling demons shook ominous wings to draw the veils
The shroud of mists lifted over the assembled hosts’ terrains
To reveal the pent-up currents of mystifying self-hood:
The Commandant strove to confront the prelate in the right mood
The Imam caught up over and above sacrament duties
While Robo-Cops and the Faithful hung fraught by their livelihood
Regional Council convened in the Mairie spindle tower
Chief of Staff rounded up forces’ heads at the Prefect’s bower
The Writ-Server constrained sang: “I must this behest unload…”
“STOP!” cried the Imam, “I must this very hour conduct asr!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Don't protect me with your sugar,
your honey, and your sweet desserts.
My body, this body rejects them
with itchy skin and an itchy heart.
Don't protect me with that glaze layer,
the blanket of sooth sayer.
When the real story is easier to know.
Straight and direct.
No powdered confect.
I want the meat
and the reality...
Not the detour
and soften blow.
Because you know,
when we find out the truth
we don't believe truth
under your sweet tooth.
We are the cavities of your hypocracies...
So gimme a little floss
and some detafris
and I'll be on my way
with this forgiveness list.
Because now I'll trust
what I hear from the one
I hold so incredibly dear.
Because he may justify,
but he doesn't hide a lie
with frosting and sprinkles.
He delivers with justice
even if he wriggles and writhes.
He is unable to lie
like me...
unless slightly unconsciously.
But that is our intention here...
to become the clear conscious Christ.
So whatever hides in the shadow
we pull into light
with diligency and love to Be.
So forgiveness ahead
because you don't feed me sugar words
only sugar in my coffee
and too much salt in my eggs.
I love you, Amen.
I am the loose paper prophet
Prophetising profetisms as loose
As the paper on which I write them
I stand between you and my mind like a Moses,
An oracle intoxicated by the fumes of Delphi,
Possessed by the demons of my creativity
Scribbling on loose paper
I am a prophet.
I prophetise the words of my mind
To your ear lobes,
Till the words resonate in the deeper parts of your dome
But it must hit home if religious
Then false are my prophesys
And proven false prophet I am
But a prophet none the less
I prophetise worldly visions
Like herbalists high in search of better days
Dreaming of thugs mansions
And moments of silence
And how you will see me when you get there
If you ever get there
I am a loose paper prophet
But soothe sayer by no means
Ma paper boasts bursts of ink that
Colour the truth as I see it
Prosaic verses in libre,
This is me I deliver
In the midst of papers floating as leaves rustling in the wind.
Yes, this is me
Prophetist of the loose pages.
Thanks, LuLoo, our writing kazoo, for form challenges helping us think anew.
Gratitude to Jan, our limerick sultan, for her warmth touching all in Soup land.
Blessings, Jo, our prayer-sayer, for Soup’s uplifting, spiritual, lyrical care.
Appreciation to Broken Wings, our angel of dark, for her consistent Soup mark.
Merci, Nette, our imagery master, for being Soups’ unique, comment aster.
... CayCay Jennings
October 11, 2016
Contest: CB Tribute Contest, Andrea Dietrich
1st Place - everyone got 1st place
"SPIRITED GIBBERISH"
Curtained eyes droop, closing, cleansing, visions. Feathering sunlight. Splintering waked-vivid lashes dreaming of the day. Eyes concealing retreat from here, to there, to what once was, weightless pestilence, plumy blights. Wind-born, am I, are you, are they? They are all, that is, this day, until then. The here-after, the eternal, evermore, ceasing to end.
The sun’s high noon burn, midday life delighting indulgent nectar and poisons and berries, and hostile hide-outs. All, always, prayerful for sanctuary, pursuing salvation. Knowing nothing of a savior. Beasts entrusting the young to the wilds, wild-things, a wild thing-god, a thing, God, a god child, God’s child, in the middle dreaming wild.
Dusk sets the night, pyres for light. Chilling the fragile coos of fragile new marrow. Soothing-long, longing for soothing. Behold, a sooth-sayer begotten in the latter, an elder, lending cryptic scribbles, scrawling epistles. Enchant the ebon skies, dreams besotted by the corrupt, beyond the pale.
Prayers grasp at lucid kindles, sparking beacons, praise-dragged undertow. This display, playing age long into the moon-lit hours, into the starry night, night’s day, daydreaming. Dreams laying in waste, shouldering boasts, flanking fears. Pray, next for the embers to brighten the eyes sinking into the face of the darkness, shining light as we sleep.
Poems request that I be authentic.
I am unsure my pen can take it.
I live life as an emotional sayer,
but should I now reveal each layer
my blood will spill upon this paper.
I have sought to give life tender smiles
while enduring heart wrenching trials.
I have glued events found fragile
into some matter I can handle.
I have not once run or pretended,
or taken pain and tried to bend it,
for one truth grew – my Father sent it.
To have peace, I must befriend it
or, God forgive, I must end it.
One small second is all powerful
and all it took to destroy all I knew.
It did not eclipse past tears lived thru,
but forever altered pain’s known hue.
Here I am, at the mid-century mark
searching out a new life for my heart.
Such desires are not easily caught.
The universe bruised, we constantly fought.
Life injures, it will hurt and blister.
Then there is joy, the sweetest kisser,
and for that I am still prompted on,
longing for fear-notes to leave my song.
Sadness revealed my spiritual soul,
took it thru hell to achieve its goal.
Each hurt is a small grain of my total pain,
so raw and brave behind my human name.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirty-One
The Tent-Vendor’s son kept whining and wailing on the road
Such that none could even hear their own thoughts mocking aloud:
“Now what doth yon Sirrah untimely break open our contained Faith!”
Exclaimed the High Prelate, white crown-band an overwhelming load
“Sire!” called a yea-sayer, “He crieth like some thwarted fiend!
For – says he – his war service won him neither medal nor friend.”
“And what might that service be?” – thundered the Imam all fired.
“At thirteen ball-bearing catapult blew a légionnaire’s mind!”
“Allah! Forbid! Come to judgment! Free this miscreant’s soul!”
All around the sacred ground ‘Insch’allah!’ echoed the Faithful!
Eyes fixed on sky, the Imam cried: “Can such be true?” Loud silence reigned.
Up stepped the Commandant, “Yes, Your Holiness! Word, deed and all!”
“Our files attest to this forfeiture: he now works for us!
On the list of the Franquist Woman he collects détritus!”
“Our mind boggles: why wouldst thy sworn enemy now be thine?”
“Thwarted enemies make the best enemies of enemies!”
“Sire! Whilst we are on the subject, I beg Thy condescension:
Habeas corpus ad subjiciendum… Ibrahim’s son…”
“STOP! Will’st thou refrain from thine use of Canon and Sceptre!
Here on consecrated soil it’s beyond our comprehension!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014