Best Scoped Poems
In life's surly tusks in the frost of high morn without sun's rays; yet, the sky sheds sprinkled whispers of the day to become as a grizzly ray of scoped out hope in a hole of abysmal steely abyss as a meteorite's crater of earthy tones of red mud clay turned into heated golden bowls of fruit contained within. To throw out over a mounatain top for Goddess Kali. Three arms filled with arrows to dart back with boomerang like love into millenium's to surmise itself real-- as insanity envelopes and encompasses an out of touch reality in the arms of weeded truth!
My father was my link to beer
And Rheingold was his brew.
That red and white can held the only
Lager that I knew.
As I grew up I switched to wine -
Sangria was in style -
And even learned to like some booze -
Tequila, for a while.
But years ago I drifted back
To early brewski days,
Especially when I discovered
Hoppy IPA's.
Back then, the stores had just a few
So I scoped out my faves.
I tried to spread the word but
Very few confirmed my raves.
Yet happily for me, today,
The craft beer movement's hot
And with so much to choose from,
There are loads I like a lot.
My dad, if he were still alive,
Would sip and shake his head,
Rejecting all those crafty brews
For Rheingold-types instead.
But each of us would raise a glass
(Or bottle, can or mug)
And share a father-daughter toast
Before we'd smile and chug.
Each human around me sweats
Wears sunglasses
Smacked by gusts
A nesting couple hollows me,
Two tawny, tiny twitterpates
Ready for rainstorms,
And I would be happy.
But, this spring, I am still barren,
Like the young man's eyes
Across from me
I see sitting in midnight blue
Rising randomly observant riding shotgun
Glancing blue at human beauty
Asking aloud if hollow or healer
Earbuds grind
A slave to passion
Looking for mirrored darkness
In-between long pauses of reading
Dead poets,
Wishing for weather less crazy
Possibilites
Mouthing "Why did I let her in?"
"What if I take my life tomorrow?"
Vibes absorbent dancing Back-alley Wasteland.
I rustle my dryness fervently--
Dissuasion?--
When the next gust sweeps this asphalt lot,
My home.
He notices,
Eyes fully scoped
Blue iris majesty,
"Why didn't I care when she died?"
he asks me or maybe it's a question for my arms.
"Love summertime, hollow sunshine,"
And the sky of half-sun weeps
neither bitterness nor solace.
Together we would love
An oasis for the coming summer
Another real one
Doesn't wear sunglasses
Shading intentions unnatural,
Prone giftings pure fire
No human nor tree
Ever since has seen.
The young man's family returns.
The car starts.
The rain spreads to another heart
In Jersey; tawny twains uprooting sanity.
I part with this man
I've only seen once before
Wishing I'd spoken something
Besides "Soul firewood."
in some places there
are
triple direction pathways
forked
by moonlit freedom of will
or
imagination
process parallelograms mockingly
flow-
charted retrograde inside
or beyond
excruciating blissfulness
foreseen
by therapeutic forefathers in
treason
of religion by mutiny of
mind
wrapped up pentagrams and
ladders
ever higher while ham bakes
truth
underneath silver mines of
blackened trees scoped through
relative lenses closing in on
gravity
slowly drowning in preciously
metered
time
burned down silence;
scoped down my guilty finger tips
on your warm aching bones that had so
been collapsed by a child
into our faint abyssal nothingness
that i had released.
our child. bread by your nurture;
your perfect conditions - 37°
pure in its own ignorance, melting
down in it's father's unearthly demise
Justification allows purpose
And so I allowed oceans
to be pulled
apart
Something so mighty i told you
Comprehension of power
that allowed a devil's excavation
through our reflective, blue paradise,
to unearth a barren land.
Now still innocent in intention
this big, round, white and black
baby's head sets on;
destined for 14 over appreciated
destructions.
Form:
As so I was watching a show late last year with my mother
The mother that squeezes me because I'm her daughter,
With kisses she passed me the bowl of chips and we sat down together and watched the t.v flip, flip, flip.
A poor woman living in Pakistan, as pretty as can be,
married a man of wisdom but a man of insanity.
She left the four walls of bricks and dung and left them for conversation and sun,
she scoped the corners with eyes not guns,
and walked into the day - loving the fun,
she ran into her cousin who was shaking to bits,
he hadn't eaten all day, she could loop around his wrists.
She stood and she whimpered and she cried in his arms,
which snapped just like twigs - but that's not what alarmed ,
her,
her,
she was caught with her cousin, speaking about life and soaking the sun in,
her , her.
He found her and grabbed her and dragged her home,
she screamed and she kicked and she said "No! No!"
Her cousin just stared and fell to the ground,he sat there in the heat and placed his head down.
Her husband brought her home and brought her to the kitchen -
he hog tied that beauty and broke all her ribs in.
he took a pair of pliers and snipped off her tongue, and then took a knife and cut her right down.
He stood right above her and looked in her eyes,
he spit in her face, then took her own sight.
” I did this for my honour, I did this because I love her. I cut out her ears so she doesn’t hear things I don’t want her to hear. I also then cut out her eyes because I did not want her to see things I didn’t want her to see.”
And this is exactly who she happened to marry.
She is now undergoing plastic surgery and her husband is sentenced,
14years in prison for all of his actions.
“I have no ears, and have no eyes ; but I can still hear all your lies, you’ve snipped my fingers all right off, all because I had to cough, you’ve snapped my ankles both in two, because I spoke to a man who was not you, you’ve ripped my back open with a heavy axe, I do not think our love will last,you’ve slit both my wrists open wide, if this is ÿour honour”I’d rather so die”.
No mention of benefits your efforts will bring,
No sign of a business case these should be in,
No overall strategy roadmap or plan,
no timeline or gant chart with a product life-span.
No formal test process and no UAT,
With no business input and SME free,
With a host of stakeholders drawn straight out of college,
With very little experience and even less knowledge.
Constantly playing to management vanity,
Creating a model that defines insanity,
Repeatedly following those several flawed steps,
But somehow expecting much better effects?
The lack of a leader and co-ordination,
A media blackout with no communication,
Experience of colleagues continually spurned,
And there’s no documentation and no lessons are learned.
Expectations are raised and the business have hopes,
But they’re soon to be dashed as these things are de-scoped,
And if you should challenge this deployment style,
They’ll just tell you you’re negative and that we’re working ‘agile’.
I saw there was a mow-down in Las Vegas
of country western loves.
And also heard our President
was about to share his view.
But before he had his chance
to enlighten one and all,
I figured his best solution
was to hope before the next time
we'll all do our patriotic duty,
go out and buy the best automatic multi-repeating rifle
with scope that we can afford to buy,
so everyone can keep a well-scoped eye
on all the other country western wise
before we blast each other's patriotic duty
to stand and salute both our flags of equally good history,
leave no child with any color standing,
left unpatriotically behind.
The Thylacine, the Caspian tiger,
the Caribbean monk seal…
As these beasts disappear,
the most cruelty-vorous species appears.
They are homologous with humans
but their bearings are too brutal.
Though plenty in Asia,
their habitats are found in all the continents.
They hold the holy books
that they never read.
Tender feelings are scoped out by their tamers.
Empty sensorium.
Even the shattered body of an infant
won’t wet their eyes.
They chew the cud of bloody thoughts in isolation,
entranced by a heaven.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press, US).
I choose to dwell in frothy clouds…
with a mindset unfixed
Random instincts spaced out
In the cumulus mix
An expansive effusion
Far out and beyond my temporal shackles
Free are my thoughts without prompt
Closed minds shallow and
desolate debacles
dissipate in this airy romp
On wispy clouds I dwell in…
high above I’ve risen
Here no need to reason
nor the blends of interpretation
Far away, so far from you, ascended
From the fiery pit below
which awaits my return
Where blazing saddles shame my name
where gross gossip lives and
bloody rumors stain,
Ablaze are the blame games
I dwell in cirrus pillows…
The scoped hemispheric
veils, bands and billows
Musings— using me
I chose to dwell in halo clouds
My mind with no refrains
Nothing to lose nothing to gain
A spirit free from hate
Soley my mind
Opens heaven’s gate
Shoot the Hootch O dear
The raft is wild upon the flow
I could walk across no fear
If the active Christ said so
I’d choose rubber or wood
Back scratched by splinters
Or stuck with you in childhood
After shiver and shake Winters
God could part the river wood
To wood I’d race you then
across slippery silt and driftwood
You’d be amazed and praise Amen
Shoot the Hootch It’s vividly spry
Shade’s in the leaning branches
In May the water is on a high
And you’d no worry of avalanches
God showed me hidden beauty met friend
I stood scoped took in the riverscape
In the sun and zephyr I’d mend
Out in nature’s playground escape
5/7/2022
Through the Smoke
Written By: D. Collins 3/31/17
I am on point, and I see through the smoke.
The game you’re playing has already been scoped.
A man like me has been around the block.
That what you think I am, I’m definitely not.
I come through the smoke with my ugly on.
Paying you a visit in the very, early morn.
Decked in a ski mask and camouflage fatigues.
Coming like Seal Team 6. Quick and pristine.
When I creep up you’ll never know I was there.
Like a ghost in the smoke named Chaos Despair.
The next time you see me, I’m there to chastise.
And, peer deep into your silver-dollar eyes.
At that moment, you’ll know it isn’t a hoax.
Me, standing before you, is far from a joke.
There will be no witness or innocent casualty.
When it goes down, it will be just you and me.
merciless genocide
slaughter of native peoples
wrought with (super) wanton zeal
feeble ability to thwart
"discoverers" rapine wicked onslaught
merely ratcheted wrecked webbing
wrenched tribal unity,
violently rent asunder
vibrant indigenous linkedin weave
rendered sacred weltanschauung
decimated "noble savage"
woke wretched nightmare,
sans pock marked worsted weal
the Native American holocaust
shrouded in whitewashed veil
tragedy trampled truces
triggering tearful trail
scoped scattered remnant
snuffed out via surveil
futile sympathetic remonstrances,
viz rant and rail
hermetically sealed
dirty deeds done dirt
blunted, cheapened,
and deadened
lance armstrong to quail
most definitely coloring faces
of captive
American Indians deathly pale
into figurative coffin
got hammered
rusty nine inch nail
subpar critical population mass
for survival, plus storied "red man"
bereft of ample potent male
off limits to original proprietors
forced to hightail
happy hunting grounds o'er hill and dale
becoming desiccated bleached bones
devoid of awful, pitiful,
and sorrowful fait accompli
and roaming spirits
like banshees bewail
grievous shadow a blot doth cause me to ail!
Paul Jackson Pollock
Condense versions that affected the times,
Immense variants that scoped his pleasures,
Florence immersed unravel a mentor,
Propense expounds at immortal measures.
Paul J. Pollock, painter, from Wyoming,
Haul labeled abstract impressionist art,
Gall at pouring, splashing, horizontal,
Call, was his ardor, loved beyond his heart.
Drip technique viewed canvass at all angles,
Whip body whole, frenetic dancing style,
Flip the brush, traverse the canvass boldly,
Grip abrupts a hold, paint flicks, dons a smile.
Divide hath praised his immediacy,
Pride his fluency of the creation,
Deride the random effects of his art,
Astride the split, sits a fenced summation.
Face that he wore was like seasons changing,
Space art goes on, naught a start, nor an end,
Trace that he drew, nay pictures, but events,
Chase rare acclaimed, never, nor what they penned.
He paints Blue Poles in 1952,
The Australian government purchased it,
Be it known, poles sought, chase made, was futile,
We found the entitled, be a misfit.
First, the Mural most expensive of his,
Burst, Number 17-A, naught mellow,
Dispersed, Mural on Indian Red Ground,
Versed, The Deep black and white, hints of yellow.
Guise his failing marriage with Lee Krasner,
Unwise, alcohol, substitutes his wife,
Empathize, Ruth Kligman, unfaithfulness,
Dies, drunk driving, Ruth lived, late renown life.
2020 February 08
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT J ,any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
"Look there's a pissbum"
She whispers to me as I'm walking down the street
Someone is walking their Jack Russell
"There's a cute hogger"
Our private language runs through my veins
I now see the world through her eyes
I pass a yellow and green house
A happenstance reminder of her favorite team's colors
A ready, constant smile
I see the world through green-colored glasses
Ha! Her green eyes
"It runs every thirty minutes"
Her brain can wrap around a bus schedule
Where am I going?
She always knows
"Let's cross the street now"
She always had change for inexpensive pop machines
They're a find where ever they be
Always Diet Pepsi
We scoped out a backyard
Where she raised her kids
"I used to go out for coffee once a day,
it was my only escape"
She's usually with me
When I'm roaming around
Slipping away
When I'm home alone
"Honey, there's a blue moon"
I remember skygazing when the nights were cold
Days when the world was an infinite space
I hope the whispers never leave