Best Scrutinized Poems
THE NIGHTINGALE LOST HER LAMP
Anita’s eyes were brown.
She was the kindest of angels.
Her speech firm with authority
but reassuring with a glass- like
sensitivity; she seemed to know all.
Prompt as a rooster's first crow,
that's how she is.
She stands like a lioness
ever ready to act, a channel
to prolong the patient's life.
Her heart is a captive cog
of dedicated compassion:
as a wife, as a mother, as a Dean,
Professor, and as a nurse.
She stood always regal in white.
Bearing a sanction of life and death
with each shot made by her gentle hands.
She had Tiger eyes for signs and symptoms;
sponges to absorb order and pressures,
she was simply a lamp for a sick person.
Our batch, she handles with iron fist.
Labeled as "black sheep" – for some of us
are noisy cans but empty inside.
Black sheep but later turned into
the cream of the crop. She stood as
our Samson pillars then despite canyons of
doubts and critiques, our batch defies the odds.
Yet, one day a snapshot happened –
She fainted while teaching.
She was brought to the hospital,
scrutinized and observed like
the frog in my sophomore year.
I was one of the nurses who rendered care.
I watched, how the shining light in her eyes
turned to stormy sadness. I have heard
how her sturdy voice now sounded
a tattered tape only syllables and groans,
no more. Her before supple glowing skin
turned a wrinkled ash — all tautness gone.
Finally, she needs only bags of blood
in two days her life passed my Anita...
_______________________________________________________
Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Show but Don't Tell
Placed 3rd...
O.E. Guillermo
5:15 pm, May 19, 2015
He Sat On His Favorite Bench,
In Their Favorite Park,
Cracked And Crumbled,
His Eyebrows Knitted Together,
He Leered,
Sadness Clouded His Features,
He Drew His Lower Lip Between His Teeth,
From Memories,
His Thoughts Clouded,
Fighting Back Broken Tears,
An Old Woman Appeared,
She Gave Him A Dirty Look,
Her Nose Stuck In The Air,
She Sat Down On His Claimed Bench,
He Scrutinized As She Peered.
Suddenly,
Recognition Dawned On Their Faces,
Her Mouth Curved Into A Smile,
His Eyes Glistened,
Beneath His Almost Tears,
They Were So Much Older Now,
Unrecognizable At First,
But A Love Lost,
Had Prevailed,
And Was Found,
After So Many Years.
~Vickie Thayer~
I had this terrific Idea for a poem
Yet! Was I pushing luck to the hilt?
The judge no doubt will view me with suspicion,
yet surely they need me just as
i need them, if only for
one’s hard earned
empathy!
But what is it that I give of myself?
My rhythmic impulse scrutinized,
my phobic enigma unraveled,
exposed to a worldly
sophistication, alliteration,
simile, amphibrachic metre
they are not here,
only a sudden impulse to emulate the Chris Aechtner's
of this land!
My mind ponders on the justification,
there will be a first! A second, even a last
there is always a last.
Yet! My sensitivity meanders
with me to the post box,
a vice like grip holds
the envelope, what I give,
here now
to be analyzed, a mind
diagnosed, symptoms seen
through the touch of a
fingertip!
© Harry J Horsman 2001
*Image of Julius Caesar by QDT.
The Ides of March
Spun spells pummel our Earth ... as a Sun scanned absence swallow,
vacuumed blues taxes light once deemed eternal ... plus righteousness,
escapism from existence ... edges evacuation,
Birth ere the latter days ... ventured the laurels that were Rome,
the incarnation of iniquity ... masquerade innocence,
like clovers and thistles ... lure eyes above the common grass,
Furtherance besought ... midst tossed bone for multi contentment,
parades that paralyze souls ... usurp minds to sweeping abandon,
celebratory hails the seasoned ... emblem of power,
The gods and goddesses' palms of warring pulse ... 'tis peacetime,
nonetheless ... tributes adorn the temples of Mars in abundance,
'tis time of awash hands of mere grimes ... toxic suffers freely,
Citizens housed upon Palatine ... the triumphant hill,
felicitations honorable legions ... protectors of Rome,
promissory constants ... declared Remus per Romulus,
Roman Senate played a chess game ... Caesar kept them in check,
every move was scrutinized ... made vulnerable and powerless,
autocracy trumps democracy ... seeds gangocracy,
Plans are planted within plans ... schemes are shrouded inside schemes,
the beast entrails read ominously ... Spurina forewarns the marked,
timely debts to be paid in full ... matters to be settled,
At the Courts of Pompey ... the assembly awaits for him,
armorless donning senatorial garb ... metals pierce a man,
till mute ... last recalls *haruspex, "Beware the Ides of March".
*Haruspex; reading of omens from the entrails of sacrificed animals. The subject of Shakespeare's title play came from his thorough accounting of Plutarch's writings.
2022 March 30
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 11
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 April 22
*HMS; 14,16,14 syllables per x 8 stanzas
Realizing, Yearning For Lost Youth Had Birthed Poetic Aches
Just past forest green, field of cold and hard stones
there in his youth he oft sat, rejected, sad and alone;
blissful in solitude and mindful of dark world's hurt
poet in deep thought, how best to write and atone.
Creating realms to shatter earth's hardest day
well beyond this world's mass of whirling decay;
in ragged jeans and older brother's torn shirt
searching, searching for life and a better way.
With pen in left hand and an armada of words
scribbling out verses, only to please singing birds;
with heart's pure joy in each word gushing spurt
he deeply scrutinized all his well crafted words.
Years flew by, sanctuary was lost to worldly greed
slowly, ever so slowly he gave way to selfish needs;
his desires, he in prideful arrogance sought to convert
thus raising his own sorrows from lust's thorny seeds.
Racing back, searching for that field lonely dreams
a child again, escaping world's darkest schemes;
found he, truth and joy replaced by life's great hurt
flowing forth in never ending black raging streams.
Then one fine dawn, he remembered that sad, sad place
cold stones that spoke, spoke to him face to face;
regain thy true soul, plant seeds in fresh, fertile dirt
for thy youthful years, no poetic words can replace.
With far greater knowledge, his grief he forsakes
realizing, yearning for youth had birthed poetic aches;
he sat there in new bought jeans and bright shirt
writing new poetic verses, during sweet coffee breaks.
August 2nd, 2017
--------------
For the 'The Poet's Ache' contest - Greg Barden
I Am A Book
By David J Walker
I am a book of Unread pages
I am a book
I am a book Written in stages in
A travel log On a road called Time
With the foreign stamps Of Passport Ministers
Checking my credentials along the way
I am a book
I am a book Of unread scripture
With the lectures on faith
In staggered chapters and the
Tattered chronicled collections of
Odd jobs We have asked of a Loving God
Written in a foreign language
I am A book
I am a book Of erotic poetry in
Pictograph albums Scrutinized and analyze
Then censored By holier than me censors
I am a book
I am a book With pages numbered
And then sealed Its secrets to be
Revealed in full on an unannounced
Judgment day with Disputes left in the hands of
A Divine Defender
I am a book
I am a book
To be colored Everyday
Where the lines do not matter
Only the hue and The view
In which you see me
I am a book
I am a book Not to be left On the dusty shelf of
A forgotten library Rarely opened in a
Distant history I am a book to be read
And even if misunderstood To be savored
I am a book
The Asian community is scrutinized,
Blacks are killed and cuffed on the street.
You’ll order Pei-Wei and Big Bowl,
Then scope them out, target practice.
The very people arresting blacks,
They are protected by their acts.
But America doesn’t see a uniform,
They only see black and say wrong.
America is so resistant to change,
Failing to admit that their slogan’s fake.
America calls itself the land of the free,
The constant racism could have fooled me.
We can’t sleep in peace for Breonna,
For George Floyd, we got it right.
Justice is still so seldom served,
Living freely is what we deserve.
I think, and you speak my thoughts completely.
Wherein lies truth, if when I die, I lose myself.
My thought and deed lying fallow in decaying tissue.
So I write to save me.
You are in every thought, every deed,
every movement that I make.
You complete me.
When I awake, the first breath that
I take is to exhale a sigh of relief.
You are still by my side.
My soul belongs to God, but my essence
lies in the intangible.
In a form acutely digestible----
to be cussed and discussed.
In discourse, to be thoroughly scrutinized,
labeled and passed on.
The song is rewrit time and time again
and the note of passion sounds
as now within me seething----flowing over.
It dances on the grass
as nymphs in springtime forests.
I close one eye and look at truth
as the side of a coin standing mute.
I look at life spinning, good—bad—good.
But who decides bad- - - good?
The spinning coin has a solid center
which we perceive as real.
The spinning word has the same illusion- - -
we have but to interpret as we see.
Life goes on, after the thrill is gone, but
the thrill goes on as long as we are not alone.
Condemned And Judged
Why is it so hard to say what I am feeling?
Others decides what I can say
What I can do
Who I am
My life is not up to me
I am condemned for my thoughts
Judged for my ideas
Ideas that have to remain unspoken
Not allowed to express myself I stagnate
Thoughts and words rot in their own Hell
Dark and black
The stench of dying thoughts fills the air with a grey-green mist
Even in poetry I am scrutinized
Judged by others who do not know me
The poetry is too dark
That poem is too light hearted
Nothing is right
Nothing is wrong
I wonder who they are.
What gives them the right to voice their opinion?
I don’t know
I may never know
I hate them and what they have done
But there is nothing I can do
Nothing I can say to free me from them
So I will wait
I will fester and I will stagnate
Rotting in a world of drab grey
Until I can be free and express myself
And in that moment I will be happy
Where ever she goes the cameras loom.
They're on to the scent of her perfume.
She sucks the oxygen from the room..
Forever in the public eye, all daily movements scrutinized.
She must dot all x's and circle her y's
Transparent as a bronze gold fish.
Isolated, observed, on a petri dish,
craving for some privacy, a daily wish..
She pulls up her quilt and sleeps until noon,
aware of the face she'll be wearing soon.
She sucks the oxygen from the room.
I relaxed on the couch to feel at ease,
the psychiatrist sat across from me.
This wasn’t any normal physician-
He was my subconscious personified.
A flow of panic surged through my body-
Beads of sweat slowly trailed down my face-
My heart began beating erratically-
My eyes darted in search of an exit-
There wasn’t an exit available!
The sense of fear was running down my spine,
I’m trapped within the walls of my own mind
taunted by the horrors that lie within.
The psychiatrist peered through my file
his eyes scrutinized every incident.
I coughed to break the silence in the room,
but it still constricted the atmosphere.
He initiated conversation:
a trivial attempt to gain rapport.
We discussed my past and current events.
Each story was surgically dissected;
it was torture being under the knife.
I was wide awake through the incisions;
helpless against the tools of a madman.
I grimaced through the pain of memories-
I opened old wounds then they were sown shut-
I’m plagued by a beast that lingers inside-
I need to run before I’m devoured!
My inner turmoil came to a close;
he arrived at a clear diagnosis.
He noted the cycling mood changes:
a constant battle between highs and lows.
The faulty sense of attachment issues
bred in from a childhood beginning.
Sporadic moments of self-destruction;
accompanied by parties and drinking.
The guilt from burning bridges to loved ones
constructed my imposed wall to the world.
He told me he understands my poems
and the theme behind each one I wrote.
From the introspection, private musings
love, temptations and whimsical humor;
it’s a way to channel my redemption
to add a purpose to this unhinged life.
The meeting was officially over.
I unraveled a new revelation:
I’m a continual work in progress
finding my road to a recovery.
Sick, sick, sick
I must be sick,
subjecting myself to
this level of frustration.
Hours of work at
this monster they
call a computer -
type, edit, cut, paste ,
thoughts aside in italics,
line breaks scrutinized.
This needs changing,
take that line out,
add this pithy phrase
for clarification.
Finally, it's as near
perfect as I can make it,
lean back and sigh,
admire the finished draft.
Just space the whole thing
a tad to the right.
NO! NO! Quick
as a lightning flash,
blank page appears.
where is it?
Can't get it back -
X*#0?*#X*@#
Non descript brown wallet
Slightly bent at the edges
Indent of cards on leather
Inside is a Driver’s license
Credit card
Debit card
Building pass
Right hand side
Photos of children
Train pass
Metro card
Retail card from a drug store chain
Six singles in front
Larger denominations in rear
Five, tens and one twenty
Tucked behind the photos
Is an extra twenty dollar bill.
Thumbing through the wallet
Nothing else is found
Contents spilled out onto a formica desk
A life for all to see
Scrutinized under bright fluorescent light
Nothing extraordinary
Just everyday ordinary.
How do we tell the family?
Disdainful moon,
Scrutinized my happiness
And unparalleled delight
Delight that she once felt
Towards her only light
Light that made her beautiful
And displayed her unrivaled might
Might that gradually fading
Because of her shattered pieces heart
Heart that caused her to be secluded,
Torn asunder, and apart
Apart that will no longer be together
And be like exquisite finest art
Art that appreciates beauty
Of the lost and isolated
Disdainful moon
Tragedy Occurred in Dallas, Texas (USA) 2016
A sniper
A peace fight
Police officers lost their lives.
From the highest tower,
Shots are fired.
Over what is stated to be the white man crimes.
Of oppression and a racist society
A peace fight transpired.
Five officers died.
We mourn and we cry,
Shouting the face of America has been scrutinized from
Transgression of another hate crime.
Six were wounded and five died
Over Black lives matter.
Upsetting the balance of society
A sniper manifested.
Upset with white people
He stated he wanted to kill a multitude of them
White police officers especially.
Today is troubled.
Tragedy is an ongoing melee.
Now an uproar throughout the United States.
_____________________________________________________________|
Written July 10, 2016!