Best Sirs Poems
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!
Looking for love on computer lines
in the faces of many strangers
where no light of love ever shines
dancing in and out of dangers.
Looking for love electronic
manly visages on pages.
No welcome home yet in the dark,
broad range of generous ages.
Where is the man that will love me?
Where is the man that I love?
Past days romance came so easily,
like a blessing from above.
Contacts that go on forever,
anonymity, slogans and slurs.
It’s not here now and never was.
“Good day to your countenance sirs.”
2/21/20
n.a STRAND CHOICE T,any form,any theme Contest Judged: 3/30/2020 2:20:00 AM
n.a. RErun 8
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Fallen boys with white crosses,
your nightmares now peaceful dreams.
Gone the shrapnel, the bullets,
trenches of blood crimson streams.
To earth, condemned, fears of men,
fertile ashes to brave dust.
Rouse from warm brotherly beds,
dear sirs remind us you must.
Listen! Trumpet now calling
by dawn soldier's silhouette.
Heed the Last Post of battle,
forever lest we forget.
Arise ye from deep slumber,
Unknown spirits of unseen.
Weep and we will wipe away
your tears from Nineteen Fourteen.
-------------------------
(Syllabic' verse with end-rhyme, 14 syllables per line, 7 syllable caesura)
24/04/2014
Smell Clean!
Sometimes
no rhymes
do we
all see.
Blogs read
instead
can be
ugly.
Some peeps
are creeps.
So sly -
they spy
like moles
in holes.
Yes, sirs,
those curs
bait lambs
and ma’mes.
Some joke
with folk
or tease
blog-ees
Don’t mind
those kind!
But they
can say
mean things
with zings
to poke
at folk;
start fight -
they bite!
As hogs
at blogs
they squeal
to feel
like Kings
of things.
Beware
them there.
Shy guys,
be wise.
Just stay
away.
Trolls might
one night
just roam
your poem;
slam it;
say sh#@.
I think
they stink
with words
like turds.
Advice:
Be nice.
Smell clean,
not mean!
Written March 20, 2017 for Jan Allison's Fabulous Fun Footles Contest
Two scales must always be within an approximate range
for an accurate weight, and the close relationship
between the Humankind and God must withstand any change.
Solutions must be found before catastrophe approaches,
and if we were caught by surprise, we would regret the outcome;
less trees should be cut down to make room for buildings.
Thieves, murderers and rapists should be held in contempt
and thrown into dungeons...instead of giving them cosy cells,
the Law admits that's just to punish, but inhumane to torment.
Nightly streets have been taken over by muggers, drug dealers
and prostitutes, now called escorts, haven't changed their lewd attitude;
even madams of the brothels open doors for the well-dressed sirs.
Society has gone mad, and it has condoned both sexes of equal desires;
never was Sodom and Gomorrah as iniquitous and lustful as this one;
God forbid...I entered this city and be found guilty of their perversions!
While on the outskirts, in run-down homes poverty duplicates its horrible woes,
politicians' corrupt hands are not seen...pocketing money that Congress approved;
and the suffering of the poor is plagued by famines that turn into deadly diseases.
Crooked judges are manipulated by criminal defense lawyers who have handfuls of cash;
justice can never be served when criminals are given their parole, and the innocent,
humble men are detained and put behind bars, because of their limited wealth.
Proud hearts see neither simplicity nor beauty in anything that evolves into splendid light;
self-praise, greed, bluntness and invulnerability are the rules they live and swear by;
humbleness is unacceptable and insignificant...it's a virtue which diminishes their pride.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish beastial animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
***A Parenting Tale***
He must’ve been
Just barely fourteen, but still off as
A ninja filling a pillowcase
with chocolate on Halloween.
Although through all other days
his ken was an avocado green,
That is actually a deep
nubby, buttery green.
The older teens, always girls,
Stood leaning on the fenders of their parent’s cars,
Twirling their lemon curls around
Still child-small index fingers
While foot tapping to some unknown
Time until night cloaked our court.
Then, with a wave of the girl’s arms,
our son collapsed to fit out through
Keyholes or go with the autumn mice
Under the garage door, to slink
From one girl’s car to three, where
Not one pair of pink lips cou answer
me if her parents knew her where?
Hardly a surprise then one night
near ten p.m.,
When authority alarmed, fist-knocking
on our front door. Police?
What is the, aaa, problem, sirs?”
“You’ve a son we’ve gotten word of.
Is he home?” Yes. Well, yes.
Certainly, yes. It’s bedtime…
He comes down, cool from his room to
Join us in the hall, looking face to face,
so sliced-olive green.
The officers, wasted not a second.
“We’ve a warrant for a missing girl,
A friend of yours said you knew.
Have you seen Anna Joe today?” No.
“Have you had company tonight?” No.
“Have friends up there with you?” No.
Then to us, “We’d like to go up to look.”
I was mother-so-proud assuring, “He
doesn’t lie. I’d’ve heard company.”
Within a minute, the parade came down
The stairs: handcuffed girl, officers
with son between them and coming to
Stand by me, supposing it was safe.
I screamed, “You lied! To the police!
To us!” Then, I swung my arm back
And forward again with force from
Knowing how he’d dealt us into danger.
I smacked him hard and loud
in front of the police in that
Scrapbook moment of parenting the idiot
Events of a bean-green teen, which also
ended musical car nights on our
court.
————————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/6/22
BAZAAR
Can you call it a bazaar
Where only one vendor
Her face strained
'Looks' pale, apprehensive
As if caught in a snakes' chamber
Yet searching for a potential customer
Desperate to sell products unheard of
Of human species, bizarre more bizarre
The seller in her early thirties
Skinny as an empty nylon bag
Frail as a TB patient
Seemingly double her age and malnourished
Sat at the small town's big square
Shrilling in the loudest of her voice
'On sale' 'on sale'
One is my son another daughter
The female child is only three sirs
Please don't turn your faces I request
Don't think that she's worth not sale
Within two years she can show her conquest
I guarantee at five
She can lay your table
At seven wash dishes
Two years later can take your kids to school
Then with a jolt in her throat
In one hand raising the three years' face
The other pointed towards the sky
The seller laboured to utter some words
I swear you can run a brothel
Oh! profit-loss Madams and Sirs
With lot much profit and market demand
Can't you see how glamorous her face!
Two drops of tear evaporated
In the scorching and cruel sun
Just after they inadvertently fell
In spite of emotion being tried to shun
Like her alcoholic and savage husband
Her hopes were torn into pieces of waste
Dreams shattered trusts broken
Rifts not repairable by a paste
It made the seller again cautious
She thought the tear might act as mace
Thinking to sell and engaging her saree's pallu
Furtively wiped the wet eyes and face
What it takes for a living
Mobile phones internet
Or just face book likes
Surely not for me
Because I don't have food, clothes
And a house as basic needs
Take this boy
I don't expect from you
Any exemplary parenthood
By your kindness sirs
At least we can get some food
We may not call this square a bazaar
As a hawker, there's only a single seller
But what if we combine altogether
The squares of poverty, immiseration
Deprivation destitution and major calamities
The brunt who bear.
Hey Till it's been a while
Funny how busy I get doing nothing
That ceiling fan you gave us for pointing your chimney is still working well.
I shut it off this morning and thought of you
Those sit around drink and smoke times still linger too
That surprise lunch at the nudist colony we'll never forget
I wonder how many kids remember looking for alligators while
riding to Disney on your bus.
That tip jar was overflowing after the first two loud thank you sirs.
I really enjoyed teaching your three year old grandson to stomp puddles
Memories you made to pass the time of passing
When the oaks wrap themselves in patchwork stoles
and from umber trunks, crimson gems ignite,
the love for Autumn's fire burns in our souls.
A frosty, pumpkin sunrise brings to light,
magnificent arrays of hues so bright.
Oh! The spectacle Mother Nature's made!
She throws confetti; Autumn on parade.
Amber smiles meet with cinnamon kisses;
spiced, hot apple cider for Sirs and Dames.
Through saffron fields, stroll Misters and Misses
on their way to homecoming football games;
Alumni cheering around bonfire flames.
Fun with family, old friends and neighbors.
Ginger my senses; warm Autumn flavors.
09/07/2017
Contest: Autumn Rhyme Royal
Sponsor: Dale Gregory Cozart
This plumly;yield of temperent night,sirs and ladies
Esoterick flooms,buded;tyrant pees_shy faces?
This plain;ungraph of seremic light,ties and lads
Egoscentric moons,burreld;silent tears_passionate likes?
Oh;
my,
candles
alight
All
my,
sandles
are light
These mailing men,obscure bloosom
blind date;dalnty da dady,mumzy laugh
The maiming todlers,abstract geese_goose
change of thought:My remnant sigh?
eye meets sight
eyes as they sigh
Who is Edgar Rice Cakes? What does HE have to do with John Burroughs. Jesus Crisis. a
google search What is this? A novella nuevo bye charlaxandroidoneseven. CA17. Short for
Para Cayce. I have read the DeadSeaScrolling. On the PDF machine. Let me inform on my
brothers in the LORD there is seldom any evidenced. These fragments of Aromaic Archaic
would cause language EXPERTS in the field years of Formatting on a Word Processing
machine. Butt Doctor Caycey has Decided it somehow pertains to Jesus.? Oye Vey. I
admitted in a Court Room of lawyers I have not studied all his problems yet I must admit I
cannot read those fragments of isometric triangular wordage. You must admit these people
did preserve it as iff it were a GOSPEL message. crisischronicles dot com A cave a bunch of
yearns placed near the Monestary Remains to find considering the way Climatic Changes
occur the evelation of the Earth is never level Seas rise where desert climes once failed to
thrive. Perhaps a sub culture of Future Post Apolyptic Snow Men; all white and hairy like the
Yeti. Abominable in every way with patches of glowing purple hair where the radiation has
burned some of the fur away to reveal faults underneath no clothing there. They find a
pristene City walk into the Revolving Door and fall back out until Discovering when to exit
one. What fun. The lobby generator comes on. The Computor Hums. One Yeti moves the
mouse Experimentally they gape at Windows song. Not one of them Yeti can get the
Computor to do anything they are all just too old. A Robot walks up to the terminal. May I
help you SIRS? and /or Madames? They step back agape at this hairless ape a tinsel steel
replica of charlaxandroidoneseven. He types in poetrypoem dot com charlax7 Let me show
you my website boys? Do you like poetry as prose? As they fall about the place guffawing
they come out rolling the first time I ever saw a bunch of Yeti lawghing. So here we pause.
As DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX grows cold.
One whole in the top and two in the other,
Always given by your mother.
Silk or cotton, you’ll never know,
Yet you’ll never want to show.
They can be warm or breezy free,
High on your thigh or down to your knee.
Wear them inside or by the dock sirs,
You guessed it right, they are your boxers.
Where I am From
I am from the old fashion days
from the yes mams and no sirs, to
the slips with a dress or skirt
from dust particles in my nose
(from cleaning floor boards and ceiling fans)
I am from the endless bruises to
the lively parties,
...that mom threw when we had all As
the constant bicycle accidents or the sudden
trips down the stairs
I'm from my only love sprung from
my only hate, the endless Shakespearean faze
From the haters and the preps and
the don't get beat down to give them a
beat down.
From make my heart rejoice from
the one that is taunting me and trying
my best to apply verse 22 of Galatians
I am from Grandma Odessa's Sugar cookies to
Moms mouth watering chicken pot pie
From the burn mark on my tongue from a battery
to my dads tattoo that he did himself
Upon the shelf's of my closet lay
my dress box and senior album,
overflowing with old pictures from
house or school
Many names I remember
many faces I chose not to,
reliving some good days at school, and
reliving the times I wish I could have blown it up
I am from happy childhoods to learning from
my mistakes adulthood
from childhood memories lost to most gained
and many stored
The good, The bad, & The now content
This is where I am from