Best Slated Poems
Simply unaware....or perhaps I don't care
what others say or do
It's partially true
I'm through
Used to care what they think
of my words, of my ink
not anymore....
So much more is in store
you see...rhymes keep knocking at my door
I write and you explore
I won't be intimidated
slated or hated
my thoughts confiscated
by he said she said judgement calls
and so the mic falls
Applause reverberates
and oh how it sates
this little heart of mine
it sounds almost...divine
approval affixed
on my lines, on the mix
of these thoughts and these scribbles
gone is the dribble
of inconsistent scales
yes, it all pales
for I blossom, yes I strive
here in my poetic tribe
the true and the tried
the ones who remain
the ones who refrain
from unkind jabs
drawing blood, leaving scabs
wounds remain...
sad refrain
Yet, tranquility is my gain
I'm stronger
I've stayed here longer
and I will thrive
"staying alive"
for the select few
people like you
and people like me
who love poetry
Pseudonyms, pseudogames
I've seen them come and go
and this much I know
truth is tenacious
staying power's for the gracious
weathering the storm
an exception, not the norm
this much I can tell you:
rhymes remain resplendid
all the way through time
poetry
will
shine
Eileen Manassian
Faraway, across a widening
Expanse of vacant fields,
Dawns slated light is gradually
Awaking;
And too soon new Morn's stilled
Indifference
Determinedly steals
Into the abstractions of my fitful
Dreams,
Where, deeply concealed,
Many forgotten memories from days
Since past -
Ne'er once unto me unworthy...
Although long be they in their
Forsaking.
Those languid days, that, lately,
I quite often see and hear
Crowding throughout my wandering
Slumbers;
Vivid recollections, interns of a
Jumbled mind - for ages absent,
Beginning now to inexplicably reappear;
Insistent murmurings troubling -
Troubling incessantly:-
Unwelcomed guests from
Yesteryear...
Strange impositions, of a sorts,
Burdening upon this weary soul,
Which, encamped within my
Dampened Spirits -
Doth so unwittingly encumber!
He was known as Joltin John
With his baseball bat and his cap upon
He played the game with vigour and speed
Many a supporter said he was all that they need
Was born Guiseppe Paolo DiMaggio number eight child
Lived in America for his eighty four years 'til he died
Played as centre fielder during all his career
With the New York Yankees, who he held dear
Described by some as an uncaring brute
Responsible for Marilyn Monroe sliding into disrepute
With sedatives and such by dominating her so much
Controlling her career to stop her kissing men and such
He craved the limelight just for himself
Yet disliked Marilyn doing the same herself
Yet on the field he was no freak
Known for his 56 game hitting streak
Was MVP winner three times with determination
An all star in each of his thirteen seasons
You will find him in the baseball hall of fame
Look closely you will see his name
Was voted as sports living legend of all time
Was the baseball centennial year of nineteen sixty nine
His first wife was Dorothy Arnold an extra on the film
in which his minor role endured her to him
Married for just five years a son was born
Carries the name of Joseph John
In later years after the Arthur a Miller charade
DiMaggio rescued her from the tormented life she had
Would sit and read poetry on their latter years
Finding a Contentment that slated all fears
So this man had his bad points and good
Needed to reach his soul to be understood
Deep down inside he loved Marilyn for sure
This we will never find out, cos he is no more
He stands alone high in his baseball we surely know that
As a father and husband on his nose he fell flat
.
Remember when we see these idols it's all outer skin
We will never ever know what they are thinking within.
penned 20/4/2015
Spending three full days and two nights at sea
Is surely the best vacation for me
Conch chowder dinner the night before
At dawn adieu to the Key West shore
Round-trip journey to Dry Tortugas
Swordfish are known to put up a fuss
It could take four hours just to reel in
Set the reel on drag and watch it spin
Some folks say it’s the thrill of the catch
There’s so much fun in the sparring match
A battle between woman and fish
Three-hundred-pound prey, no better dish
The best reward comes at dinnertime
Succulent fare in sauce made of lime
Some can’t relate and I understand
But fresh-caught fish is better than canned
From the Gulf Stream straight to the table
This adventure requires no fable
Working out with weights ‘fore I embark
Knowing swordfish are no easy mark
Snorkeling too at Tortuga reef
Expectations are beyond belief
My idea of a perfect vacation is slated for May 30 to June 1. Entry for Carol
Brown’s “It’s Time for a Vacation” contest.
Here, as the dark city glistens
Here, as the dark city glistens,
rain pelts unsuspecting sidewalks,
filling cracks and running gutters
Disguising stoic potholes in black,
snickering as they wait silently
to startle the next drowsy driver to pass by
Neon reflects in puddles of discontent
while high rise lights
flicker in kitchens above where
cold water seems to be the answer
as groggy eyes fiddle with leftover decisions
making more noise than can be heard
3 am, desolate, just a few cats
rummage in alleys for unsuspecting rats
and other rodents who have sold their dreams
for a temporary high, plastic bag desires
that come morning will seek its revenge
and hands will be out promising redemption,
counting brown leather wing tips and Prada heels
I stop at the old library slated for demolition,
tracing the lopsided heart with our initials
I carved into the brick
as you kept a look out so we wouldn’t get caught
Laughing at the dust that gathered on my shoes,
Telling me it would be forever
not the dust, us, we weren’t
Lonely is a state of mind
for those who wander these concrete caverns,
unable to sleep
Finding opened eyed nightmares
resemble those that they now run from,
hoping the next corner holds the key
to the past when nights were spent
under warm covers, in soft arms,
not walking alone, not dying, not
here, as the dark city glistens
I walked on stones
I could feel them beneath my feet
The present moment slipped away
As if nothing is concrete
I felt I was in a daze
Caught in a trap time created
Where were the answers?
In all that has been slated?
So much work through the years
A goal not many understood
Filters slowly through my mind
If I could explain, I would
The complexity of life has no limits
Puzzles, many puzzles left incomplete
Memories pass by in many pieces
Scattered like stones, on the side of the street
Heidi Sands
6/5/18
blinkered by formal training
counting bright abacus beads of syllables
mindful not to step on cracks—
rhythm is everything
the audience c h e e r s !!!
the runner-up jeers—
maybe next time the nexus of …
the bows and brasses displayed
along with my bruises
an abacus of pearls
c.a.s.t
on
w a t e r
that drowns out the h-o-o-f-b-e-a-t-s of
a P O U N D I N G heart
a trace of desire
slated at the font
of knowledge
concurrent with my past
laurels
I bow to your discerning palate—
you clap for
REPETITION
repetition
r e p e t i t i o n
but I do not rest
unlike Keats
my NAME
is not
writ in
w a t e r …
Summer’s almost over - that convalescent state
where successive modes of pleasure
were the order of the day.
Now fall commands awakening -
drive simplicity away! The hounds
of hell are yelping that it’s time to banish play.
They cry “forget unscheduled hours
that owned no share of care - the virtual halls
are scheduled and we’ll soon see you there.”
No apotropaic magic can delay my slated fate -
to pixelated halls of learning I must soon acclimate.
When Will My Nightmare End?
You left behind your fathers and mothers;
you left behind your husbands and wives.
You put on hold, your very lives.
You traveled to a land and stated
You have come to help all those slated
to be victims of a regime outdated.
At night you drove ahead,
into a nightmare filled with dread.
Into streets filled with danger.
Completely wary of any stranger.
To what end you asked in pain?
What in the world can we possibly gain?
The only answer you could find
was in your heart and all you left behind.
As you drive these haunted streets
the sound of gunfire so close it speaks.
It speaks of dangers still unknown,
it screams of evil to atone.
This land, in truth, is death and sand
it is truly a "NO man's land"
By; John Cervone
This is dedicated to all the National Guard Troops who served in IRAQ.
If death ends all we see
in Nature’s laws—
to be, or not to be,
with no applause—
and seas of troubles flee
when life withdraws,
then how we choose to plumb
the waters deep…
or whether dreams may come
in final sleep
need never foil
our glee of fancy free…
though mortal coil
may give us pause…
But what if there be more
than what we know—
a door beyond the door
to come and go?
What further living dream
may round us form,
in endless norm,
that carelessly we cause,
and doth existing seem,
must give us pause…
an independent and
dependent clause
of consequential strand
must give us pause…
another cosmic clime
in timeless time,
a stream of conscious I’m
in reasoned rhyme
that carries all our flaws
must give us pause…
who’ll snatch us from the jaws
of slated fate—
that we create…
then vainly grasp at straws—
must give us pause…
For should we risk perchance
to miss the mark,
but dizzily to dance…
what dream of dark
in coverlet of gauze
may whelm our dying pause,
and pierce with karmic claws…
to make us heed
in thought, in word, in deed,
indeed,
must give us pause…
must give us pause…
must give us pause…
~ Harley White
The Tragedy of Unemployment
By Elton Camp
Jerry had been employed all of his life
And had two children and a loving wife
He had ability, experience and good pay
It was unexpected what the boss did say
“Due to the economy, changes are slated.
Your job is one that’s to be eliminated.”
“I am under intense pressure from on high
To find something else you have to try.”
“A good recommendation I’ll gladly supply.
You have two weeks and then it’s goodbye.”
To go home and tell his family Jerry hated
How could such news possibly be related
The house mortgage wasn’t paid off yet
The oldest soon to start college was set
The chance of finding a job was very slim
Few would consider a man the age of him
THE COACH
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Went to an alumni meeting last week
Looking for solace, the outlook was bleak
We lost a game we should have won
A total disaster to all not just some
Cries of anguish torrents of pain
“How the hell did we lose that game”
Three close calls in the recent past
Defeat was looming, the die had been cast
We were favorite to trample that team
What followed next was strictly obscene
No confidence in the coach, zero trust
A new powerful resurgence is a must
“Fire the coach, we need a new spark”
Call the chancellor a search to embark
There’ll be plenty of coaches to interview
At the end of the season there will be a slew
Most will have been fired that’s for sure
Same kind of let down we’ve had to endure
Appoint a committee to find a coaching ace
Got to expunge this humiliating disgrace
While we’re at it the assistants they must go
They haven’t inspired the team as far as I know
Need to raise cash something we’re lacking
Buy out his contract and send him packing
A new coach will cost us a hefty sum
A sales job needed to convince the alum
All must partake in any new proposal
Resources will be placed at our disposal
A few claimed it was to soon to act
Hissed and booed told not to come back
The coach (2)
All that remained were anxiously waiting
Are there any coaches, we’ve been baiting
A new coach will surely demand success
All in favor pledge support in this quest
Days later the finals were slated
Consensus was, we won’t be elated
To our amazement, it’s hard to explain
Out team executed a perfect game
I went to an alumni meeting last night
Everyone was joyful in utter delight
Many were boasting and sipping champagne
Alas we were conference champions again
We need to make sure we continue to cruise
Complete confidence in the coach and his crew
Upgraded facilities, haven’t you heard
Call the chancellor pass on the good word
Our coach is a winner to be sure
Esteem and respect for him to endure
The backers are ecstatic bursting with praise
Throw in some perks add in a raise
Extend his contract for a many a year
Act fast our rivals might get his ear
Those remarks from last week , bid them adieu
They were made by an uninformed few
Characters in action
Talents in multiplication
Shapes and sizes of many version
Skills on display with tension
Over the top ropes one would gape
Under the ropes one can escape
Apron of thick mattress
Arena of countless matches
Highlighted are dressed to kill
Fronting the crowd that fill
Seats of spectators that cheer
Feats of competitors, not jeer
Matches roll with blunder
Rumbling and grappling like thunder
Crutches and splints spread over
Bodies of the bruised fall over
Grueling matches live on
Under any pressure show must go on
It's not "business as usual" that linger
Players of theatrics in danger
Venues are slated by dates
Participants stipulated as mates
Previews of expected bouts
Reviews that excite and shouts
Year after year is the Rumble
Inside the ring that crumble
Event that sounds so noble
Fame, not fortune that bubble
A prelude to Wrestlemania
An interlude of regalia
A shot coveted in spotlight
A spot asserted with delight
Let's get ready to rumble!...
My future happiness depended upon school,
They’re understanding of religious older parents,
Them constraining them with supervision,
So that I could have autonomy in my garments.
I mean, my parents let me wear what I liked,
But were unspeakably forceful poignantly,
Regarding who was going to dress and shower me:
Women, not men who could interact with me perfectly.
I wasn’t asking for all male carers,
Just one or two out of maybe five,
And I even offered to employ male nurses,
Rather than just anybody alive.
But my mum was disgusted at my suggestion,
Said it turned her stomach and made her ill,
Posited that I was not in my right mind,
Said that I made her queasy and gave her a chill.
The school’s social services seemed traditional,
Just like their toilet facilities, old and outdated;
The social worker had white, permed curly hair,
And so for parent disputes you could be slated.
So I never got the help I required and needed,
For my first care package at Glasgow University,
So I suffered from rejection, shortness and selfishness,
From my carers who were supposed to offer identity.
The wardens made it better for me every day,
Reprimanded them for disrespect and impoliteness,
But I never even imagined that voluntary carers,
Could suffice for my own future astuteness.
It upset my whole life, the schools neglect and indifference,
When I think that living success could have been sorted out,
My personal dignity and freedom could have been secured,
With a bit of determination and secular, atheistic liberal clout.
School is really just about your future,
It claims it by its very definition,
And the whole child should be taken and loved,
Not just his or her abilities with cognition.
The heavy odor of lavender polish softly opened the door
Peeling paint family holiday house timber-slated chairs
Orange-flower water the tick-tock of the grandfather clock
Pruning orange fruit trees which grew behind the house
Sunlight streaming into the room through sloping window
onto a table, box of cigarettes a carved pipe and a photo.
Hanging from the mirror by two ribbons, a little plush hat.
Sweet air scented with potting earth and horse manure
A valley tumbled into a blue-green canopy of forest gums
Humming sofly under her breath they threaded their way
Glittering eyes rain dripping eyelashes corkscrew curls
Living in a woodland forest cottage like country princesses
White painted railings polished wooden floors glass inset
Orchards laden with blossoms, tea on the valley verandah
White chocolate eclairs rosehip apple and Lady Grey teas
Vegetable garden ,lavender ,daisies , foxgloves and roses.
Thicket of hazel,holly and brambles coated the under slope
Antique French doors large wooden shutters,blue tint spiral
An orchard that glows red in the sunset from the studio
Glimpse of fine white teeth, challenging smile fan aflutter
Enchanted room night of candlelight sweetly familiar odors
Catching tadpoles + baby frogs in the lilly and crocus pond