Best Slung Poems
disloyal lovers plot to bring you down-
betrayal thrives in every shallow sea
satanic verses slung by caustic clowns
have hurt your heart and brought you to your knees
please take my hand and stand upon your feet
now raise yourself erect, embrace the sun
its light can give you strength to bear the heat
together we will face each storm as one
remember all those pleasant nights of yore
when stars would dance a jig and croon their songs
while Old Man Moon would spin his tales of lore
enchanting us until the break of dawn
I promise to be there through sun and rain
forever by your side to ease the pain
Through the brambles of the arbor's vine,
an artist has spinned some silver lace
This net was cradled over leaves
slung low, and wet with dew.
Evidence was left in place,
a hammock swings as if on cue
Crocheted with skill and flair
to glisten in the sun
Breeze trembles every curl and lair
and takes the breath from you
Light fondles strands of pearls it wears
as the spider rests, .. to view.
While the agile trace of light declines,
the fragile morning soon unwinds
and wears a lace of new design
........................................................
2/25/16
Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.
Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's
dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts.
Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's,
my ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts,
calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a true stallion.
My ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes,
Legs with calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a stallion,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?
Surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes.
Dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?
Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.
Here’s a short story of a cowboy I knew
Whose name was Beg Your Pardon.
He wasn’t a gun slinger in the usual way,
Though his hands were fast
And his foots were faster.
But when Beg started shootin’
There was nuthin’ but disaster.
No worries for Beg, he had none you see,
Since he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
But his pappy got ugly
And yelled in his son’s face,
“Until you can shoot
As the son of mine should,
I want you the h*** out of my place.”
Beg had some tricks up his very long sleeves,
Coz he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
He’d show his pappy his skill
There’s no doubt about that.
Yet time was a-wasten
So Beg he did hasten,
But first he took off his hat.
He then wound up his body like a Kansas twister
And slung a cow pie in his usual way.
And broke every record
Did our cow pie ringer.
Since there was no one better,
Pappy exclaimed to his son,
“Beg Your Pardon, I beg your pardon
Heck, you’re some kinda’ slinger!”
For Wild Wild West Contest
The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium,
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,
Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,
I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,
I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -
J.A.B.
The words of the Zulu coconut,
a once coveted souvenir
from an indulgent visit
to festive Mardi Gras.
As our hero speaks
two mice nibble
unobserved
at his
coat.
"Beads
were slung;
doubloons cast.
Grasping tourists
seized the trifling throws.
Floats advanced in the queue
krewes tossed their tokens wildly.
Prize gifts are meant to be given.
So I, Zulu, went from hand to hand."
Meanwhile a mischief of mice emerged
to attack Zulu's varnished coat.
As they quickly devour him,
his paint began its work
within their stomachs
to do the same.
Zulu's last
witnessed
speech:
"Far
better
to restock
the soil of earth.
Better to be spent
as nourishment to some.
Better still to end this life
by sprouting as a seed of hope.
Better than this: "paint may be toxic."
Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)
...............................
How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.
How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.
For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant
Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.
By: Jeffrey Febi 25 Oct 2010
From my balcony, I watch children play:
their color blindness encourages me.
They do not let skin shades stand in their way;
playing games together, for all to see.
I hear laughter, with no sarcastic sting:
there are no racial slurs slung to degrade.
As I observe these fledgling birds take wing:
my worries for our future slowly fade.
A culturally closed society
is like a wound, in need of a suture.
It bleeds out, pressured by anxiety,
and yet, these children can change their future.
Watching these kids play, I don't feel sorrow;
I feel hope for a better tomorrow.
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
differently.
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
Written with admiration for Tom Cunningham ~ a gentle poet
maligned by one who really casts an aura of darkness
My smile is genuine and reaches to my eyes.
I do not wear a mask, nor a cloak of disguise
and I post poetry in my given Christian name.
From the hand of one it was written in a claim
that I cast shadows of dark energy around me.
Should I assume that I'm thought of as beastly?
Someone thinks that my spirit has gone awry.
I have to shake my head in disbelief as I decry,
"If you liken me to a sinister, malevolent being
I would ask what movies have you been seeing?"
Call me rude names if that makes you feel witty,
but each shines a gleaming light on your lubricity.
I'm not insulted by the sticks and stones thrown,
nor do I write anything that I would ever bemoan.
I will champion myself, my friends and my nation,
never seeking battle, nor in fear of confrontation.
I am not a troll, a gang member, or wolf in a pack,
so don't falsely accuse me. I won't take your flack.
There is no darkness surrounding my aura, I'm sure.
It may be that your malicious thoughts are impure.
You struggle with defining what's right from wrong.
Is there anyone with whom you can get along?
Friendships are important and you would be wise
to recall that poets should be a coalition of allies.
You're entitled to your opinions, and I am to mine,
but if they are different, don't moo like a bovine.
"Spiteful words," you said, my friends and I write.
Well, in this case I'll say you're absolutely right.
I've been told that rebuttals are a waste of my ink
but not a drop is wasted if it makes people think.
Think of the insult to a poet belittled by another.
One who treats everyone as a sister and brother.
Tom wrote of the bloodbath Putin draws in Ukraine
then selfish comments were made that left a stain
on his words that were written to ring out in truth.
Don't sling mud on other poet's by throwing a stone.
Give voice to your beliefs. Write one of your own.
And now, you're thinking, "You just slung mud."
Yes, I did, in hopes that it will land with a thud.
I don't relish penning negative lines of contention,
but sometimes things are in need of attention.
I'd rather write about Santa and Christmas cheer,
than calling out snide people who taunt and jeer.
I donned a cloak of sadness, too heavy to bear.
My frowns, deeply etched from doleful despair.
Then he came into my life; blue eyes smiling,
like lambent skies after a storm, so beguiling.
He offered to help ease my emotional pain,
"Let me cradle you in my arms," was his refrain.
Tender whispers of love, this man possessed,
but his romantic notions were a quixotic quest.
His burdens were so much heavier than my own,
for his irascible demons made me sob and groan.
They ignited like hot coals, tearing me apart,
a cauldron of flames, charring my wounded heart.
They were an albatross slung around my neck,
Specters who turned my life into a tangled wreck.
I tried constructing a citadel to shut them out,
but they breached my walls by another route.
His cross to bear, but on my soul they were born.
In darkness, I trod; suffering, but not fully worn.
My aspirations of hope were drowning in sorrow.
I kept promising myself, "I will leave tomorrow."
Finally, I realized it was only myself I could save.
Armed with a prayer, determination and a stave,
I chose to walk away from love that went askew.
Trembling, I fled. There was nothing more to do.
November 26, 2021
This or That, Vol 8 Contest
hosted by Edward Ibeh
At the glassy gate, I wait for you
adding cherry between breaths
adding robes to your soft name
ushering the syllables through my warm mouth
echoing like the sight of a star
on my heart, your name is woven and sewn
like the stitching in my baby blanket
and the baby hands that find your beating chest
I am bound to you
and you, to my gates
But then,
you see the blood on my posts
and then,
my eyes stern and welled,
fixed like the sun, you spin
as night hunkers over you
like a broad toothy uncle
pulling you aside, arms slung like sandbags
impressing you with fools gold
teaching you to gawk, painting me a circus
causing you not to see me,
hiding my heart beneath my chest
and this smooth skin, my red wine gates…
And no matter how I call, the tracks will lay, the wheels will fall
I would cry but it’s too late… the station’s gone…
You missed me love,
you missed me…
We wrapped a long length of red holy cloth around
his body, slung him between two green bamboo poles,
and carried him to the edge of the Bagmati river.
We covered his cold nostrils with soft cotton balls and
placed six sacred beads of Rudraksha in his palm for moksha.
We lit a bunch of sandalwood incense and stuck their points
near his head. We threw a tong of rice on his chest and started
chanting mantras for the peace of his soul. I walked around
the pyre with a burning piece of wood and lit a handful of kindling
at his feet. The dry logs whooshed and the pieces of flesh
sizzled and spluttered. The flakes of ashes flew off and fell on our heads.
Later, as the sun turned red on the horizon, we left the burning
pyre to go home. The black oil lantern was hanging down from the wall
its faint orange light barely filled the balcony of my house.
Nearby, my small brother kept on expecting for Grandfather home soon
from the farm, with a bottle of baby pots, pedaling his rusty axon bicycle.
The year was 1832 when she slipped out the pub back door
It was stormy and cold as she walked out far across the English Moor
She stood at the edge of a craggy cliff as waves slammed rocks below
Her hooded cape flapped wildly as the wind began to blow
The fury of the rain and wind pummeled her tiny frame
She wondered if they'd miss her or even knew her name
For she was just a tavern maid who sometimes shared her bed
But what she earned just barely left enough to keep her fed
The sailers stopped at the Rose and Crown for whiskey, vittles and more
Then slung their bags and left the pub to sail for distant shores
Although it did not show just yet, she feared she was with child
And some of them who'd bedded her, made her feel defiled
She saw no future for herself nor means to raise a child
Then softly cried forgive me lord and bid the world goodby
Places where good and evil play their games my minds conscious
My light force fighting the dark sides final conflict
The saber tooth born civil and slung then raised feral
Grown wild
Some human beings create terror for their own child
Distant from peace with eyes showing pound signs
Corrupted by shiny things and out stealing bling like they're magpies
Left blind staring into space so they dont see the planet die