Introducing: Nate & Linda
The smile on my lips
is forced and coerced
I pretend to pay attention
give the best possible advice
everyone praises me
I'm so kind, polite and nice
It's all just automation
I rarely actually listen
certainly don't care
all I'm doing
is playing human
I'm so perfectly hidden
you'll never even
see a curtain,
from where I stand
Majoring in social events
Put on a pedestal
for computing with you
I'm so perfectly hidden
smiling from time to time
with all sincerity
Passing along an appeal
continuing to fit in
Is it just me or
am I the perfect human?
~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015
While Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
in six-star luncheonettes,
and Bankers beam Their self-esteem
(bailed out of broker's debts),
the deep, devout and down and out
sink, sallow silhouettes.
Tycoons hold reins (arrayed as chains)
where words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we turn our cheek
to worlds They’ve polarized,
and march to war, through Satan's door,
watch cities vaporized.
The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
all lined with jaded clay.
We're taught at school the Golden Rule
for all to live in bliss.
But in the wars on foreign shores
the only rule is this:
'Yo! You and I must fight and die
inside the black abyss!'
But well alive, the Merchants thrive
on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
to quell the dissidents,
while Artisans are posing plans
to conquer continents.
But back at home, the rumors roam
'Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
in weathers wet and numb.'
They fantasize with fleeting lies
and pray we'll all succumb.
A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
ensures we all agree:
'With dynamite we fight for right
and not for tyranny.'
The brain aborts when drugged with sports
and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
they baa when they obey.
In search of sense in sounds intense
of droning drum tattoos,
souls, thin and worn, file by forlorn,
in tame and tattered shoes -
their tears of pain, like streaks of rain,
have strewn the avenues.
Along the roads, the future bodes
in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
pale orphans share a crust.
Dead colonies of bumble bees,
a ravaged hornet's hive,
rain forests, dales or minke whales
soon nothing left alive…
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
as long as They survive.
The Moguls wield a silver shield,
wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
boast brazen bayonets;
and unicorns sport ivory horns,
defend the Martinets.
Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
who watch you day and night
to track your trails and read you mails
and say They have the right
to know your thoughts and thwart your plots
to cease Their oversight.
Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
and common sense deranged.
As sunlight wanes in winter rains
and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spiders' webs
seem tattooed on the wall.
And in the night the Masters write
The Final Protocol.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2015
Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.
One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and life was sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school
He learned to kill our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite),
and packed his bag and wrapped his flag and went away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)
Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of sunken graves he sailed a killing Spree
The napalm dropped and cooked the crops, burnt huts along the way
and tanks, with ease, mowed down the trees and villages of clay.
Yes, turret guns were loads of fun with roaring roundelays
While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive
With booby traps (sticks dipped in crap)... yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes like snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite beneath the night, caught Jackie unaware
At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday
When Jackie woke, beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead a medalled thread, some wraps to hide the hole,
and realized another prize: a chair on wheels to roll
Across his chest (you've surely guessed) his medals shone, arrayed.
His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed
Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome) to start his life anew
receiving dole (that took its toll) which fell in Sam's purview,
but soon enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew
To walk the streets with fine elites (or someone else who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs,
and those that don't and those that won't are those we call the dregs
For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a tinny cup, a hungry pup near loamy pits of earth,
and best of all, per protocol, beneath a bridge, a berth
He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared
He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done,
though threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things like what it was we'd won
He told the breeze his vague unease; his words infused the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, soon floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and thought 'How could he dare?'
But freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud
By snooping clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day while letting freedom shine
The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the water board awash with Perrier)
Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout 'well someone's gotta pay'
The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers), he turned his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan -
The voodoo Lune withdrew as soon as Night condemned the Dawn
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life
While censor’s cooks are roasting books (and truth) on stakes ablaze,
well, Jackie's head (though chopped and shed) still thinks about the praise
for deeds once done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and then again about the sin of thinking, nowadays,
where, absently, humanity is served in urns on trays -
and, reconciled, it simply smiles at fortune's funny ways
A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and dance like mimes to rigid rhymes (which no one disobeys)
and celebrate with white-washed pate, adorned with dead bouquets -
with freedom’s death, time holds its breath, and waits for better days...
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
It’s siesta, yet one can hear from the second floor of the house the animated sharing of juicy news some visitors have brought to the gracious host, the lovely widow of a wealthy sugar planter. The sound of laughter is carried over the charming veranda bordered by lacy cast-iron grillwork, with its delicate oak leaf and acorn design and colorful, overhanging ornamental plants and flowers.
Three Creole society matrons in their typical 1840s long dress fashion despite the sultry heat are being served their tea and fanned by the owner’s black slaves. They are talking about the strange happenings at what used to be Dr. Louis and Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie’s grand house at 1140 Royal Street, a few houses away from the where they are having an afternoon gossip. Apparently, the last tenant abandoned the Lalaurie house not only because of some ghost sightings and agonized sounds that were heard from within. His furniture business inventory was also being mysteriously destroyed at night.
The lady of the house remembers how Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie used to be a respected member of New Orleans society. After the fire in 1834 and the subsequent discovery by firemen of seven emaciated slaves at the attic with obvious traces of abuse and torture, the couple and their four grown-up children had to flee in the middle of the night, or be lynched by the angry townsfolk.
Were all the stories true? Six years later, no human bones were discovered at the backyard, nor actual records or reports thereof, negating further accusations of slave murders, including that of a young girl who allegedly fell from the rooftop trying to escape her lady’s wrath. If Mdme. Lalaurie was the inhuman monster the press accused her of that time, then all of her contemporaries were also guilty, including all plantation owners, for the practice of slavery was fundamentally immoral and depraved. The lady of the house tells herself it is best to keep silent and let one person take all the condemnation. This removes the attention of the press and the restless community away from her social circle and her own guilt.
and undue exploitation -
cancer cell takes root
Inspired by A House in New Orleans Contest
27 January 2016
Note: The Lady of the House is a fictitious character, but relies heavily on historical background from:
1. Mad Madam Lalaurie: New Orlean’s Famous Murderess Revealed by Victoria Costner Love and Lorelei Shannon
2. Old New Orleans, a History of Vieux Carre, Its Ancient and Historical Buildings by Stanley Clisby Arthur
3. Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie, Wikipedia
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016
It's so simple,
Yet we lack it.
Interaction is nothing without it.
Unable to make a bond because the fact is,
We've missed the point.
The point that connects you and me,
And not just on a family tree;
That connects us all from A to Z,
And not just on eHarmony.
Where did it go?
Or did we even have it years ago?
Afraid to go on the right track,
Because we might get stabbed in the back.
Locking our doors and checking it twice,
Like we're Santa Clause on a Christmas blight.
Putting a lock on our phone for protection,
Because your friends may use it as a weapon.
Hiding what belongs to us,
Because we lost our trust in all our lust.
But trusting each other is a must,
Because you cant spell trust without us.
A firm belief in the reliability,
Or strength in someone.
Can you think of anyone?
I am sure you can,
Maybe the one that holds your hand.
But for how long?
I'm sorry but it's true,
People can back-stab you.
But this can change starting with you,
Because if you trust people,
They'll trust you.
You may get hurt but at least you'll live,
With your heart on your sleeve and something to give.
So let's break this cycle of deceit and start this world anew.
It doesn't start with them,
It starts with you.
Trust someone and you will see,
How great this world could be,
For you and me.
It's not that hard so don't make it be,
It's only the fear of the possibility,
Of losing everything.
Copyright © David Neuman | Year Posted 2014
as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!
being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on sleaze).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.
yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.
though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.
when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.
’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues
... while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.
whether heros or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).
if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or retarded or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt!
protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.
if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?
WE promote many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.
OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.
down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).
politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!
ah! OUR wars are.... well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.
useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.
as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.
yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.
WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).
but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that may fall from the sky.
though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.
yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).
while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
the ol’ school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.
and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!
WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR thrones...
whether diamonds or rubies... to ivory WE’re prone) –
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em some bones.
now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails,
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagne, ginger ales...
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."
This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution
I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning
There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders
I was surrounded by shovels
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics
Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…
…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath
For B-rated serendipity
Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Turning away from windowed afflictions
To step towards gratitude’s breath
No longer looking in
How good it feels.
Yet, I still miss my friends.
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2014
I laugh out loud
every time I hear a politician say,
that the best way to enrich a black person's life,
is to give them a job
Give them some work to do
Labor is the way out of poverty ---
are you kidding me!
They got the nerve,
telling a black person in America
they need to work
Put the shoulder to the grinding wheel,
get to know the sweaty brow feel
Getting employed will solve most of
black people's problems, politicians say
Hard work will bring an honest dollar our way
But I got a problem
with that four-letter word: work
I am bold enough to speak for my people
on this urgent matter
Telling us we need to work some more,
in order for things to get better for us
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, don't you think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
at keeping our eyes and voices low
We worked hard
at pretending that we're slow
We worked even harder
at grinning and gritting our teeth
But we worked the hardest
at not getting lynched on a tree
Listen to me:
This is the children of slaves reality,
the living in America experience
of feeling the societal lash daily
Of being looked down on,
of being spurned and frowned upon
Politicians say they helped us all they could,
that entitlements didn't do no good
And only work can get us to where we need to be ...
sounds a lot like old-time slavery to me
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, I would think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
at not getting pecked to death by Jim Crow
We worked hard
at trying to survive under the poverty line below
We worked even harder
at not telling the oppressor everything we know
But we worked the hardest
at letting our unchained KKKourage show
Yes! We worked long enough ...
now it's time for us to rest
Will you pay us back for that?
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017
Everyone is festive
All the ladies in pretty dresses
Champagne in flutes
Flirts in Armani suits
Waiters and penguins
Serving wine and cheeses
Musicians playing tango delights
Diplomats avoiding land mines and devastated sites
I toast them, one and all
Vodka and Russians can not dance
I can drink you all, under and over
Tossing empty bottles over me shoulder
Pretty ladies and purple purses
Drunken observations as the poet muses
Who would bed me now?
So drunk and wise with broken fuses
No one, can see the poetic disguise
Of the lonely man seeking only lies
The tenderness of the Spanish kiss
Hold me, dear dream, caress me inside
The floor is full of empty plates
The party is over, so it seems is my fate
I fall asleep under a street lit lamp
The richest of bums in an old cul du sac
If only before that fateful day
I could suckle upon the breast once more
We are all infants no matter the shore
Love should never have parted out that door
Sanity was broken and tossed away like lore
I mumbled the petty desires of the broken man
I tore out my heart, bloody and beating in my hands
Laid it bare upon the sands
Coupled with crabs
The universe re-created
Eaten raw, love was consumed
New beasts shall roam
Sunken eyes and empty chest
I, am the one who is no more
Tall tails and party hats
The forgotten are never fancy cats
Until one day you meet the maker
Of your story, cooked by the baker
Ovens shall burn and choirs sing
The devil you see, had the last ring
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Declared an outcast,
shunned by society -
but she's the same
as you and me,
but You can't see her pain
hidden behind her coy smile.
You can't wipe away those tears,
invisible to your shallow eyes.
In fear she stares at the pavement,
but she can see you stare.
She can hear your giggles.
She can feel your judgement.
Only that she is different.
Freak is not her name,
but you shout it, roaring like a lion.
To you she looks peculiar and
you wonder why she behaves strange.
Her monotone words are a result of your
ignorant mind that has lead to her
indulging in esoteric tendencies.
She may seem socially awkward,
but she means no harm.
She just wants to belong -
for one soul to understand.
There is no eye contact,
because living can hurt.
Misplaced in an oblivious world,
the skies may look bright to you and me,
but all she recognises is the darkness.
The soul is deep like an ocean,
but most only see the surface.
Only a few dare to venture to the bottom -
where most drown.
Only the strong reemerge.
The Silent One
24 October 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
Idyllically Odylically Odd I Be
Such is my nature
It is who I be
In an unnatural world
I am ruled by the Ods
Not this man made dream
Not a slave to the sway of society
Long labelled weird but "in a nice way"
I am apparently odd
And so odd I will stay
As I find more in common
With birds and trees anyway
For like feathers and leaves I am
Swayed by the breeze
Roots in the earth
Love of nature my wings
Beauty surrounds me
I live it every day
Being an Od bird is okay with me
(even if that means going extinct)
Composed for Broken Wings'
Form O-Only One Contest
Copyright © Maureen McGreavy | Year Posted 2017
You call me insensitive,
But I don't believe that's true;
Because, you see,
It's all about me.
It's not about you.
You say your opinion doesn’t matter,
That I’ve no respect for your point of view;
But I do if we agree,
Because it’s all about me.
It’s not about you.
You say I’ve no compassion,
No feelings for your troubles or your blues;
But none of us is issue free,
And mine are all about me;
But…not about you.
A time old adage,
“To thine own self be true.”,
Is all about choices you see.
My choices are all about me,
And, certainly, not about you.
So, when its time to make your choices
You’ll understand and know it’s true;
To decide what will or will not be,
Won’t be at all about me;
It will be all about you
But special moments confront each of us,
When what matters isn’t “Me”.
And while these moments are few,
They’re not about me, not about you.
For a time, it’s all about “We.”
Yes, “…no man is an island.”
Is a valid point of view;
But if it’s not about “We”,
Then it’s all about me.
Sorry. It’s not about you.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
Mardi Gras "The Medieval Story"
On a hot, heavy night in Orleans,
Joan and Jane were seen rubbing chest on chest
An inviting, intimate moment, to undress
Two pretty trimmed tops, eating like dames
They touched in ways, that drove those who make war insane
The secret spilled before the sun sprawled across the floor
Medieval England, banging on iron set doors,
All around men and women, wanting to witness the whiplash
Beads and beads of love, thrown at their feet
Joan' and Jane', having fun in front of, yesterdays courtyard
Sweet acts of flagellation were performed to stimulate the crowd
Screaming, and receiving, intense, brutal lacerations
In the eyes of endless nudity, everything wet in between
Left to right, a secluded society, dance in masquerade
Two men rise and ravage Jane, from hip to hip
Join-in, was a Jouster, and Lord Johnsburg,
They came in a little closer to claim, Joan
Closing, and inflicting as much damage as possible
Crestfallen forces of the unknown, -the audience grows
Remain firm and indulge this wet period of the Middle Ages,
The first crusade held stones in each hand,
Applauding to neck the beauty of friends
A noose hanging high held no head on this day
Yelling to feel the pain perils of anguish,
This was in reality the vassal of Jane
The King, ask to see them on their knees
Before he seeded, sending the Spanish tickler,
Fetching for the finest skin
At her end, Joan, watched Jane, spread like never before
Perfumed skin, rising up in smoke, -Joan's final stroke
Left burning at the Stake, In a Medieval World, from hell
The Siege of Joan and Jane did not end well
A lonely Bard, now sits and sings a sadistic tale,
A tale, of dirty deeds, -a dancing bloody masquerade
Joan and Jane, compensating for the Mardi Gras Parade
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
So many times we see someone in need
Most walk by while they piteously plead
Plead for help that may not come
Plead for love because they have none
So many people just don't take the time
To support their fellow man
Like it's too much to be kind
Too much to give a helping hand
To someone who needs it, please take a stand
Stand up for the ones who cannot speak for themselves
Stand up for those who live their lives in hell
They need your help, you may be the one
That saves their life, think of your son
If he were in need and you not around
Would you want others to laugh at his frowns
To see him in need and lift not a hand
To help him up out of no man's land
You'd want strangers to aid him, I know that's true
But don't forget help can also come from you
We are all in the position to assist
I know you know that, but here's the twist
In helping others we also help ourselves
And that is a great reason in and of itself
It feels wonderful to help those in need
To sleep soundly knowing you did a good deed
So please when you see someone who has not a thing
Take time to help, it will make your heart sing
Copyright © April Gabriella | Year Posted 2013
in the sun
The skin became the bark of a tree
the soul turning to brittle scars
for uncaring worlds to see.
is a pile of
old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
in the sun
the mind has smoothed over
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me
Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place
where watercolors swirled all day,
the heart worms kept at bay.
I'll stay hidden within the weeds,
till the jewels of memories soothe
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
...stayed in the sun
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013
1. Big Brother
Big Brother's protecting his mice
with a secret eavesdropping device.
If you hang up the phone
he'll just send in a drone
when a warrant won't really suffice.
The internet's meant to be free,
yes for all, such as you, such as me.
But now there's some doubt -
will it lose all its clout
with the death of neutrality's spree?
'twas surely our forefather's dread
all our emails would someday be read.
Now that push comes to shove
by the powers above,
private thoughts must now stay in our head.
Guantanamo bay's a resort
where the fishing's a fabulous sport -
with your back on a board
tepid water is poured
spawning tales for a kangaroo court.
To bountiful bailouts give thanks
for there's nothing much richer than banks -
making money galore
taking homes from the poor
while they're managing mortgaging pranks.
If you live in the States don't get sick
(lest a cut of the upper class clique).
Whether injured or ill
all they'll give you's a pill -
if you're lucky you'll surely die quick.
Our economy's doing just fine
lying dead with a slug in the spine.
So come follow the call
where there's money for all
and pure profit's the bottom-most line.
Vigilantes and cops are wide spread -
as for justice… not even a shred.
The avengers of right
score when stalking the night
so beware of a cap in the head.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2014
Some places exist which folks need to clean,
like deep in a closet or under a bed.
Such spots get ignored because they’re unseen.
Those in plain view get attention instead!
Some children exist we choose to ignore,
for they are not ours. They live out of sight.
Unwanted, unloved, and rarely cared for;
some rich, others poor - they share the same plight.
Their life is a darkness where they’ve been thrown.
They are gathering dust; no voice have they.
Their sorrows are only to God fully known -
these dust bunnies, growing more filthy each day.
They are the future, and in a short time
they will have become society’s grime.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
Naiveté wraps the child
until the chills slowly
begin to snuggle in,
smothering the illusions leaving
the residuals of sickness
that is man.
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Entrant: Rob Carmack
Word Count: 25
My person was the entire human race. As a child, I viewed adults as ethically advanced and emotionally stable. Thought of world as an Utopia – the best trip I ever had. From this disappointment, I was given the contrast to appreciate forgiveness and those I found that are advanced.
Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2015
Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
*Chosen poem of the day on 16 May 2015
Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015
this is not just a poem
this is my ticket out of here
these are not just words
there steps taking me somewhere
this isn't just a page in a book
it's a society taking a second look
and taking me up another level
rescuing me from a devil
that held me down for so so long
this is not just a poem
this is someones dream
a picture of heaven
a wonderous scene
this is a heart filled with love
words that tell the meaning of
to a society taking a second look
this is not just a page in a book
it's something to ponder
bidding take a deeper look
this is not just a poem
this is a call to arms
on the lips of our heroes
in the hearts of our sons
join in the battle for freedom
join in the battle of love
join in the name of the Father
and the Son
this is not just a verse in a song
it's a universal call to make right
what is wrong
this is not just a poem
this is a child to a barren man
a tombstone a monument
i inscribe with my own hand
my institution my revolution
my way to move on
my dedication for your education
and encouragement to be strong
these are my words
that i hope i used well
in hope that this poem
is my ticket out of hell
Copyright © The Situation | Year Posted 2012
The sun rests in its golden orb, shining bright dazzling the eyes
Meadows green with dew drops fresh, the cattle lazing away cries
The farmhands nap beneath the trees, the breeze caress and dies
As the curfew knells folks head home and pray
Thanking the Lord for the rewarding day
Face brimming with sheer bliss and mirth
Content they praise and sing from birth
What true happiness can be witnessed herein
For the Lord blesseth those who seek of him.
Those greedy and selfish , pine more riches
Idle days wasted, in slumber and glitches
While holding contempt for those plebeians
And are never content, contrasting agrarians
No time for Lord, who observe cadence
No more thanks for the blessings immense
Heaven doth beckon those who believe
And the rest he reckon, to try and grieve
This is the day that God gave to play and he purvey
This is the day that God gave to toil and stop foil
This is the world that God gave, for men to live and pray
This is the world that God gave to care, share and stay.
What a wonderful world!!!
© Nadiya (28 Jan '15)
*Won 3rd place on 30 Jan 2015 in the contest 'This is the day that Lord gave' by Verlena S. Walker
Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015
*(For Me, the soup tastes good, For others...not so much.)
INDEED, there may be something wrong with the Soup
if spices don't get right many people will be leaving the table soon.
Good people have pointed out problems with taste and temperature to MGMT
only to fall on deaf ears.
Apparently the problems have been stewing for years.
There are hard working mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and grandparents
fighting for a cause in which they firmly believe.
They pay fees each year to a leader who they don't know and cannot see.
They taste and they eat and they share with the community.
They've invested with time and money and poured out their hearts with much
Forty to one lopsided comment reply ratios have made their day hard
all these folks want is a little quality soup after punching the old time card.
I've sat at the table and witnessed smiles erase in defeat.
I've listen to their requests get neglected each day on repeat.
Where is the owner operator, could someone please step in and perform a
Getting this restaurant up to code ain't everything I suppose, but it'd sure be
Now I'm just an outsider, secret shopper if you will,
Getting this change in motion would ease so many emotions...
consider it dessert taken off the bill.
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014
The Old man of Merces
His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain
His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep
Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound
A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him
My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese
Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder
After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed
With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal
Copyright © Mohammad Yamin | Year Posted 2010
His life was gentle, and the elements
so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and
bodies in unregistered cars idling softly toward oblivion
some quick to anger
some quick to profit
some quick for justice
some tigers lapping blood
some mothers still at 3AM
hands on shoulders with coos commanding
that in a tear and turned cheek there be 'integration'
parody: an orphan annie reboot
parody: 'little black sambo 'round the tiger pit he go!'
we have rioted the last of our colors
bleated them with flexed toes to the wall at the edge of the universe to reverberate starless between
we have bleated the last of our colors
with centuries gone by without tongue, sockets or lobes
we will bleed the last of our colors
some quick to die
some quick to steal
some quick to burn
some quick to
lend me your car keys
in a night of full of Alarics
I will bury you
in a night full of piccaninnies
I will melt you to butter
in a night where flames are fishhooks
Sir I need you to step back please
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
we have cried Havoc
and with purple'd prose stamped this hollowed earth
We who have lived so long
shall with our breath turned mist
I need you to
stain only under stones
that pave with slippery breath
a headline for last weeks massacre
and tomorrow's graves
I need you to
I drew a line in the sand and you crossed it
They are not breathing
Look! Look there!
I will not.
Copyright © Brooks Lindberg | Year Posted 2014