Best Sounds Good Poems
Forbidden fruit they had eaten
At the bidding of the snake
New ashamed that they were naked
They had to cover up, for Heaven's sake
"Adam, lets sew ourselves some fig-leaves."
"Sounds good to me, dear Eve."
God paid them no attention
Had he a trick up His sleeve?
Instead of random eavesdropping
The Lord did something eye-popping
He searched for Adam as if He had no clue
Then cried out, "Man, where are you?!"
Did the All-Seeing not know Man's whereabouts?
Did He need resort to a primal shout?...
Within God's question lies a lesson
to which some choose to adhere
God does not want man to eavesdrop
~ Do you hear?
December 11, 2019
Listening In Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
In the saloon gambler Milton, rose from his leather chair to speak
And said we need to make changes for the good of Soup Creek
He read all the meaningful proposals to the townsfolk out loud
And those meaningful proposals were well received by the crowd.
A stranger sat in the corner looked like he'd just got outta bed
Stood up and disagreed with everything Milton had said
He'd totally misunderstood Milton's honourable intention
The situation became tense and you could feel the tension.
There was an icy deadly silence then over by the far corner
Stood saloon girl Jenna looking mean, and cradling a Winchester
There was a mad stampede, as folks tried to get out the door
The stranger carried on ranting and at gambler Milton he swore.
Someone had alerted Sheriff Koplin and he was soon on his way
Then entered the saloon approaching the stranger, and had this to say
"Soup Creek is a very peaceful town and we aim to keep it that way
And if you don't like how we run things then you'd best be on your way"
Then from the back door of the saloon, entered four other deputies
Dave the Texas ranger, saloon girl Tania and the blacksmith called Rees
Undertaker Tom needed business, he was hoping the stranger they'd kill
And then headed off with a pick and shovel, to his office at Boot Hill.
The stranger was outnumbered and knew he wouldn't win
And handed the Sheriff his gun who said "I'm taking you in"
The Sheriff at gunpoint walked the stranger over to the jail
And told him" I'm locking you up and don't think about bail"
Meanwhile Tom up at Boot Hill was sweating digging a grave
Then heard someone hollering it was the Texas ranger Dave
Tom looked up and Dave told him "you won't be needed today
But Sheriff Koplin is generous and you'll still get your days pay"
"Gambler Milton is in the saloon later and he's holding a big party"
Tom threw his shovel in the grave and said "sounds good to me "
They both mounted their horses and then headed back to town
And they arrived back in Soup Creek as the sun was going down.
Written 16th August 2022
M. So Mike I hear you've been gone?
MH. Why yes I have!
M. Why the absence?
MH. I just needed some time to clear my head.
M. That should have taken no more than a couple minutes
MH. Ahhh...no, I was gone a couple weeks. I was going to stay out a month but this site is so addictive! I'm sure our listening audience can attest to that!
M. Audience? No ones listening to this...
MH. But you said...
M. Me?
MH. Yes you said when we were talking that I was going to be on the radio.
M. Dude your me...
MH. I know!
M. Your blowing my mind here...Can we just get on with this?
MH. Sure...What I was trying to do was really just find myself.
M. Find yourself...were your lost?
MH. No just needed to try and do away with some of the junk in my life.
M. I'm starting to wonder if I'm you then why is this the first time I'm hearing about it.
MH. That is odd isn't it..
M. Almost as odd as interviewing yourself.
MH. Almost
M. So any good poems written while you were gone?
MH. To tell the truth I couldn't stop writing...If they're any good only time will tell.
M. How do you think the interview is going so far? Am I doing alright? Asking the tough questions?
MH. I think your the best...That's why I only let me interview myself!
M. Speaking of interviews I've got another one scheduled I really need to run...
MH. Really? With who?
M. Oh it's you but you the World Famous Nuclear Physicist!
MH. But I'm not a...
M. Hey...It's what we call in journalism as a lead in...makes them want more.
MH. But I'm...
M. Don't worry, we'll make something up...
MH. We always do...
M. Ain't THAT the truth!
MH. Shall we do it over lunch?
M. Sounds good...you buying?
christmas comes but once a year
and thats too much for me
ive never been a fan of sitting round a dead pine tree
my favourite sweets are humbugs
turkeys for the yanks
and as for christmas crackers
would i pull yours
no thanks
bing crosbys on the radio
dreaming bout the snow
and fat men in red suits and beards
are everywhere i go
the queen comes on the tv
saying how shes had it rough
then steve mcqueen escapes again
and now ive had enough
ill get my coat and take a walk
the pubs just down the road
but that is closed for christmas day
so back to my abode
an early night sounds good to me
ill curl up with a book
forget about this christmas thing
its over now
thank god
She is no Simon Le’gree, but she should be. It would be easier.
She is way too lenient, if you ask me.
But yesterday she was too strict.
Click. Click. Click.
Conversation ceases.
Act normal.
Sure. Yeah. Uh-huh.
Yes, that sounds fine. Sure, I can do that.
Click. Click. Click.
What did she want you to do?
Are you going to do it?
Never mind. It’s a bad idea, I do not have to take orders from her.
She is not really our boss anyway. She just thinks she …
Click. Click Click.
Okay, Mrs. B, sounds good. Sure, no problem.
Click. Click. Click.
Are you going to do it now?
Maybe.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Stop right there for crying out loud
Plagiarism is not allowed
You'll be lynched by the P.S. crowd.
Okay, to be or not to be
Now come on you're being silly
They'll complain and they'll be suing
Ask you what it is you're doing.
Start again and think real hard
Don't be stealing from the bard
I'm struggling, need some inspiration
To create a rhyme sensation.
Grey brick upon brick, I'm on my way
That sounds good what do you say
I think I've heard that one before
But don't stop now do give us more.
Problem is my muse has flown
She's left me struggling all alone
I've placed an advert in the Times
For a muse who's good at rhymes.
If one replies and answers back
I'll be on fire, back on track
But until then I'll have a rest
Then I'll be up there with the best.
For the purpose of this rhyme I've used three lines from three famous poets listed below.
William Wordsworth
William Shakespeare
and Louis MacNiece.
Written on 13th August for Nina Parmenters Rattling Rhyme contest.
“I'll follow you to the ends of the earth” is a very old line
But recently, they've discovered earth is round, will take a long time
Sounds good on paper
But methinks this caper
Could mean death crossing by dinghy the ocean brine
Sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
Whoa to that's still small voice sounds good but it's not pristine it has no rhythm
It sounds good but it's not true because it reeks division
Sometimes the devil walks and he's right beside you
Sometime the devil walks and he's right there beside you
Sometime the devil walks in your feet hurt because you're wearing his shoes
Sometime the devil walks and your feet hurts because he's trying to get in you
Sometimes the devil smiles because he's beautiful
Sometime the devil laughs his eyes smile because he's eluded you
Sometime the devil smiles because he spoke death and division in his wilds
Sometime the devil wants to trick you because that's just what he do (child)
Sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
sometime the devil is talking but you don't have to listen
Woo Whoa!! that's still small voice sounds good but it's not pristine
it has no rhythm
It sounds good but it's not true because it reeks division
So now going forward if it don't line up with God and it's spoken if it sounds sweet to eat I won't chew it
If it feels good I won't do it
If it causes division and shame I won't go through it
If I walk and hurt my feet allow my Jesus to carry me through
Not going to listen to that voice I'm going to favor God's choice
Everything to smiles is not of God for I am his child and I choose to listen to walk to smile and laugh in the glory of my Father God
Sometimes the devil just do
But you don't have to listen
You don't have to walk with him
You don't have to look at his smile
You are not his you are a Child of God, a Child of God, a Child of God
You are GOD CHILD
7/1/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
7:10a
I can't, whistle I, wish I could.
When I hear folk whistle, it sounds good
I'm like a kettle without a spout,
I purse my lips but, no sound comes out.
Blow girl, blow, the sound will come,
Whistling comes easy to everyone,
Says my husband gleefully,
As he whistles merrily.
I am starting to bristle,
Eighty-four, and still can't whistle.
My father could not bear to hear,
When my mother whistled loud and clear.
He said " A whistling woman and a crowing hen,
Are neither fit for God nor men."
I switch the radio on to my favourite station,
And sing and dance with jubilation.
THIS MAN CALLED JESUS - 2
Hey, Caiaphas! What do you think of this Man called Jesus
Well, now that you mention it, I think it's time that He died
Perhaps we can devise a plot to have Him crucified
Let's talk to Pontius Pilate and see what he has to say
I'll bet he will help us get rid of this aggravating Man
But we must devise a real solid foolproof plan
How about some false witnesses to tell a few lies
Yes, that just might do it, so round up a few
We can bribe them easily – they'll know what to do
That sounds good enough to rid us of Him
And one of His friends, Judas is his name
Will betray Him for silver and take all the blame
Why didn't we think to do this sooner
I had thought of it, but I feared it wouldn't go well
But I can't see any reason why this plan should fail
So the plot was formed and soon carried out
He was crucified, dead and buried, but arose after three days
Ascended into Heaven, to come again and judge mankind’s ways
Have you given any thought concerning eternal life
You've been given a choice – what will your choice be
It's either Heaven or hell for eternity
What do you think of this Man called Jesus
Will you accept Him as Lord and serve Him alone
Or die in your sins before all hope is gone
Curtis Moorman
19 January 2013
Writing poetic confessions is akin to visiting a Nudist state
Well, the concept sounds good, but all this exhibitionism --
The Naked performing unsteady cartwheels, their dangly bits --
Makes it seem like a bad idea.
Taking a break in the pleasant air
Look at how happy they are,
Dancing in a circle and jerking up and down, like children,
Praising one another for being authentic and emotional.
Allowing the clean aroma strike your nostrils
And you say to yourself, "damn, all this Nudity is attractive,"
While also recalling the how much fun you could have heard
If only you became a Nudist earlier.
Hurled into the desert by a beatnik pilot and dropped off just above nirvana. I find myself in a peculiar yet remarkable position. I am now alone. I look out above the high sierras and find a moonbeam shooting down on the valley below me. I follow it down and realize it is not a guiding light but that of a 747 landing at LAX. I am up here with the coyotes and jackrabbits. Equal prey once I get hungry. I have a canteen full of gin and a beretta 32 caliber pistol. No directions no map. Who cares? The other thing I have is a tin full of sardines and 4 joints of some primo sativa.
I begin to wander towards the city wondering what I will find on my way down. I crank up a joint and take a hit of gin. Another night in city for me, its just a few miles down through the valley. I’ve been here before. Messed up on crank. They keep telling me I must survive. And I keep asking them what is it that I must survive? This ain’t no homeward bound trip. I slip into between rocks of billionaire’s homes hoping not to set off the security systems. When I get to the bottom will they pick me up or have they dropped me off for the last time?
I change my mind. I head the other direction. Away from L.A. trekking towards the desert and maybe home. At least there I have a chance of a new beginning. There is nothing left for me back there. I stumble and fall but I get up and keep going. There is something and somebody there for me. I just need to keep moving.
Sometime around dawn I awake from an alcohol and drug induced stupor. I think of heading back to L.A. it would be so much easier. Then a car passes and I stick out my thumb and she stops.
“Hey where you heading?”
“Anywhere but here,” I reply.
“Hop in I am headed for Santa Fe.”
“Sounds good to me”
“You like the Grateful Dead,” she asks?”
“Hell yeah I got some conscious bud here.”
“Cool”
And the road begins to wind to our future.
It’s been 13 years since the day we met,
13 years since the fire was set.
13 years of love and pain,
13 years which only to gain.
There’s been beauty and sharing, growing and romance,
We’ve had babies and homes, embraced in life’s dance.
And through it all, the up’s and downs,
we stick it out, we hang around.
13 years of never knowing,
where our lives are ever going.
The love just grows each day we live,
13 years of love to give.
But now I know what I couldn’t then,
my heart can keep giving there is no end.
So as far as I can see in my life,
I want to have you by my side.
Forever sounds good to me,
13 is just a start you see.
So lets take it all the way I say,
I’ll be in heaven, lighting your way.
People say they care when they don't really care at all,
But it sounds good and by saying so, they don't feel as small.
People tend to say what will serve themselves the best,
Hoping they won't be called upon to prove by any test.
People like to say lots of stuff they don't really mean,
They're simply performing so with favour they'll be seen.
To keep up appearances they make sure they appear
Like they are wonderful and caring as well as sincere.
Oh, all the fake personas out there, especially on the 'Net,
Who profess they Love and care, and you, they never will forget,
But as soon as your presence isn't as much as it used to be,
They'll forget you exist along with what they claimed emphatically.
Real is real. Truth is truth. Both are constant and consistent,
And so this goes with people, true friendship is persistent.
Fair weather friends shine on sunny days when there's no rain,
But true friends keep shining through in storminess and pain.
The 'Net is like a jungle, tough to get through,
All so overgrown, at times, treacherous too,
But ever so often we are blessed to find
A flower in the thicket of the rarest kind.
This flower we can add to the garden in our heart,
Knowing its beauty will remain, always be a part,
Of who we are today and in all our days ahead,
Always adding beauty uniquely in our flower bed.
Then, as for those who are plastic and pretend,
They matter not as a fair weather friend.
Only those who shine when our skies are grey
Are the flowers we must cherish each and every day.
Their presence may be obscured when from our eyes we see,
But their fragrance and their beauty in our heart will always be.
A Jungle Flower is a treasure, indeed, a miracle to find
Amongst the jungle of the 'Net so often fake and unkind.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2015-08-17 01:15:00 (EDT)
All rights reserved.
Spiderweb phantoms of the energy lattice,
tension spires where emotion opaquers
draw from the void.
She'd get up early
and rent a hotel room
where the staff would remove
any paintings or pictures from the walls.
She brought the Bible and a deck of cards,
plus a thesaurus and a bottle of sherry -
ha! you know this sounds good -
she'd play solitaire if she needed to get in the mood,
she'd write on yellow sheets of paper with lines on them.
That's the way Maya Angelou did it.
If there's an intersection between physics, philosophy and religion,
then I'm going to be very pleased, incorporated,
maybe even superluminal.
The layered ziggurat that you climb,
the humming iridescence coming from within,
the high priestess is at work.
Counterfactual definitions,
waveform collapses,
conservation of information.
Can random data be generated?
Derived forms,
ancient watercourses,
rapturous from trying too hard.
So, let's kill the essence,
leave ourselves hollow silhouettes,
fast-moving blanks,
or the ultimate satisfaction
that goes so slow we won't live long enough to touch it.
December 13, 2016
For Lewis Raynes' contest - 'In your head'