Best Spout Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
spout, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Categories:
spout, lovegod, light, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
pink and sparkles spout
above liberty statue
cloud tauts happiness
fireworks all around applaud
hands clap on soil and sea
the swirl of nations,
a landing party of dreams...
but some from afar
drag chains as if dead, rowing
amidst the cotton
the white plant—has thorns—
placed on Jesus saving crown.
sowed on plantations —
a reaping of civil war
continues today.
plumes of red and black
fume over the green lady;
a gift from the past.
stripes upon the flag’s backside.
hands raised beg for forgiveness
7/3/2020
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW(4)any theme any form Poetry Contest
John 19:1-3 Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying, “Hail, king of the Jews!” And they struck them in the face.
Categories:
spout, america, freedom, independence day,
Form:
Verse
A spark cast by a careless deed,
it catches fire and sparks twigs weed.
A hushed town that is dull at last,
a Careless deed, by a spark cast.
East winds howl to display their might,
and spout flames to a sturdy height.
Blaze any grace in that house foul,
to display their might, east winds howl.
Oh, fiery Fire, the town explodes!
with no farewell, let's hit the road.
One sleeps on tack others on dire,
the town explodes! Oh, fiery fire.
None shall remain where the wind passed,
this life, I think, can't be surpassed.
The town wept and the nation pain,
where the wind passed, none shall remain.
Written: October 05, 2022
Swap Quatrain Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
https://www.rhymezone.com/ and
https://www.howmanysyllables.com: with 8 syllables in each line.
Categories:
spout, analogy, fire, storm, wind,
Form:
Quatrain
It definitely is not, but some men act as if it is.
"This is a man's world," sang James Brown,
but he ended every chorus repeating the refrain,
"But it wouldn't be nothing without a woman or a girl.
Read that line again....
Condescending supercilious men should never
become a SOUPercillious prig, a bug on a rug
that likes to bite like a flea. That should never happen,
especially when women have done nothing to provoke.
Don't talk down to women about being 'woke.'
We're not broke, nor are we mean girls or churls.
If that's a male gender problem, adjust yourself...
where the testosterone counts the most.
Don't boast to women as if you're superior to us.
We're not fragile and have the right to make a fuss
over being treated like subservient females.
Douse your fire and put down your swords.
A woman's ire is not something you should incense.
It makes no sense to spout and spew ugly remarks.
Stop growling like a mad dog that barks and barks.
'Fools rush in where wise men never go.'
Another song with lyrics that men should know.
Being a Charlie Big Banana doesn't make you a man
Pound on your chest like King Kong or a caveman
if you must, but supercilious you'll still be.
Categories:
spout, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
spout, anxiety, art, depression, suicide,
Form:
Sestina
A lack of oxygen, a stifled room
A pregnant pause, apparent gloom
Bitter sighs and angry growls
Upon her face "It's not my fault"
His wrinkled brow, "I'm not to blame!"
Past mistakes that hover now
Where pride as tough as elephant skin
Clinch the eyes where tears begin
While those who made a lover's pledge
Now teeter on the razor's edge
Behind closed doors heads shake about
And raging voices mutely shout
Mountains, molehills, vent and spout
Fingers point inside the fist
No one recalls what led to this
Closed minds, resolved, and won't untwist
Raising questions one by one
Old ghosts that dangle, freely spun
A hopeless scene, what's left to gain?
No matter what,....they'll show no shame
What massive figure profoundly looms
as large as elephants in a room?
Categories:
spout, angst, people,
Form:
Rhyme
Too many hurricanes are causing havoc this season. We might as well have a limerick collaboration about them since they seem to be in the news. Please join in by sending me your limerick in a soup mail or email.
Hurricane Maria is the latest ole windbag
She'll huff and puff till her eye walls sag
She's blowin' in the tropics
Catastrophic among topics
Heed the warning of that hoisted red flag
by: Lin Lane
I’ve heard Maria’s cooking up a storm
Pack your bags and head where it’s warm
She’ll cause such destruction
Which will lead to disruption
These old wind bags, they never conform!
These hurricanes really don’t care
Tossing houses right into the air
They’re a bane in our life
Like an old nagging wife
It's no wonder that folks cus and swear!
by: Jan Allison
Oh Maria I hope you just fizzle out
You're so full of wind with a nagging spout
Hurry and disappear
Blow on out of here
We're tired of that same old raspy shout
by: Tim Smith
Oh Maria, we have had enough
We don't want to see you puff
We don't want to stress
Or clean up your mess!
Just weaken, and stop acting tough!
by: Heidi Sands
Oh bad Maria, you have gotten so volatile
Blow yourself out and make people smile
Or maybe there's a chance
Another name you'll enhance
Hurricane Madness sounds very erstwhile
by: Seren Roberts
Cinder's sits on the toilet in fear
Of the ugly sisters to appear
Irma arrives there first
Maria next to burst
gave cinder's chronic diarrhea
by: Roy Pett
Categories:
spout, storm,
Form:
Limerick
Thru maritime miles of minions in motion
We hedge our opinions while pledging devotion
To serving the Captain and sharing our smiles
Through barrels of onions and flea-bearing trials
But even the pirates who pose in a rumble
Are learning the merits of those who are humble
The path of our choosing where sinning is pleasure
Is better for losing than winning a treasure
I plunged overboard when I soared off a plank
At the point of a sword and a sore lady's prank
The captain's first mate made her daddy agree
That my fate was a date with the fish in the sea
I knew she was baiting my body at brunch
To catch me in waiting and serve me for lunch
All pirates are worthy to fish and to feast
But no one should make me a dish for a beast
From well on the brink to a splash in the sink
I fell in a flash for a female fink
I knew she was watching me fall in the tank
And laughing discreetly with Daddy to thank
I should have resisted the words that she said
But when she persisted they went to my head
I told her I loved her but so did my mate
Who never returned from his very first date
It seems bloody retching but fatefully true
When somebody fetching is fatal for you
You flee from the danger but fractured you find
That pretty young stranger has captured your mind
You think she is true but you never can tell,
Her saltwater stew is a bitter farewell,
A mob in her keep is the poorest of help,
Who force you to leap in a forest of kelp,
Though mad as an adder I drifted from reach
To bob like a bladder in search of a beach
The Great White beside me was my willing host
To have me for dinner and eat me the most
Then something resembling a storm with a tail
Came surging at me in the form of a whale
I lost my composure and when I passed out
She tossed me all over to sit on her spout
Upon this brave lady who skirted the water
I fled for my life from the ship captain's daughter
She brought me to land on the girth of her blubber
To flip me ashore like a lousy landlubber
From deep in the sea to a seat by a seal
The freedom I keep is a cheap kind of deal
The beach that I sleep on is sunny and hot
So happy to be where my honey is not...
Categories:
spout, adventure, fantasy, funny, humorous,
Form:
Epic
And With Tantalizing Depths Found We Paint Beauty Divine
I walked into blazing inferno, heart so ready
My soul so positive, this old heart beating so steady
Rhythm and rhyme bursting so like a balloon to get out
Energy in these veins pouring verses like water spout
And an eager spirit, speaking of life, dear love and hope
Warning of this world's deepest darkness and its savage scope
But mixed in is heart's mercies and a ton, so much more
Poets know this, and that is why to Heavens they implore
Celestial guidance and a rare, gifted word or two
O' mighty lord so we dare beg thee that thy hand will do
Allow us to cast the fine words that makes our spirits soar
Open up senses and poetry flows through golden doors.
And with tantalizing depths found, we paint beauty divine.
Drink we fruit of our words like great and true, fine tasting wine!
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Note : No date on poem but must have been in the mid 1970'S..
Categories:
spout, art, beauty, deep, heart,
Form:
Sonnet
Looking up into the sky
a bird pooped in my eye
as it was flying overhead
causing me to see red
It was warm and soggy
making me feel queasy
I scurried into the house
like an upset little mouse
I headed for the kitchen sink
and got there in a blink
Using the faucet spout
I tried to flush it out
When it was expelled
it had a funny smell
and the sink water
had a dirty colour
So when a bird is flying overhead
keep your head down instead
Do not look up into the sky
or you may get poop in your eye
Categories:
spout, bird, color, humor, red,
Form:
Rhyme
She lets me put violets in her hair,
good-humouredly, calls me Ophelia
in such a way that I spout, But Shakespeare
pushed war, not love. Resplendent, Thalia
strolls the peaceful paths of Victoria Park,
taken with the interplay of people,
the signs of change, bridges like love at work;
Often, her hands become divine steeples
of calm prayer. Yet there is imminence
heard in fervencies, a tremendous will
wrought with words of truth and tolerance
that dare to preserve all that is spiritual.
Three share our views in comfortable silence,
Me, hope and a Goddess of Non-Violence.
*For Catie
Categories:
spout, friend, love, places, poetry,
Form:
Sonnet
Such pleasure it gives yet thrown away
believe me it will happen to us all one day,
the only way out sadly is not alive
the secret being when in; how to survive,
my place of abode the teapot nice and round
in it one needs to ready the journey bound,
to leave one’s comfort zone mashed and up the spout
there’s always a way when need’s be; to get out!
© Harry J Horsman 2014
Categories:
spout, humor, political,
Form:
Rhyme
Waves of Change
Changes in life descriptionalized
In comparison to waves of the ocean
Our bodies are made mostly of water
A body of water with flowing emotions
Now an ocean will flow peacefully
Until there is a bit of turbulence
Disrupting from a smooth flow
With the up and down currents
As we walk onto a new path
A different kind of feeling steps in
New ventures can be scary in thought
Of what is left behind when we begin
An air of difference can bring on a spin
To a funnel effect as does a water spout
Sometimes when in the spin motion cycle
We are shaded by clouds and cannot see out
When actually caught within the spin
We do not see the change is there
Our sense of direction is lost
We become totally unaware
If you are the one caught
Within that fast paced spin
You will not be able to see
The shape you are really in
That’s the time we need someone
To give us a tap on the shoulder
It’s not a matter of who knows more
Or which one of the other is older
You’ll need a friend like Dory was
Saying to just keep swimming the sea
To never give up your hopes and dreams
As changes in life really just happen to be
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Categories:
spout, adventure, confusion, courage, friendship,
Form:
Narrative
Breathless beauty shine bright tonight
my loving arms will hold you tight
no wind, no storm, no evil tide
will whisk you away from my side
I'll fly you to a land where eagles soar
where mountains climb from the shore
guide you to a meadow where nature plays
where geysers spout most every day
show you a place where the buffalo roam
where a simple man can make a home
we'll sail the sea under star filled skies
gazing deeply into those caramelized eyes
we'll have no worries, we'll be carefree
so take my hand and grow old with me
Categories:
spout, love,
Form:
Couplet