Best Spree Poems
Online bargains
Credit card gains
Nayda Ivette
11-30-2015
Gun shots popped.
Revelers dropped and bled.
Most ran.
The injured lay
on the trash-covered ground.
Some stayed and covered
the wounded or dead.
The shooter was found and shot.
Or maybe he turned the gun on himself.
But he comes back again,
the same rage in a different cell,
the same soul in a different skin.
The crime has not been solved.
Let’s call it what it is:
A serial killing spree.
Open wounds are re-shot
shattering nerves and floating debris—
a stronger blast hits the same spot.
We cannot heal.
We have no real security.
Is it time to say,
“Mountains, fall on us!
We don’t want to see anymore.”?
Or is this another isolated incident
in a neighbor’s back yard
that we can ignore?
Rita A. Simmonds
Early October, 2017
When waking to a new dawned morn,
refreshed from healthy, dreamy sleep,
we soon confront all held, old scorn
that we have yet to cleanly sweep.
We will sip pain in our coffee,
day long notice it in our seat.
Ignored, resentment will ill spree
through us and constantly repeat.
Hurts fester, ever growing scope.
Our anger will feed while we dine,
when bathing rage can froth like soap
while we read, bile shows in each line.
Only forgiveness will bring light
to ease the weight of each felt slight.
Moving as prescribed, holding bodies correct,
is life denied and confined within limits.
Our souls course divine life and truth through our blood -
we all thirst for spirit’s flood to seek a burst.
Even the first primitive man’s blood did flow
spirit overran with the want to let go.
Our souls crave dance, our blood pulses with a need
to relax our stance, let intellect recede,
so a freedom trance may then freely proceed.
Expressing soul’s need to overcome body
so perception is denied complete control
and spirit may spree, is a blood driven goal.
Every culture ever here, since time began,
found rhythm to explore for it attracted man.
All souls desire a chance to feel an expanse,
a joyous freedom expressed well when we dance.
This is what soars in my blood and others, too,
and why I often dance in my living room.
Leaves of an evergreen tree
Don’t blow the romance all at once
Love is a shopping spree
Judge much
but not wise
no surprise
Hearts of stone
eyes are blind
no comprehension
Pick and snipe
is not wise no
origional thought
Rigid standard
is their pretentious
banner sad
Free bird
shooting arrows
they kill
Their faith
is in themselves
noone else
Eagle soaring
too much to take
eyes turn away
Sail Captain
on stormy sea
Ship sinks
Shopping Spree
It was a big shop, large as warehouse it sold everything I didn’t need;
and the shop was empty of staff. The thief in my thought: if I had a van
I could back it up to the entrance, take everything in sight drive off
and sell it to retailers who would say when I was caught, we bought his
stuff in good faith. I could make a thousand Euros, but would have to
spend it fast by going to nightclubs and be the big guy paying drinks for
everyone; and beautiful women would fawn over me.
Finally a shop assistant came chewing on a burger and smelling of
fried onions. Asked me what I wanted. “Two batteries for my remote
please.” They cost 67 cent. He didn’t have the three cents so I told him
to make it seventy. This pleased him no end, but having robbed
the shop I could afford to be grand. Coming home the batteries were
not the right sort, but never mind, they could be useful for something
else, say, to run my toy car.
Shopping Spree
Picking
Paying
Stopping
Looking
Spending way too much, picking, paying.
Buyer of things, lots! Stopping. Looking.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 17, 2010
Poetic form: Tyburn
My neighbor Mrs. Spree was on a spending spree
She spent million dollars for a talking tree
The tree was a sludge
It was camouflage
She mucked about in muck absolutely free
My neighbor Mrs. Spree (C) rajat kanti chakrabarty
“Where there is no vision, the people perish: but he that keepeth the law, happy is he.” Proverbs 29:18 of the King James Bible
Wrapped around my virtual mindfulness spree
I behold our special child basking in freedom
beyond dreamlike fantasy, verily ecstatic
zooming around park, designed for surreal venture.
Never unreal midst my faith-brightened vision
our son radiates exuberance against hazy ambiance
as he recites Bible verses, fortified with distinct gestures
only imaginary in skeptic unbelieving minds.
Outshining shadowy doubts, our young man prevails
sharing the Gospel, enunciating the love of God…
thus I delightfully see in seemingly trancelike enthrallment
while praying for miraculous occurrence, very possible.
Whether those are ethereal or celestial moments
To me, they are heavenly sublime wondrous merriments.
May 29, 2021
2nd place, "Writing Prompt - Dreamlike" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 6/2/2021.
Missing your voice
missing your calls
didn't think you would do it
i guess i blew it
thought at least we could be friends
but that i couldn't stand
wanted you as my man
i didn't want to pretend
go back to holding hands
watch you be with someone else
that's something i couldn't have felt
watch my heart break
break and shatter
what does it matter?
only thinking about this
makes me sadder
In joy I unknot the slip
As it slides down
The silk softness in her frowned
Anticipation!
Crumbling to lewd gestures
I falter in lust
To unbecoming finesse
Within coaxed passion;
Plunged and enticed with the thrills
In liquid unction
Yields, bow beaten with acquiesce
Delighted ecstasy;
Let me burn with moist desire
To her fluid pleasure
griping her in my embrace
As she yearns and cries;
Short exulting raptures
With distinct moves
Light kisses in provoked trust
Of extreme pleasure;
Between the new sensations
She tricks my tongue tip
And triggers fancy love moans
To each seduction;
As temptations caress her
again and again
I covet to enchant her
With music notes;
Though she quakes and trembles
As the tip flutters
Her to the urgent sharp thrills
Of obsessed music;
Moves herself to my whim
In her subdued reaction
Attack quivers the sinews
Between wet moves;
Racy mouth as the tongue plays
With the neck moves
To breech both hardening mould
And tortured nipples;
Floats down to her love goal
In swift foreplay
Digs love licks between parted legs
With a swift vengeance;
Soft cavity and her lips
Torments me to quake
As frolics play in circles
Pushed to extremes;
I just take you in solace
Without the malaise.
too much coffee
sitting at my desk
can't get enough
donuts hard to reach
computer in front
panic button nerves
she is looking
pretending to do my work
poetry is free
Oh, a motley mob of rowdy men are we
When we hit your town to go on a spree.
We’ve fleeced the worst of their wiry wool
And our canvas pockets are now brim full.
We’ve come from the biggest runs near and far
To sup Beenleigh Rum at your inn’s bar.
On bowed horseback and busted spring cart
So fill ‘em up man, let’s make a spry start.
From the old stations on country out west
We’ve plied our tiring trade and done our best.
And hard won now our time for fun has come
We’ll sing and we’ll roar on Queensland rum.
From the Darling Downs too the men’ll ride
With their pockets full of silvery pride.
For I’m a man to shear six score and more,
I’ll best the limey new chum that’s for sure.
I’ve bested station bosses for wages
With their journal’s ripe and ink blackened pages.
It’s season’s end out on the famed Bulloo,
My muscles are hard and demeanour too.
Where even the blow flies head for the shade
And white are the men of mark ready-made.
The goin’s hard pushin’ through their western wool
For of the burr their fleeces are often full.
The rams are regal though their manners mean
With their horns and hooves they’ll fight keen.
They’ll best me not on the gentry’s board
For I’ve never yet left merino flawed.
The tar boy’s still a stranger I’ve not met
For I’ve not needed his poison pot yet.
My blows are long and blade strikes true,
But I’ve no need to boast to such as you.
The western wethers are big as bullocks
Running wild in thousand acre paddocks.
And the cook’s a master in the dark arts
Of making a meal from a beast’s worst parts.
I see you doubt me and good luck to you
For tonight I drink to a season through.
I’ll do it again next year have no doubt,
Draw it mild man and join me in a shout!
Pale turned the bow that
blest the sky
all that was blue at dusk...
did fly,
my mind is blurred and
now I cry:
the mud is dry, the mud is
dry.
Hope was lost within isles
and hills
the water splatters on me
hot chills
felt in a rush, craving
pleasure pills:
my passion distils, my
passion distils.
In this cruise, I seek but a
lake,
to be cocooned like
hotcake,
yet not sure of what is at
stake;
give me a brake, give me a
brake.
The dawn threw in a bait,
now I see
my heart was hooked by a
bee;
sweetness exhaled, bitter
spree
under the tree, under the
tree.