Best Stack Up Poems
It took just a moment
A single concentration lapse
And down the drain,Bayern's effort went
Whilst Messi enjoyed the claps
Life is like a football game
As dicey as a game of chess
A step can earn you fame
Another can end you up in a mess
A poor tackle can earn you a red
A miscued shot can end in your net
Life is not a flower bed
Off the post,your strikes can ricochet
Goal tallies are all that are countable
Your loving fans can always turn their backs
Your strength is only a vegetable
So while you still can,stack up your medal rack
Second hand smoke can kill you
But so can second hand love
Like a jumper on top of a building
'Til someone gives him a shove
You compare me to the way he was
Yet you never mention his name
But everytime I don't stack up
I'm the one that you blame
I see the way you look at me
With that cold and empty stare
Holding me and thinking of him
While wishing he was there
You talk about our future
While living in the past
I tell you how much I love you
You tell me I'm moving too fast
I die a little more each day
Because it's him you're thinking of
It's such a painful way to die
This thing, called second hand love
The other day while rummaging in a closet I was instantly overcome with joy
when I ran across our storage bins filled with our children’s once used toys.
Toys our children and grandchildren played with when they were young and new…
Toys that don’t grow up…like children and grandchildren do
A set of nesting cups for the bathtub, noise makers and little bouncing balls
plastic telephones where every child made imaginary calls.
Toys that at one time were their favorites…
toys they once adored.
Toys that served their purpose
but don’t get played with anymore.
A bunch of bendy action figures…which much to our elation
our children and grandchildren used…
to fuel their imaginations.
Those thick little baby books, a stuffed doggie, soft and brown
wooden blocks with painted letters they'd stack up…
then knock down.
As I picked up a plastic microphone and a bunch of different tiny cars
I thought how every toy inside these bins are part of who they are.
Because each of these toys was special once…
because each had their own heyday
there’s no way we could ever throw them out…
no way we'll ever give them away.
So they live in quiet comfort…
who knows…
we may live to see the day
when great great grandchildren come to visit…
who will no doubt want to play.
“Hey I remember playing with this when I was your age!”
We imagine their parents will say
and we’ll sit back and we'll smile
as we watch a new generation at play…
I imagine there are toys like these
in closets all across the USA…
quietly resting in bins of their own…
patiently awaiting that day.n…
patiently waiting for that day.
Usually, I fall behind
Where I’m supposed to be.
One step back (or more), I am
In perpetuity.
Papers pose in giant piles,
Awaiting my perusal.
All entreaties for removal
Meet with my refusal.
Clothes stack up in massive heaps
In hushed anticipation –
Will the washer or the drawers
Be their next destination?
Catalogues lay scattershot,
Their pages marked and folded.
If I were a child, I would expect
That I’d be scolded.
Luckily, my favorite shows
I summon on-demand.
Watching them the first time ‘round
I never could have planned.
Still, I get to everything;
I’ve got it all controlled,
Although I’m often reading news
That’s two or three weeks old!
I Should Have, Pen In Hand, Wet Paper As Before
Mercy, what a sad loss, no ink had stained white page
and rolling stone catches no moss, cries wise old sage.
I should have, pen in hand, wet paper as before
for my vanished bits fled to invisible shores.
I have new computer, paid for with extra cash
ah but, such did nothing to stop the recent crash!
So with this information I will now stack up
wet ink stained pages as my non-digital back up.
Maybe even carve important verse in hard stone
losing precious time, I see, I was not alone.
Add that crash to old poet's other worldly woes
with the other sad troubles we verse writers know!
Fear not friends, lesson learned from digital loss.
Cavities are an ugly bane, so please do floss.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-25-2018
Sonnet, ( Wisdom to be cautious is a gift )
Syllables Per Line: 0 12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables: 168
Total # Words: 128
Note: Now with very little precious time to be on board here, this site's recent crash gained in importance to me. Waking this morn at 2:15 am I logged on to read here and decided to write a bit.
Looking back at it now, I see a valuable lesson learned.
And I'd much rather get hit by a little pebble than a large boulder...
I guess my grandfather's advice applies here. He said, Son look at it this way,
when your world seems too dark and sad troubles are at your door,
remember they come and go and are clear evidence that you are still alive- so be grateful for that..
"Dia de Los Muertos", the Spanish name it. Eve
of All Saints, saw we of the church of blessed assurance
of an observance ushering in fall while easing
our multilingual obsession with death. The sun shines
on unmarked graves, and, "Come winter the same
snow falls, dusting us all," so it is said, and so
honored at The Dollar Tree Store.
Weeks before Halloween, when punctilious roadside tents
fill with demonic orange grins, when what the French
call The Season of Color with its 'sturm und drang' roars
in, I push past the doors of The Dollar Tree. No
automatic entry ushers us in, no Pearly Gates swing
wide to celestial Muzak. We come to purchase the needs
of the living-- tinfoil, plastic bags, detergent: a limpid purple
liquid with its cautionary "Do Not Drink," its "Fragrancia
Duradera." Longevity, one dollar a bottle.
Shelves of seasonal gimcracks stack up at the entrance.
"Adornes" in your face, useless for extending time:
crows with real feathers, spectral spider webs, glittery
black skulls, mockup tombstones inscribed "Rest in
Pieces"--Do Not Disturb-- Don't Laugh, You're Next.
I laugh, anyway. Comics know reality is funny.
All Hallows Eve a year ago, our parish priest
stood in cemetery darkness at a rude stone altar,
celebrating Mass at Bosque Bello, our Beautiful Forest
of flashlights and luminaries. There among graves
of the known and unknown, we broke bread and
shared the cup of blood, there, where the blessed dead
settle deep in their shoe-boxes, and the not-yet-
unmasked confront certain demise.
Stuck inside of a nightmare
lookin' like I might just slight tear
myself from the light there right
barely a knife couldn't share me a slice of the right hare
even if I slice up the bright hair
this rave is still goin' downhill
now will they break away the paint on the brain?
how will they shake the pain?
bow down, to the great
the main reason MrLee awaits mystery
a maze missing me, amazed history
amazing, believe me, relieve me
I need relief to be easy, not so cheesy
Halloween-e, how'd you see me?
it's because the age blistering me
withering me, slithering
to literally killing the literacy
that liberates the chemistry
within the matrix, the realer traces
hearin' say **** with a blade in my clenched fist
for the mistress makin' my breakfast
takin' my senses
breakin' the benches
remaining a mention to sayin' the restless
I rest less, but the best don't sow that much on the mattress
get a match that's gonna match up
get the cash that's gonna stack up
like you're packed up full of mad guns
automatic, automated better on the fantasy adding the Adam, Eve
every ladder we ever thought about climbin'
how about dyin', lyin' for tight things
making what's left just sound bad for the right things
the writings, I write these
don't fight me, I fight free and fiesty
like fireflies in a firefight
gun's and knives, some'll bite
some'll try to like me
other's will be like me
mother's want to rise me
brothers want to raise me
take me to a paradise, sea in paradox
where it stops sharin' all of my careless thoughts
careless pot to grow the pear
this brain to rot what's even there
I might be a demon or a semen
either way, a difference would make a difference
in inference, I interfere with interest
to fit inside this little chest of simpleness
Dear Miss Monkey Manners, I am writing to you for guidance if you please,
I’m seeing a Howler Monkey who likes it when I’m on the stage doing my striptease.
I can’t say that he’s not exuberant or that I feel unappreciated,
But when he yells it will scare the pants right off of the uninitiated.
If I’m up in the spotlight, doing the bump and grind or swinging from a pole,
There’s a deafening howl and everyone drops their pants before I reach my goal.
My boss would like it if my clothes came off Instead of those who watch me work.
I’m afraid that he’ll tell my boyfriend to quiet down and then he’ll go berserk.
I know that I’ll never do my best unless he’s there to watch me on the stage,
How can I tell him to quiet down without hearing his howls of rage?
Dear Gentle Reader, you may not know it but I’ve had some experience with peeling.
When I used to come on stage to do my act the apes would stack up to the ceiling.
I would hit the light dressed as a banana and invite them each to tug on my peel,
I’d love to hear them all as they each gave out with a delighted simian squeal.
One night while I was doing the act and about to land a banana split,
I heard a yell from a Howler Monkey coming from the orchestra pit.
His screams of joy were so sincere that I married him the very next day,
My advice to you is to do the same and leave your boss nothing more to say.
And if you keep your job doing the strip or end up writing a column like this,
Trust me when I tell you that you’ll never get tired of hearing his howls of bliss.
You ask if I'm okay, there's a long pause
I try to find the words to let you know I'm a lost cause
I know you tried to help, had so much hope
But your efforts were no match for the self hatred and dope
I'd like to lie and pretend it's all okay
But I can't keep pretending so just walk away
I'm sick of both of us clinging to delusions
I'm sick of the problems that stack up on top of solutions
I'm never going to be who you think I should be
My pretty face distracts you from what's plain to see
I'm not worth the effort time or the prayers
So go find a new project fix someone who cares
I've given up and you should too
Why are you here after all I put you through
They all told you I was a loser what did you expect
Just cut your losses have some self respect
If love cured addiction we'd all be okay
But I'm too far gone to pretend today
My belly's full, but I'm hungry.
There's plenty of food, but I can't decide what to eat.
If I move my feet will I lose my seat.
Figuratively I speak,
Would I rather be sitting on Flat Rock or climbing Squaw Peak.
Any where but here.
Inside my head's the one place I fear.
It's a place I will never forget.
The evil streets are well kept.
The worst part is the unforgettable kiss of death.
How could I ever forget.
Not once, but definitely at least twice,
the evils almost stole my life.
I would never end my own life.
For those who wonder,
I'll say it twice...
I would never end my own life.
As I stack up my days of sobriety...
Lifes' challenges have been trying me.
"Booze can fill that hole?"
"Booze created that hole?"
As I battle myself,
I diminish my health, wealth,
and anything good about myself...
Through all this distraction I must take action.
I'm built Ford tough,
with this rental I'm totally Focused.
Without income,
my summer plans are hopeless...
Does anyone know where that rope is???
Ha ha ha ha hah...
I'm so focused.
Speechless, so speechless even my script is blank
in wake of a promise to uphold
What else is there for me to say
besides relying on a list of all my best read lines
but U Have amnesia
I have nothing, only a far away gaze
to steal my attention, my focus
to the scenery beyond the window
Amidst a perfect Friday laid in wait an abstract Saturday
now this, a Sunday, I want it to be over
For a fleeting moment I found myself jealous
found myself having a dinner of 3 with jealousy
the reason: a name, a place, a person
wrapped into an inadvertent competitor against me
Paris...Paris, the romantic capitol of France
Paris, the dream destination of every woman
who has never laid eyes upon it
Paris who's been Esmeralda's confidant
her best friend, her affection in my year long absence
so how do I stack up against him, I don't know
We're in two different leagues
though I feel I fall too and far beneath
I've heard the name just not the person nor the city
still I fear completely of falling in second place
of being shunned away, kicked to the curve
the man who can be moved
Hey, Jealousy
a word to you
please just leave me be
Hey, Jealousy
a word to you
Goodbye
be gone from, me
Jealousy
“When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.”
~ Proverbs 11:2 (NIV)
A popular topic ’mongst people of faith
Is whether among them are those who but sayeth
That they’ll abide by precepts that all claim
As theirs in that group. Well, it sure is a shame
When participation is empty, and yet
The more people do this, the bolder they get,
Till crises of style emerge, upon when
All cower in fear of the littlest sin.
But who cares if hippies with dreadlocks a-flowin’
Would strum their guitars or speak of some great vision
Of proud peaceful Pepperland, of Puff the dragon:
He’s raw and organic, non-GMO, vegan –
Who cares if you’re scarfing fast food from that bag?
It isn’t for health nuts; why’s that such a drag?
Who cares if you go for expensive retreats,
Drink smoothies, take saunas, and live as elites?
Who cares if what’s inside that head of long hair
Is nothing profound but the attitude there?
I don’t look too special or act like I’m wise
And yet Kate Wolf’s voice I can fast recognize;
I seek the nontoxic, I grow fresh green herbs,
And strive for the thoughtful, not that which disturbs,
I learn T’ai Chi freely from folks in the park,
And meditate each time when I would embark
Upon my small vision quests that can’t stack up,
To greater things that I’m sure all fill your cup
Since you’re putting on such a beautiful show:
Is what’s not pretended just what you don’t know?
~ Thanks Always Returns
No frames of Arts
No articulation of the tongue to fight
Words
low enough to skip
the storm
Sing the silence
A circular dream that does not want to be woken up
Words plugged into their stammer
worries stack up without pause
Like something drilling.
I stare into the fire.
I close my eyes. That makes a dark line mine.
The finger beats the guitar without strings.
An hour to think.
I wish I was a Tory,
It would be another story,
So much simpler not to care
Or have to be aware
Of how other folks must strive
To make a crust to stay alive.
I could keep my privileged indifference
Surrounded by a picket fence
I wouldn't have to own the knowledge
(Whilst enjoying Heston's snail porridge)
That paupers are dying on NHS trolleys
I could just enjoy my hard earnt lolly,
Keeping my guilt edged share portfolio
Guilt free and safe offshore
(Like Rees Mogg, Gove and BoJo) so
That my net worth will appreciate
And HMRC won't be able to deviate
The profits accrued from fracking
To subsidise those who are plainly lacking
Any acumen or entrepreneurship
As a Tory I could safely worship
At the altar blessed by Thatcher, Zuckerberg and
Branson,
As I stack up my king's ransom,
A monument to personal wealth,
Built without any heed to the health
Of the welfare scroungers or the planet
A social conscience? They should ban it!
Let's get on and get the bull done,
Disposable wealth is supposed to be fun,
What's the point in being a Tory
If you're hamstrung by one nation rhetoric?
Yoghurt knitting tree huggers make me really
sick,
'It's for the money, not for you'
Is the motto of my Tory crew,
so go hug a hoody if you will,
My snout is staying firmly in the swill!
This Land Belongs to God
In the fields the corn is turning a golden brown,
Very soon the autumn leaves will float to the ground.
One can feel the presence of God here each day,
As I watch the farmer stack up his winter hay.
The geese are making a landing out on the pond,
The splash scares a doe and her little fawn.
They rush off into the woods nearby,
They look back only to tell the geese a final goodbye.
Toward The Old Red Barn the cattle come to be warm,
They know inside they will be safe from the winter storm.
Old man winter is lurking just over the hill,
He brings with him snow and a deep winter chill.
So, as I sit looking out over the snow covered sod,
I realize I cannot exist in a land without God.
We’re being forced by some to drop God’s name,
We will keep on fighting; we have to win this game.
©2014 Lynn B Glover