Best Stickler Poems
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
on absorption.
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
"Mind's Eye"
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
Knock, knock who's there in my bathroom?
Jan the princess of posterior interior transfer
Knock, knock who's there not in my hot tub?
Cheryl the magnificent moonlight moon pie muncher
Knock, knock who's there in the pickle barrel?
Dale the satisfied stickler for the wife of the pickler
Knock, knock who's there flushing eyes for 15 minutes?
John the Master of Disastrous WD-40 tears
Knock, Knock who's there walking around all comfortable?
Maureen the anxious advocate of flat, wide, comfy, shoes
Knock, Knock. Who's there out in the forest?
Kevin the observer of the great grizzly wet haired bear!
Knock, Knock Who's there on the highway
Julie the crazy copper hating motorcycle driving lizard lover!
Just who dares to talk about normal poets names
Pat the shameless poet names dropper is to blame!
Spelling, syllable count, vanity, too simple, Simon! Be prolific, cruel, smart, up to par, above the bar, fit for the stage. Tap, tap, tap…
—by poet
The Prismatic Self
See the wooden stage, markers for my feet, bright lights, great expectations, critical analysis. Curtains will open any minute as my words make an entrance. Will my opening lyrics draw a crowd? Who will be in attendance? The theater’s not likely sold out.
Backstage, the sponsors, who are they? ATTENTION! As if a teacher wields a pointer, tapping at my feet. Will the audience throw erasers?
On the palm of my hand, the rules - perhaps strict, but I’m not in fear of a stickler. Trained by the nuns in love and hate knuckles.*
Lots of rules, I might have to practice the act for quite a bit longer. I practice in my dressing room, trying on outfit after outfit - those flouncy forms or something simple and succinct.
Am I a people pleaser? Do I perform at the pleasure of the King or Queen? Or am I my own worst critic?
Yes! Yes! Yes! No!
I desire to be seen but I will yield. There is something more important than being the lead. Still, I must confess, I must run back to my little box, mime my tears, dread my limitations, take a breath and when I am ready - take a bow.
At the onset, I must build my own backdrop, backstory, be vague and understood. I run my lines quickly, slowly, go over them again and again, even as I recite them freely, as a monoku or Shakespearian sonnet; or get even more elaborate.
I labor over each word, its placement, its meaning. I don’t care! I do care! I must feel it practically perfect; though I will let it go. Eventually, it will be a comedy of errors, erroneously erupting past the stage, in the rubber hands of cause and effect. The sponsor’s Marlboro ashes fall on it, without understanding my heartfelt meaning; my wings clipped as I await the list…the dreaded and dreadful list. Most surprised when I am the cream, alone - floating at the top.
**Fastbreast, blushing, aghast, euphoric. That sponsor is exact. I do not grow prideful. I do glow. The tip of the iceberg shows, all other words sunken, below. In leotards, the ships pass by, having a look - one clips itself.
*conceit
**Fastbreast - heart beating rapidly (Neologism)
Oh noo' It has happened again.! I thought we had escaped the continual scene:
forever falling down, and ya know what people actually celebrate it..?
and we'd thought we were safe here) a place where you had sympathetic support,
ITS NO GOOD..! that's what it isn't..' at last here was a chance at last to get time to
create our own poems, after being famous for all this time..' and we never had the chance
of creating our own stuff..' at least when we were killed off out there it was only by the
cretins..! now it has happened here, its a spiritual thing, sob.' boo-hoo, I saw the
shadow though..! it was a pale one..and we felt a vindictive force, and then our whole
new world shattered.' I wonder how would some like it? you have been being pushed about since
1643, whoever did it must be a cold hearted and lonely person..' I remember reading
reading some lines somewhere about just such a writer, hmm..' and now I'm a ghost and its
all down to someone..! Dumpty...that is who I am now..And down in the dumps BUT I AM MAD
MAD MAD and determined..! I can get revenge, I shall snoop in on any soup mail & nasty remarks
and so on; I can do that because I am a ghost now..! we had such a hard life early on at
the abbey farm there was ole aunt Patricia she was strict always minding our p's & q's
for us always saying we didn't do enough, then after Dad left us 'I was hard' but I never wanted
to be lost and nasty like she was, oh she was a stickler for 'rules' pashaaaw...! never
changed her life though did they...? hmmm, what to do next.? I don't know though if I
really should go down that road, it would be a contradiction of all I have tried to live, by
even through that nasty war, right up to now I suppose..' look! if I became like that I would
probably be going around with a horrible hot anger inside me, it would be like a big heavy
stone where my heart should be..! Oh you know what I mean.! and what would I do next.?
after I track them down.. after, I DESTROY THEM UTTERLY))) what then old egg? I
don't know what to do I feel as if I am being 'almost coerced ' here.. and I've heard
about the other place..' its hot they say, with a big black iron round thing..' I don't think
I would like it there, Oh if only Humpty and Dumpty could be here together again..'
H ow does he balance life and what the Bible teaches?
E vidently by practising all that he preaches.
I mpacting lives by his words and deeds,
S erving God first, above his own needs.
M odel he is, for other men to follow,
Y eah, a true Jack of all trades, you know.
H umble and loving, though a strict stickler to rules,
E xperienced, wise and quite an expert with tools,
R eal fun to be with, time with him makes me glad,
O f course, he's my hero and none other than my dad.
11/26/17
her lips quiver
without making a sound...
funeral song
© kashinath karmakar 2012
====================
Placement:1st ;(March 2012)
Contest:Strictly a Stickler for Strictness (haiku)
Sponsor:Charles Henderson
I am often called a perfectionist,
I expect correctness in all I do,
High standards make me a precisionist,
This assessment is exact, fair, and true:
I will accept only the very best,
I am a stickler for accuracy,
Some will insist this is a futile quest,
Some will declare this is a fallacy:
We’re imperfect humans--- we’ll always fail,
You’re expecting way too much from us,
You set an impossible scale, they wail,
Your expectations are ridiculous:
Your protests and complaints are all for nought,
It is MY PERFECTIONISM that is sought.
"Perfection is not obtainable, but if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence."
These words of Vince Lombard inspire me and they accurately reflect the sentiments in my heart.
My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas
My lucky dog surely has no fleas
they all jumped from him onto me
His luck could be quite fetching
were I not so furiously scratching
When he sneezes the cold I get
my lucky dog could win any bet
Good night sleep he is a winner
Gas wakes me, damn chili dinner
Chasing the ladies he is tops
my pick-up lines are all flops
Lucky dog always gets his gal
I waste time drinking with a pal
He has fun chasing the fast cars
if I did that I would have scars
Yes sir, my lucky dog has it made
while I get to write this tirade
Robert J. Lindley, 04-19-2015
Note-- My dog, Midnight (black Lab) I had for 17 years. He passed on fifteen years ago, I've not had the heart for another.... Felt great writing about him... Thanks
Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Humorous Poetry
Enter Poetry Contest
Deadline 5/18/2015 12:00:00 AM
Note From Sponsor No updates yet...
Contest Description
What to Submit?
1 original, poem on the theme of .humor.............
Any form is acceptable, but no more than 20 lines.
May rhyme or not rhyme. I am not much of a stickler for onprecise forms
or meter as long as the theme of the poem is not affected.
Wow, if I were a celebrity tickler
I’d start with Miss Kelly Pickler
I’d tickle her face
Or in any old place
But finding her? That is the stickler
Who says my mother is no more in this world?
She has not left me to face alone this cruel world
Believe me, she is always with me
Her kind glowing face, I can always see
I can see her in the blossom of flowers
I can see her in my heart’s nook and corners
I can see her in the serenity of the moon shine
I can see her in the rainbow of thoughts enshrine
She is the sunshine in my dark and dreary days
A stickler for ethics and virtuous ways
She shields me from the demons of lust and greed
She teaches, honesty, love and good deed
Her comforting words are balm to my pain
That put my anguish and throes in chain
Why my mother, you from the comfort of Heaven alight?
To bestow to this unworthy son your blessing’s delight
-----
an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly.
though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!
Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers,
but altruism, civility, Dharma bum ethnocentrism,
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism,
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness,
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,
brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness,
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak,
zealous antipathy craving everything.
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question
occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily
upon major American holiday,
whereat figurative bro
thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic
good-samaritan charitable ambitions
especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities
other than
when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes
play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility,
diligent energy, and friendly hello
and sundry pleasant greetings
hook hood be some
soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger
ready to make shares available vis a vis IPO
Mosquito Bat
Peering closely, I sought to quickly skim through the online latest news …
True to form, I am a stickler for keeping up with the latest happening news…
Given this internet age and its borderless media reach, there’s always something…
So much to read, so much to keep up to date, just so one’ll be a better man for reading…
Then it happened, even as I was about to scroll the displayed page with the mouse button..
There came a familiar high pitched whine, softly at first but intensifying as its source approaches…
Christ! A blasted mosquito, high tailing in my direction, to my right pinky ear, to be precise…
I froze all motion, rolled and strained my eyeball to squint out of the corner of my right eye…
I saw, at the periphery of my field of vision, the fast approaching obnoxious blood sucker…
Silvery wings furiously beating as it made a bee line to my ear, a beacon for a typical bloody dinner…
Cautiously yet sparing no delay, I reached out for my trusty rechargeable electric mosquito bat…
The offending insect was just about to land, circling in ever tightening circles as I grasped my bat…
Bat upraised in hand, I did a quick head swivel , the dastardly insect was now plain in my sight …
Ah ha, now you are my victim, you stupid little insect! I gloated inwardly as I eyeballed the insect..
Dinner lost, the sudden shift in air movement must have warned this bloodthirsty sucker…
There was a quick change in its flight pattern, it tried to fly out of my vision, tried to flee from danger …
Here, eat this, you bloody miserable ungodly insect! Unhurriedly, almost leisurely, I waved my bat…
Right across the flying path of the fleeing little insect, there was no escape for such was its fate…
A sharp crackle and a quick spark of light, the poor mosquito was no more, no longer in sight…
A plume of whitish smoke, an acrid smell of burnt organic material, yup it was no more alright…
Mentally, I blew across the end of my smoking gun barrel like any swashbuckling vigilante..
Gee, what a lethal combination, me and this rechargeable electric mosquito bat each day…
Got to get a spare, just in case, like my daddy used to say, get ready for a rainy day…
An electric mosquito bat, dear readers, it is a must- have gadget to get, to keep up to date........
Everybody lies; it's part of the norm,
for truth, like a coin tarnishes with age.
Honesty, being a stickler for form,
is best portrayed: in movies or on stage.
Everybody cries; it's what humans do,
it is all part of love's ultimate price.
And the pain of betrayal's nothing new,
lovers oft break up, like a sea of ice.
Everybody suffers to some degree,
yet I can't ignore the pain in my heart.
And if my feelings were to be set free,
they'd undoubtedly tear my soul apart.
Everybody has felt the pain I feel,
so, why do I think it's such a big deal?
The drowned (man), Translation of Etiemble’s poem: Noyé by T Wignesan
( Etiemble who devotes some pages in this only verse volume to translations was a stickler
to the practice of reproducing the original in its form, metre and prosodical structure, a
methodology I find quite useful, on the one hand, and pedantically futile, on the other.
“No man is perfect”, an axiom which could easily apply to both poems and their translations.
In my view, it is not the translator’s duty to improve on the original creation nor is it to
re-create another poem based on the original. Where the ambiguity of sense arises in
vocabulary and syntagms, the translator has to make a choice, albeit even a personal one.
End rhyme scheme of the original: aaaa, bbcc, dede, fgfg. Syllabic count irregular, roughly
around eight, give or take one or two. )
The sea, its games, its lights of jade,
its crazy sheep, cheerless foam
obsolete languages, their countless watering places
standing open-mouthed, all their harbours
nets of steel where sometimes
an insignificant strip of my fingers
signed my passage through these harbours
underwater strewn with cadavers,
all these actions in which I lose myself
and find myself always strong(er)
all these abysses where you hope
to find in vain the last port
and which vomit you via an hiccough
towards shoals and their setbacks,
towards their beaches, their precipices:
non! it’s not for the sea to imbibe.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
CUCUMBER PARADISE
Never for preserved peach or tomato - only for cucumber:
Always steaming lots of big jars and sterilizing lids,
Ukrainian Inna lived for the pleasure of the shiny green rosids,
And dreamed of them whether awake or at slumber
There was no real cuc harvest, except in her mind, yes.
She lived in the big city like a single cucumber in a barn,
Needing something significant in her life: living should not be in vain.
She sensed when it was cuc harvest-time even in the city cuc-less.
From farming village, family tradition, for work she was a stickler,
But finished all jobs fast, allowed nothing to encumber
Her jarred supply of cucs, even in a winter devoid of ‘cumber.
Her mum and grandma had been devout picklers.
In her farmer’s mind an earthy animal instinct,
Like birds smelling the breeze from the south
And flocking, even in their cages. Or drooling at the mouth
Like doctored cats, howling in March for theoretical fulfillment.
See them, amass them, pickle them without number
Stick to something you’re used to: if you see it, pickle it.
Give to friends, neighbours, but no real demand for it: can’t quit.
Medical definition: Atavism, terminal, cucumber.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Note
Charming true story about a young girl, Inna,who worked with my wife years ago. Inna's main pastime for relaxation in the huge city of St. Petersburg was pickling cucumbers, which brought back her happy family memories of the farm in Ukraine years before.