Best Stocked Poems
I've constructed a picket fence around me to keep jackanapes out
Through pickets they can see me, but I never allow them to touch
private parts of me I keep concealed, and don't talk about so much
I keep whitewashing my fence, cleansing it from things left in doubt
When my boards become exposed to prying eyes that shouldn't see
I open another bucket of watered-down paint and reach for a brush
to cover the flaws, my faults within, and I am always in such a rush
to whiten and brighten the facade out front. The veneer veiling me.
There is a gate with well-worn hinges, but usually it's kept locked
to prevent invaders who would dare trespass on my every thought
Those who'd despoil my fence with graffiti and rip my boards apart
Hence, one reason why I keep a supply of whitewash well-stocked
I am the prismed reflection of my surroundings, including my fence
where no webs shall arachnids weave within my weathered boards.
I will apply a coat of whitewash to my palisade as the need affords
It is a beachhead between me and crawlers; my penury of defense
Twining around my picketed railings, grows a vine of climbing roses
The virtuous blooms are never cut to prolong each inculpable stem
They shroud malevolent fingers pointed at me that would condemn
I shrive every foible and failing that my whitewashed fence encloses
May 28, 2023
W T F Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Armadilly came galloping into Troll Lake, bent on seeking a new life, to unwind.
He’d rode out of the Badlands, leaving only a trail of blowing dust and leaves, behind.
His steady stead Jalopy had been pounding feet, relentlessly with powerful strides.
Rearing up, Armadilly stopped before our Troll Bridge with his slingshot at his side.
I could see, he rode the sleekest mount, and the biggest tortoise, that I had ever seen.
Man that armadillo knew his tortoise flesh… this was the fastest one, ever been!
I would say: he truly looked, the devil’s mount… with glowing, fire stocked eyes.
The stranger named himself as Armadilly, but his true identity, could not be denied.
He was really Armadilly Billy, The Slingshot Kidster, as he bowed to us, so very low.
With a yes Ma'am, and a no Sir, he was smooth and could charm, near any old soul.
The Trolls loved him for the spell binding stories, that at the campfire, he gave away.
He never talked about his past, but we knew who he was, without being told, that day.
The rumor had it that Sheriff Bunny Garret had shot him dead, on one fateful day.
Another said he’d faked his death, heading south to Mexico, his life to live away.
But we knew better, for he was here with us, right now, on this illustrious day.
We knew he was a kind and misunderstood guy, because of what I’m about to say.
He saved our squirrel, Funkundilly, from a hawk diving straight for her, inward bound.
With his slingshot, like streaked lightening, he forced the hawk to spiral to the ground.
And we all applauded that Funkundilly was now, once again, so very safe and sound.
Then he strode, spurs a jangling, to dish out his own type of justice, so very renowned.
With a steely glint in his eye, he ordered the hawk away, or meet his end, he did convey.
And you can say that frightened bully hawk, really high tailed it, as he ran away.
Everyone celebrated that night, with Armadilly, all the way to dawn’s embrace.
Before he left, Armadilly knew from then on, he’d always have a home in this place.
But his mind was set on a wandering, more of this world’s adventures, to unweave.
So with a HiHo! Jalopy! He took off, leaving in another cloud of dust and leaves.
But I heard him shout that he’d be back again, soon…
And we were sure, that’s just what he would do!
Inspired by Silly Billy the Kidster's--- Billy the Kid Blog
An epic poem by Carol Eastman
This scribble has nothing to do with the famous song of Simon and Garfunkel. It's just a story I invented.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I bought a cottage in the middle of nowhere,
Right at the edge of the countryside,
Any curious men rarely visited it,
So I stocked it well with food
And worked all alone on my laptop
Electric poles provided current.
So I could enjoy the peace
Within the sound of silence.
I had left the cities full of noise,
Only songbirds broke the silence of the site,
But that I could bear well enough.
Within the sound of silence.
Winter came and soon I was snowbound.
That’s when a knock sounded on my door.
Reluctantly I opened up my place.
There, on the threshold stood a woman
All drenched up and with flimsy clothes.
Her beauty stunned me. I let her in.
My car has stopped, she stammered.
So I sent her up to have a hot bath,
Gave her my dressing gown and invited her
To partake in a hot chicken broth
and some ill-prepared food.
And all this was done as I stood
Mute but mesmerised by her allure
For it was the time for silence.
Bad weather kept her imprisoned in my home,
Few words were exchanged
But she felt the power of silence.
A week later, the countryside was clear of snow.
She phoned a garage to pick up her car.
Then I decided to take her on the river,
How beautiful she looked in her proper clothes.
We got in a boat and paddled away to an islet.
We disembarked and partook of a picnic she had prepared
We spoke little but we came close.
She smiled and timidly I kissed her for the first time.
I felt my heart throbbing but all was quiet
Within the sound of silence.
We married a year later and eventually
The cottage was soon filled
With the crying of a newborn sound.
We were elated and made such a fuss.
Gone was the sound of silence.
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it
be salted? It is henceforth cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Matthew
5:13 KJV
In ancient history, salt was sought and bartered. In some places it was carried by
camels across scorching deserts such as in West Africa where eager merchants
traded it to waiting customers. Salt was used for money in some places, thus giving
us the word salary.
Today salt is used for many purposes, stocked in grocery stores, and is available on
virtually every table.
We use it medicinally, and blocks of salt satisfy cattle’s craving. Salt in water raises
the boiling point, yet salt melts ice. Put salt on meat and it preserves it. Leave salt
off the table and your appetite leaves with it. But too much salt is harmful. It makes
your feet and legs swell and too much is hard on the heart.
Examine one grain of salt under a microscope and note its cube shape. Its sides
are made of two elements, sodium and chlorine. These combine to form sodium
chloride – salt.
Imagine soldiers in a tug of war. An ion of chlorine glares from one corner at a
sodium ion guarding the opposite side. As crystallization occurs the chlorine wins in
the stare-down. Sodium surrenders its single valence electron to chlorine and
together they become sodium chloride. Consider it in verse:
Salty Sentinels
Sodium ions stable,
assembled on the table,
salivating palates crave.
Chlorine ions tiny,
mustering soldiers briny,
guarding corners brave.
Sodium chlorine making,
crystal shakers shaking
cubes so salty white.
Ever fighting blandness;
vectors adding grandness,
enhance the appetite!
There is no wonder Jesus used salt as an example to the disciples in his Sermon on
the Mount. He exhorts Christians to have salt in themselves and have peace with
one another. See Mark 9:50
'Twas the night before Christmas, and ...
(THE REQUEST)
Reclining my hammock, very still
(Far too lax to persuade its swing)
I contemplate my Mai Tai's chill
And what I'll plead dear Santa bring ...
Hmmm ...
My hut, provisioned with all I need
Near enough, the white sand beach
A Tahitian wife - ravishing, indeed
An outdoor fridge within my reach ...
Big white towel, (perchance it rains)
iPhone charged and up-link fine
Fridge well-stocked to numb my pains
A seafood glut on which to dine ...
My greatest need, I have to say ...
A NUDGE ... to make my hammock sway!
(THE ADMISSION)
I must confess I've not been good
I did not send my cards this year
Declined to wassail, (like I should)
My rosy cheeks - quite tan, I fear
The palm tree never got its trim
Tahitian choir was short a Bass
My snowman efforts, pretty slim
And cookie baking, WAY off-pace
I have no place to hang a sock
Haven't wrapped a package yet
No burning need to watch a clock
Or rush the Tahitian sun to set
You see ...
When first I saw that sun, I felt ...
My state-side Christmas spirit ... melt!
(THE RATIONALE)
I know I've come up short this season
Not a perfect Christmas paradigm
And while I've not a decent reason
Perhaps he'll grant my wish this time
I try to trouble not, the breezes
Fill the ice cube trays when bare
Bless my wife whene'er she sneezes
Watch her tend the prickly pear ...
And while its meager stuff to most
A swinging hammock's bliss to me
So I don't wind up Tahitian toast
But rocking sweet, perspiration-free
So ...
While a nudge may seem a trivial thing ...
What Christmas joy ... a sway can bring!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "From Your Lips To Santa's Ears" Poetry Contest, Phillip Garcia, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "The Night Before" Poetry Contest, Joseph May, Judge & Sponsor.
In New York and so many places,
Chocolate shops abound,
Where milk and dark and white, with nuts
Or not, can all be found.
Yet here in Sweden, there's a store,
If you want something sweet,
Which carries only licorice,
A Nordic candy treat.
Varieties are plentiful,
Including those with salt,
Which you may want to spit right out;
If so, it's not your fault.
For licorice, the jet black kind,
You either love or hate.
I love it but when made with salt,
I simply can't relate.
Yet other combinations,
Like with chocolate or fruit,
Taste delicious and they come in
Different styles and shapes, to boot.
Today, my last in Sweden,
I stocked up to take back home,
So I'm leaving with sweet mem'ries
And the topic for a poem!
Red one
Blue one
Old on
New one
Ah heck
Side effects
I think I am
Due one
They’ll flatten
Or fatten
Always been
In Latin
Or tongue twistish
Latinglish
To patent
A statin
But I’ve had my fill
And summoned the will
To say bye to the ill
Coz I’m over the pill
There were lots
Of drug shots
That I got
For clots
And sun spots
To slow snots
And fix rots
As a tot
I shopped ‘em
And stocked ‘em
Then popped ‘em
Or swapped ‘em
I ravaged
And damaged
Til a salvage
Was managed
Lived in sin
To my kin’s
Own chagrin
I was lost
And was tossed
‘Til therein
Bought low cost
Vitamins
I’ve shaken
The achin’
Forsaken
The fakin’
Nor more need
Of needles
As I’m free
Of evils
I’m not yet over the hill
But have had more than my fill
And I at last, have the will
To be so, over the pill
On a dusky evening long time ago,
When shadows huddled at every corner,
When rain had gone and birds had roosted,
You held me close and whispered in my ear;
“In your eyes I see, the blue of the sky,
In your soul, you hold the depth of the seas,
Love swells, like tides on rise,
My life, I vow, by Jove, never to part”
Your voice, like a tremulous rivulet gurgled,
We stood staring at each other in a warm embrace.
With passion sweet, your eyes glowed.
Like a blue lagoon, they were deep and peaceful.
On your dimpled cheek, a kiss I planted,
A gesture warm with abiding love.
Crisscross lain as warp and weft,
We hoped to weave the garb of life.
Words and deeds that served as balm to the soul!
Still, they repeat, gushing a flurry of thoughts,
But alas! To a far unknown land you fled,
‘From whose bourn, no traveler returns’,
My life has moldered and mildew grown,
Where my Love! Whither have you gone?
Who bid you slink into death’s secret hide?
Why left me to languish in a world of shadows?
Seasons roll and years glide,
Youth has withered and memory fails,
Now I wander through a dim shadowy world.
I feel so trapped and lonely, as twilight grips.
Like embers flickering low, yet stocked by the breath of fire,
I hope, we shall meet one day at the Golden gate,
Where no shadows shall lurk and time shall stay eternal
And silence sparks the language, the ears want to hear.
_______ _____________ _______
When rain is gone and sky gets clear,
When night turns deeper and silence creeps,
I transverse back to that dusky eve,
To retrieve those moments, I sadly cherish!
The stalwart soldier in my kitchen forever stands.
Faithful, diligent and ready, at my commands.
He wears a maroon uniform and keeps me comfortable.
Be it sunshine or in raging storms writing verse at my table.
His ammunition..forever stocked.
For come what may, he is totally loaded and locked!
No, silly~it's not a gun!
Stop thinking that, it is just not any fun!
He keeps a light on at all times.
That I might find him, he demands no rhyme.
Who is he? Haven't you figured it out!
He's my Keurig Coffee Maker, who makes good drinks,
and alas, no stout!
Coffee of any flavor, French, Hazelnut to name a few.
Teas of exotic natures, mon Dieu!
No hot boiling pots of hot water to carry around.
Those tiny K-Cups, make my life, deliciously sound!
April 20, 2020
7pm PST
they body shame
they spew hate posts dipped
in virulent venom
vehemence for the voluptuous
crazy mad about the curves
mocking the well stocked
where do they get all the hate
wait!!!
they manufacture it
burning off calories
they work themselves into
hate hysteria
zero sized is no prize
what makes thin, in?
Beauty goes through phases
women through their crazes
must fit the body type
that's the hype
fashion famished
emaciated models
thigh gap miles wide
poking bones they can't hide
unhealthy unwell
they send the fat ones to hell
well....
big booty bullies
think they'll get away
with what they write
with what they say
they have no shame
lame...they're so lame!!
haters will hate
to give a damn?
it's too late!
Beauty isn't a size
it's in what you see with your eyes
the beauty within
is not limited
to fat or to thin
it's the size of your heart
so shut up and get smart
Listen to this big girl
Take a bow, take a twirl
Sexy unbound to size
GET WIZE!
Be Body Beauty Brave
Silence the Shamers
Give them a smile
knowing what you do
about BARE truth:
Better to have thick thighs
than thick sick minds....
Eileen Manassian
I follow Tess Holliday on Instagram and Facebook. I love that woman. It really angers me what haters write to her. Her message is simple: Big woman have the right to feel beautiful too. Plain and simple. Haters...move on!
Weather is poised to slap us into submission.
Threatening with the largest storm in history
To make us aware of her power to destroy
And yet, here on the cusp of history,
battened down
well stocked
Do I yet love Nature
With all of her wild and beautiful ways.
Her seas have been there for me in my times
Of Loss
And Need
Ever showing me the vastness of her being
She has ever been the Way
In all her present tense
My wilder spirit rises in answer to her challenges
Enhancing my life daily.
A BRUSH OF ARS POETICA
Rhythmic verses wherein death paints a picturesque of life
or life itself is written in lethargic-dying state:
a dusty stocked vocabulary still cuts like a knife
when done and re-phrased witty, nonparallel and ornate.
Like the azure fluffy clouds parading affront the sun,
its smiling hue of yellow-orange kisses sleeping hope--
softly flaming those frugal thoughts in grace and wonder stun,
remarkable enough to line dream stanzas ropes and slopes.
Strokes cast spells of rattles, rambles to erratic silence
allowing trembles to twang murmurs upon hardened hearts
same as magnet it attracts eyes and ears to your essence
because your speech ushers morals incubating fresh starts.
_______________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Ars Poetica
++Placed 1st++
O.E. Guillermo
2:26 pm, March 06, 2015
***I define art of poetry as variations of light and dark, life and death, pale and vibrant, real and fiction... Writing poetry resurrects life even to a scene spelling disaster and death. Art of poetry embodies every angle aiming to touch the senses. Deep and superficial, all around breathing or not screams/is an art of poetry.
Loitering in a public library this rainy afternoon,
courting inspiration, subjects come to mind
but are more suitable as essay than as poem.
All usual activities occur -- visitors come, visitors go --
a typical afternoon flow of many who, unlike me,
may have no other place to go.
My empty house -- comfortable, dry --
far from bare, has a large flat-screen TV:
it reports the news and offers any other
sort of program that I choose.
The fridge is stocked, coffee brewed,
the doors unlocked. But now no neighbors come.
My cell phone mutely occupies an empty pocket.
A need for others' presence
does confirm I am a social animal
unsuited to prolonged separations.
Library visits provide assurance
a possibility exists for contact --
to know and to be known --
to extend, or to grasp,
a hand in friendship.
Even, perhaps, for mutual
spoken, or unspoken,
communication.
Why, then, do I
often leave discouraged,
without having said aloud
even a single word?
Paradise
I ramble and marvel on the alluring paradise I reside
Tall green pine trees spear to reach to the heavens gratified
A Few scattered pine that have lost the will to survive
Sounds of the wildlife the forest obscures and they thrive
The wondrous mountain range with tall timber surrounds me, enticing to explore
Lush green, brown grass and enchanting flowers in bloom I spoor
The crystal clear rivers and ponds stocked with a rainbow of fish in sight
The clear blue sky with scattered clouds and birds in flight
Through the high brush, I saunter enjoying my paradise, below
I catch sight of a couple, midway in a wallow in the meadow
Feasting on salal and brush
I rush to the underbrush
At a distance I hear the bugle of an old elk calling and gathering his harem
I wonder if I should challenge the old elk but his way up on the rim
By: Eve Roper
1/24/2015
Sun Furnace desiccating.
Man and Beast moving,
In crazed circles of Corral Mirages
Seeking shade.
Moisture-less Sky and Land.
Buzzards, certain of,
Meat Jerky repasts.
Timing air currents,
Until the Western Buffet
Is finally stocked.