Best Straightaway Poems
"In my fragile little ship, I sail, sail
In the tempestuous sea of life
Dodging life's pressures, to doldrums outlast"~ by poet
Breathing in and out the notes of life,
from first cry to last sigh, you sing
you sing.... unbeknownst
unbeknownst to you as to
what tunes and notes of life
you will be singing..
but you keep singing... taking cues
taking cues from the
rhythm of the twirl of time.
As you warble to the ticking of time
sometimes...
a melody is created
and the moment becomes lovely -
when your hum is harmonious to
the rhythm, tempo, and dynamics of life.
Listening to that melody - so sweet,
buds of love and peace bloom straightaway
in vibrant colours
to savour and celebrate
the beautiful moment:
a moment as beautiful
as the sweet smile of a child
and as peaceful as the
stillness of a meditation hall.
At times, your voice cracks
you sing outside the range
hitting the wrong note...
and.........oh........
you slip down the stairs
the last step extending down to
the hassles and hard times of life...
like a banana peel
in an already slippery road,
like a dust in the eye
that blurs your vision,
like that of a Wordle game
that leaves you totally clueless.
Such wrong notes
in your song of life
leave you in dismay
like a torn page in a book:
you get dejected, dispirited, and disheartened
and a confused state of mind follows.
But you know you should not stop
you need to ignore the wrong note you struck
not a wince, blink or a pause..
you have to just move
on and on...
and get your mojo back
to continue carolling
the rest of your notes of life
in accordance to the
rhythm of time...
Date: 02/24/2022
'F' form - Free verse - New - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme Chosen: Life
First Place
Poem Of The Day on 02/24/2022
(Why I'm Still Breathing)
When the cow was dry, she was compliant.
When she calved, she turned vicious
and no fence could hold her,
but she gave milk in abundance,
and Dad refused to sell her.
She chased Mother 'round and 'round the barn
until Mom panicked, climbed the corner logs,
and perched under the roof,
clinging like a cicada shell on a weed-pod.
Beasty pawed and bellowed until Dad came home.
"I could gain on her on the corners,"
Mother said, "because I could turn faster,
but she gained on me on the straightaway."
Plug-ugly tore through the fence,
into the garden, where Mom and I worked.
"Run, Cona Faye, run," my mother shouted.
How did she know? The cow passed Mother
and thundered straight for me. I ran.
At the fence, snorts filled my ears. Hot breath
steamed my back. I saw myself stomped,
pulverized into the dirt. I turned, screaming
at full volume, and flailed my arms
like a windmill in a strong wind.
That old red cow locked her front legs
and skidded like a freight train on full brake.
I seized the moment, and scaled that rail fence.
The sky becomes synonymous with grey,
signifying a storm is on its way.
And a sullied sun swiftly slips away;
allowing shadows to overcome day,
while clouds release their droplets straightaway.
Thunder echoes across purple-bruised skies,
as lightning causes drops to vaporize.
And ebony descends to claim its prize
while the whirling winds wail and Nature cries.
Treetops get tossed and bullied by each gust
for brisk breezes suddenly feel robust;
it happens swiftly, no time to adjust.
Broken by a murmured mantra of sound,
Silence acquiesces as raindrops pound.
And pellets of ice get viciously hurled!
Everything is in scattered disarray,
where twisters start to materialize.
Hail and rain meld into an icy crust;
that turns the streets into a battleground,
and neighborhoods into a netherworld.
Upon a sullied slate sky
of alabaster and aquamarine,
floats a formidable flotilla
of charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day;
they dawdle, dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
Winter's white wonderland
seasonally salted with brindled blotches,
magically melts away;
revealing rough-woven, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way,
bulbs freed from frosty tombs;
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap,
of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway,
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips
suddenly start sprouting;
simultaneously sending shoots skyward.
Color taunts the blandness of this dull day
as a robin redbreast abruptly appears;
defying drizzling drops of grey
with its crimson chest,
ornately on display.
Dear Dale, so loved were you
that even now, thirty-nine years later,
you live inside the dreams
of your siblings. I suppose this to be true
since I, at least, have had you in my dreams.
Dear Dale, you came to live with me and my sisters
when I was halfway through my childhood.
You with your freckles and reddish hair
and your spirit of enthusiasm,
inspiring others with your love of the Lord.
Dear Dale, although a stepbrother to me,
you were my one true brother in this life
who stayed up late at the kitchen table
sharing fun stories with me and the others
who liked to spend the night simply conversing.
Dear Dale, you’d be surprised at things today.
So few people just sit and enjoy each other’s company.
You though were a firecracker and a social butterfly!
Loving to participate, you encouraged everyone
to partake of the good clean fun you were a part of.
Dear Dale, you went abroad to bring the Gospel
to anyone you found who would hear God’s word.
Then home you came and studied many years at college,
nearly graduating from your law school
until death came to you from out of nowhere.
Dear Dale, we lost you when a drunken fool
ran over you as you sat so innocently
late one night on the curb of a solitary street.
Your death was instantaneous. Then and there,
I’m sure your soul flew straightaway to heaven.
Dear Dale, although of course you had your flaws,
to me you were a perfect example of
the way a man should have integrity.
Abruptly you were lost to death, but we will reunite.
“Only the good die young” echoes in my mind when I think of you.
Jan. 22, 2023
for The Loved and Lost Poetry Contest of Regina McIntosh
August 28th 1968*
Written: by Tom Wright
3/20/2014
Without joy I faced a mountainous rise,
A pale rider had entry into my day.
Sitting astride, the specter of my demise,
No longer, my concerns, could I allay.
But from uplifted prayer, an answer,
Descended not as an eminent surprise;
I was jolted by news that it was cancer
By the Holy Spirit, God did baptize.
Straightaway from that earlier mount,
Came sudden alterations to my life.
The pale rider was dropped for the count,
God’s unseen hand controlled the knife.
*The day that I committed my life to Jesus
Had Cancer at age 28
Alive today at 75
Praise God
When the sky above's azure blue
the grass below Irish green
My thoughts straightaway turn to you
Reflections of visions
yet to be seen
Winding lavender staircases
intimate moments shared
powdery-snowfall embraces
adventures yet to be dared
Parting kisses linger
'til dawn's warm sun intrudes
touching my lips with your finger
flames' fancy thus fanned ne'er subdued
The augury of him in Crimea was so
That Ekaterina said she was tired of sandwiches
But I did have black tea, black Latvian bread with her black Ikra near Black Sea
Hundreds of kilometres from Kiev and from Moscow in Odessa where heresy breaches
I beated her wings in no confinement,in no vituperation
She flew flower to flower to no destination
She knew I was a drinking son of pride straightaway
And I apprised me that she was a drunk daughter of arrogance having me in sway
At night on table when Putin came with my rassolnik
And said that he had seen many earthquakes being not born a Japanese geek
I felt in my bedroom her shenanigan moves
A carefully preserved time capsule in grooves
Rubbers burnt got her season
and wheels vulcanized got his prison
Dudley Castle and Kremlin cannot be friends
With Timoshenkos pillaging appetites in trusses and bends
Keep your red gown for the right time Ekaterina
For I have eaten all meats-that of a pig, of a cow,horse and bear
And eschew my emotions like a ballerina
A square,a quadrilateral,a rhombus and a parallelogram are not the same when each buccaneer
Vladimirs have always condescended bloody Mirs of Dagestan
In the duel between Russian charlottes and Turkish harems
The fishing villages of acrimony and Satan
I will not count Ekaterina`s eggs for my child`s Ukrainian mother in tandems
Vocabulary used
Ikra-Russian caviar in poetry`s context its the black caviar or fish eggs.
Rassolnik- is a traditional Russian soup made from pickled cucumbers, pearl barley, and pork or beef kidneys. A vegetarian variant of rassolnik also exists. The dish is known to have existed as far back as the 15th century, when it was called kalya
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust;
it's now a desk which seems a breach of trust.
Clothes made at home had always been a must.
Married in the "dirty thirties" hard years
for dust bowl folk who stayed despite the jeers.
Dependence on social welfare brought tears
to one proud farmer. Bills he could not pay,
he chose to join the army straightaway.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
rememb'ring those who fought that war in vain.
Soon he would send his sons to war again;
his daughter, a skilled seamstress, caught the train
to work sewing bags at a powder plant.
Burning her candle at both ends, my aunt
never came home; but she had made her mark;
the candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
Lines 1, 9, and 16 were written by Viv Wigley
Walking under a burning sun
Listening evocative Christmas songs
Sweat furrows my motionless visage
Snow calmly is falling down
Alive drops dissolve my thoughts
A fresh breath gently stirs
Walking straightaway still alone
Looking for a friendly crucial turn
Nobody matching my broken mind
What's hot? What's cold?
Deep down somebody is already here
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
MID-NIGHTMARES
It haunts the wicked parts of sleep,
where even dream's darkest corners will not tread.
Drowning shadows in the stinging tears we weep,
immobilizing dream and dreamer, frozen to the bed.
We cannot move a lower limb or arm,
and every image seen will prick the skin.
Grit fear, the grizzly thing will strike and harm,
and strangle dreamer with its seething grin.
Darkest fears that make the blackest black look white,
and play frenetic brain with worst scenario and dread.
A thousand deaths as though the sky were blind of stars at night,
nor birth by sun will cease these apparitions boiling in our head.
No air to lungs nor breath to spirit as we sleep,
and blue the blood is tainted by the plots and schemes.
The heart may jump or run and charge to sudden leap,
and straightaway we're lost in frail and whispered dreams.
Each of us delivered from the vile unpleasant thing,
for one warm soul to wake us with the morning's bell.
Companion, embrace and take us up and under wing,
and send the beasts of vision back to fade away in hell!
By Edlynn Nau
May 12, 2015
Contest: Dark Poetry
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Placed: SECOND PRIZE
Blasphemy…cloud over their hearts of gold
Their value gradually diminishes…their weapons turn to mold
Serenity…deserted them and neglected them like orphans
Their joy rapidly wears out…they mislaid their abundant portions
They yearn,
“RESTORE the walls of Jericho!”
Anguish…shadows over their dwelling, sacred place
Their weaknesses manipulate them – they’re the definition of disgrace
Danger…defeats them and tarnished them as if they were worthless
Their prosperity shattered straightaway! REBUILD our merriness!
They plead and pray,
“Dona nobis pacem…”
Hear our hesitation and supplication…we’re beneath the bricks and remains
We’re buried alive literally! We’re becoming one with the ground
Fear and despair erases our soothing dreams…we’re getting washed away in the drains
We’re searching for shelter…we’re getting hunted down – we’re barely surviving
They churn…
They coil…
They drift away…
They spoil…
In their miseries…
Does He hear their pleas?
“SAVE ME!”
“Bestow blessings upon us!”
Are you ignoring us deliberately?
“Give us a helping hand
And lead us to the promise land!”
Misfortune unravels in this city of bafflement
Their strengths repaired our souls…we’re the definition of bravery!
Desolation and disbelief demolishes the walls of Jericho…
Does anyone sense their resentment?
Their charity transformed to greed suddenly –
Their lack of optimism and gratitude
Buried them down in captivity
How can you bear their poverty?
How can He save them from destruction and pity?
They whisper on His Holy Hill,
“Dona…Nobis…Pacem…”
Don’t let the battle overthrow ’em!
Heroes,
To some people a killer can be called Hero
To other people a defender of their rights is called Hero.
There are many untold true histories as
some people wanted to be celebrated.
Leopard II killed many Congolese in the colony regime innocently , stole congolese natural resources and
he is well known Hero today.
Imagine if Leopold II killed some neighbours
innocently could the majority Europeans
called him " Hero?"
Answer is no and no...no.
Some Belgians and Congolese leaders called
for negotiations meetings for freedom and agreed
to free the republic of Congo,
On June 30/ 1960 , Republic of Congo was proclaimed
as independent Country.
later on the Congolese liberator Emery Patrice Lumumba was killed innocently
by the complicity
of the Belgium government.
Hero Lumumba was putting in sulphuric acid
And
He straightaway melted.
When the Belgium current king sent a golden tooth as
the remain of Emery Patrice Lumumba to President Antoine Felix Tchisekedi Chilombo,
All the world watched it.
No one is concerning about many crimes done
by the Belgium government in Congo
which could be the important things
to focus on daily basis.
Heroes,
The attack of president Putin in Ukrain was wrong
and he does not deserve to be called Hero for doing
such crime against humanity.
I know that all the top leaders who were behind
the destructions of Libya, Irak and Afghanistan
were totaly wrong and
they don't deserve to be called Heroes
for such crimes against humanity.
I salute the courage of some African presidents
Who stood up and put their colleagues
Presidents Putin and Zelenskyy
on peace negotiation table.
World youths continue to rise and knowing that
there is no race that prays for repetitive maltreatment
in the planet earth.
Anyone who is not happy to live in peace
with others on earth , there are many planets
which can be his " her " good place to live.
June 30/2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe
Mussabwa Chris
Hit me with your best shot,
Said the despicable thug.
Although smaller in size,
I knew I must chug-a-lug!
Ignore him was not an option,
Too much was at stake.
My girlfriend I must defend—
Anything for her sake!
I would fight for her honor.
Insults I would not allow.
The perpetrator grinned,
And mockingly took a bow.
Straightaway I hit him
With a surprising punch,
His eyes showed shock
As he felt his big nose crunch.
The fight was quickly finished.
I was indeed elated.
My girlfriend smiled at me,
Saved from a cause ill-fated.
When giving your best shot
While facing a peril,
If you give a bloody nose,
Don’t wear your best apparel.
Atmosfera sniffs
An asphyxiating smoke
Coming from a secret
Fireplace – not a single spark
Is to be seen
She naturally searches
For the bonfire left scorching
By campers in the surviving forest
That grew and selfishly devoured
The entire sylvan dales
And commands her soaring clouds
To scan the flaming, smoking
Spots on the earth and, straightaway,
To spray extinguishing showers
For them to cool down and shiver
But, alas, Atmosfera still sniffs (with rage)
An asphyxiating smoke
Coming from a secret
Fireplace, and not a single spark
Was seen by her soaring clouds