Best Sweated Poems
Haiti, the home of voodoo practices
Seventeenth Century Spain cedes to France
Catholic Spaniards trembled when they saw
“Dead” men revived to wander in trances
A vile poison can make men appear dead
Revival requires an antidote
But perhaps there is more to zombie lore
An explanation to why these souls woke
Brutally treated slaves worked sugar fields
Captives from Africa known as “Maroons”
As French aristocrats sat and grew fat
Blacks sweated for “sweets” in the tropic sun
Buried guilt deep at night still festers
For conscience is God’s gift to each man
Some may suppress it for just a short time
‘Til magical night envelopes the land
Spirits of those who were taken in chains
Are given by God a chance to rebel
Stalking the living in deathly pallor
Haunting their captors with visions of hell
“Zombifications,” Maroons erected
Spreading the horrors of slavery with anger
Showing the French what their evil produced
And putting their sanity in danger
So please put the voodoo dolls back on shelves
The needle-sharp pricks of remorse can sting
Enslaved Maroons prevail in heaven’s court
Our Creator’s eyes aren’t missing a thing
Magic, black or white, God sees no color
Love is bestowed on men of all races
And those who question the Lord’s intentions
Should look in the eyes of living-dead faces
So beautiful the night with moonlight beams
Shining upon your face, smiles never cease.
If I could brush those lips: such futile dreams.
Kindly thoughts in my head flowed in like streams
Why could I not find some degree of peace?
So beautiful the night with moonlight beams
I fly above you, flittering in streams,
And for a while my waning sorrows cease.
If I could brush those lips: such futile dreams.
May I become a human, be extremes
My light body in fire with love increase.
So beautiful the night with moonlight beams
From afar echoes a stop of these themes.
Yet naught can stop thoughts of a shining piece.
If I could brush those lips: such futile dreams.
My mind must ponder love and so it seems
Must muse over those lips so deep cerise,
So beautiful the night with moonlight beams
If I could brush those lips: such futile dreams.
for what
it's worth!
Sweated out 6 May 2021
He cursed himself for accepting the dare. He never believed in ghosts or haunted houses. He thought it was an easy way to make a few bucks if he spent a night in a haunted house.
Now he found himself in the most deserted house of the small town, reputed to be haunted. He had lain on his camp bed and hoped sleep would come soon. Certainly, he did not relish the pitch darkness of the house or outside it.
Without any rational explanation he found himself hovering between nowhere and the balcony. He saw all the houses of the town light up in a flash of multiple lightning. It seemed to him as if the whole town trembled as an earthquake rippled below the ground. The balcony seemed to disintegrate, and he found himself falling, falling, and falling right down into an abyss.
He wanted to cry in alarm. Sweat oozed out from all over his body. He woke up on the camp bed. He tried to get up but found himself paralyzed. The darkness engulfed him like a bed cover. Suddenly he thought he saw a flash outside the bedroom in the corridor. Lightning? He had no way of knowing.
Finally, he found he could move his hand and grasp the bottle of rye. The liquid seared his throat. It was not easy to drink as he laid flat on his back. The heat was now intense, and he sweated profusely. He tried in vain to pull up the bed sheet to try and wipe his face. The only thing that moved was his heart that was pumping away like mad. Relax. No ghosts about. It was only in the mind. Tomorrow he would gain those extra bucks.
It was then that he felt something moving over his body. In the pitch darkness he could not see what this could be. Suddenly a pair of malevolent eyes glared at him out of nowhere, seemingly without a face. Then he heard the growl. He wanted to scream but could not. Sweat poured down his face and his heart pumped away like a rocket propelled to hell.
His friends found him next day, cold dead, a small cat sitting on his chest.
Glimpse an empire in sweated palm burdened with pain centuries old;
Horrors and stalagmites hang in beautiful tragedy Gods have told:
Within soil surrounding bluest calm, such memories you hold.
Surly Sally slipped and lost a flip flop
at a hearty party in a bungalow with Billy.
while dancing and prancing to hip hop
whirling and twirling and spinning silly.
Can you reverse and remember the flop she flipped?
Well it ludicrously landed in the party punch bowl.
Nobody noticed while they slurped and sipped
and the dancers dipped and ripped and rolled.
They dipped, danced, pranced and laughed,
pirouetted, and sweated,
tipped and turned till totally daft.
Beer and booze abetted.
The next night they stayed sober and soloed somber.
Crashing and complaining Billy’s head hung,
both believed they’d been belted by a bomber.
Surly Sally swore she felt like dung on a rung!
Let this be a lurid logical lesson,
to those who think it’s only fun and frolick to abuse booze,
Or you too could be confessin’
And for lack of the light of this litany you’re liable to lose!
An answer to a challenge for John Freeman’s Alliteration contest
by my poetry friend, Gwendolen Rix.
We forced her into menopause well ahead of her time.
Mother Nature’s prematurely changing and we’ll regret our crime.
We cut off her tresses that once bushed across her land,
polluted her oceans and soiled her golden sand.
Moody and unpredictable her volcanic eruptions flows,
fed a daily diet of plastics, pesticides and GMO’s.
We sweated out her edges and turned her temples gray,
while her hot flashes melt the glaciers that dissolve more each day.
Her skin is dry and arid as she blazes across her earth,
destroying crops and animal life, unyielding, no longer giving birth.
We ravaged her Amazon where green algae and flora once flourished,
only two days shipping while populations starve and many undernourished.
Waken with a splitting headache as earthquakes and tornados roar,
we have become her burden with our excessive cries for more.
Gas emissions have choked her and left her in a daze.
The damage is done, too late before we change our ways.
She is like a bridge as our weight has caused her back to bend
with greed, corruption and the unconscionable conscience of men.
How will humanity survive when Mother Nature has no more to give,
what will become of our children, where will they have to live?
This is a time of urgency, but we have been fore warned.
Her end is rapidly approaching, for “hell has no fury like a woman scorned”.
She
Craved
For the beast.
Amidst his lair
In candle surround,
Ripped white linen clings
As their sweated bodies writhe.
In unification, his seed
Shall spawn the beginning of the dark.
Whilst his translucent shadows walk earths light.
.
Hot was the room that she sweated a lot,
as the maid tired,
ironing
white shirts
for
her
master
who wanted
to be dandy
when he toyed with the ladies at the ball.
17 November 2020
Double Tetractys 6 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picture No 2
Placed 1
amid the bleats of lambs
and the moo of cows
in a far away manger
a baby, swaddled in rags was born
though despicable in some eyes,
He was the clone of Clones
the one, though Heaven sent,
was the humblest of the humble,
who halved history!
He walked the hills of Judea
with disciples many
healed the sick
met people
lived one among them
until three decades
and three years
the cloud laden sky
suddenly turned dark
the spirit of evil
invaded inside
and outside
premonitions
of portentous occurrence!!
at Gethsemane
the fatal rendezvous,
He sweated blood
as coins tinkled,
Judas through a kiss
betrayed his master
was sentenced
by the marshals of power
and was convicted
Pontius Pilate, washing hands,
absolved himself of his guilt
He tottered to Calvary,
lay on the cross, not by nails
but pinned by love
He poured down love
on those never deserved
to his love, there is no end...
among the hisses of revulsion
and the screams of a vengeful crowd
the tremulous cadence
of an agonized cry
“why hast Thou forsaken me?”
died down…..
did Golgotha’s cliffs echo that cry?
The Father kept ‘an aggressive silence’
The Sun (Son) set at noon
darkness shrouded the Earth
the curtain fell
but on the 3rd day
walked out of the grave
defeating Death and Sin!
Our Lord has Risen….!
to this day
the world
hails this victory!!
______________________
Easter Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
You left the garden in a mess.
Strange thing for a gardener.
But they say those with trades
leave their own home last on the list.
I remember rolling up my sleeves.
On my knees rolling like a carpet
the grass covered paths.
Between six raised beds.
And the shed full of discarded things.
Paint boxes, boat engines,
strimmer cord, trailing ivy
and electrical items that
no longer carried a spark.
In the dark of my broken dreams
it seems the garden wanted to heal.
I toiled and sweated in a blissful state.
Pulling weeds as if in prayer.
Uncovering tree roots along giant rocks.
The resulting bounty now
reflect those tears I shed.
In their center they carry
the memory of my hurt.
Their beauty bringing a smile.
06/05/2019
There was once a lazy drunkard named Bob
He's so idle he's nicknamed the fat slob
By the pool he lays
In a drunken daze
He just drinks and shovells food down his gob.
In the summers heat Bob sweated and stunk
Didnt bother him cos he was so drunk
Tripped over a stool
Fell into the pool
And now smells more like wet dog than a skunk...
(GOB -slang for mouth)
Written 14th June 2020
For Summer Laziness Poetry Contest
Sponsored By Mohan Chutani
If
By Byron Juno
If women MUST die
Then Atieno would die first
If children were to forage
Then Atieno's would forage forever
If women were to walk necked
Then Atieno's would walk throughout the year
If women were to trade their honeypot
Then Atieno's would donate hers
If women were after money not
Then Atieno would be not
If women were to sell their daughters
Then Atieno would sell to a merchant
The woman from the far away land
The woman with less embarrassments
The woman The woman The woman
Whose legs are loose for a walk
Whose waist never tire
Whose joints are ever green
Whose body children is yummy!
Whose body children say is tender
Whose body children say is fresh
Whose lips has tasted all drinks
Whose eyes have not only seen death
Whose back has sweated on all beds
Whose legs have wiped all door mats
Whose scent even cactus knows
Whose farms lie fallow
Atieno the generous woman
Generous woman who never says NO
Who will guide our young girls?
Who will show our girls the right way?
But she says;
Her husband is jobless
Her husband is ever seated
Her husband is ever sleeping
He wants first born treatments
Atieno! Will you not be buried
On the right side of your husband's house?
Will your husband not be the first
To throw black soil in your grave?
Will your husband not say
you were a good woman?
Will your husband not allow mourners
In his compound?
Written: November 28, 2023
_________________________________________
In my last prayer, words and dreams merge,
My concepts have changed as a brittle verge.
Such a rainbow of hues in this growing vision,
My head swirls in whispered tasks and decisions.
Strong in my beliefs, I now question all things,
As if a veil is lifted, I sweated even the little things,
My soul is seeking knowledge and rearrange,
Now awkward by set ideals, I relish the strange.
No beyond blindness or rigidity to act as a slave,
Having altered, I am now freed from any cave,
In my recent musings, I have explored curiosity,
Getting raw insight and seeing awe in diversity.
My comprehension grows as I explore my mind,
Laying buried muse that shines akin to orbs aligned,
Placing the ideas in words is an ideal symphony,
Written words depict my impending destiny.
My route is wider, and I explore the universe,
Seeking wisdom all over, valuing what's diverse,
We ought to value this superb mental shift,
In our recent beliefs, raw prospects are adrift.
dear mr. electrician
you're a man of distinction
thank you from me and the spouse
for rewiring our house.
you have worked hard
no wire out of place
you toiled and sweated
nothing neglected.
but we will not pay you
and here's the reason why.
we will send a patronising letter
tell you there's no-one better.
photos of your work
will appear in an album
top quality, leather-bound
the cost to you just forty pound.
you don't have to buy
if you can't afford this sum
but the album will be a reminder
of a job well done.
Our Sid felt well-jaded
his sweat, it cascaded
he feared the end was well-nigh
his head was a-pounding
a hush ultra-sounding
he all but stared death in the eye
Steadily declining
whinging and whining
to the good wife, who had a short thread
she saw a good chance
eyed him askance
said: I'll book you a hospital bed
Afore rushed to hospital
sweated and spittled
he eyed her boobies in double-D vision
for sure he'd have flown
had he but known
he'd been booked for a quick circumcision
Foreshortened but sharper
wooed by nurse Harper
he contemplated suing for cash
with his wired-up jaw
he sipped through a straw
animal innards and veg pulped to mash
Nurse Harper, aflame
with nary no shame
tended his uncalled-for member renewal
she was drooling and crooning
and dream'ly swooning
admirin' his family jewel
In her somewhat dazed state
her aim was not straight
she inadvertently turned on the gas
his urge was to flee
of his wires wrenched free
maneuvered escape from the lass
From two storeys high
(a short distance to fly)
which in retrospect is soundly insane
he took a long jump
balls-down with a thump
now his crotch is perm'nently sprained
**************************************
For Joann's copycat's contest. Initially written by Sid, our mad poet. I copied the poem to my hard drive but somehow the title got lost. Maybe he can help us out with the title he used then. Sid, you're the bomb, me man!!!