Best Synthetics Poems
A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over
When your poems reside in a shoe,
like mine,
pounding the pavement to nowhere.
The onset of blisters isn't imagined.
Those blisters take roots,
hindering your motivation
to move-
and to continue to write.
It hurts.
Seeing those poems take residence
in pity.
Sans the
comfort of
leather and lace,
shine and sole,
all of which would have been nice.
But all my eyes see are my poems,
tucked away in worn loafers,
unpolished,
unnoticed.
Not exactly eye candy.
But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here.
And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics
and sneakers
to the purveyors of good poetry
and good shoeshine.
I look down for good reason,
defacto
and stigmatized,
no contest wins,
no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list,
no scent of roses (or views),
nothing.
Nothing.
An abyss of sublimity,
save for the white bird
that chirps
to nobodies ears.
To wit.
For he who signs up for this site
got a handful of mixed emotions,
confetti less tomorrows,
a begotten rah, rah,
a ladle of spiel,
poems published ...
and in my case alone footnote
that I was a member
sans the shoe shine.
I really have to admit,
writing here,
eighteen months now,
has taken its toe.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Kind Regards,
connie pachecho
4/26/2018
The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare.
The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.
Holding my hand guiding me to a garden of roses,
He whispered , “spiral your way into the synthetics of voices and noises ,
Navigate through the patterns of Braille textures “,
I held his hand , to only feel the drips of his helplessness ,
Smiling softly as I gasped into the spring air ,
The softness of the fresh fragranced petals brushed against my fingers ,
Feeling the senses running through my veins more than he could ever begin to imagine ,,
If only he could see the light in my darkness ,
And hear the voices in my head ,
He would not give me the stares of confusion ,
True that , the mirror seems like nothing but just a word,
waking up to a receded eyesight could be every reason to bleed,
I found my comfort through the silence of colours ,
As my heart cried louder in the quiet stillness of the night,
The harmonies of the wind ,
The warmth of the sun and change of tides ,
Somehow the seasons seems to be more clearer in the shaded shadows,
I felt the pain in his tears trying to blend into the rain,
Indeed he could fool the ones with vision ,
For I am no stranger to the constant battles of dark revisions,
Though I felt his intricate precision ,
I held his chest only to hear his sighs and highs ,
I refused to surrender into the darkness of the blind,
Living in the creation of the world in my own mind
LONGHAIRED GIRL
I'd like to take you. Stay with me,
and let me feel your flowing hair,
and look into your flashing eyes
to see if love just might be there;
to feel you pressing in the night
with no synthetics come between,
and labor in the heart of life
that makes our being clean.
My lady lying, just as I,
content, with dampened hair,
spreading, falling, pulling, we!
And joining wings, fly everywhere.
You! I! Go on silkened threads,
before a moment shoots away,
and chords that bind to other things,
intertwined, but not to stay,
And take me, you, my longhaired girl,
tomorrow will not know,
this little love we share tonight,
if you have to go.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
What stuff are we made of
We have eaten up greens,
Inhaled the best and given the worst,
The waste everywhere,
In the air, in water and heaps on land,
In name of modernisation,
Intruded woods and raw earth,
Colossal buildings, Material waste,
In name of science and research,
Synthetics and non bios,
Displacing all life, useless piles will eat space,
and for future generations, do we leave a deface ?
Is any other being on this Mother Earth,
Exploiting resources the way we do ?
Insensitive, what stuff are we made of ?
And generating the unending waste, civilised are we ?
Written June 18th, 2015
For contest "Stuff" by Thomas Martin
Second place win
I.
I think on my shoes propped
on a wooden writing desk,
the leather synthetics, the soles, the
wear, and the feet they protect - feet
which take me here to there,
and, again, to here and there.
She walks in and says "hello", with
a kiss and the usual small talk, as
if to say "I love you" in the little
things (the home we've made, the life
we've built, the not-so-little-after-all
things, you know).
II.
I watch her lines as they move
in poetic form, her slope, her glow,
and the soul of a woman who takes
me here to there, and, again, to
here and there.
She's the fogged breath on my
telescope which blurs the
view of comets in outer space.
That is to say, she completes
me.
If I think on here ways, the
red-washed waves of her cheek,
and her blood orange hair that
licks the salty sea, I find it's too much.
She, lensed by angels and brisk as
ghosts, is all I know. We each breathe
fogged breath to blur the scope,
and like weathered boots in the snow,
from here to there, and, again, to here
and there she will be,
and, again, to here and there - that's where I will go.
.
Awash . My clean hands. My paws
I pray with folded hands. I pause
I hold. No gaps in my fingers
I give. Receive compulsive
An Order Humility wish
Still...I ...Pray
for
all
for
Me
Free
in love
in faith
no fears
to receive
and to give
Unenforced.
There I hold thee
no fears ....nor guilt
Paradox to wash clean
in gallons of synthetics
Hold on. A spoof this
All the hand sanitizers of WHO CDC
will not sweeten this little hand. Alas
Now I suffer compulsive fear of giving
st pat
everyone going green- -
synthetics
© CGH Mar 17 2011
WASTING TIME
soft breezes tease life
they know the power of a storm
mother... and father
~
mother... and father
they know the power of a storm
soft breezes tease life
~
six hundred years...
then perhaps the end of life...
says Stephen Hawking
~
planet earth... its fools...
the human race... idiots...
our greed killing life
~
heeded not warnings
past the point of no return
and no ones bothered...
~
to save the planet
indeed... if it can be done
stop all pollution...
~
all transportation
made public... no private cars
no private aircraft...
~
ban synthetics...
unnecessary products...
we want to survive...
~
as I write... believe...
mass extinction is for real
we must help stop it
~
six hundred years...
we want six-hundred plus more...
or is it just me...
~
battling each other
has to stop... like pollution
its killing the world
~
wake up... wake up... wake
coz... unless we at least try...
our kids... no future
~
look out your window
enjoying what you see
for how much longer
~
look at mars... as is
planet earth's future... could be...
no... I'm not joking
~
heed the warnings
why would scientists all lie...
I'll ask again... WHY...
~~~~~*~~~~~
LET NATURE LEAD
refine our ways… let nature lead
define the paths of all creation
aline the equilibrium… succeed
fine weather helps procreation…
should we continue to live a lie
would lead to our total devastation
could be that all world life will die
good… no… but it could be a realisation
rife now… worldwide pollution…
life is facing mass extinction…
strife… mother natures solution
knife in her back… total dereliction…
can we… all life stand a chance…
plan a future… a new way of life
ban all synthetics… might enhance
l.a.n… working together… suffice…
pollution must be stopped this day…
solution… stop all wilful distillation…
dilution of the atmosphere… no way…
resolution… man… nature… reconciliation
why do I persist in shouting out…
cry I do… at all the hate… and greed
sigh at all in denial… why… the doubt…
rely on the scientists… please heed
~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”
Or so the happy lyrics go
Houses decorated with wreaths
Bright red ribbons and great big bows
In darkness, lights glimmer beneath;
Outside inflatable plastic Santas
Tied to stakes in ground; held in place
Watching our to - fro momenta
In superficial shopping race—
Being somewhat apathetic
Perhaps we, too, need tied to ground,
To consider the synthetics –
Hol-i-day fun tends to confound
“O Holy Night…”
Bright lights and decorative trim
Softened by voices in choir
Ah! “Oh Come Let Us Adore Him;”
Beauty inside just as the stars,
Advent candle announcing joy
Shepherds like us sought the Christ-child—
Praise God for birth of baby boy
In a lowly manger so mild—
Christ holds us firmly in place
In the realness of our ponder,
Separating the rush from grace,
One is giv’n Hol-y-day wonders.
-Evelyn Pearl Carpenter Anderson
Define keeping it real. Typed or text by fingers dripping with acrylic.Thought of by heads heavy with glue and synthetics.Spoken from a mouth that never stayed quiet long enough for the cubic zerconia laced ears to listen to the true definition. They alter the meaning to fit into they're profile or about me box.While outsides change with each new swap meet delivery, insides never should.Keeping it real should come easy.But for some its as hard as putting pampers on your babies.You should stop focusing on trying to look real and get real.Its a mask.Like the thick covergirl used to cover u girl.if your real it goes without saying. It beams off of u like the u.v.rays on your 10 minute skin If u were real all the things mentioned above would be pretty. Instead its a distraction used to take away the focus because your seriously lacking!
Form:
Saša Milivojev - ON A KILIM
I trembled when you were gone
Away from the terrors of time
Metal and synthetics
In the Near East
I float on a kilim
Down a gusting wind
Allah
Raises dust
Water, closer
The smoke of a hookah
That’s what we are
Shhh
Something's breathing
It’s me
It’s you
We are lost
Saša Milivojev
www.sasamilivojev.com
From day to day, minute to minute we each live our challenges.
Some have more now, some less and others are in waiting.
But whether visible or underneath the still lake, it's there.
What's the stitch that holds us together individually or as a group?
Is it a hope for a better future? Is that firmly stitched in our hearts and mind? Is it woven in fabric of cotton, polyester, wool, synthetics, and silk?
Can it withstand the changing textures of climate in the world?
I hope we all stitch well. Maybe that can be our common stitch.
A common stich
STYLISATION
natural
myriad
scintillating
feeding
fluidity in
exemplified
opportunities
detected
exuberant
& ominous
empathy
Of
imaginative
dedicated
&exclusive
opportunities
of finished
d facets
MANNERS
direct
peculiarities
unrestrained
in joie
de vivre
attain
clarity
closely
modelled
on radical
orientation
of
unmixed colour
in
synthetics themes
closely composed
yet?
sketchily
suggested
by
inspired motifs
& etchings
in
corrective considerations
of multifarious
impressions
of
continuing
& intensifying