Best Thresh Poems
There’s a sense in which all life is scum on this earth
(without God as creator), life here (more debris
that just floats on the surface of things, that evolves
to fill niches that former life spawns) has no worth
in itself, demonstrates all life does is make space
for more scum, that will live on life’s poop, or it’s flesh.
And if God does exist, might this God view with mirth,
not the flora, but fauna (that fled from the sea
to escape what would eat it) could think World revolves
for its pleasure! Dare parasites dream that their birth
is a proof of God’s LOVE, virtue, intellect’s, ‘ace
in the hole’ for our kind; hint we’ve souls God should thresh?
Does my life have more value if I have a soul
or does fantasy telegraph who has control?
To choose God makes things’ better?’ Is what I ‘think’ JUST?
If God’s real or God’s missing, what grownup owns trust?
Just how long is one day in the life of a God
for creation took billions of years, should we pray?
Is our Bible infallible, final, ordained
‘truth of God’ or a primer for 1st graders, ark
for man’s soul, meant to save us from ‘downpour of pride?’
We grow trees meant to float us, or harvest what’s there?
Do you lie to your kids when they voice, “It’s so odd,
Why’s sky colored, not black?” Are you filled with dismay
to say, “It’s not my choice, but the color’s constrained,
to be just what it is by creation’s real SPARK!”
The truth’s Science, not faith, or stained truth’s override!
Oh, the mind of a man is a tawdry affair!
Is Spark SPARK? Can we know? Still, faith calls SPARK, “I AM!”
There’s no epigram spoken more valid, less sham!
Truth is God could be ‘real.’ Safe bet universe ‘is’
and reflects God’s true nature (if God sourced ‘Whole Biz’)!
Long Tooth
June 18th in 2020
A memory of tears filled eyes
How can I forget this precious aisle?
The aisle you walk in your gown-shy
Now carries your silent and dire
How can I whisper to you love
How you looked as a dove
Ah! The memory is green and fresh
The night of our all white and thresh
Look at you o! Once beautiful aisle
You are my dread on you my light fade
Sermon given to my love as she goes to grave
The grace I ask to face this maze
Shotgun shells, fireworks, an empty casing,
Burnt gunpowder sensed with imagined smell,
Bring a smile as the mind begins onward racing,
Of times past and grand stories to retell,
Hunts to remember; 4th of Julys raising hell.
Even the repugnant is remembered with glee,
Fresh swine manure upon beds of loose straw,
Time on the farm, a boy’s life lived carefree,
Fishing, hunting, and building with grandpa,
Learning gun safety and how to hammer and saw.
A favorite to this day is corn cut fresh,
Dust in the air with stalked rows piled,
Behind the red tractor and an 8 row thresh.
Memories overflow of that innocent child
Of the fun that was had, a boy in the wild.
In the midst of midnight croon
laden with stars, the sky bends
refracting light into a spectrum
of drifting colour mystique blithe.
Beauteous in a wilderness
amid the feeble dimness
of old mossy leafless boughs;
owls and other creatures rouse
into emptiness of the night.
They step out of the shadows
beneath the old resting maple,
flickering candlelight in hand,
and fall to their knees on soften
crackle of dry leaves; a trifle eerie.
A sudden gust of wind, a chill,
reap and thresh, a tortured flesh,
kneeling in credence with mournful din.
Penance will never end for sin
in the dark hour struggle and shame.
11/29/2019
Most people got married in June because
They took their yearly bath in May
Body odor was the reason
Of the flowers in a bouquet
A big tub of hot water was used
For a bath, so that's not complex
The males's right was to go first
The women and children went next
Last of all was the babies turn
By then the water was real dark
"Don't throw the baby out with the wash"
Soon became a common remark
Dirt floors were all the poor could afford
The old saying "dirt poor" came from that
The wealthy's floors were slippery slate
In wet winter you just might fall flat!
So they would spread straw on the floor
But they called it thresh way back then
and a "Thresh Hold" was what they called
The piece of wood used to hold it in!
Stew in a big kettle over a fire
Provided their dinner for them to eat
Leftovers left to get cold at night
With vegetables but not much meat
They added to the pot every day
It could be several days I'm told
That was referred to in the old rhyme
"Peas porridge in the pot nine days old"
When they could "bring home the bacon"
They were always proud about that
They would cut a little off to share
Then sit around and "chew the fat"
Pewter plates would cause lead poison
If like, in tomatoes, the acid was high
So for the next four hundred years or so
They thought tomatoes would make you die!
Bread was split according to status.
The burnt bottom to workers was thrust
The family would get the middle part
While the guests got the "upper crust"
Sometimes they'd pass out a few days
Because with whiskey they'd use a lead cup
So they would be prepared for burial
But "hold a wake" to see if they woke up
England had to re-use their coffins
But there were scratch marks, on some inside
They thought about it and soon realized
They must have been burying people alive!
Then they were buried with a string on their wrist
A bell was attached outside as well
Someone sat on "the graveyard shift" so
a "dead ringer" could be "saved by the bell"
This is true history, you can look it up
For me history always gave me a fit
But now this history doesn't seem so boring
Since I managed to make a poem out of it!
You know within that you are right!
Your words tear at our guarded flesh.
Canines raging at every bite.
Life's essence weeps after each thresh.
Silence does not mean we agree.
Taking each jab of your blunt prong,
Our eyes fixed on what you don’t see.
I must ask you, "What if you're wrong?"
11/10/17
osmatic breezes awaken my mind
within the breadth of summer's heat, they rise
then fall through thoughts and memories entwined
confined no longer, i see with these eyes
you standing there on the edge of my dreams
your breath falling softly against my flesh
as my body whispers in silent screams
yours moves about in arcs of shadow's thresh
thunderous it echoes through the distance
in a climax of unintended thought
this romance ignites its own existence
from a past unintentionally sought
i linger in the heat of summer's plea
where this love is more than a memory
June 10, 2020
Summer's Heat Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.
In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain.
Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.
Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.
A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all
the glow of Grandma before an ensemble of birds whisks by.
Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas
with abandon--
until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'
Before you go know this of me
lying here, beneath this tree,
that I once had your dreams too
but all too quickly my life here flew,
forced to dance to a different drum,
in a foreign field, where whistle and hum,
assailed my body and hurt my ears
and haunted all my primal fears
and robbed my youth and tore my flesh,
whilst, back home, there were fields to thresh,
ale to drink and girls to woo,
flaxen haired, who looked like you,
to court and marry and make heavy with child,
but now I lie, beneath poppies, wild,
that others may have what I had to forego,
please, think of this, before you go.
Imagine a black velvet curtain
Pinholed to allow specked light
Now imagine that same curtain
Endlessly stretching out of sight
And there you have the immense
Velvet blackness of outer space
In which I hang and float seeing
That speckled velvet any way I face
I suppose I am that lucky man
To know the exact second he will die
No single second longer possible
No matter how or what I try
For the oxygen of life is finite
In my cocooned fragile suit of death
I can rest here calm and unmoving
And so harvest every single breath
Or I can thresh and move and panic
Burn up my allowance fast
Never quite sure which breath
May be the next to last
I am speaking my thoughts slowly
There is so much I want to say
And I hope oh how I hope
I will be found some day
And maybe then just maybe
Some descendant may know
How much I loved life
And how I loved her so
I am that one lucky man
Of our ship crew of five
The only one still here
The only one still alive
Routine maintenance inspection
Left me suited spaceside and in luck
The only one to survive the hit
When that unknown object struck
My thoughts are now recorded
I am reconciled and at peace
I shall open this seam soon to cold cold space
And so choose my own moment of release
Cruel fate is perhaps a considerate friend
Allowing me the when to make my own end
Imagine a black velvet curtain
Pinholed to allow specked light
Now imagine that same curtain
Endlessly stretching out of sight
I'm a briny whore
wit' reekin' drawers
me honor ter make yer acquenchance
th' skipper's maid
me port's decayed
one doubloon, yer seafarin' urchin?
Yer scurvy rat
a-crawl wit' gnat
orf seadog scourged wit' rabid
yer cannon's immense
'tis cocked 'n tense
yer cutlass be yearnin' me scabbard
Yer stench o' sewer
me bits'll chew yer
bumps 'n boils 'n rottin' flesh
yer britches singe
yer helm unhinge
ter boot yer hornpipe thump 'n thresh
2013-11-20
Have you been told by man
To stay down with them,
That its right to stay this way
Because it is humble?
Yet I have learned that to be humble
Is to be grateful and loving.
Humble does not mean being boastful true...
That does not mean to halt the wonderment of one's spirit,
Of one's right to look up, stand up from where some
Do just want to stay, crawl...
To lift up hands to lift up the feet in praise,
Joyful reverence to give our Father God looks of love
And send on such things as true gratitude for every perfect gift
No matter the size He bestows upon us through the way of His
Only begotten Son...
Jesus our beloved our reason that we are eternal...
So never be afraid to breathe, lift, thresh, dance, jump with mirth in
Divine grateful gladness of heart, mind, body, soul.
Times of quiet to be sure.
Times of woe to deep cleanse the inner soul, one's wounds after
Lows, life's experiences which sometimes leave us bent.
Then there is the renewing of everything in us and even around us.
Seeing the renewal in a new Light of Day... pressing in until there we are
Running into Father God's arms as He patiently waits... so glad He is to
See us as He hugs us tight asking if we are alright .
Then inside of His warm forgiving, such loving embrace we say that everything
Is so bright, then ask Him how He is even while knowing the answer because
That's just what a father's child would do amen.
It feels like a baseball to the face
Or like alcohol on a bad scrape
Shocking and completely out of place
Making way for a hurried escape
Death does not whisper or whine with pain
It clings to the heart with sufferings
Like a mixture of pelting gray rain
Melting away all fortunate things
It feels like a glimpse of rotting flesh
Or like icicles along bare skin
Dreadful beyond what might opt to thresh
Creating fright about to begin
Death doesn't try to reserve time
It simply reaches out, latches on
Like it has offers in the meantime
For special moments that will not con
It feels like a sickening rupture
Or like tomorrow from tonight’s song
Nasty and similar to anger
Preparing feelings that are all wrong
Death is a humbling experience
It makes you fathom you're powerless
To change the mortality’s grievance
Leaving you alone with your conscious
It is sinister and alarming
Like a cold hand touching your own hand
It clenches like it’s out for blaming
The fond feelings on the reprimand
Death is a lonely and limp dwelling
It makes you see your incompetence
Pulls on tenderness of your heartstring
Will death still discourage your conscience?
August 9th, 2014
©2014
Muhammad Butler
Joker's poem
There's the mighty joker
We wondering if he ever played poker
But only supplies a bad body odor
But the fact remains his a filthy flirter.
Wondering if his jokes are taking him somewhere
But the bottom line is that he doesn't care
Weather or not he his been compared with someone
There he is fighting batman
But now on the backhand
Simply judge because he lives in a thresh can.
Pretty in Pink
There was a time I felt the urge
To venture in the Amazon
To see a mammal at the dawn
A dolphin pink in water fresh
To gaze and watch it’s morning thresh
So solitary in this wild
To feed on turtles, shrimp and crabs
Born as gray as time moved on
And changed to pink translucent skin
Among the species they excel
releasing sound to seek their food
A Capybara lifts it’s head
To watch as it begins to rise
To flow the dorsal ridge about
Then flail around and then submerge
Rain Forest graced with such aplomb
An Orinoco majesty
Dolphins Contests
Sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
February 11, 2018
* I was in the Amazon.