Best Thrust Out Poems
On a beautiful picnic was I
with a wonderful gorgeous new guy
till breaking the mood
and spoiling our food
came a ravenous huge ugly fly.
We got up and walked to the pier
Then what of all things did appear
round our heads as we kissed?
That dang fly that sure missed
our presence and did persevere!
It kept buzzing and buzzing. Oh my!
Just couldn’t stand by and be shy.
So I thrust out my hand
with a slam that was grand.
Squashed fly tossed to river – BYE BYE.
Written Feb. 26, 2017
for Shadow Hamilton's The Unwanted Guest Poetry Contest
Love of truth
the very light of Greece
A peninsula thrust out
like a bony hand,
‘God-tormented Greece,’
Zeus exclaimed,
“I shall give man ‘an evil,’ as the price of fire:
They will clasp destruction with laughter of desire.”
The Gods live on-even though obscure.
Fate rules them too, as Zeus learns
the heroes must die; and the greater
the heroism the earlier the death.
Greece being, itself so divided
between the rational and irrational,
between logic and instinct,
between the scientific and the magical,
between the state of self possession
and that of being possessed,
and one can continue……
between symmetry and diversity,
between the recognition of limits
and the pursuit of the limitless,
between restraint and vaulting ambitions,
or hubris, Pythagoras in all his wisdom
could achieve no resolution or harmonia.
Of all these diverse elements, what was
greatest in him, and in Greece,
was the recognition of these conflicts
for what they were…….
that by grappling with them
a better order in life might then arise.
I look to the skies and I see you,
Your face smiling in the midday sun
The rainbow on a damp day
Reminds me of us having fun
Brings to mind the rides at a fairground
The stalls and the coconut shie
The ghost train, where we would steal a kiss
The hit the hammer stall,
which I knew you would try
The bell rings you've done it
Hit the Highest score
Chest thrust out in achievement
Brings a thought to keep for sure
Rain brings another story I think of us
Huddled up under a brolly to keep dry
The puddles we jumped together
Rain on our faces as though we had cried
Holding hands we didn't notice how wet we were
Sneezing and coughs starting the next day
Is this the price we have to pay
For memories that I hold dear.
Snow wow now these are mega thoughts
Snow ball fights are so much fun
Rolling you over in a snow drift
Putting snow down your neck and run
Then there is the snowman be built together
Carrot for a nose and stones for eyes
Scarf round his beck completes the picture
Tears when the sun shines, it slowly melts
bringing about the snowman's demise.
Autumn with its cold nights
A log fire has been lit
Romantic music playing
On the floor leaning against you
Is where I sit.
Now I sit alone looking into the fire so bright
Imagining I can see you smiling
Saying don't worry, all will be alright.
I think of you, I always think if you
Oh how he watches me in the shadow of his tree,
strong, bold and blocking out the glare of the sun.
He claims I shine like the stars, the moon, brighter than them all,
A blazing comet, a speeding fireball.
He stands close and my sparks ignite a fire,
They shower down upon his figure,
warm and yet his skin does not singe,
Nor does he burn or go blind when staring at my radiance.
When first he lay eyes upon my naked form,
Heart mangled and organs thrust out into the world,
My skin quivered as fear closed a dark cloud around me.
He pushed through it with a soft light,
Barely gleaming so as to not hurt my eyes.
Gentle touch to my cheek with not pity but understanding,
Like a Shepard to a lost lamb he tended to my wounds.
He spoke with intelligence and honesty,
and watched as slowly I stood and then grew.
Shedding the shadow in which I had once lived
He tended my soul until I bloomed
Galaxies away I felt the touch of his love,
He threw his faith and his hope at me,
Feeding from the power he saw.
A hummingbird to nectar,
And I was his flower, growing high in the sun.
He whispered great stories to me
saying, oh, powerful one,
Live in beauty and laugh often,
Ride through the winds like a spoken memory,
Pictures engraved in the heart of a tree,
Be the beauty, the power you wish to be.
Born in Cincinnati that buckeye state
January 13th 1959 – 57+ years to date
A tangle of arms & legs testing lungs, which sounded great
He kind of resembled a misshapen octopus with oval pate
Glowering inxs of deep purple from blue mood being irate
Thrust out the womb of Harriet Harris whom Boyce did date
After courting this youngest Kuritsky kin whose ill-fate
Whisked by grim reaper, which demise she did hate
For her being imbued with vim and vinegar til illness ate
Away her je nais sais quois personable maternal trait
Evident during my boyhood reflected by her son of late
As he too inches closer to his mortality and Hades gate
Aware that each day ought to be cherished as the rate
Of time courses down that zip line where grim reaper does wait
Attired in brand name hoodie swinging scythe across oblate
Spheroid i.e. terrestrial firmament – though many years some great
Yet to be lived – trying to recapture childhood bliss before freight
Train on a collision course toward self-destruction ala tete a tete
With Anorexia Nervosa as thy then coveted deadly mate
A brutal hellish spiral down into abysmal depths of despair did create
Indelible psychological affects undermined existence I now equate
writ horrendous emotional, physical and social upon head of mate
Pledged his troth (almost 2 decades ago), which spouse doth berate
For lack of expressed concern and attests schizoid psychic slate
irrevocably seared and stunted natural development where I rate
prepubescent, early adulthood mental illness did grate
Against once boisterously playful innocent boy crushed potentate
Only male heir from me deceased mother who tried to extirpate
Mailer daemons who forged suicide pact and via voice did dictate
Albeit without success, yet decry forsaken innate
Experiences with female relationships lured my own poisoned bait!
Have you seen the part time plumber?
He plumbs in winter and a pop-star in summer
During a plumbing job, he will thrust out his spanner
Singing into it “Copacabana”
MAP OF EUROPE - OBJECTUM SEXUAL *
O coastline with cool expanse of blue Atlantic
Your curves and indentations drive me frantic.
Sometimes thrust out peninsularly;
Sometimes studied docilely and scholarly;
Land stretching from White sea and Iberia
To Black Sea and Siberia.
O Europe, my virgin obsession geographical
Is verging on possession sexual.
Other continents are jealous - Africa is so island-poor, so peninsula-penniless,
And of rivers, capes and bays it has many less:
It would give a pretty penny to have just one Iberia, Jutland, or Scandinavia
To excite its smooth coast and other geographic behavior.
Australians would love islands with romantic names Capri Lesbos Rum Eig Frisian
Or an archipelago-infested sea like the Aegean.
South Americans cry themselves to sleep at night because they lack
Such Nordic coastal features as Trondheim or Skaggerak
Beijing would give all the tea in China because she must
Satisfy her desire for an Italian-shaped peninsula, a bootless lust.
Of course Asia feels no envy, for it has kukri-shaped Kamchatka
And the only large island in the world, Sumatra,
Which rhymes with the best singer in the world, Sinatra.
This Map of Europe is something I just have to possess.
My life is incomplete without its caress.
If I didn’t have it, my world would be a mess.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
NOTES
1 * “Objectum Sexual” is defined on GOOGLE as erotic
love towards an object of any sort.
2 N. B. This poem is purely fiction
Conflicting emotions, twirl inside of me, emotions or anger, rage pain and
insanity
Crying out for release, wondering when it will cease, this raging beast of
conflicting emotions, no love potions, up and down on an emotional roller coaster
Feelings of helplessness and despair, am not aware of the many hats that
I have to wear
Doing what I need to do to survive, just barely alive, does not understand the
contrivance of man, or woman, the sinister appearance of a friend, til the bitter
end
Spread vicious lies and deceit, anger and hurt does not retreat, as I shake
my head in the sadness of despair
Do they care or have to bear the scars of the conflicting emotions, that are
left behind
Anger and rage barely un-controlled, trying to maintain a measure of composure,
exposure to the unbridled truth
Your varnished perception of the truth, may not be truth at all, but it's your call,
to help the fall, or downfall as it were to dissent, because you feel inferior
The hallowed walls of interior, the grappling to make yourself feel better, because
of your inadequacy, you'd have people believe that you are honest and true
Truth not in you, and you have no soul, that's why you are not whole,
and complete within yourself
To make you a better you, you try to be the un-doing of me, a portrayal of
insufficiency
But I will never give in to the conflicting emotions, swirling around like a
ravaging ocean
What you tried to do to me, knock me to my knees, and have me plead
trying to break me, while you do you, will never hold true, and you will one
day rue, what you have spun together in your web of lies
I will not cry, nor will I die, I'll hold my head up high
You can never be the un-doing of me, You can never rattle my faith or shake my
integrity, the way that you have thrust out your hand against me, you cannot
touch me, cause I am whole and you cannot touch my soul
For there is a power higher than you, and you will never break thru
The old adage still forever holds true, and you will one day know,
That you will always reap what you sow
Forgetting is a vain refugee camp,
Madonna, for still these walls get
breached, amidst the daily, frenzied
barter of honed art for bread,
While slaking arid, thirsty hours with
bits of loving, or even in deep sleep's
opiate-laced salve; your shrill wail
ricochets on palisades of silence,
Wrecking dreams, when your arms
thrust out, ghost-like haunt heart's
corridors to pained remembrance
of your hearth bulldozed to jagged
Rubble, grating deep your ample
loins that Gaza noon of nightmare,
hooking deeper yet the piercing
scythes of questions as regards
Your fate and of your son's. Again,
the mind turns, tosses on this bed
of dusty shards and tear-anointed
debris as you once more scream
Your picture-perfect, front-page,
silent pain, yet made more potent
than all sounds heard down old
Palestine when wailing, wreathed
The wretched walls bedaubed with blood
of innocents, when wanton death and
mayhem, too, by Herod's mighty hand
decreed, made firm, held sway.
The Ultimate Protection Against Monsters
By Elton Camp
Little Leroy is frightened at night
About horrid monster prone to bite
He has learned the danger to cure
Any part under the cover is secure
There a brute can’t break through
In order, any grievous harm to do
Since Leroy even covered his head
He feared of suffocation to be dead
Finally, a solution his dad did provide
Which little Leroy gratefully tried
If a snorkel is thrust out into the air
The child could breathe under there
Leroy slept very peacefully that way
All gruesome monsters kept at bay
I spy, a feather beauty bright
With speckled blush on breast
Basking within the thicket light
Dancing round about her tiny branch
Your fluttering sight beholding
Within the snowy briar
Bathing among the warmth
Of the morning's golden glory
Its brilliance your own crown of halo
Like a sunburst that swallows
Up the end of February's sigh
As other feathers flusters zoom right by
The ginger little fellows all dappled, scramble
A merry-go-round within a flight
Threading joyous song throughout your bramble
As further flocks of scurry, hurry fly
On parade teasing wings of faerie sprites
A musical path of crisscross kites
But, you little one are the daring, bursting forth
With higher operatic songs, to startle and scold those spry
Feather beauty bravely
Upon your perch chest thrust out boldly
Nonsense rhymes and a new found might
Chase away the imps of finch and thrush
And keep yourself the sunbeams for its light
And bask yourself once more this time
Among the drops of melting dripping snow
And gather up all tis full
Feasting here, where the wild wild berries grow
But, in the end you are their kin
And soon, my fairy feathered friend you too must go
Out, onto twittering leafy stemmy stem and off...
Into the yonder of the coming spring to rove
Caught behind barbed wire
Tangled in a child's shame,
old regrets and fears
We sometimes pierce our souls
in the death grip of our love offerings
Delightful wild-flowers
clutched in hopeful fists
Thrust out from our shadowlands
to be caught by understanding hands
How achingly beautiful we are
in the presence of their tender
and fragrant significance
© Cornelia Mattioli aka Flying Angel
I once boxed Mohammed Ali.
Then I knocked him out in Round Three.
I thrust out my chest
to show who was best.
Said, “Yo, now who stings like a bee?”
5th Place
Name Dropper Limerick Contest
Sponsor: Kevin Shaw
9/14/17
On the Verge
Every hand is pocket bound,
eyes lifted from the TV’s hallowed glow.
Breath is released in a low sigh;
worming, squirming, squat.
Thrust out of bounds in tandem,
nothing is done alone.
You’re seen, you’re sought, you’re it,
maybe you need a pill?
Vomit is on the upswing,
visual stimulation overload.
Brain cells can’t sort this one out,
tears are dry as bones.
Your neck is turned full sideways,
the punch is coming on fast,
Quick reaction is not your strong suit,
fall to the floor, break like glass.
What is happening to this picture,
not set, not neat, not bound?
Houses, cars, children, stores,
benchmarks strewn by the way
You’re in need of a clutch hit,
your world is stumbling on.
Detachment, resentment, complacence,
smug on your rug as a bug.
Happiness is a gun over-warmed,
second hand shits on a turd.
Feet of clay encased in cement,
your vomit is now overboard.
11/11/17
I feel a sense of haste thrust out towards the coast,
All motions disturbed and turned to one way,
The sea has made the work of man its host,
Life once hidden in trenches to see light of day,
When the lonely lion lies longing for its own,
Licking a hole inflicted long ago,
Issue she had never seen fully grown,
Trying to grasp who should now be her foe,
If ears could hear the muted screeches of the green,
Would hearts be swayed enough for hands to stop?
Must pain through eyes always be seen?
Or would rain wash away branches bloody and chopped?
When sleeping heads on cussions have finally awoken,
Let the barren land once roamed be our token.