Best Tool Poems
Serene, at peace...
Calm's a unique kind of cool
Concentration tool...
Fools too oft get excited
Wise men, not thus incited
Friends, fellow poets and countrymen, please lend me your ear.
I do not live in Australia, and I wish to make that perfectly clear.
I will not insult that country, for to do so I’d have nothing to gain.
To be so rude would buy me a seat, on Trump’s derailed a$$ train.
I am a patriotic American, this is where I choose to reside.
I love my great country, and by its laws I will always abide.
In our United States, you’re eligible to vote if you pay your tax,
giving you the right to bash Biden or ride Trump’s crooked tracks.
Don’t tell me my country is broken from over 8800 miles away.
You can kiss my grits for that slander! That’s what I have to say.
You dare claim America is broken? How would you even know?
Was it social media and Fox News, or did a little joey tell you so?
Your political intellect is subpar, your facts are drivel and fake.
Cut back on the amount of Gin used in your stale Kangaroo cake.
You make me laugh, attention seeker, because you are such a fool.
The blunder from down under is just a brash Trumpeting Tool.
I come to write, not to bury another country for its faults.
If you’re not an American, then it’s time your pen halts.
Stop the demeaning insults you keep slinging at our borders,
or people might start pointing out your disturbing disorders.
I feel the familiar burn of abandonment
A feeling that anyone sane would resent
And yet I bask in it—the disconcerted lament
Angrily I tear at the seas and weeds of lies
Saying nothing but curses—bidding goodbyes
Painstakingly waiting for the cruel waters to rise
But you never rose, you fool!
You graded me into your gruel
An inadequate tool—yes, a screwed up tool!
Here I am again and no one has won
Feeding on the nothingness you willingly spawn
Nothing but GONE—who the hell won!?
I thought you were a journey’s rest!
But you are nothing but a wrong-turned address
Spilling me over in a bloody, dead mess
I want to turn away tonight
And never look your direction
Because no matter how hard, I cannot fight
The seas of succulent depression!
You were fixed
At the expense of my misery
At the expense of an inadequate tool
To handle a bigot
Turn off his spigot
With President Trump, no country should mess
unless her leaders and citizenry crave hyper-stress
Two weeks in office, he’s reined in three socialist wannabees
Columbia, Mexico, Canada ~ already pleading, down on their knees
Welcome friends, I know you will be most excited
with tonight's special guest that we have invited.
So, let's give a round of applause and a cheer.
Punctuation's star, Exclamation Point, is here.
Welcome. It's good to see you, Exclamation Point.
Yes! Let's do it, Johnny! I just got out of the joint!
My goodness, I was going to say, you're looking trim.
Tell your fans what kind of mess you got yourself in.
I guess I got too excited, opened my yap,
and told Comma he's lost, falling in the wrong gap.
I impetuously started a barroom fight,
my sentences struck him, with raw power and might.
I'm innocent, but somehow, I stir up commotion.
I'm just excellent at expressing emotion!
Hmm, tell us about the emotions you can express.
For example, what about happiness?
What a great question! Glad you asked it! I'm ecstatic!
What was I saying? Whatever, I'm emphatic!
But was it anger that landed you in the can?
Shut up, Johnny, I'll rip your bloody face off, man!
I guess subtlety is really not your ball of wax.
Do you do sadness? Yes, I weep and do my income tax!
Exclamation Point, it sure has been a pleasure.
Thanks, Johnny, I've enjoyed myself without measure!
and remember, Question Mark asks, and Comma will pause,
but an Exclamation Point thanks you for your applause!
AN OLD SHOVEL Poetry Contest Sponsored by: John lawless
Written: August 12, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Once an archaic shovel—worn and rusted,
Now reborn, its purpose adjusted.
Become the shovel, embrace its might,
Revel in its past—a tale to ignite
With calloused palms—strength untold,
The shovel bore deep, breaking through the mold.
Sweat dripped down—mingling with the earth,
As dreams of a fitter future gave birth.
Of arduous work and toil,
Of digging trenches and turning soil.
From dawn until dusk, it never wavered.
A faithful companion—never faltered.
Ponder its present—a relic of the past,
But it is still a tool—its purpose is vast.
Now resting against a weathered shed,
Its once sharp edge—now dull and dead.
The shovel, once a symbol of might,
Now waits patiently for its chance to ignite.
Bestowed by a child, curious and free,
The shovel becomes a treasure, a key.
To dig and explore, to uncover the unknown,
To create castles and kingdoms of their own.
The child marvels—at its worn-out charm,
As they dig deeper, their imagination warms.
They uncover hidden treasures, buried deep.
Imaginary worlds—where secrets—keep
The shovel, now a vessel for dreams,
Guiding the child through endless streams.
With each scoop of earth, a raw adventure awaits.
As the shovel unearths, the child's excitement escalates.
They discover fossils and ancient bones.
Unlocking mysteries—rewriting history's tone
The shovel journey continues, ever-evolving.
From laborers' hands to children's exploring.
It reminds us of the power within.
To shape the world, to uncover, and to begin.
Explore its meaning, the shovel essence,
A symbol of resilience and presence.
In its worn-out state, it still holds worth.
Teaching us lessons of resilience and rebirth.
From laborer—to child
The shovel journey—ever wild
So let us honor this humble tool,
A testament to the human spirit fuel.
I hold you close to me and I don't know why.
You give me strength and purpose I can't deny.
Like a dry sponge, you allow me to pour,
My soul into you and you never close the door.
You are part of me, like my arm or my hand,
So tired I become, can't even stand.
My eyes glass over with water from my tears,
Doing this with you helps me fight my fears.
I hold you so tight, with the grip of steel,
Never to let you go, so strong is my will.
Through you my friend, I can do anything,
Compose music, write a book, or even sing.
With a delicate hand, I keep you so sharp,
I can put you down to paper and then we can start.
-Not for any contest
Case hard tool
held by a stupid fool,
doesn’t know what to do with it now.
Looked for a soft application on a brown cow,
tried hard to hook it up on a bristle legged sow,
got kicked in the head by a lazy mule.
The fit was not so cool.
Rigid tool
* for the Trois Par Huit contest, manual centered (maybe) (NOT ON FORM LIST)
Scorned coquette
perched so solemnly
upon your death stool,
claw deep the fresh flesh of victors
bearing armfuls of decaying flowers
stolen from your mother’s grave.
A diverse parade -
clairvoyants and gigolos
tyrants and schizophrenics
junkies and Jesus freaks;
you seem to attract
an unending assembly line
of tarnished beggars
you’ve at one time
longingly called
“lover.”
Tainted transients -
now live as smudged chalk marks
upon the mammoth gray blackboard -
hanging askew
upon your barren bedroom wall.
Precocious sorceress
perched atop your fragile Hepplewhite
feigning the airs of a barfly madam -
look a bit closer
at the species of insects you entrap.
You’re not a spider woman by trade –
Nor was your mother a queen bee.
Understand…
burning security blankets
during one’s wonder years
may now be considered
a latter day memorial service.
Bedouin to the barstool
wrap once more
the quilt you crocheted,
from momma’s discarded doilies,
around your sleek white shoulders.
Remove the scratched liquor labels
that live underneath
your pillow cases
and look.
He’s out there, precious -
somewhere
behind the mist in Glasgow
or hidden 'neath
the sands of the Gobi –
Somewhere…hiding,
lurking
ready to erase away
faded white chalk marks.
His minted breath
will burn
your cold, gray
slate.
There once was a large man named MacCool
who was famed for his very fine tool
all the women they pled
to lay down in his bed
so he let them for he was no fool.
*See About the poem
If I have a job to do I find a useful tool
For screwing in a screw I use a screwdriver
For banging in a nail I need a hammer
When I need something really hot I use a soldering Iron
When I want to remove wallpaper I use a stripper
If my tap is stuck and needs turning on I use a spanner
If I want to see sparks fly I use an electric screwdriver
If I want affection I head for my husband ….
He’s bound to have the right tool for the job
Jan Allison
10th July 2014
I dont go to him when i need fixing,
i mantain the relationship for he is
not a toolbox
I go to him when i am
Happy
Sad
Down
Up
For i dont make him my toolbox
I seek him 24/7-365-in season-out
of season
He is my God not a toolbox
Use not only a stool
as a bargaining tool.
Volodymyr Knyr
2014
I was once misfortuned with being called a tool
by a man who believed I was most often the fool.
By a soul who only ever acted on his own behalf
I was told that I'm often used, simply do the math.
I played along with his insult as it was meant to be
by showing mock indignation at this thing he said to me.
I gave him then a ponderous look, and then I dully said...
"yes, but am I a useful tool? or am I broken then instead?"
He huffed and gave me a look, "you know what I meant"
Responded I, "I bet I'm new. not broken, worn or bent!"
He ignored me for the moment, his annoyance was clear.
"maybe I'm a cracker for nuts! A bottle opener for beer!?"
"Or yes! a wrench used for nuts, bolts, pipe fittings or more..."
He glared at my next words, "hopefully not from a dollar store"
I nudged him then, smiled some, "oh don't get all mud stuck"
"Hey! what if I'm chains or a tow-rope.. pull you out with any luck."
In his impatience, he yelled, "STOP!" He was looking rather mad.
I left it alone, got tight lipped, but oh what fun I just had.
Stop myself? "Ha!" I blurted then "I'm wily in my crafts"
"If I'm a tool then so are you, I'm using you for laughs"