Best Toughs Poems
Children get seized at the border;
parents are led away in cuffs.
Under Presidential order
ICE morphed into a gang of toughs.
The United States has no shame
they sold their soul to the devil.
Asylum seekers weren't to blame
for Trump sinking to this level.
Kids are a political tool,
kidnapped from fleeing families.
Enforced by Republican rule,
laws mandate these calamities.
Nazis and fascists rally round
Trump, waving confederate flags.
Hate's propaganda is unbound,
their blood chants recruiting scumbags.
A bigot's voted in power,
a nationalist is in charge.
A man defined by Trump-tower
is revered by cultists at large.
Democracy's reached a crossroads,
a lunatic has won the race.
And holding the nuclear codes
he incites his ass-kissing base.
Plenty of room in « Le Foot »* for Soccer
For Doug Vinson at PoetrySoup.com
I
Not long ago King Pelé
Set “le foot” in America
Today his peoples’ muted “Olé”!
Rue the day at Maracana
Now from coast to conniving coast
Your Can-Can gals kick “le balon”*
No Wall in between the goal-posts
To win at summit many a “galon”*
Alright! Keep your cherished football
Iced-hoc-key bounced balls in basket
But let echo corked-leather on “saule”*
Crikey! "le cri-cri"* of “le cricket”
II
Tremble at the hakka-cry of the All Blacks
Cringe before Aussie toughs at Springbok élan
And let them romp with the Six-Nation packs
Over your greens with fifteen Argentinian
Call out to the run-machine Little Master*
And let his blade flash home-runs tout azimut
Over heads of fielders spectators and trainer
And let your millions throb and catapult
Your new knights sans armour in world arena
And gasp at fresh records topple centuries*
On pitch and turf in Tests across suburbia
And join the world in friendly rivalries.
*"Le Foot"or "Le Fut": French for football/soccer.
*"le balon": French for ball.
*"le(s) galon(s)": French for "stripes" as in "to win one's stripes in battle" (gagné ses galons au combat) .
*"le saule": French for the willow tree. "Willow" is metonymy for the cricket bat as the latter is made from the tree.
*"le cri-cri": familiar French for "le grillon", the insect cricket.
*"Little Master", sobriquet of Sachin Tendulkar, the retired legendary Indian test-cricketer, the counterpart of the Brazilian Pelé in soccer. See my poem: "The Little Master: Sachin Tendulkar", my most-read ever poem.
*"centuries": batting records in cricket run into a few centuries, mostly in five-day international test-matches.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Take 1:
Too much beauty is a problem,
So the pretty women say,
Many women can be threatened,
Mood swings like a pendulum
Never trusting in ‘fair play.’
So it hurts when they dismiss you
Best to not give you a chance,
You might try to steal their boyfriends,
Smugly now your faults imbue
Though you’ve stolen not one dance.
Competition can be fierce then,
Few believe these days in fate,
Their self-confidence can vanish,
No faith too in gentle men,
If the guy once shows up late.
Come on lassies, what’s your hurry,
Shouldn’t love be ‘laissez-faire?’
Ditching friends for men so slimy,
Dressed up in your finery?
Is your love so ‘ordinaire?’
Take 2:
Being smart too is a problem,
Life itself not hard enough,
Toughs that ambush after schools out,
There’s a gift in being dumb!
You think calculus is rough?
All young people want to fit in,
Live with hearts out on their sleeve,
Smart kids really do no better,
Though you’d think that they might win,
Teenage angst yields no reprieve.
Still my brain saved me from football,
Grinding work for adult thrills,
Qualified for cannon fodder,
Young boys think they have it all,
Girls and glory, mindless drills.
But the youth who show brain merit,
Though rewards are slow to come,
Find they bypass many hazards,
Foolish plans elaborate:
Author's now of their outcome.
Take 3:
Having bread is a conundrum,
Still ‘death,’ you win on a bet,
Jealousy makes you a pit bull,
Lost decorum stained your bum,
Reputation? Just forget!
Dreams of poor men are a half-truth,
Fueled by their desires unmet,
Riches, splendor all they think of,
‘Clark Kents’ enters glass phone booth,
Men inside still curse kismet.
People! Rich! That live in prisons,
That’s what our world has come to,
Iron fences blocking access,
Wealthy hold they’re denizens,
Why do they seem like they’re blue?
How did our world fall to misfits,
I’m a have, but you have not,
All one needs is just one bullet,
Don’t you think this is the pits?
Murderer lives on your lot.
Brian Johnston
Auguest 17, 2014
Truth shall hold, and set one free
Righteousness shall reign, and let one be
Ornaments that fold, unfold at three
Under father of rain, Son Spirit be
Brighter rising against cold, sun must set free
Little to pay for pain, pans heat no fee
Else to run but feign, turns just as bee
Satan to gain is held, guns must turn thee
Nearness to profuse bled, fate to be battling
Every soldier who led, every battle heartbreaking
Very valiant Hopes' bed, every turn traits nothing
Ever ever be fed, with troublesome king
Really feeling in head, to know not a thing
Children to eat what? Much toil less pay
Every sun day fat, all man day's week
Away son may in, fall but none say
Cool amen but chat, tall but so mick
Earlier as if was in, call on phone made nay
To want want humble, to get all gamble
Over and over a life, luck never stumble
Bet wat never fumble, work work never humble
Every God wish wife, never ever but tickle
In the 1920's labor had fights
Employers hired toughs, both sides ignored rights
Unions hired the Mafia, thought they’d be strong
The tactic was effective, but unwise and wrong.
The Mafia knew that beggars can’t choose
They made an offer the unions could not refuse
Took over, raided wages, extorted the boss
They made the gain, the workers the loss
In Mexico, cartels own a third of the land
Don’t run for office, you might die by their hand
In Russia and China, rulers solidify Mafia ties
Crime helps rulers, and liberty dies.
Cash for the ruthless, recently in the news
Iran paid European Mafias to kill Europe’s Jews
There's no stopping the wicked, they endlessly reach
These warning verses are but a stone on a beach
Your profile may be low, so you see no cause to arm
But get in their way, and then comes the harm
To take an example, I read this to my alarm
Not far from me, Hudson valley, bodies hidden in a farm.
Any tech that helps, bad guys seize the chance.
Like a drug that puts victims in a spellbound trance
That drug: 'devil's breath', will severely confuse.
So it and other drugs Columbia Mafia’s use
From the danger buffet, you can take your pick
Bad guys don't have to kill, they can make you sick
Harmful drugs aerosolized, blown to a face
Your life derailed, a crime with no trace.
So, the picture is this
Governments and Mafias give each other a kiss
Technology for both, that can control you
What a brave new world, nothing we can do.
I scream for help but no one comes I slit my wrist from elbow to thumb I see the blood
poring down my fingers going numb but still you did not come
I feel my heart brake over again as I re-read the last thing you ever said
you were the stitchers that held me as one now your gone I cant go on
you were my heart beat you kept me alive now you leave me hear to die but why ?
I called for you with tears in my eyes but all you did was walk straight by
I told you I needed you but you ignored my pleas
I told you that you were every thing to me but now do you see that its to late to save me
If only you saw that things were not right and I wasn’t crazy all toughs nights
I asked you if you could hear them too but you said it was me just being a fool
It wasn’t me it was you
I said I was sad but you just got mad
I begged for you to take me to a place for help but you every time you drove straight by as
if what I had said was a lie
Do you wish now that you saw the signs that all was not right all toughs times
I knew I was sick but not in a way that I would get over in a day
You could of saved me but your only concern was with your self I hope now you have
learned
And in time you will forgive me but you left it to late I followed my fate
But one last thing I will let you know I am not afraid of my self any more .
Do not ignore the signs of depression help them be for its to late
shall I wake or lie down so that my enemies shall rejoice?
Shall I let them chants victory songs afar in their hiding places?
they mock me every hour whenever their toughs wiggle,
their mouths are a palace of deceit guided by hooligans,
if I wake up they mourn and peep on their shadow of darkness,
strengthen my legs that I walk and not stumble on their traps,
enlighten me that I see with eyes blazing fire like eagles,
let me see the beyond the horizon of the earth
and lead me to the precious path
where only the heart sees
and dwells.
Amen.
A man who berserk at the life of the wounded, lives by the blade and sleeps on the sand,
sand swallows toughs fast, water is not here to wet the dry, so the thirst berserk more
the world of reflection, mirrors don't show much, but the eyes say it out loud, a story
written on top of another, a mark of pure ink said the pain he holds, but his toughs are
way too deep to care, does it make it careless?
How does a boy with feared ignorance stands the war the hero drinks off? A boy who no one
recognize on the street, but point as thief and yell as prodigy, how is he fighting for
freedom and the man eats the bread of the homeless with his dirty soul bouncing heaven? A
man with a cold heart who the worlds look as a leader, with a kid who the world looks at
weak and careless, the leader stealing to society and the kid feeding society, a man sits
and wait and the kid stands and fight, a stone heart vs. a wooden one...
Is the hero called such a name for feeding, defending or stealing?
- ORIGINALLY WRITTEN BY JESSENIA VILLANUEVA -
My cousin wanted me to post this for you guys to read and understand it's meaning.
PS: Until now myself haven't figure out the true meaning, any ideas, please contribute.
If you want to find out what it's all about,
Go to East End, where the toughs hang out;
Where street-smart girls, their skirts unfurled-
Through the wicked streets whirl.
Nights down there-always stark,
Hipcats smiling in the dark;
And the sun shines down through all the days-
Down on wayward ways!
Dead flowers lie in the street,
As people run from the heat.
Rose tattoo and butterfly;
Ruby lips; mascara eye.
Motorcycles in the mist,
Flashing lights; clenched fist;
They move as if in a craze,
Through the city's maze.
In the streets and alleyways, they clash,
Seasons change with a splash,
But, warriors ever, ever advance-
Though they haven't a chance!
If you want to find out what it's all about,
Go to East End, where the toughs hang out;
In leather pant, and faded jean-
It's noplace, if you get what I mean.
Mother, you surpass all
Your care like layers packed
Altogether to cater forever
That beyond leisure you treasured
Mother, the way you smiled
When I wailed
And the way you laughed off my toughs
The bough you fed my hunger
To please your daughter
You hid your anger
Mother, the measure of your gracious sachet
A sachet packed of love and tenderness
A sachet that bloomed to open
A scarlet heart whose little memory
For your daughter forevermore a story
And the tatters do not matter mother
For you gathered the masterly together
Courageous you did not disown
My shut eyes
My disability, your inability
Mum you added spice
And my wrongs
You hesitated not to make nice
Forevermore your favour my saviour
I live to chant,
To chant your name on a flag
A flag I will always rise, and raise to flag
To flag your true feminism my heroine.
...The two toughs turned, both their eyes went wide,
then as one they stared in laughing,
“Look at this fool, he thinks he’s a cowboy!
I think his head must’ve taken a rapping.”
They advanced with their blades, not worrying,
from the look of him they judged him insane
Maxon had seen this often before,
modern folks often saw him this way.
He took aim at the thug on the left,
and fired a slug straight into this knee,
the enforcer went down, screaming aloud,
the other thug froze in disbelief.
Maxon pointed the gun, carefully took aim,
the thug dropped his blade and sprinted away,
behind them both the beaten man arose,
he sputtered, unsure of what to say.
He looked at Maxon, his horse and his gun,
his white hat and his vest and his spurs,
he said,”W-who are you? How can this be?”
Everything about it struck him as absurd.
Maxon said,’I’m a man who had many sins,
committed so many years ago,
but the Man Upstairs thought I was worth saving,
so this is the life that I now know.
“This is what He chose to be my fate,
Mm way of paying back all of my debts,
I know some day He will say it’s enough,
but that day has not happened just yet.
“You are not the first that I’ve had to save,
but I warn to you to make better choices in life,
because in fourteen decades of doing this,
I’ve never saved anybody twice.
“Get out of this town, away from those thugs,
from the vices that have taken their turn,
most criminals don’t end up like me,
they just get tossed in the pit to burn.”
The young man just nodded, too stunned to speak,
then scampered off past Maxon’s horse,
he prayed to God that his words had hit home,
then with a heavy sigh, altered his course.
The burning in his gut had subsided,
no more shooting would be done this night,
so Maxon loped off on his ageless stead,
to continue his long, ordained ride.
with amped up current
ohm me dog mental illness priceline paid
for fueling, fostering,
ferociously festering buzzfeeding
anxiety panic, obsessive predipositions,
et cetera a cereal Swiss side dull killer
via general mills made
tinder keg of volatile explosive sprites,
cuz communication asper feelings
now roiling inside, twas laid
the foundation to harbor resentment, sorrow, anger...
on account of being a frayed
dee cat (especially when bullied
by mean looking toughs)
name calling aye did evade
unwittingly letting percolate,
a witchs brew top grade
cauldron delight comprising.
"Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,--
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."
so why ask thyself to forget and forgive
those (especially family of origin) to live
a life free of unaddressed issues that did give
nothing besides misery
(particularly 4 after midnight)
oft times verbally
lashing out like a man possessed
frequently delivering
upon head of spouse gremlins that invest
corp por real complex edifice –
this truth hide hoo attest.
WALKING WITH RUMI
It’s a religious routine, his impious
use of scripture and prayer calling on god
for salvation and sustenance, purity of heart,
perhaps a way better job, or some actual proof
that his people still matter
His, is a god who uses archangels, heavily-armed
toughs, assassins and avengers, roaming the streets
of a gray paradise (neither heaven nor hell), their
big wings folded, their bow strings ready, their
quivers full of arrows, flaming swords sheathed,
their intelligent eyes marking dark, handsome faces
and awaiting the directives for savage air strikes
at far-away places, somehow weaving a route through
meridians and parallels, angling in low through the
hazy red dawn or coming in as silhouette against a
full silver moon to deliver against enemies
or just the people next door
Forever on his knees, he solicits relief
but I have other plans – I go walking with Rumi
a daredevil dervish who treats the concept of love as
a magnificent machine to be recklessly driven without
fear of collision or collateral damage
And he offers a dream about poems in Persian and songs
on the wind from a light without source
that illuminates all
High above Santiago, its six million souls and steep
mountain walls a dialectical drama about fertility and
faith, we negotiate a ledge, he walking on air, me hugging
the edge, still afraid of the tumble that could easily
shatter the glistening glass that I am
But there is something I know: My wife will come soon
with a full winter moon like a big tambourine over the
Andes at night, and they will play in the evening, they
will dance with the darkness and swallow the day
and then give it back, laughing, in the bold early
light of the red rising sun, and decorum aside,
I will dive off that ledge into all that she is,
into all that I’m not; let her make
me better and thank God that she can!
This new election feels like rape,
By scum and playground toughs,
With many I once thought were friends
Now cowards, powder puffs.
Has Christian virtue lost its shine?
Republicans in charge?
No brother’s keepers in their ranks?
Racists and liars at large?
Well, half the voters still have legs,
I have not lost all hope,
Though anti-science may have won
Their leadership’s on dope.
Trump judges others for his crimes,
Christ crucified again,
When innocent are pilloried,
The guilty think they win.
A victory by grade school kids,
Impoverished of soul,
That waylay others after school,
Let God’s truth still console.
Your bones will mend, your bruise will heal,
Though Trump’s flag is unfurled,
This infamy will also pass,
It’s God who made the world!
Long Tooth
November 15, 2016
Sixty8Ball
Author Message
Admin
Admin
Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 53
Localisation : Tucson
Subject: Sixty8Ball Today at 16:17
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Sixty8Ball
CharlaXFabels
GangLanders
Street toughs and criminals fighters and haters drug users and drinkers and
smokers and sniffers. The eye is 53 chronological in years but excessive use of
beers has not been nice to my nerves and when they move near me like sharks
in the water of a limning pool eye flinch a little move away but not fear eye never
fear no one but namme. Eye would not want to hurt the boyz but neither will eye
let them tower over me in size they would not make a decent meal for wolf or dog
or coyote packing hounds of misery they play like men when wanting to deliver
but they mistake the old homeless for a flake and a quiver when the liver is so
pink and my spine is finally strait and eye stand in disbelief as they step up to the
plate eye pulled my glove on then smiled they seemed to hesitate then they tried
again to make me shake
"we told yew we will beat yew up" the eye was laughing now the jigg was up the
die was cast no time to worry or even much to laugh eye pulled the other glove on
my right hand and smiled not moving there just waiting time to dance had come
they tried again even so they wanted me to think that they had heart they walked
up to the near me as they could try then one he balked the other one stopped
also when he realized he was alone and facing some sort of crazxy man intent
on going home they left with tails all tucked away and nothing left on glove no
meat no bone. Eye could not let it go eye turned and shouted after them "you
punked". Remember that this man is already 53 years old lame in one foot and
blind in one eye shorter than tall taller than them able to tie one hand behind my
eye and walk away from the gangster fight. Eye win.