Best Trade In Poems
Imagine all the people
who trade in human life,
imagine all the reasons
given to this particular vice.
I visualize the rivers
that run with coagulated blood,
I visualize the tyrant
that stir the waters good!
Imagine all the evil
where nightmares are conceived,
imagine all the weepers
locked in harmony.
I visualize a great peace
when man is down and out,
I visualize a yearning
to stir up warring lout!
Imagine all the carrion
fleeing this earthly scroll,
imagine all the zombies
them humans without soul.
I visualize the populous
with only one track mind,
I visualize the despotic master
not too far behind!
Imagine all the wrongdoers
that wait for the morrow,
imagine all the innocent
with aggravated sorrow.
I visualize his disciples
locked in earthly battle,
I visualize all intellect
smitten with ancient prattle!
Imagine all the dreamers
that dream in psycho colours,
imagine all the dead ones
John Lennon and others.
I visualize the sky
that reflect the sombre waters,
I visualize the time
they’ll be no virgin daughters!
Imagine all the children
born with colour blindness,
imagine all the peace
driven by human kindness.
I visualize a new order
maybe for the best?
I visualize the establishment
being put to the test!
Imagine all the people
with lives of eternal bliss,
imagine all the barriers
created when living with this.
I visualize heaven here
in this heathen place,
I visualize the angel
in pure virgin white lace!
Imagine all the new born
scanner pattern at birth,
imagine all of today’s crime
eliminated through death.
I visualize a dossier
of PLC news speak,
I visualize authoritarianism
of every aspect!
Imagine all the cloning
created for human part,
imagine all the respect
donated to this particular art.
I visualize the unscrupulous
desperate for existence,
I visualize the farm of haste
the plough of insistence!
Imagine, Mother Shipton
prophecies all came true,
imagine only one statement fails
the end of the world.
I visualize even then
common sense will prevail.
I visualize only Jesus Christ
will forecast the ultimate end!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
To begin, time and money we give
For our quest, our poetry pilgrimage
Here, our band of bards congregate
Here, we speak the language of language
The secret handshake of simile and sonnet
Here, we meet in metaphor and meter
Here is heard tight rhyme and free verse
Our serendipitous saga, our harmony of haiku
Here, we revere the value of vowels
The roots of etymology forming
Our collective family tree
We barter in the coin of wit
Or trade in pages of penmanship
We recite in rich rolling elocution
Or in bashful library murmurs
We debate the greats - Dickinson! Poe! Yeats!
We ponder, we savor; we may place a wager...
In the end, we've re-met our old friends
And we'll do it again, at the next PoetrySoup convention.
3/9/19
For The First Annual PoetrySoup Convention contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
You were loved once
just because
but in defiance of your lot
perhaps in spite
learned to dance, love again
Think it's hidden
in diamond's luster
or hereafter
not all the smiles
nor outpour of laughter
Educated, ready to reach
the brass ring's test
understanding even less
of life's best
Trade in yesterday for
sister's and brother's
just a taste
of tomorrow's forevers
never promised, nor bothered
I'll never tell you it's so
if you want or don't
who'd think I could ever know
when you will or won't?
Never can be too sure
if anything will last
channel'd from someone or
something
remains from ages past
Run faster hoping time will never
catch up, to all this
ask you to pay amends
for moments chastened
now missed
Try to catch the wind
sleeping
best to practice touching..
keeping
No, you won't remember hard times
if it were up to me
staring into a lion's eyes,
from where you came
on the way to where you'll be
Return to doctor's orders
hold on to praise won
pray all turns right
before the ending' sun
Ten's beauty is half as such
twelve is way too much
make due with that special
someone
just because
Inspired by another poem by another poet---------just for fun
Oh, I didn't know that cowboys
weren't respected and revered
John Wayne, when he passed away
Brought me close to tears
But now I know that people
Think we're all just trailer trash
So I've taken of my boots
And tossing out my hats
There's no more eating beans
upon these dirty plates
And movin' from this trailer park
Oh brother I can wait
But, putting cars on blocks
Oil changes in the yard
Stopping those activities
I swear it will be hard
Beer cans won't get piled high
In a pyramid, way out back
My pit bulls won't be barkin'
Always ready to attack
Soon I'll trade-in my pick-up
For a brand new SUV
And I'll become more citified
For the whole dang world to see
I won't mistreat my woman
And call her an old cow
And I won't let my kid's
Ride a bull, or catch a sow
Oh, I didn't know that cowboys
Were just lazy and no good
So we're moving from the country
Right to your neighborhood
When I shop for an automobile,
I don’t worry much about speed.
Good mileage per gallon I want.
A van or a truck I don’t need!
So I guess if shopped for a spouse
the way that I shop for a car,
that means that my man wouldn’t need
much fuel, but he still could go far!
And since I can’t stand vans and trucks
(preferring a car rather small),
my man, by those very same standards,
would not be too hunky at all.
Neither too slow nor too fast, my man
would be like a Mitsubishi
A Spyder Eclipse, rather cute,
and super efficient for me!
When I shop for an automobile,
looks matter! I love a great hue.
And sporty is nice, but oh my,
what guy in the world is light blue?
And finally this is a must -
I want a convertible top!
Does that mean that men with toupees
are spouses for whom I should shop?
The spouse I have now is not small
nor sporty; his color is grey!
He’s bald, so he’s somewhat a rag-top.
I could purchase for him a toupee!
When all my old cars put on miles,
I always considered a trade-in.
But now that I’m old like my spouse,
I don’t think I’ll go through that again!
** A Very Memorable Christmas Present **
Someone made an err::
Boxing Day ‘ere’s
Been the day of — not after.
What started as the greatest
Christmas ever, turned
Us from better to worse
As our tempers grew, altered
After our fingers were slid into
Those gift-wrapped firm gloves of leather,
Punching through the room’s air
At each other
With words roused from harsh to meaner,
‘Till our referee pup barked
To end our Round 1, forcing a turnover
Into creating a round of rich laughter.
Re-freshed, happier, remembering our
Proper manners appropriate to honor
Our Savior’s birthday…We resolved
A return trip to the store to trade
That shared present of boxing gloves for
A healthier, sturdy set of parallel bars.
————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 12/25/22
Happy Birthday, King Jesus
Made a sand dune as he had done,
We were children and sand was fun,
Beautiful castle with deep moat,
Filled with water and paper boat!
Imagined soldiers guarded fort,
Fates decided in palace court,
Imagined Prince rode a white horse,
Beautiful princess waits across!
At age of seven sand was cheap,
Price of our toys was very steep,
Our Hands and dreams was all we had,
The end result was not so bad!
John and I were such deep good friends,
Our games and play time had no end,
In our little hearts world was right,
Although I was black, John was white!
Twenty years and still good mates,
In building trade in same estate,
Our castles are no longer sand,
Cement strong, many stories grand!
Our wives like us are black and white,
We met our girlfriends the same night,
Their deep friendship too goes way back,
My wife is white, John’s wife is Black!
Unfettered love our true story,
Where love’s fair, of skin don't worry!
Blood and flesh as God had ordained,
But Man’s world is prejudice stained!
First placement Win 'True Love' contest 28/01/2020
It's true that I was in town
When the trumpet sound
And soldiers came down
Spilling like ants on the ground:
Heralding the royal feast!
The Gods have had their seats
To celebrate the poet from the east
Whose lyrical prowess beats
The best they've ever heard.
It is heavenly inspired:
The lines of this bard,
His hands neither slack nor feel tired.
Here, the bard comes
Clothed in divine grace!
Let the trumpet sound; beat the drums
Let the world seek his face
For he has the power to heal.
His lines drew angels down
And make kings to kneel.
Let him have his prized crown.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that everyone would die
Someday, that is why
If ever the poet should die;
Let his pen ascend to the sky,
Let heaven and earth mourn,
Let their tears turn to blood;
Let the graceful muses mourn,
Let their tears cause a flood
For the loss is without measure.
But there's end to every beginning
That's why the poet we should treasure
So that if he dies, he dies smiling.
Let the fire from his pen burn
First, in the heart of men
Then to the streets let its face turn,
Let it scorch the land till when
It has reached the palace and its tower
There too let it burn and smoke;
Let it bring every knee under its power,
Let it bring every neck under its yoke.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that poets can be made
As much as they can be born,
There are those who trade in charade;
Who cannot our admiration won.
Behold the ancient bard!
Behold, in the morning he rises
With his book and ink in hand;
As sparkles flash from his eyes.
When in early morning birds are yet mute,
His countenance is always plain
He does not argue nor refute
But undisturbed he always remain!
In the abode of the poet
There is grandeur and majesty
Befitting a grand laureate poet
And a monument of modesty;
He is the poet at heaven's gate
Who have ran a fine race
He will never be late
He holds the ace.
My friend ,
You have accused me
Of stealing the color from a butterfly
Of your town.
I tore out of some garden, you say,
A sapling of gulmohar
And planted it
In a desolate and barren cemetery.
Just as the coral tree
Has bitter roots,
So, in my heart,
Lies sin!
I am degenerate, immoral,
You have judged me to be vile!
I am well aquainted with pain and have deliberately
Made it my power.
I am a bird of prey and do not care
For the friendship of little birds.
My colors are false,
I am a dishonest dyer!
The inky serpent of fame
Lies around my neck
And strikes, with my songs,
Little heart-baskets!
My pain, like Ashwathaama’s
Is never-ending!
You remind me that my body-room
Will disintegrate soon enough.
In exchange for fragrant songs
I trade in wombs.
I am, you write
A very adolescent trader.
You say that a shadow
Is a child of light.
It is not the duty of a shadow
To separate.
The duty of a shadow is
Devotion to light.
In light, to always be ahead,
And to extinguish itself in light.
Even a bird can fly away
If is miserable in its cage.
But each day
I catch and discard new birds.
The reason I do this, you say, is that I covet just one thing,
The sorrow in my soul.
Because every song I sing,
Is a song of sorrow.
You also write
About one butterfly.
The butterfly who spent a short time
In my garden,
The butterfly with a weakness for,
Silver flowers,
The butterflywho desired,
Golden stars.
Her face was sweet,
Like the moon in a desert.
My songs
Were very dear to her.
You considered me
A son of Saraswati,
Today your opinion about me
Is altered!
At the end you have written
That I ought to be ashamed of myself!
That I should drown myself
In a tub of acid!
I should take my sick self -
Along with my songs -
And leave the environs
Of your town today!
Society has no need
Of my worthless sorrows!
I should be fighting for
The rights of workers!
I ought to disperse the color
Of my beloved
To the grain in the fields.
I ought to take the sorrow of the world,
And set it, like a jewel, in a ring of songs!
IS DEATH AN IGBO MAN?
Quietus: ‘Nna Grave, this is Quietus
from Vaults and Sons International.
My containers don arrive?’
Grave: ‘Yes Oga Quietus. From:
—Cairo—Syria—Boston—Kangan—
—Somalia—Monrovia—Sudan—
—Iraq—Afghanistan—Pakistan—Congo—
—Russia—Yemen—Israel—
—Ivory Coast—Rhodesia—Burkina;
but some of the goods (carrion)
were mutilated,
and left for Vultures.’
Quietus: ‘Ok. I get business for Kangan(1960).
Oga at the top
has finally heard
His people’s cry
by reason of their taskmasters.’
Grave: ‘Goodluck Sah!’
©Angel Simon 2013
Amidst global political upheaval and terrorist pandemonium
which has increased mortality rate incessantly, this poem
(written in a dialogic format) is a conversation between two
business partners- Oga Quietus(Death) and Grave who both
trade in Carrion (dead bodies). The ethnical and symbolic
relevance of the Igbo Man for Death is because Death shares
some of the typical Igbo Man's commercial doggedness. Some
of which are industry, enterprise and adventure. Death is
really industrious in his Carrion business as we see his
branches in the above mentioned nations topping its supply
list from Grave. Enjoy!
You're startin to feel lonely, the guilt is settin in, it's changing,
you're only so strong as you portray, and now it's fading-
into a red bubbling mess, boiling, rearranging
into something new, indestructible and its paying-
for the consequences, this guilt has no sympathy for dating-
whether it's hells best friend, and heaven's clever liar
it's all about the thoughts, the ones that take the time creating-
a poisonous kiss, Snow White's apple, her curious desire-
so sudden yet expected, this obvious satire-
of a mess, a disaster, it's not only killing a fair maiden
but all of the minds involved in this strange iced fire-
one that's about to be put out, and the red apple can trade in-
for the lingering premonition, you've been regretting
cause nothing can be far worse than simply neglecting.
The small antique shop beckons to me as if calling my name
I hurry to enter with great anticipation
The chime above the door provides an eerie greeting
The store is aglow with articles of times past
I pass from aisle to aisle my eyes darting from relic to relic
I see high top shoes with white laces
I see brushes and combs with pearl handles
I see pictures in boxes of families in fine clothes
I see a doll in the corner eyes staring blankly ahead
I see worn dresses on racks with lace collars and bows
My journey through time continues as I move on in haste
I see a stringless violin in a black scuffed up case
I see silverware with fine bone handles
I see pocket watches with long golden chains
I see hundreds of tiny bottles that once held fine fragrances
I see scratched phonograph records strewn hither and yon
I see fine tools of the trade in hand crafted cases
I see rows of fine china all hand painted with care
I see a faded picture of a child with long golden hair
Suddenly I pause as my mind starts to reflect
Everything before me shelters a story of long ago
They are not useless items that I view but the relics of lives past
Each article once the personal possession of a living breathing soul
With a new respect for the articles before me I move on
Ghostly images of faces now accompany each piece that I see
If I purchase just one it must be displayed with the utmost dignity
For its original owner will have bestowed its care to me
I leave the shop with my new treasure all neatly wrapped
The chime above the door signals my departure
The stale aroma of the shop is replaced by the cool evening air
Life, as fragile as the tiny piece of crystal that I carry, goes on
Copyright 2007 Charlie Gragg
When will the last of your dictators die
So you can stop living a lie
To speak through God’s window
For the world your wisdom to follow
When will you start to shine
Like the gold and diamond you mine
Africa this day – lets be one commerce
Trade in love for one another and acceptance
When will your cultures evolve
So that our people can start to thrive
And all can listen to your brighter tomorrow
So we can be known for more than just our sorrow
When will more of your women get involved
So we can show humanity what it is to lead
When will their unrewarded toil
Allow them a share in the price of oil
When will we unite over borders we didn’t create
Because to the world we’re the same crete
When will we brand an optimistic lasting impression
Of Africa’s true, innovative and talented expression
When will we start to lead the way
Not just once a year on the 25th of May
But show interest in all that we do, we are everyday
When will Africa have a say, on Africa Day?
A Candle in the dark
I could not see
A hand holding,
Could not hear
A voice calling,
But I was cold,
And sore for sight,
Was old
Long tired of night
And any spark would do
If in passing by chance
Was left
A glow of You.
A candle in the dark
No fancy cradle
Or proper handle for holding--
Not the slightest flutter of
Angel wings
Or strum of harps,
Reverent chant rising
From mysterious
Cloaked beings--
But always I have
Sensed Your warmth,
Safe suspension somewhere
Holding me
And anywhere will do
Because somehow
I know
At least
One supporting air
Is You--
A candle in the dark--
All warranties expired
None having ever
Been guarantees;
No sound trade-in
For newer model,
Too few years left
For loan-paying,
My little-light dimming
As The Thief
With illumination in his pocket
Slips silently away
As Time
Camouflaged as living
Leaves me where I started
But never doubting
In the end
To be led
Safely home
By Your loving candle
Out of my dark….