Best Twenty First Poems
Fear recalled; the taste of sweat in retreat, when
one can never seem to run far enough or fast enough.
Remembering the Christian children’s chants of
devil worshiper, atheist; the taunting hell they saw
for those not blessed to be themselves.
The jeer of the crowd for those apart, the mob
mentality of the Christian heart, the damn you if
you’re not me to a girl of eight, defies any amount
of time to heal. Memories are not obliterated.
Breathless behind a hollow-core door, gasping
tears, a heart pounding to the beat of fists on panel;
fear recalled as bile rose; hate thrown, the Jew bated.
This was only an inkling of what Tanta felt.
Nineteen fifty-six, eleven years after the end of WWII,
I saw the numbers burned into my families’ skin,
the ones still alive to show them to a child of eight.
-broken glass nights, crowded trains, death camps
New England was still gripped in a Christian hell,
at eight, at twelve, at eighteen—and every Christmas
in between—don’t speak, don’t tell, don’t let them
know you’re different—different, hated, taunted,
chased, and if possible erased.
Prejudice knows no boundary of time or place, the
fear, the mob, the gang, the chanting group, alive
still in the 21st century. When you kneel, and pray,
even when you say Amen.
First Published by Synchronized Chaos Spring 2015
The cantankerous old Mr. Muffet
spoke nonsense and lies from his tuffet.
When you think that I may
wax apophatic to say
I would never insult him, go stuff it!
~
If there were a tomb to hold my thoughts alone
where only those who seek it, meditate,
guffaws would echo on the heavenly green;
ideas will not live beyond their youth
unless they catch the glint of steel beneath
the torch of battle. So
let now be the arena for my wars,
my intellect, my flooding heart to charge
at enemies who rise today
but cannot raise the dust of my posterity.
This very hour I choose to fight
amid the phalanx of the white-robed clan.
It is a field of bloodless strife
where victors search beside themselves
for ripening flaws to extricate,
for keys to open doors
that never should have closed,
and for regrets that festered, unexposed.
Then as a spirit leaves its body to embrace
an unknown paradise,
down at the end of that long corridor
a dying candle flame blinks twice
and gives its rising smoke
to cense the larks above.
~
The Twenty first division of the airborne flying rats,
were perched upon a building ledge above my block of flats.
This way and that ,their beady eyes, sought targets on the square,
and then en masse, they launched themselves, in squadrons to the air.
One little lady unaware of the danger from above,
was busy feeding sparrows with crumbs of bread and love.
The Formation of the Twenty First began their bombing run,
Camouflaged in pale blue plumes, they dived out of the sun.
Too late, too late, the sparrows launched, in panic'd flapping group,
as both the lady and the square were raked by pigeon poop.
A passer-by in sympathy produced tissues in in a wedge
‘No it’s far too late for that; they’re already on their ledge!’
Then the Twenty First Division of the Airborne flying rats,
returned to base, their run complete, re-landing on the flats.
With chests puffed out and heads pulled in, the squadron stood so proud,
as far below the carnage wrought, attracted quite a crowd.
Looking up man exclaimed, ‘I seen it, it was them,’
and pointing to my block of flats, let fly a gob of phlegm.
‘Those dirty flying poop filled birds have made this town a mess,
Someone ought to do something, we ought to make redress.’
A committee formed and motions passed and poop law was laid down,
that any pigeon, found at large, was fair game on the ground.
Dogs were trained and cats were bought, to thwart the dirty foe,
and with catapults and airguns everybody had a go.
Thus the mass attacks were finished, and group bombings lost their fun,
So the flying rats just changed their ploy, and started solo runs.
As angels dance
overhead
and do battle
with dragons
We wait on the ground
for the bombs to fall
It seems that we
are
"Twenty First Century Schizoid Men"
as that prophetic song says
Leaving cherished hopes
to die in the flames
We try desperately
to be on course
And
I believe we will be
though it may take a while
Now the last chime is past, this day, December the 21st is here
The world awaits the Mayan predictions, now we fear their seers
How many are waiting around like rabbits caught in the lights
Fearing to move from where they are, to disappear from sight
What's in your last thoughts before you are taken out
Mocking this day of reckoning, now you challenge it's doubt
They say your life flashes before you the moment before you die
To the wall you look forever, your family photo's, now come the cries
Your favourite song you hear today you will never hear again
Whilst one drifts into no where's abyss, listening will be in vain
Recalling past moments, past memories, now distant to us all
As we dared to ignore their calendar, humanity is now in fall
Me, well I just stare out the window, to await this marvel of time
Never fearing what's about to happen, maybe we've undermined
Hours of this day now pass, the media in ignorant dismiss
Ridiculing the seers of the Mayan, assuming the worlds still in bliss
As I turn to view the screen, footage from the Shuttle is shown
The Mariana Trench has risen, massive displacement of water shown
Waves of gigantic proportions are rising to thousands of feet
To many shores the Shuttle will capture, so many countries it will greet
The movement of her plates, are rupturing along their paths
Volcanoes in Indonesia are spewing out mountains of ash
The lowlands like Bangladesh are imploding onto chasms so deep
Borders that we knew existed are now in cataclysmic sweep
The height of Everest is falling, as K2 crashes to the ground
Deafening is her voice, as her catastrophe's in plenty abound
All aboard the Shuttle, on this 21st of December day
Witness the Mayan seers, whilst we scoffed, their words did say
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-20.php
Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions; their visions..
Crossing her celestial, scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting amid the breeze to these, tranquil orisons ? Subliminally
Marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains; silvertone's rustic tides
Receding, from time's shores before my eyes; portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings
To fly beyound their breakwater whirlpools, vortex designs ? Breathtaking
Inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees and the eclipse of but once
Paradoxic's moon, now utters her revelations touchstone moments ? Beckoning myself
Aneath certitudes apex in parallel's reasons; these, realms about love's cloistered heavens
Wherein beauty does, so reside ? Tubular chimes lifting amid the breeze; subliminally marked
Emotions afore bay windows and her silvertones, scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly....
Beyound His colour splashed canvas of pastels, immortal stardust ? A twenty-first century love song.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions their visions
Crossing the celestials scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting in the breeze to these tranquil orisons
Subliminally marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains....
Silvertones rustic tides, receding from the shores before my eyes
Portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings to fly ~
Beyond the breakwater whirlpools vortex designs!?
Breathtaking inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees
And the eclipse of the once paradoxic moon now utters her
Revelations touchstone moments....
Beckoning myself aneath certitudes apex of parallel reasons these
Realms amid the cloistered heavens wherein, beauty does so reside ~
Tubular chimes lifting in the breeze, subliminally marked emotions afore
Bay windows in silvertones scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly beyond
The colour splashed canvas of pastels immortal, stardust....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
.."?A 21st Century, 'Love Song!'"..
On the twentieth floor of a high rise flat,
A new born baby cries by his mother’s side
Her name was Marie with no where to bide,
No father came to chase the rats.
The child lay in an old pram with no wheels,
No warm cot as the hospital was full.
On this cold winter night stars shone down,
Bringing no comfort in their nightly bloom.
She had left her country of warming sand,
To keep her baby safe from invaders hand.
Her husband died saving them both,
Pushing them onto an unsafe boat.
After months of agonizing fearful travel,
Arriving at a place safe and free,
Kept as a prisoner within a shed,
She cried to heaven, God save me.
A gaggle of young children came to look,
Disturbed at Maries baby’s awful plight,
Scampering off again into the night,
Shouting don’t worry Marie it will work out right.
She smiled wanely as she weakly rocked the babe,
Three men came in finely dressed and laughing,
Sneering at her and her new born child,
She screamed at them to go leaving no gift,
As they shrugged and laughing went.
Lying back on a soiled pillow seeking some sleep,
Hearing the rats scrapping at her feet,
Again she screamed and kicked them away,
She knew they would be back another day.
Church bells faintly rang through the frosty mist,
a congregation in finery sang their carols,
would she be missed at the food bank door,
night drew on darkness deep and dire,
what she would give for a warming fire.
Threadbare clothes pulled tight to her skin,
Cuddling her babe as her tears splashed down,
Holding him close to generate heat,
Cold biting hard at his little feet.
A friend came in at near dawn,
carrying some food and a warming blanket.
As dawn fully rose all was quiet,
No sound was heard in the dereliction,
Of this unholy squaler and rubbish,
The weak sun shone through the broken glass,
Upon three figures holding each other fast,
No sound was heard no baby cries,
No one to miss them at the homeless fires.
© andrew .provan.mcintyre.7 january 2018.
Stock-still statues
Bucolic totem-poles
Munching fly-swatters
Lazily grazing ...
Invisible to driverless cars
THE GOLD RUSH IS COMING.
ARE YOU ABOARD THE TRAIN?
IF YOU ARE THE LAST MY FRIEND,
YOU WILL FEEL THE PAIN.
THE GOLD RUSH IS COMING.
IT WILL BE HERE SOON.
I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO SEE YOU
WORK FROM NOON TILL NOON.
ARE YOU GOING TO SELL SUPPLIES?
ARE YOU GOING TO PAN?
THE GOLD RUSH WILL TAKE IT'S TOLL,
ON THOSE WHO DO NOT PLAN.
ARE YOU GOING TO WORK FOR OTHERS?
FOR MINIMUM DAILY WAGE?
ARE YOU GOING TO WAIT IN LINE
PRAY YOUR NAME IS PAGED?
THE GOLD RUSH IS COMING.
ARE YOU ON THE TRAIN?
I DON'T WANT YOU LEFT BEHIND.
I COULDN'T BARE THE PAIN.
PLEASE DON'T LET THE FEVER,
TAKE YOUR LIFE AWAY.
NOW'S THE TIME TO MAKE YOUR PLANS,
SO YOU HAVE TIME TO PLAY.
IF YOU WORK AND PLAN TODAY.
YOU CAN PLAY TOMORROW.
IF YOU DON'T WORK AND PLAN.
THEN YOU'LL HAVE TO BORROW.
UNDERSTAND, IF YOU BORROW.
THE BANKSTERS OWN YOUR TIME.
YOU HAVE TO WORK FROM NOON TILL NOON.
EVENTUALLY LOOSE YOUR MIND.
Aghast at explosive industrialization/
urbanization once sacred wild woodland
whittled away overlain bumper crops
comprising trappings green lighted
supposedly signaling progress unwittingly
overrides avast enclave (teeming with
diverse flora and fauna passively cleared,
dominated, expropriated by dictate of
commercialization, exploitation, fabrication
fueling amalgamation, fabrication, lubrication
oiling cogs and wheels sustaining, murdering
guaranteeing production trumpeted at
expense native flora and fauna acquisition,
cooptation, extermination, gratification
decreed domination *****sapiens usurped
law of land i.e. eminent domain foisted
upon unsullied "new world" defining
European age of exploration, whereby
pristine undulating immense acres
indiscriminately partitioned, (despite
indigenous peoples unrecognized precedence
to remain holistic caretakers of Mother
Earth tendered, predicated, linkedin with
generations worth of sacredness, which
spiritual reverence meant naught to
unwelcome trespassers solely hell bent
to force acquiescence, compliance,
obeisance,... to warlords, whose cruel,
diabolical gall lee jeepers libidinal
incursions sought extinction toward
defenceless native inhabitants subject
to machinations spelling extermination,
yet their restless spirits infiltrate occupants
of once happy hunting grounds devoid
without a trace, when this bucolic tract
devoid of present schlocky vinyl zoned
abodes, whereby fast disappearing vestige
alluding to pastoral vista spurs overactive
imagination regarding yours truly, who
chiefly hankers he got born during
sparse population versus pell mell hustle.
S-unday twenty-first of May
H-as much to offer;
E-arly break of dawn is nice to the beholder.
C-ool Sunday twenty-first of May
O-ffers another beauty;
N-ew morn meets the day,
C-reating a sense of glory.
E-ach cloud turns white,
P-ouring rain fades away;
C-old chill has just turned
I-nto a warm light of ray.
O-pen your eyes to blue sky, as the dark fades into gray;
N-ever ignore the soft wind, Sunday twenty-first of May.
Tom Sawyer did three somersaults, a back flip, stood on his head
Becky Thatcher scrolled up and down her device ~ said, 'Go soak your head'
Man-Machine
Isn’t it the same thing?
The white light is bright
Do we even know how to write?
Correct, Correct, Correct
Auto-correct has checked
What is a friend?
Oh, you mean the girl who posted that one trend?
Yeah, we’re super close
She commented once, “I love your clothes!”
Erase, Erase, Erase
I don’t want to leave a digital foot-trace
But, didn’t you send–
Shhh, I thought you were my friend
We don’t speak of what’s been deleted
Because the act of doing has been uncompleted
So, forget what once was
And watch this funny video of fat Santa Claus
March 4, 2022
Contest: 'Let's explore digital technology'
Sponsor: Simon Rogerson