Best Two Thirds Poems
I set the stage for tropical romance;
among my rocks have sirens’ songs been sung.
Yet some who dare to traverse my expanse
into the briny depths of me are flung.
Inconstant as the sun that comes and goes,
I’m calm as windless day or still of night;
then furious as hurricanes that blow.
You cannot know my mind nor guess my might.
By ancients I was feared and deified,
and still two thirds of all the earth I rule!
Let humans learn the ebb of every tide,
but he who disrespects me is a fool.
The plight of humankind will be its worst
when I and land for sins of man are cursed.
Magic is everywhere, but stage magicians,
have no clue, as to what it really is.
Magic built our universe.
That something so complex, as the universe,
could be born of a few elements of pure…magic.
That, intelligent organisms can grow,
from carbon and evolve; that’s magic.
A flower, bush or a tree, unfolding from a seed;
that’s magic.
Real magic; the nature of everything.
An atom, cell, molecule of DNA…magic.
The Visica Pisces in the seed of life,
gives birth to the flower of life.
Metatron’s cube is geometrical magic.
That, all that exists, is composed of numbers;
real magic.
Ideas are born of, dream magic.
Whole civilizations, are birthed into existence by…
dream magic.
Magical wonders, reflected in young eyes;
stir the emotions and captivate the senses.
Scientists…magicians…they’ve no idea,
of how real magic works.
The magic that creates all life,
is beyond known physics;
metaphysics and its comprehension’
lie in hidden realms, where human ego,
blocks science from going.
The real magicians;
those who dare to cross the line,
ego has drawn,
are persecuted and maligned by colleagues.
As magical history unfolds,
wisdom is revealed.
The same science that says:
“humans use only one third of their brain capacity”;
all too swiftly, negate the other two thirds.
Society, self-limiting;
minimizes its own knowledge;
its own magical existence.
Doubt is a game, played by fools;
while belief, is the magical wonderland,
of materializations; yet to manifest.
What exists. in the imaginations magic hat…exists.
Just wave the wand of belief and produce.
Skeptitis, is an overwhelming malady.
Its swollen tendrils,
have kept the world in,
stagnation; far too long.
Belief is the only cure;
the magic of faith,
does move mountains.
Sinking pearls of stone, in an obligatory skip
before the plunge
Haloing the horizon in silver riddles
and the earth is still.
No tides to bite the green watered breath.
No new moons eclipsed by the earth's turn to greatness.
And we laugh.
Laugh in salty brine and cosmos air.
Following the stone's tunnels in a dive into the blue.
Capturing smoothness of hair and palms.
Breaking the evening ocean floor in rhythm
as we catapult to surface calm.
Silver tipped fish wings scatter in water rings.
Algae backed hermit crabs skitter on crackling legs.
And we are the epitome of glee tonight with a fist full of ocean
and two thirds of a wish never ending.
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
Love Letter to Adonis
My dear Adonis, you who even charmed
the goddess Aphrodite and the Queen
Persephone, it’s I you’ve now disarmed!
One look into your eyes, I did not mean
to fall in love with you so hopelessly!
I understand two thirds the year you are
required to split between Persephone
and Aprhodite. Oh, she is a star!
But neither of those two could love you more
than I! This mortal woman’s love is true!
My beautiful Adonis, I implore
you, give me just a little time with you!
I want you so! Please, my beloved, bring
your love to me when you’re reborn in spring!
April 4, 2018 For Viv Wigley's Love Letter II Contest
GOODBYE SECRET GARDEN
Once upon a time, my father planted a Christmas tree,
It stood tall and proud, a landmark for all to see,
But lightning struck this magnificent sight,
Which every Christmas shone with lights so bright,
It had to be cut down, despite my desperate plea!
We cut two thirds down, felt sure it was safe and sound,
The last third, I landscaped a secret garden around,
I didn’t want my dad sad whenever he looked down,
Or to be unhappy and maybe develop a frown,
Each flower was planted with bliss into the ground.
But now we are about to sell our home, I’m sad,
For memories were made here, most of them glad,
Will in time fade away I fear to say,
And don’t look forward to the day we move away,
But our new home that we built is awesomely rad!
I'd rather not relay on heavy words
to weigh the beauty in a proper way.
A third of human languages, two-thirds,
nay, all of them would never outweigh
the heft of weightless beauty on the scale
of ruthless time. Eternity will measure
a downfall, a moon, a nightingale,
a hug, a kiss, a tenderness, a pleasure,
an unexpected daybreak. Farewell,
my poor weighted love. Abiding time
is going to put its deadly spell
on every stanza, meter, form and rhyme.
But you are an immeasurable form.
When beauty comes I wonder where from.
MAY 2019 PREMIER 4,ANY FORM,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 14(F O U R T E E N )Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
By Robert J (Bob) Moore © 2016
I am a British soldier, been a soldier all my life
and back home in England, I left 2 kids and a wife
now I’m outside Sebastapol, with Cardigans Brigade
waiting to fight the Russians, Cavalry on Parade
We are part of Raglans Army, and we’re ready for the fray,
Light Dragoons and Lancers, and Hussars were there that day
We rode our light fast horses, for mobility and speed
Unarmoured, armed with lance and sword, skirmishing our deed
we have our orders “charge the guns” believe it we cannot
but ours is not to reason why, to do or die our lot
we sit our horses and wait there, for the word for us to go
hoping we won’t have to, a mistakes been made, we know.
We started down the valley, toward the waiting foe
riflemen to right and left, were shooting as we go
three quarters of a mile we rode, sprayed with shot and shell
600 of the Light Brigade, went charging into hell
A Russian battery to our left, another to our right
500 yards ahead of us, Russians, are starting to take flight
Line one went through the battery, 2 Regiments in all
the cost was great as all around, we saw men and horses fall
The second line of Cavalry, now charging through the guns
Cut and slash the gunners, as they turned to run
then came the third line, to complete the duty so assigned
to finish any gunners, or rifleman they could find
The charge is done, its “threes about”, and retire back up the hill
once more to brave the Valley of Death, Though the battle continued still
through the Russian skirmisher, rifle fire and cannon shot
the end for many brave soldier, who’d given all he’d got
And so the brave 600, with two thirds left behind
after a charge against 5000, returned, only to find
the heavies had not followed them, momentum had been lost
the charge, although magnificent, had not been worth the cost.
Spare a thought
For buffaloes, bulls and bears groaning, mourning, starving
Under your collar don’t blow hot
Making rivers and rodents sad, carving
Space and time you don’t own
Encroaching on privileges animals and plants possess
In their comfort and discomfort zone
You dare to distress and stress
Best to minimize the plight
Reptiles and rabbits confront every morning and afternoon
With no morsels of grub in sight
As savannas and simians croon
Shambling in starvation style
Bulging bellies boast as labels of stables and fables of gluttony
For a convoy of jalopies cruising in single file
Pay last respect to Tony
Who’d passed on in pitiful poverty
Impecunious
Although in death no novelty
Comes through under the guise of ingenious
Crafting of manipulation
But you’d do well to sacrifice creature comforts to elevate the fate
Endured by long suffering trees and tigers whose daily nourishment ration
Ought to funnel a debate
On the injustice witnessed globally when a tiny few
Gorges on two thirds of world resources
With neither care nor clue
On the abuse fauna and flora sources
Suffer
Dwindle
Prefer
Decrease as the self satisfying spindle
Spins and spins
With little thought on air and water pollution
Pins
On environmental dissolution
Metamorphosing the Earth into a less habitable planet
Treated with disdain
Depleting the Earth’s net
Worth as polluters gain bargains again and again
Super profits
Turning a blind eye
To sarcasm skits, bludgeon bits and tendentious tweets
Lying inside a liberal lie
That all’s well
Environment concerns mean nothing
As imbalances and inhospitable elements swell
To spell doom unless you start caring for Mother Earth and her everything.
Did you know a report of child abuse is made every ten seconds?
There’s emotional, physical and sexual defilement in certain cases,
these innocent sweet children deserve a home with love and nurture,
there’s so many instances of children lost with unknown faces.
Revilement can cause mental health disorders in adulthood,
two thirds of people treated for addiction reported abuse as a child,
seventy percent of abused children are the age of seven and under,
and I’m sure millions of cases are unknown and never been filed.
If I could change the world I’d help raise awareness about this issue,
I’d fight to pass legislature to allow adult victims have free treatment,
for any critical health issues caused by the exploitation of their youth,
I would encourage volunteering to raise money to all be in agreement.
There needs to be better edification for the new foster parents,
instruction and proper methods to educate the agencies,
if only there was more awareness spread to families with children,
never leave your child unattended with people known strangely.
I beg and plead to all the people who have children of their own,
be cautious with who you leave them while unaccompanied,
and to all the sick people who have been accused of this act,
I swear one day there will be a better way to protect their needs.
Date Written: April 9, 2016
On tuffet to eat whey and curds
Miss Muffet is shat on by birds
All seems to be well
As she can't smell or tell
Curds and whey are now just two-thirds
If you don't understand this allegory--read the note below:
Our biggest threats have always been from above--bad drugs, bad food, bad banking, bad leadership into aggressive war, massive pollution, etc. The list is quite long, yet these individual "bad things" often seem to escape detection as they creep up on us--something like a spider.
Truck Stop Time
The frozen wind cracks its whip
And slits my darkened lips
One on top of the other, dry.
The warm blood hardens scabs crusty on my
Four o’clock shadow
Four o’clock a week ago.
Eyes half open
Two thirds shut
Cold air bites my ass
And my nocturnal pupils pinch
As I walk into the Pure Oil Truck Stop
I-75 at state route 309
Two o’clock, snapping my fingers to Conway Twitty
Two o’clock a week ago.
These grizzly-bear beer-bellied, hauling ass
Gnawing on their Texas breakfast, eggs and home fried forks
As I sit down in the faded sexual leather booth number three
The insomniacs and drunken loners tip their noses
Shot by snow outside.
“Give me a coffee.”
Thick as muddy-cat-****-snow
Marshmallows?
No, ’cause I can feel my big toe thawing out
Below my Levi’s, greased by Jack Daniels, that
Couldn’t stay down to keep me warm
When I was really cold
A week ago.
Coffee arrives
Graveyard attendant with a whore’s body
Tight faded sexual leather
Burnt taste buds as the coffee oozes down
Over the J.D. and the roast-beefed intestine.
Arby’s a week ago.
Razored lips
Wet again as I get up leaving a quarter.
Whores get cheaper, the air gets meaner, I get tired
A week from now late night emissions of Jack Daniels
Coffee will pass back up by my lone tonsil
Trucks will pull out, warm CO2 **** on the blacktop
Whores will look out the windows, warm
I’ll walk down Leonard Avenue
The bird will be nipping
Nipping at 2:23 a.m. a week ago.
I crossed the yard
two-thirds awake,
intent upon
that coffee break:
young teacher hunk,
one tall, cool stud
(before the Night,
before the Flood,
before the Flight
of all that’s good,
before the Blight
brought down the Wood,
and damned spare tyres
dammed up the Gush),
I waded through
the schoolgirl crush.
Two slinky babes,
real dinky girls,
all legs and lips
and kinky curls
said “Come upstairs,
hang out with us:
we’ve got some ****
we could discuss.”
You think me stupid?
Yes, indeed-o.
They led me upstairs
by the libido.
With limbs so nimble,
movements fleet,
they steered me to
the science suite.
We pushed ajar
the green lab door,
and they weren’t smiling
any more.
They wanted me
to case the joint.
They’d brought me here
to make a point,
for Tippy Hedren
and Lee Remick
had drawn me in
for pure polemic.
That sterile world
of steel and glass:
that ingrained smell
of Bunsen gas!
You’d keep away
from high school labs
if you’d seen what
was on those slabs.
This is a Burmese climbing rhyme. It needs work. But we have had so much snow, of course, I thought about snowbirds. Haha.
White world snowbird
Hunts lunch blurred under fluff
He heard the seed would be there
Bird didn’t have a prayer; the crow
What share could he give the corvine
Better the bovine give him the boot
Or murine play tag with that twitterer
Crows are for the birds
The best words I can tell you
Two-thirds of them are no good
The seed blew through ice crystals
It flew over the cuckoos nest.
Over two-thirds of my lifetime
I have been climbing,
searching for an elusive peak,
Stretching for the pinnacle.
Would I ever attain?
Find freedom from the guilt
of not pleasing other people,
not meeting their expectations . . .
learn to just be me.
Just lately, I breathe pristine air
unadulterated by polluting opinions;
I sense, at last, the apex
where I am free,
living in a now moment,
savoring my place in it.
I see my years below
from where I stand victorious;
the wearying uphill strain
was worth what I have achieved.
I love you, but you do not own me.
Copyright, 9-20-2014
Faye Lanham Gibson