Best Uptake Poems
Slow Rolling railcars are a better pick,
If high-speed travel makes you sick.
Slow On The Uptake is confusing,
Slow But Sure, safe but unamusing.
Slow Markets make a stock broker mad,
Slow Release tablets - best to be had!
In the Slow Lane, you're just an onlooker.
Best “Slow” I know is in my Slow Cooker.
The wonder of a childlike kind helps keep the person younger and empowers him with the sensation of excitement that is essential to survive difficult circumstances. In addition to this, it infuses their surroundings with vitality, joy, and enthusiasm on a consistent basis, so serving as a powerful reminder that there is promise and trust.
a childish impress
refresh the atmosphere's vibe~
swell the bliss uptake
Written: July 18, 2022
An Opinion
Does "old age" have its own rewards?
I have reached a point in my life when
I am inclined to say: yes. Yes.
Often, old age is accompanied
by aches, in body and in mind.
Our youthful vigor is long gone.
We miss those no longer with us.
Age does not magically bestow
mythical "wisdom" as is trumpeted.
I am not very much wiser at 81
than I was at scarcely fourteen.
Somewhat slower on the uptake, I'm
no hungry sponge absorbing input
without loss of clarity or of comprehension.
Aged, I have hearing deficits, "mental fogging",
and don't control strange stray thoughts.
Even my delusions aren't as vivid.
This is due to hormonal changes as I age.
I'm greatly bothered by absence
of family, treasured friends...and lovers.
I mean all those I myself have loved,
platonically or otherwise. I do not tout
a rapid end to life. Despite discomfits,
it's much better to be alive --- save
for agonizing pain -- than to be
unrevivably dead. Living in others'
memories is poetic but isn't an
incentive for terminal departure.
I've listed my unpoetic opinion.
I encourage all: live life. Have no thought
or wish to speed its end. Nonexistence
is permanent, ever looming -- unavoidable.
Live and derive pleasure and some worth
from our unique (but very common) human
process of growth and aging. At all its stages
life's much more than paltry preparations for
an ending. We are lucky to be old, human, organically
still viable. Live with the intent to thrive!
She romped and rolled around me in proud stiff pompous gait
I was not impressed by the ruffle of her skirt
Or the wicked laughter of the flipping imp
But I pulled up short for a word choked me,in heart,straight.
Ha! she played pranks eyes gleamed with mischief
"Dad, I have divulged the little secret to Mom"
I did expect from her a candied word -a lesser wisdom
But she was artfully indirect, "Dad you lost a fig leaf".
"O Sue, you should not say like this to your Dad
I have promised you last night a box of chiffon cake
And you risk a glorious reversal , Are you mad?
Hey, mother's sleuth, very slow on the uptake."
"Character assassination, your mother's devout skill
She stings me to the quick and you are not run of the mill
I am not timid, I am not scared of your mother
Go tell her, for sure,I have eaten the pie and will eat the other."
Sue frisked and smiled broad baring her pearly teeth
"You are caught, but you are a real good Dad for me
Mom has made an extra pie and the gravy sauce is free"
She pranced about in sprightly manner and vanished behind the tree.
That night my ten-year old daughter
Read out 'The Girl Who Drank the Moon"
The sleepy-eyed Sue with drooping eyelids
Would dream of Jabberwocky very soon.
2 to 12 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beth Evans
13 November, 2019
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
The smile conceals, something.
Does not offer any cue.
You were still traveling
within.
You wanted to leave the world,
as it was, without cleaving
the wood, not accepting the veneer.
It rang an alarm bell.
To evolve their own persona;
good to take their own path.
The fallout was widening.This
was an insider’s story.
What an audacious withdrawl;
and you were in a silent mode like a Buddha
to uptake the film of dust
settling on the innocent rape of book.
Satish Verma
"One Poem (That's It)!"
These words ring in my ears as I dream of a meaning
I'm hungry to post, have another heart taste,
such, that promise of sex might not tempt me at all!
Hark! Sharp uptake of breath from freak's mind at a phrase,
oh, the wordplay's so sweet. There are twists of mind's canyons
that slime the sleepwalker from wheat fields to slopes
of more vertical content, now riddled with pause!
How she hangs on the edge of this precipice leaning
toward whispers of answers that gather, lays waste
to what my verse had going! I try hard to stall
as real protein shows glimmer, I slide through this maze
like a snail on a knife's edge, but move wants companions.
The fat is so thick now, verse mired down in hopes!
Not lazy, weird contract, my Muse funds the Laws.
Brian Johnston
30th of September in 2020
You - amaranthine temptress!
Pay attention for a sec.
Let's give it a hap,
Ad-lib like vagabonds on the road,
Rambling to dusk in a single step,
Just before the first stars
Appear in our eyes,
With Jupiter for you under the Moon, or
Ganging up with me to outlaw the routine,
Fortuitously not to isolate for more,
Not to exclude the beauty of the scene
But to boldly intervene,
In this chronicle of life
Coalesce in the shadows
Tumble down a hill,
Fall to our lot of feelings, emotions and ideas
Celebrate avocation of joy,
Incumbency of passion to become dear metier
Weaving between our fingerprints
As an all evening event,
Under the sky or an Arab tent.
Perhaps a symphony of sound at night
No matter how small or how big
But be honest and straight
Be quick on the uptake,
Through the sound of your voice
Through a singing retort
Of any sort,
At a gig, in a debate, or in bed,
While using a thread, a cord or a string
No, not a fling!
But a romance,
Craving for a glimpse,
From behind to see the Universe,
Or just a verse,
Between the skin of yours or mine.
Thank-you note in the eyes,
Not in the words!
Create our little worlds,
Unique, versatile just slick.
Trust is such a deliciously sweet thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Make the yellow-bellied canary sing
Confidence lost in an abandoned mind
Smoky sulfur
and silica methane ...
uptake of noxious fumes to the brain
Pinning blame on the innocent
is such a wickedly gossip thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Make the paid parrots walk the plank
Over the edge,
submersive feeling of a shark bite
Band of brotherly fear: pie-hole footsteps Caine a-coming,
like the razor slice of a sharp knife
A taste for deceit is an acquired appetite;
such a distended, gluttonous thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Loyalty fled, as the cannons started firing
Resentment turned inward,
be a busted gut full of bellyaching —
Sunken boatload of wretched, scurvy self-loathing
Someone coveted the strawberries ...
perhaps it was a fickle foe pretend friend
Check the fingers for the evidence
that is scarlet proof crimson staining
Drink an ask flagon of cherry whine
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Will be mutineer revealed in due time
Do one knows the meaning of silk perhaps motion capture more over self-imagine,
If material was a catch and words form patterns then let me paint the picture,
Do one knows the meaning of silk perhaps motion capture more over self-imagine.
Then Circle the calendar I ask is this season for love and a kiss among mistletoe,
Twas is once and Twas is the heart of minting of hearts do you feel such a connection,
If a throne brush a feather a heath decreed sound tringle roots mountains held sight are we at bay,
Or sync a cross hurdles have we yet bridge the gap,
Bless of a keystone, arch, position and of a chorded like chess of a check mate,
Simplicity growth among haste of day to day work of a holiday to rejoice is of fashion,
Dearest feign of a touch passion sign lead by candle lights please no interruption sign on the door,
Does this tend to ring a bell the type of dessert is always a suggestion,
A deli cation meal the pleasure is all mines,
“If all men can count with you none count against you”
Do one know the meaning of silk perhaps motion capture of self-imagine awakens,
Beauty is your name,
Appease such sounds a breathe or that of a lock that starts to grind around a grit of a map,
Destiny form shapes stars evolve is am I being to up front,
Florence of its uptake tic toc the foot heels of a bed how it rocks,
Will one lover hold a prestige stance could lovers tell or other tell by one reacting,
Twas to the night,
Do one know mean of silk perhaps motion capture of self- imagine awaken,
Comforter or relaxes let the scenery of place tell the origin,
Simplicity of the most upheld do you think now is the time to tell our parents,
Does love grow old?
Why don’t ask love.
The intellectual mind runs deep in disease receptors.
With mental illness rampant, the blitzkrieg type firing countless uptake inhibitors.
Even with this life altering handicap that suffocates the disabled brain so blind.
Intelligence is beyond that of 90% of humans, and learning is simply ahead from behind.
Genius in his own right, gifted with knowledge and filth flows with ease.
Subconscious of the masses, thousands of lives of men and cree`s.
Yet the intellectual suffers the sorrows of generations of pain.
Intuitive of much knowledge, in tune with the motions and wisdom gained.
What is immensely difficult for most humanity, for him it`s simply just attained.
Anything that comes in view of thoughts, logic and reasons are engraved,
Memories deep like the ocean's depths, some could say it's a plaque.
Yet if you understand this side of satisfaction, then you have been reincarnated from the grave.
Little birdy said “a lot of coma coming soon”
When the earth chills down with a blood red moon
Silent shrieks abound as the brain dissolves
Big mistake on the uptake man devolves
"Wrong again!" the only right I’ve ever heard
Weaned off electronics from a full blown nerd
Hope to keep my pattern going and be wrong once more
Otherwise, we all have zombies scratching at the door
So oft I'd heard its soul intent
the performed center, not rebound
could bury once and then compound
the years between, cycle's renown!
Now given over to the Earth
no search or wandering can contain
the final call, summized in worth
and vestige given, subtle gain!
What final makepiece can entail
a journey's fare or life's enslave,
does hold in bondage, fortune's quake
and guesswork yonder not remake!
Conditions squander for the take,
the spirit of coward's, sentiments fake
for counterfeiting sameness sake
relying on its own uptake!
And tears can last beyond the grave
arrangements scattering the poise
a lifelong treasure, so denounce
all moments contrary or brave!
My footsteps falter, not held up
by urgings from all else, so mean
this only once, my saving's cup
respect my feelings with esteem!
Oh, childish pondering, to and fro
so wasted, while the dead lie still,
a life too soon has gone to flow
some spot eternity will fill!
So brightly lit, my birthday cake.
Such icing-on-dessert uptake.
My Autumn years illumined flight,
October with effulgent light.
Candy corn, shaped like fangs, I eat.
Orange-yellow, Brach’s honey-sweet.
Smiles, blinking pumpkin, in the night.
October with effulgent light.
The crisp and thrash, of pretty leaves.
The grandkids’ beat; my heart receives.
Plenipotent sound of the night -
October with effulgent light.
The cold, fresh air and bonfire smoke;
The colorful lanterns and folk.
Big, bright and red - the Hunter’s moon.
October with effulgent light.
these events and thoughts pass all over me,
like insects on a fluorescent screen,
a glitter, a moment, flicker of time,
a lifetime to travel in social slime!
memories are made, memories erased,
on the brain slate of nerves, bemused and dazed,
writer is unseen, the chalk doesn’t screech,
my story unfolds and fate? out of reach!
many voices come through, somewhere from dark,
no faces to see, no glimmer, no spark,
my eyes are shut but my mind is awake,
soul records my spiritual uptake!
I am but a blank white sheet on time’s book,
million pages may not get a second look,
I am imprinted with what hand writes on me,
what generations may read, I let be!
a world of illusions, world of untruths,
from our birth to old age through erring youth,
in this ignorance is silent wisdom,
seeking eternal truth, yearning freedom!
Unseeking Seeker sponsored
Screen of Awareness Poetry contest
Written 24/05/23
10 syllables each line
5 stanzas with aabb rhyme sequence