Best Veers Poems
Santa hasn’t drunk cocoa tonight,
and he’s not dressed in red trimmed with white.
In blue denim so cool,
he is toasting the Yule
with a drink surely not mixed with Sprite!
Santa’s drink was a little too red,
and I think we have something to dread,
for he’s now in the sky
and he’s flying “too high”
as his sleigh widely veers overhead.
Had been use for the Humor Contest of Carol Eastman
* Slab City is a snowbird campsite in the Colorado Desert in southeastern California, used by recreational vehicle owners and squatters from across North America. East Jesus is part of its artistic community.
Sam Ebenezer
a sad ol' geezer
was lamenting his shrinkage of late:
my worthless ding-a-ling
is a bell without ring
my manhood in diminishing state
From whence I salute
is thin as a flute
and soft to the touch as cashmere
I search with persistence
it offers resistance
on nature's call to appear
On heeding that call
no waterfall
a few errant droplets at best
where once from the middle
I gushed, now I piddle
and half of my load veers west
Both feet on the urn
pushing forth from astern
I chant 'emerge hocus-pocus'
with my punctured esteem
watch the pitiful stream
dwindle to drops as Limp loses focus
Our wee-membered friend
wished his size to amend
the stiffness rerouted from his joints
have it rise to occasion
and stand to attention
consulted ol' Doc for his viewpoint:
My snake is dead
no flesh; just head
lies comatose and useless
my garden hose
once warmed my toes
now wrinkled, dry and juiceless
The senile old doctor
by name Alfred Proctor
had most of his wit in absentia
his breath smelt cheesy
Ebenezer felt queasy
Doc clearly suffered from senile dementia
Doc's hand took a dip
to just 'neath his ribs
as Ebenezer voiced his concern
Doc smiled all the while
said: your hopes are futile
there's no cure for your vanishing organ
I lost my virility
before my senility
long mourned my lost pride-and-joy
put my plight to rest
on realizing I'm blessed
to have in hand my own built-in toy
**************************************
With September’s tenure over, October takes charge.
Leaves turn yellow, red, and ochre in colourful surge.
As autumn breeze strongly veers round and blows,
Leaves fall and lie in heaps, rows upon rows.
They go into the making of autumn’s mosaic quilt.
Before they, under our feet, mournfully wilt,
Autumn leaves float and fly like flowers,
Twirling and whirling in the air on breezy hours.
As the air grows crisp and cold day by day,
Autumn is all set to have its powerful sway.
Birds by the riverside one by one will fly away,
Fearing the golden autumn days will never stay.
With so much of beauty and variety in the trees
And an endearing whisper in the blowing breeze,
Autumn is the one season I wholeheartedly hail,
And wish to breathe its air as my last inhale.
The male Hine’s Emerald patrols his cattail fen
low through sedge and seepage
his compound eyes pluck gnats from the air
two yellow bars flash along his thorax
hindwings catch the morning
Chimanimani Mountain mist beads over quartz
the female Rock Threadtail
six black feet braced on the edge
her wing tilted toward the sun
eyes—black
He misses the gnat
darts, veers, halts midair, pivots
his ommatidia fixed on her raised wing
smitten, his heading shifts
the female Rock Threadtail rests above her stream
=======
You’d think a dog named Lucky,
Would lead a decent life.
But Lucky had his troubles,
And they followed day and night.
One day Lucky ran away
In search of greener pastures
Just to find a field ablaze,
Thus the start of his disasters.
Although Lucky didn’t die that day
And no limbs or parts were broken,
Lucky smelled of smoldered hair
And you’d swear he kept on smokin!
And Lucky liked to chase the cars,
Till the day he lost his nerve
When Lucky met a big ‘ol bus
That couldn’t stop or swerve.
I’m not sure just how it hit him
Or how he’s here today.
But he’s never walked straight since,
And one eye veers away.
My Lucky always clashed with cats
And was leery of their paws.
Until a “Tom” of forty pounds
Let Lucky feel his jaws.
Hair and fur balls filled the air
Like Cottonwoods a bloomin.
Poor ‘ol Lucky lost an ear,
And now looks twice as stupid.
I confess, I named him wrong
And why he stays, I’ll never know.
I guess that I’m the lucky one,
To have Lucky here at home.
...... Part 3 ......
The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
repaint the point o’ dyin’.
A magpie flies with frightened eyes
(on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.
On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
with icy hails ’a blowin’.
The storm abates and terminates,
the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.
As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
(the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
......End......
Ah, Divine influence, it has come to many, so they say,
as to their nameless or named God’s they do pray.
The light came to Carroll, he said he could see,
for raised by a Vicar at Christ church was he.
Dodgson was his surname an apt moniker
for he veers of from his father, made math his liqueur
Lewis was Charles tongue in cheek, he wore hats
and from his birth place, he transformed Cheshire cats.
Lewis Carroll wrote “Alice” sure, he was also Charles Dodgson
but who wrote the marrow, now that’s where the God comes!
Now, many men wrote the Bible or so we surmise
and the pages they garnered came in random sizes.
Yes they picked, they plucked, these men were right scary
and what do you know, left out the Book of Mary!
Now you modern readers just might take a note
the resemblance twixt Alice and Mary's no anecdote.
Dogdson, yes Carroll, knew Mary so it seems
yet, Alice sweet Alice is who came in his dreams.
Carroll clothed Alice and it's no surprise
that in Chapter 3:21, her dress he seeks dried!
For Alice, dear Alice, did not wish to die!
“She would catch a bad cold if she could not get dry.”
Carroll being the kind creator, he would
had the mouse read to Alice the driest of books.
Again and again, his benevolence is shown
when he sends Alice a rabbit to soon lead her home.
So, we are lead on in most delightful detail
to Chapter 4:15 where her flight is curtailed.
As Cain slew Abel, so the Queen beheaded prates.
Yet, she’d no power at all, over bodiless cats!
Now, Chapter 12 is truly my favorite, as you may surmise
Lewis Carroll has dreamed much of caterpillar size..
He dreamed a whole world full of goodness and villainy.
As anyone can see, men will see what they see,
and the Looking Glass has as much meaning to me
as the Bible may have to the Christians, let be.
True love feels like a burning flame of fire,
fueled by everlasting bonds of trust.
And not the warm embers of a liar;
distorting truths in the pursuit of lust.
You feel the tears building behind your eyes,
while your hopes sink, scuttled by betrayal.
And realizing what each drop implies,
dreams collapse, while anxieties prevail.
An unbearable pain pierces your heart
when truth dispels the illusion of lies.
And while doubt and mistrust tear it apart,
depression devastates trust as it dies.
The empty promises your heart endured
were a mix of flattery and pretense.
And juvenile dreams that never matured;
spurred a catastrophic set of events.
Like a river, destiny sets love's course,
yet you get to choose who'll be by your side.
And if fate veers and heads toward remorse;
change direction: to stop the hurt inside.
And we are left here
Like maggots—dirty, parentless…devastated
Always feeding on the gruel…the cruel
Fattening our lives in the moneyless bilk
Shocking like a bee sting, yet soft as silk
We are the forgotten
I am watching the others grow rotten
But I am cleansed and raw with glee
Because…though blinded with slime…I SEE…
I rise to the sound of the agonizing screams
Of rapes, murders, of violent fists…weeping minds
My definition of true finds…
I smile when any possible hope arrives
Fate laughs, knowing I constantly scream inside
I am amused of it all…I can’t stop laughing
As bitter tears began to fall
I HATE ALL OF YOU…
I WANT TO KILL YOU ALL…
But I love that I can take anything
From the nothing we have all been labeled
The sick, the low…the mentally unstable
Watch me roll up in a ball
A naughty tease to death’s lull
I love your silence…
I love your intense fall
And we are more alive than any of you
We are crazed by your belligerence
Aching to be emotionless
SHARE YOUR INDIFFERENCE
SHARE IT…
Give us something to be left with
So the others can die
As Fate veers its head looking in the mirror
Listen to her laughter—do you hear her?
She watches and waits
To find her maggots have grown wings…
Screw your selfish indifference...we fall to fly
We are more alive than any of you
Though quickly we die
I must fly a kite
and lift it ever so high
And load all my cares on it.
The wind suddenly
Veers direction and down comes
My kite bringing back my cares.
In the musty mountains crevices
covered with overgrown foliage.
Trees hang on the edges
grasping the sheer rock
of these aging towers
that reach for the sky.
The clear pristine waterfalls
flow endlessly, cascading downwards
Into the cool blue pools below.
The water creates a rainbow
within it's downward spiral.
Sparkling water sprays
sprinkling
all that lies in it's path.
As it flows the downhill slopes,
it veers and runs to the canopy
of forest below.
The water along with it's cleansing rain
are nature's refreshment.
You read poetry for the survival that filters through its lines
Poetry that promises healing
no matter wars in distant lands
Poetry's brash cracks of hope as the planet veers
off kilter in disarray
with lines idling, a narrow gush of pleasure
Poetry with a script of heroes
that wipes away the mess of life,
earth's crowded house of frenzy
Poetry with multi layered meanings
most a fog, like digital tech updates
Poetry to sanitize the world, which it won't
Poetry to restore the thin crust of political civility,
which it doesn't
And if you're the last person to see the light,
poetry won't save you
Still your need to read poetry expands
a validation of landscapes unseen
a lighthouse in a world of complications
for sometimes verses lift your thinking
for sometimes lines breath through you.
Poem revised: May 5, 2021
Drenched in the glow of sunburst crimson sky
verdant vale veers at foot of jade hills,
on gentle slope fawn leaves rustle with sigh,
wind carries to the deep stream down the rills,
sketching the leaping silver water line
on rocks carving the course of pristine art,
lucid in murmur on pebbles, some shine
bright, some drape with malachite moss their heart.
Walking long on contours of crystal stream,
of emerald plain’s scene I’ve not lost sight,
see, from lilac sky descends golden gleam
of twilight as I watch the fall of night.
I wait for dawn to see me in your eye
drenched in the glow of sunburst crimson sky.
May 15, 2019
Contest : Nature Scene-Orphan Sonnet
Syllable count : 10 each line
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
I hear the drone that quizzes me then see the swirling mass.
A cloud veers in all directions; green changes in a flash.
Ten thousand wings are beating. The sky a wonderful delight.
I follow the budgerigars until the flock is out of sight.
In Youth, Oft Eyes Are But Dark Jaded Spheres
The Gods we adore in our youthful youth
Are just shadows we see before life's truth
In youth, oft eyes are but dark jaded spheres
That deny and guard against our deep fears
Wherein Life's stream veers in its steady flow
Bypassing so much mortals never know
As we journey into our fated fates
Choosing between light's truth and darken gates
Oft as a lost souls seeking that true path
Yet not seeing Time's decay and death's wrath
At mercy of forces as yet unseen
Never more than when racing on as teens
Those Gods laughing so loudly as we flail
Reveal they live within fires of Hell.
R.J. Lindley, November 26th, 1977
Sonnet, ( Tragic Reality Of Life, Youth And This World's Wrath )