Best Venturous Poems
COURAGE VS. CONFLICT
The history of man defines Ape as a primate.
Man seems to be in that mind-set today.
He lives life as pent because he denies himself religious freedoms.
God refined humankind once before and, therefore, he will do the same once more.
The factor ends when iniquity meets perilous world.
The mania of man will bring forth extinction.
In parable, the elderly wisdom was predefined by the life they had lived since the beginning of time.
They had seen themselves within their prime and captured these elements through their
way of life.
Their beauty was not a basis to define.
They were primates of mammal and nomadic.
Their skin was olive nonwhiten via sunshine.
They hunted with self-made weapons and brought back a feast many times.
However, one male cultivated the mind.
He invented weapons for prosperity.
An abundance of wealth all received.
Today is venturous.
Humankind has crested to another prehistoric image.
Our originations through inventions and development have implemented innovations.
Our minds must continue to reinvent not to become another mandrill.
The core of our existence relies on this.
We are human beings and the highest intelligence.
Insofar as we are not predetermine...
Insofar as we are no predestine to a grandeur form...
Insofar as we see no more adjustments that are required for humankind physiological form...
We have peaked physiologically.
Therefore, we will henceforth to inform our mental faculty.
____________________________________________________|
Penned on October 19, 2014!
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
There was a venturous gent
Who travelled the earth’s extent
But at the North Pole
It took quite a toll
Deciphering their accent
It started when he heard elves
Discussing amongst themselves
Saying: ‘le’s make oys
For he girls and boys
And pu all his suff on shelves’
Then said: ‘beer wear warm bandannas
Visiing Monreal and Monana
Because we’re old
Is exra cold
So bring exra blankes for Sana’
Now this gent was truly confused
With the kind of language elves used
Yet he feared missing
So kept on listening
And flipped from anguished to amused
The elves resumed: ‘Is ime o sing
Followed by hiry bells o ring’
Well that sent the gent
Closer to the scent
Of the kind of slang they did sling
He then met the elves finally
With a hey, hello, and howdy
Then said the words right
Singing Silent Night
As: ‘Silen nigh’; with a silent T
Translation if wanted:
Let's make toys
For the girls and boys
And put all this stuff on shelves
Beter wear warm pajamas
Visiting Montreal and Montana
Because we're told
It's extra cold
So bring extra blankets for Santa
It's time to sing
Followed by thirty bells to ring.
His life now has permanently changed
Costing him more than aches and pain
As slowly he walks on prosthetic legs
Humility reigns, taxing venturous brain.
Propelling courage fiercely he fought,
Defying death, meeting face to face.
Concealed within his unflinching image,
Torment open wounds of unholy place.
Unsteady mind roams haunted now,
No longer capable to hold a steady job.
Death and destruction hammer his mind
Where angst and hurt relentlessly throb.
Determined as ever but he feels restless
Having acquiesced to tallies of life,
When his toll was counted in unpaid bills
And loss of dignity to agonizing strife.
Able man he was before he went to war
Returning home after he almost died.
As a grateful nation sincerely thanks him
Resolutely he moves to restore his pride.
November 9, 2018
Dedicated to veterans of war
I WISH I WEREN’T A SPIDER
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I wish I weren’t a spider, not even my relatives are a friend
Getting close to another kinsman could bring a lethal end
We're not a glamorous group, we are hairy and scary
We set up snares and spin webs snagging the naive n unwary
If you visit my web I’ll spin you into a tailored silky cocoon
In time I’ll drain you, you’ll end up resembling a sun dried prune
Now I ask you, is that a hygienic way to earn a living
I hide in nooks n crannies, my bites totally unforgiving
Most of the time you’ll get a little fever maybe some pain
But the fright that I cause is so impossible to contain
Now, I’ve got kin in a place called the land down under
Being not aware of their presence is a fatal blunder
In South America we are big, hairy and lightning quick
We hide in holes, when prey ambles by, our pounce is slick
In the jungles we can spin webs several meters across
Snagging creatures n eyeing them as they struggle n toss
No escape: some will become a gourmet’s month long meal
Spun silks are sturdy, flexible, elastic, yet stronger than steel
The mating process is a venturous trip with fatal chances
We’ve got to lure and subdue her into hypnotic trances
Being lucky enough to catch her, turns into a dangerous ordeal
After impregnating, I got to be quick or I’ll be her next meal
She’ll get her comeuppance from babies carried underside
They’ll rapidly devour her; how she lived is how she died
Now I ask you is that a commendable way to exist
We will never be included in any preferred list
But if I were a butterfly so fragile n brightly colored
I’d flit from flower to flower, sweet nectar easily devoured
I’d be regaled, loved and showered with daily praise
I’d be included in children’s books on the front page
If music be the food of love, play on
Claim the streets of London be filled, and its revelry be still,
Purged the households, and bay at their homes window sills,
Let tender labyrinths yield their cleared halls be an open song,
Spilled venturous notes befall upon unscripted pages, play on,
The summer breeze aloft butterflies to mingle the redolent mirth,
To give it counsel, make talent its sheets filled a righteous worth,
Of length aches a theme a songstress indulge let it solicit a tune,
Nay, cease, the mood of sour faces, a mark that killed-joyous June,
Silence, and put a march to thy step for the mundane that disturbs,
The grimaces invade the room and the deafening silence perturbs.
2020 February 03
Famous poetic lines 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
"If music be the food of love, play on" - Shakespeare
I have pen in my hand
Voice in my throat
and tongue in my mouth
But static, stagnant and sessile
I am a venturous Colleen
How could I pusilanimous one?
Should I run? Or fire the gun?
Should I Cry with them
for what happened with me in the Past?
Or should I remain Silent
By keeping my mouth Shut?
No not the brain, I'll follow my Heart now
Let me Cry, for Those hidden wound , now
Let me Share, My Fear and Tear
With all my Dear, now
If they can Dare,Then I can too
If they can Raise
Then add one more Voice too
Umm Hmm, Hmm Hmm Hmm.."#metoo"
Oh Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!.."#metoo"
Fish of the deep no longer swim free.
There's a stench and a fire at sea.
Indulgent recklessness came flailing.
Failed solutions left creatures wailing.
Nightmares are spewing from BP’s oil rig.
America hosts their venturous gig.
The cooling breeze through the Gulf coast trees
Blows sooty smoke seething wildlife breathes.
Death spews dread from its fire near Hell.
Where deceit hides and friends never tell.
Careless intrusions raped nature's soul
And sashaying words tried to console.
Blame shifting in the industry thrives.
Ignored liability deprives.
Animal rights groups in fast pursuits.
Cleanup stays thwarted despite lawsuits.
Greed and contriving now know the price.
Immersed in deceitfulness, this vise.
Cutting corners bought endless chagrin.
Sorrowful restitutions begin?
Birds in the sky now look down and cry
Knowing oil coated babies will die.
Endangered species face extinction –
Brown pelicans need help to hearken.
Lifeless, lay dolphins washed up to shore.
They shall leap in blue waters no more.
Fish-less fishermen know the impact.
Dreaded oils spill caused their loss, a fact.
Beautiful beaches stricken with slicks
Pray to God; hope for magical tricks.
Paradise lost while making some rich
Certainly must be a human glitch.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
July 1, 2010
Melting clocks hanging from the branches of trees.
A strange array of objects without time or place.
Butterflies emerge flying against the breeze.
Nothing makes any sense within this inner space.
Salvador, you brought us into a world so strange.
A motley of colors within a plane of two dimensions.
Disseminated disproportionate entities within a range.
Few of the brightest can grasp comprehensions.
You are gone, but your work we can see.
It is all a venturous escape from reality.
"Persistence of Memory"
by Salvador Dali
Starlit Sonnets
“Once upon a time”...we gazed the starlit nite
Where dimensional dreams took us in flight
With the Unicorns uniting on the Valley tops
Cotton candy clouds with delicious raindrops
The Wizards waving with atmospheric allure
Caressing misty moss in venturous verdure
Amongst the Fugal Fairies frolicking forests
With Rainbow palettes of flourishing Florets
Daydreams descending through cyan sky
As the fresh aroma florals fragrantly sigh
Wishing-Well wishes, with Wonderland ware
Leprechauns and gnomes asleep in their lair
Sonnet surrendering as Poet’s proclaim
“Once upon a time” down memories lane.
01.25.2017
Once Upon a Time... Contest
Sponsored by... Eve Roper
The Bowman's Shaft
Solo archer gathers mist of amour clouds, dipping venturous arrow tips in a veiled concocted potion, drowning its mettle in a whimsical bliss of a dreamt liquefied mirage that defines the elixir,
Cupids errant arrow is liberated openly o'er the arc of a rainbow, exuberantly hunting its e'er sought Terra, whereto, it scarcely flutters passed feathered twain turtledoves,
Trifle off-track as projected, titillating a canine whose tail waggles unceasingly as its tongue laps remarkable welcoming faces,
Then piercingly redefines a right-angle course, that mids passionately, a well-managed bramble with shoots flowering in vivid red velvets,
Calculably sailing o'er gray-haired couple, whose one hand hugging canes and their free hands locking each other,
Promised target a fused-kissed envelope proffering treasured eloquence of, Missing You, in numerous expressions, introducing assorted confidences perceived by yearning intrepid bluish eyes whose heart grows e'er fonder.
2019 November 04
*2nd Place*
Metaphor of Love
~~Bobby May
Walking by the moon,
Adventurous traveller
Passed by and went to fly high.
Leaving past behind;
Leaving silent, lonely roads.
Nothing more left than moonlight...
Umbras going by
Towards the moon's shining light
Until specters wane.
Lambent night orb receives shades,
Souls transcend to refulgence...
Dusky fluorescence
And phosphorescent visions
Of solemn apparitions
Vanish into sparks
Of the luminous night orb's
Dimly resplendent light beams...
Wondering voyage,
Satellite revelations,
Laboriously lucid trips;
From lone roads to lights
Venturous voyager goes
Wayfaring by the night's moon...
Waves keep cycling around
ebbing in turquoise blue seas
its ripples are teasing me
Waves do swim fathoms deep,
then return to navy blue crisp tips:
pearls of white foam are smiling back at me
Ships are daily passing on and by the seas;
of blue watery blue road which are like fluid land bridges
All to countries sought; then at ports delightful scenes
A different world is in and upon the wavy seas
A fate of water, winds and variances are seen
Onboard ship's decks are drinks of a salty rum mix
Tales of exaggerated pirate legends are often told of old;
of independent bands and various venturous clans
Ships sailing on wave fuel; of air breezes and manned oar tools
The Chilly Month of December
And so comes Winter, after late Fall.
Where from ashen skies of low lying clouds,
Snowflakes fall enshrouding the town,
And piling on people tramping around.
Snow fills footprints extinguishing traces
Of icy stares glinting on smiling faces,
From people uttering steamy greetings,
Who are out and about in the wintry season.
And this I say to these venturous kind,
Who are enjoying the snowy weather,
“Beautiful the sight that enthralls my eye.”
In the chilly month of December.
When I take long walks at night, the streets are lit.
Tonight the night will be orange as if we are always celebrating Halloween,
feeling like whiskey with each paced breathe.
I stare at houses each time I walk, to see what may take place.
I’ve seen a woman yell,
a birthday party sing, young man smoke, a dog howl,
and a cat stare back.
Though faithfully some nights are different. I stroll through a different road, when the street is split by a stretch of grass and trees directly in the middle. Here I have my hands in my pocket.
My jeans are worn as any member of todays middle class, and my eyes are wide for what ever may be at night. My jacket will by a small crinkle through the dark of the night, often because I’m cold.
This walkway stops for where cars may cross, and begins not twenty-five feet later.
A car will roll by on one side, and another on the other, and I will not stray from the middle.
I walk to imagine what may happens in a lit night. But here I find the houses are getting darker, shade is coming over. My watching self continues on the middle path.
A porch light may flicker and a deer may wander by, but I remain in a place where I can think.
The houses get darker once more. How these street lights remain to let me see in this venturous walk; all that lurks within the night.
What a place to get away, out the door, away from solitude.
How silent everything is, with this still night. Though how these houses have become a canvas to my walk. Black smudges, creeping along side.
The windows remain empty, though I do not fray from the middle path.
I do not question beyond my lit path.
But now that I can no longer see those who live aside my walks,
do they watch?
Do they know?
Who truly walks through the dark?