Best Wares Poems
I listen to the sighing
of the wind, as I sit
in the cool shade
of a sprawling carob tree,
wondering if Basho,
in heavenly abode,
next to Elysian Fields,
is mumbling agitatedly
under his breath – possibly
grimaces, wrings his hands
as he flips the pages of
vain anthologies where
writers sell their wares…
Stuck in comfort zone
deprived of achievement,
wary of new horizons,
surprise ends and twists…
they cling to restrictions
and Mother Nature’s skirt.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Pareidolia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
© 24th August 2020
Temptation Itches On All Living Things
Temptation itches on all living things
often nobody knows just how it stings,
not the icky-glues in its sticky pastes
nor the rotten fruits in its wasted wastes.
She the vixen nobody could resist
her vanishing pleasures - elusive mists,
long legs descend from heavenly skies
later, such dark pains in lamented cries.
Victim once thought to be heavenly bound
lost, voiceless, no understandable sound,
finds temptress, sexy wares designed to win
she that siren alluring to all men.
You scratch that itch, risking your own peril,
finding wounds that can never be sterile!
12-15- 2016
For Daniel Turner's , What Was I Thinking, Contest
15 December 2016
Last verse inspiration, from his poem "Between the Lines
Couplet sonnet
Rhyme Scheme: a a – b b – c c – d d – e e – f f – g g
10 syllables each line.
~
Amidst the changing scenery
as faces come and go
Names reflect the differences
of those we’ve come to know
Along a winding avenue
where store fronts sell their wares
Traffic lights of red and green
change too among the stares
Where sunshine breaks the foggy mist
and clear as any bell
A ringing forms about my ears,
a song I know so well
I look around and hope I see
this beauty I desire
A butterfly upon the wind
keeps soaring ever higher
And as I reach to grab a hold
those wings of pastel gleam
She flutters just beyond my reach
as if some kind of dream
I hang my head in misery,
another wasted day
The love that I was longing for
has somehow got away
Clouds now build in grey design
my smile has run aground
Happiness is not on sale
not anywhere I’ve found
While narrow sidewalks lead the way
quite keen to every crack
My focus finds a forward view
I just cannot look back
When there upon the front door steps
these tear filled eyes they spy
Waiting near the welcome mat
my precious butterfly
And suddenly the bluest skies
appear high up above
For in this changing scenery
I’ve found my one true love
aim true
don’t shake
spear the beast
measure for measure
this is the taming of the shrew
the tempest as you will
it feels much ado about nothing
as if it is the comedy of errors
now on the twelfth night of the feast of hades
love’s labour lost as you like it
this the winter’s tale
but you are the merchant of venice
here to sell your wares
here to charm
the merry wives of windsor
and touch
with your inbred smile
many others
cymbeline
pericles
the two gentlemen of verona
here for their own laugh
troilus and cressida
all ships in the night
a rose by any other name
but then you waken
and it was but a midsummer night’s dream
or was it
it is nothing more than a play
or is it
in the end is not life a stage
and us merely the players
these
the days
the plays
of comedy
you know from your balcony
all’s well that ends well
as i bid you adieu
my prince
sweet dreams
and dream no more
the days of joy are upon us
so live
eyes wide open
this time is yours
The deep delved path winds in the wood,
chasing with ghost-breaths and leafy hoods,
arbor-brawn the winnowed path crooks along;
whispering with what future song?
To ill desire and inches from hope,
plodding the cool of Earth alone?
...and the road behind pretends to love,
waltzing with garland worlds,
old friends long time not heard ---
gray and forsaken on the projector wall,
how wan this dying rose!
and pallid the day which broods...
Old Lucifer playing his lute at every high road;
Life had once played a tune more fair;
and soft the notes in the morning air,
with wife and child ---
the world had watched without despair,
a man to be called a man,
with land and two strong hands
to till the new earth-wares;
But his monsters had come
and bid him to stare too long into the glitter of gold,
and the gusting crooks in the road...
alone, forsaken...
a mere shadow of a man;
Though they called him king,
(he cried alone)
To hunger for truth,
as lies feast on perception
sitting at the table with hope and desire
Where vanity is served in a cold glass of pride
until humility becomes drunk
and left to sleep undisturbed
To understand each portion served
is uncooked speculation,
that causes truth to become ill
as you cut away the difference
between right and wrong
To be obsessed by truth
is a thirst that can only be quenched
by its partaking and knowing its taste
the full body of its scent and flavor
It is not poured out of the bottle of maybe
that comes from the store of liars
that sell their wares of confusion
for their own purpose
If my obsession with truth
as I sit at this table is naive
let it be so
so that my soul may grow
from the nourishment of its purity
7/19/17
Merry trumpet, sassy saxophone
Stand poised in the quaint jazz room,
waiting on their music men
to begin their heartfelt tunes.
Bold drums awaiting patiently
For slim sturdy wooden sticks,
to beat rhythm on their tummies
and give all fun loving kicks.
Great tuba's vigorous chiming voice
so deep and oh so grand!
Brings heart and soul and humor
To the jolly good brass band.
Round banjo with its steely strings
gets plucked and strummed with joy
As it sounds those fun and lively tunes
that we hum and so enjoy.
Majestic piano's harmonic keys,
Tap melodious magnificient airs
Reverberating ubiquitously,
By the maestro graced with flair.
In delightful unison they permeate our souls,
These musical masters and their wares.
Give glory to our "Ultimate Composer",
Whose creations are so debonair.
May 13, 2016
(Revised December 2016)
Along this foggy daybreak stroll,
I tread along the intersection
between Mabini Street and EDSA boulevard,
crossing number 25 Ortigas Road.
I breathe in the same grain
of Manila pollen and dust itching
my throat ; an acrid mound of city garbage
gathered by rain’s aftermath,
as if to beckon another tropical deluge;
and the loud chatter of headlines
from the newspaper stand pierces
the lobes with a burning jolt… a bundle
of political scoops and trade rumors
grating an otherwise neutral hour.
Few distances away, a flea market stand
vibrates with energy; pedestrians milling
around to check buko pies, plum bits,
and homemade guava jams… the exotic aromas
mixing with smoky flavor of dried bamboo leaves
on top of abaca wares; all these catering
to small pleasures of the low-middle working class.
Curving through Francis Square, a deluge
of movement initiates the 7 30 am rush…
buses, cars, and taxi- stands unload
a giant hive of wayfarers coming from
different points of the map; dragging
their skeletal frames like ticks of a clock.
Amidst a Friday hub, I stop to glance at the
towering statue of Mother Mary as a
cart-pusher slowly wanders by; his warm
smile bearing a contrast in a region
where the rat race of man is typical.
Surrounded by a collage of fragrant
eucalypti and mango trees, I breath in
a sense of delight likened to my
yard’s garden, this time, with heady scent.
The plump oaks at the front lobby
of Pharmo Industries are shedding
foliage, while a painted splash
of native robins cruises from laced twigs,
far beyond the clutter of newspaper stands,
market place, and taxi-stands.
My gaze casts inward to balance my thoughts,
as I begin my protracted stay at work.
Stand Contest of Debbie Guzzi
and Nathan's One of Your Best
by nette onclaud
A band of gold is all she wears--
no need for diamonds or fancy wares.
Simple, yes, but rich with grace--
for when it slipped upon her hand,
two hearts found their sacred place.
Alesia Leach © 10/1992
you think it's easy
maybe your heart
doesn't bruise as quickly
maybe your mind
is a bastion of confidence
thick skinned indifference
maybe it's easier for you
could be true
As for me? Well…
I like to stay clear
"once bitten"....20 times as shy
the reason why?
it's not so easy for me
this survival thing, you see
takes a lot of hard work
and my heart is replete
with burdens and cares
my gut wrenched poetic wares
only incite unfeeling stares
the reader unaware
apathetic animosity
guised in hilarity
isn't for me...
No, it's not as easy for me
to pretend I don't care
when my soul I bare
so I don't dare
let anyone come back round
who has ground me into the ground
once before
well….not now
not anymore
it's not as easy for me
so just.....
just please….let it be.
Eileen Manassian
For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
Drifting in a memory
of rolling distant hills
stretched out like a waveless ocean of green
the sun blazing way up high
In the stillness of a languid sky
Wandering in the dusty thoughts
of dried up ponds and lanes
bordering hedgerows offering their wares
of treasure shyly peering
a meandering cache suddenly disappearing
Arising in the sweet scented bouquet
Colours of childhood dance
and sing into the breeze
Friuts of summer fall, flowing like a banquet
Take a drink from natures never ending Goblet
Lowly under the shade of the spreading oak
The meadowlark shares his sweet call
as perccusive swaying grasses unite
to fill the air with melody so mellisonant
Cordial thoughts of summers reminiscence
Boxes and boxes of lovely soft creams,
ready to be loaded on our ship of dreams.
Chocolate cream pies, and chocolate E'clairs,
lemon filled donuts, and Jelly cream bars.
Oodles and oodles of illicit delights,
watching my hips grow out of sight.
i shan't resist, some coconut cream pies,
bulging above my double sized thighs.
With my mouth watering I sit and stare,
at all these wonderful home baked wares.
Give me fortitude, squeezed out with a tear,
need some treats? Help yourself my dear.
When over fed, I am finding to my ilk,
groaning, I need more cookies and milk.
A situation I should not have begun,
encourages a visit to the dietitian.
The 44th President “one who is blessed” in Swahili,
Happens to love his wife’s Shrimp Linguini.
His desk, in the senate office once belonged to Robert Kennedy!
Renegade Tried to make it in to an all black male calendar,
But was rejected by an all female committee.
He wares $1500 Hart Schaffer suits,
With one of his identical pair of size 11 shoes.
When the president stands up you never hear any boo’s.
A few good luck charms he has with him,
A Madonna and child frozen for eternity,
And a bracelet of the arm of a man fighting in Iraq.
Bar can lift an impressive 200 pounds wile lying on his back.
His favorite delight to drink is Black forest iced tea,
Wile looking at his red boxing gloves signed by Mohamed Ali.
But never ask him out to Baskin Robbins, he don’t like ice cream.
But if you gave him a chocolate protein bar his dream.
Hide any dog meat snake meat or roasted grasshoppers up high,
For all these things he has tried.
All wile keeping his dignified pride.
He gets a snip and a trim once a week cost him $21 dollars,
That’s real cheap thanks to Zariff.
In whom the Obomber confides in to talk about the week.
He mite have been the one who convinced the malotoe,
To trade his Chrysler 300 in for the hybrid.
His memoirs, Dreams from My Father won a Grammy in 2006.
He was o past war president that was left handed the 6th.
He left a stag party which had a stripper in 1996.
As a teenager he tried marijuana and cocaine,
And Berry collects comic books like spider-man and Conan the Barbarian.
His specialty as cook is chili,
His favorite TV shows are Mash and The Wire.
He has four places in a Chicago home to build a fire.
He uses an apple Mac laptop to look at Pablo Picasso art.
He has read every Harry Potter book,
I wonder if he spoke Spanish to his pet ape back in Indonesia.
I love my house
It's simple and clear
I clean up the clutter and wash the dirty wares
I sweep floors
Wipe the knobs on the doors
Brush away the cobwebs and the dusty walls
I bag my pains
And put out the trash
Turn on some music so my worries won't chat
Repair the leaks
From holes in the roof
I'll be putting on my red umbrella shoes
I love my house
No rooms for fuss
You better off elsewhere if you huff and puff
I feed my mind
Happy compliments
Water my garden daily for sweet lovely scents
There is a ban
No roaches and mice
You're welcome to come in
It's clean from dirt and grime