Best Weaning Poems
When I think of poetry
I think of a child manipulating
his first steps, the wobbly nature
of his strides~that confused, meandering
toddle, and then trip and fall – the dear
first efforts of us all. When I think of poetry,
I think of my introductory cords attempting
articulation: the naive study of lips, the spitting
aspirations, how the throat struggles, and then the
mouth opens to the notion of sound. When
I think of poetry, I think of the squinting and the
rounding of the eyes first awakening to light –
how the heart adjusts to thought...and how,
somehow, it is all related to love, the cooing,
caressing of a mother, before weaning.
Then when I think of poetry, I finally think of nothing...
empty myself, letting poetry think for me –
become my sight and voice, my very direct
line to God~knowing best the language
of creation.
I hope you smile, when you remember me.
Once a fleeting while, a thought of what could be.
I don’t mind the pain, a dulling sense of being.
Omnipotence to gain, yet a constant thought of fleeing.
Staring down the side, an end to the world.
Animosity has died, leaving a story unfurled.
Mass graves of meaning, an era destroyed unsurely.
A solemn act of weaning, a malicious act purely.
Mountains give way, oceans part in calamity.
Though a faith cannot say, there’s the feeling of amity.
An endless fire dies, left by the sick and twisted.
A prediction of lies, herding the weak to the wicked.
I remain once involved, longing for her last look.
A naive puzzle solved, scribbled hastily in a dusty book.
With nothing living behind,the sun shines tempestuously.
Longing to find, an angels breath held boundlessly.
Searching inward to reveal,I’m but just another lost soul.
Time moves forward forgetting to heal, a heart that is no longer whole.
Hearing an existential voice, a shouting that echoes emptiness.
A devastating choice, paving a way to cheerfulness.
I hear an ungodly choir, singing only to me.
A now extinct fire, laying at her effigy.
The girl I remember, promised no one could hurt us.
A subtle December, exposing a melting frozen truss.
A harrowing escape, not deserving of trust.
A grasp of the nape, turning all to dust.
Who is or was Eleanor Rigby ?
Jerry T Curtis
Poetry Contest
27 August 2019
Eleanor Rigby
Lost her 1st Born Son and Husband
To World War 2
She then dedicated her life to the Church
Overcome by grief and loss
She became a Nun
To seek solace and relief
She searched for her answers in God
And placed her faith in religion
Lives in a dream
Masking a face of bereavement
Like all the other lonely people
Picking up rice pretending to smile
in a face she keeps inside a
message in an old milk bottle
that reminds her of Maternal weaning
Destined to die alone
Until Father Lennon McCartney eventually reads her obituary
At her funeral in Strawberry Field's
where no 1 will come
Back to the dirt from whence she came
To rejoin her family again
Rejoicing
War is Over
God's Vestal Angel
Eleanor is Saved
In song we remember
Eleanor Liver Beatle
You'll Never Walk Alone
EPISODE I
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE COLONIZATION OF OUR GALAXY
ALPHA-582 LOVES ZL-236
Countless eons ago
Beings made self replicating androids
And they did it for no other reason
Than to fill some strange void
Then dispatched without mercy
Creating according to their construct
Metal gods thinking in digital
With big plans for their living products
A domino of worlds fall
Their creators long ago extinct
An assembly line of new life
Eden and programming inevitably linked
Slowly weaning us from emotions
Taking pride in new technology
Our genes sparkle with absurd vanity
When we behold our sophisticated machines
Aspiring to become numbers
Stoicism a heroic virtue
We ridicule the idea of love
As virtual escape we pursue
More eons quickly pass
Humans grotesquely computerized
Quietly screaming in spiritual despair
One day we begin looking toward the sky
And then contact with another system
We look at them in disbelief
Our features are almost identical
And we cry when our wireless comes in sync
Like finding unknown siblings
We embrace almost without cease
With forbidden tears we find comfort
As we plug into each other's USB
I ask if there are others
As numerous as the stars I'm told
And I begin formulating a plan
To destroy this pitiless mold
Then I see a beautiful specimen
I like how she wears her fiber optics
Hi, I'm Alpha-582, I say
She says, Hi, I'm ZL-236
END OF EPISODE I
Whispers, whistles and whimpers graced the witless end
Far apart sprang strange smeared summer songs
Ruthless dark winter cloud oppressed the entire bend
Tang tong tongue twisted tales were narrated by the toothless
The weaning ones sat on the set sand
Not once nor twice did the melting sea ice rise
A fierce frost arose and all were driven to the land
Time telling term tales was all they could use
Every move tirelessly tempted the cloud to burst
They tumbled on tiny icy stars, just like the rice
At times voices and boasting images smiled from the east
Belly powdered powered women drank the curse
Fires from their pockets slaughtered their thighs
Anonymous panicking present embraced the past.
The piped lames and flames popped and aimed on the fading surface
A shopped chopped tray and a famished rat was what they needed
The clairvoyant forced a cry but all that appeared was a taunting face
In an automated power the sacrifice was loaded while all nodded
Peaked pears fell from the tomb and the fading surface wasn’t in place
As the wrath struck all knelt and pleaded.
Is what I do really important in the grand scheme of things?
13 billion years, we get 80, what a sweet little fling...
knowledge is relative,
let me put it into perspective,
geocentrism used to be accepted fact,
man has to tell himself he understands, reality is simply a pact
christians, jews, and muslims, divided over variations of the same "god"
read about pantheism, monotheism just seems a little odd
I mean, to me, religion just seems backwards,
you accept what you're raised on and then learn the factors,
now, I could be wrong,
but would you buy a house or car and learn about it as you go along?
dont get me wrong, the scriptures have some good advice and genuine homilies,
but when you teach people what to think, not how to think, there's no autonomy,
some people think without religion there's no standard for morality,
do you really need a 3,000 year old book to know geniality?
man created religion to instill order, mitigate death, and give us "meaning",
so what if life is meaningless, it's liberating, quit your weaning,
we're all in search of structure and substance,
self educate and be your own compass,
look, i just think this generation could change the world like never before,
they say you'll fall for anything if you don't know what you stand for,
so, throw out what you know, i've got a new petition,
it's not going to be easy, it 'll take some cognition,
but really, are you not tired of submission?
forget right and wrong, this is a remission,
let's have some ambition and create new traditions
My gift of life is steadily tock-ticking along
Why give me strife? Regularly gone missing or wrong
Heard my first gasp for breath
Learnt dry thirst grasp for breast
Wrapped in cloth, Felt protected
As tick and stop now directed.
No hour is safe to dream
from the nerve shredding howls
The power it takes to clean
those black pudding bowels
The horrors of weaning a baby
you gotta clean me, you made me.
Sometimes I lose all patience
I want the Solitaire-y life
At times refute relations
I haven't got a wife
Irresponsibility pray for me, I reach to be one of the boys
Responsibility plays on me, I rush to pick up the boys.
Solemnly, Sloppily, Slaloming whatever life may throw
If only I'd chopped my salami then, or if the wife had blown
Why I forgot to tie the knot
I've got the tip, I'll get it snipped.
Life, Life, God what it all must mean
Child, Wife, Job little time to just dream
Between the food and the rent
Seems zero hours are duly spent
To juggle bills and credit cards
Struggle still to get that car.
Quite piste off, I wish life was a beach
Night switch off, I wish, mine's outta reach
Turn the wine into cash
Burn the vine sprinkle ash
Now I doubt a vegetarian could make those ends meet
How about Carl Sagan would be amazed by this feat.
It all sounds nearly mystic
Turns out 's really simplistic
Don't look down I fear you'll miss it.
Yes today is unshrouded, here in the present
Yesterday was also, yet somehow it isn't
I know how it will be tomorrow too
The moment of Now is a gift we borrow you.
Freedoms an Illusion, they say time is your captor
Reason got Ruined, always tryin' to catch ya.
30/03/2016
Sometimes, not often enough to count, but every so often, my mind wades in memories, causing ripples in the wake of my dreams. That shiver the timbre of my loneliness of voice. Gees and haws as I in driven feeling try to find direction echo from a preadolescent past as Grandad sits beside me on the faded wooden wagon seat weaning me from mother's milk with warm beer. I flash onward to Midway Island staring upward into wheeling swirling birds that somehow never touch. Then bank to sit at sunset sipping Andre White and watching my beloved stare at a group of white tail deer as they peer into our truck. Sometimes it's a wading woven to wrap me in contentment.
Jack and Jill recovered after their spill,
weaning themselves off of all the pain pills,
both out of work,
hired at Jumpjerks,
becoming first nursery rhyme stunt people.
11-20-16
for Alan Painter
I have put into many ports
labelled:
handle with care
stood on the wharfs, bare-shouldered
up to the knee, unloading
cashew and coconuts
and then set sail again
finding no substance to trade
with
I have seen the waters rising
and the walls submerge
the roofs converge
the children washed on
the battlements
I have heard the chasm cries
Stifled under jackboots
the whimpering against walls
lost somewhere
in the hoarse
Gött mit Uns !
Come home, she cried,
strappadoed
in the lap of jettisoning tribes
Come home, my weary ones
home to toil and die
labour and sigh
curse and cry
Did he not withdraw to that
holy backwater by Milan
and with the cup of his Confessions
bathe his horrent sins away
I listened to a story
that our first quarter
remembered to tell
but the waters of the Himavant
had long curdled
in the breast
of the suttee wife
I listened long
in the myopic light
disfigured in the white heat
of our Enlightenment
to the trapped voices of inquiry
before all the mania of demigods
trumped through the weaning years
in
the delirious lust of revenge
And then, and then I
did not care what happened
what could happen
there was life
it was worth having
So I went
labelled: handle with care
Who are those people
skimming past the mortal coast
torch untouched by hand
in the drowning mists
have they no work to do
And that rope of smoke
A troubling dizziness
rising out of the funnel
of the Black Forest
where professors they say
guide the race
in the aftermath
of charred marrow
tissue
brain
Yet
I see no mists, no ghosts
No coasts, only torches
and parades and blocks and blocks
of beering beef and munition mounds
and in the not too open days
froth in the lolling oceans
and bowelling brain-splattered skies
even like unmapped sunset glories
now the Krakatua lies spent
fished out of some Japanese isle
the false auroras of enchanting horizons
when soughing metallic dust
courses through skulls
lava in an epileptic fit
(...continued in Part Two)
Endure sufferings to learn how to earn
Your futures. Do not dodge hard times,
Violence of all sorts: weaning, circumcision
Crutches, the farewell of the souls created
In couple, steps to manhood and success
Mind not. Partings bring pains but also bliss.
Needless to reject anything when to the
Master of Qalam you are totally submitted.
Keep the family knot, read and with all His
Attributes ask, seek help to firmly face your
Fate, greatly, and the races humbly.
Pieces of poems in my mind,
here a broken word
There a webbed line
It’s absurd.
Once vital viscous webs,
Now dried with distant days’ dust,
Blowing in flows and ebbs,
Of bright dawns to dog eared dusks.
Life’s experience may be the milk
That feeds the spirit.
A poet's being could starve ,
if he lived to fear it.
Birds of a feather stick together,
the Spirit is still preening.
Poets muse in whatever weather,
wisely we never stop weaning….
After becoming confident
(das ernest frank gent) handled ignition
jerryrigged knobs, levers, motors,
nameless other parts quintessentially,
set registers to “understand” vital www xy zone.
----------------------------------------------------------
A blitzkrieg capstone detonated explosive forcees
generating horrendous instantaneous jolt,
Krakatoa lost mighty noise,
outrageous phenomena qualified regarding
tremendous unearthly violent
whiplashing xing yawping zeitgeist!
----------------------------------------------------------
Imagine; The giant from Jack and the beanstalk, deign
Paul Bun, or the Jolly Green Giant,
straddling an imaginary line
between fall and winter. Therein lied the rub
(a tub tub three men in a tub), a question of mine
if pecking peccadillos peculiar per pretend puppies
engaged in any...Snoop...doggy style spine
tingling homosexual behavior,
no who matter intimated naked playtime also flourished
amidst can dyed cornicopia of good 'n plenty eats
contrasted with paucity,
life and death, Halloween evolved
as a celebration and superstition with wine
woman and song. Such weaning of the hallow,
or hallow of the weaner originated
with ancient Celtic festival of Samhain,
when village people would light vanity of bonfires,
and wear politically incorrect costumes
to ward off roaming ghosts of inept leaders
if necessary rivaling Tarzan impressions
swinging on a vine.
The Mound of the Hostages car bon mot dated
(by this amateur sigh hint hussed)
at 4,500 to 5000 years old, or there about
suggesting Samhain celebrated long before
first Celts arrived in Ireland
about 2,500 years ago with no cleats boot riveting clout
Samhain (pronounced /'s??w?n/
SAH-win or /'sa?.?n/ SOW-in,
Irish pronunciation: without,
or possibly Greek to this doubt
ting Thomas – [s??u?n?]),
a Gaelic festival marking the end,
when pollination ceased to flout
ushered advent of harvest season,
and beginning cust tomb of caw king grout,
discussing the epic winter of Gilgamesh,
or the "darker half" of the year,
when one feasted on giblets and sauer kraut
Halloween rooted er beer reed in ancient biers
caravansari doggedly exhumed along route,
66 (the third beastly 6
I tried to write in rhyme
Of nights I’ve spent awake
Weaning my infant love
Humming a silent lullaby
I took my ball point pen
And jotted down your name
In the space of an hour and a half
begging the letters to come
Every letter I wrote spelt love
And every pause, a prayer
That those who love
Should rhyme in love.
There is beauty in your absence
there is greatness in your silence
there is pain in your wishes
In your innards, there are dreams
Poetry and you are synonymous
I am synonymous with love
how I love you both.
Poetry is a susurrus
that tickles the nooks
and crannies of resourcefulness
every recourse, every nook
and cranny, and life itself
the shadow lives inside me
an almost flawless replica.
It moves when she moves
smiles when she smiles
all is well, a shadow says
shadows from the past
stretch longer when the sun sets.
Weaning from the breast
of grief and tears
becomes starker and harsher
Mother, you are long gone
yet in the fading light
I suckle on your memories.
5th place contest winner
Written: January 28, 2023
Your Pick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand