Best Wearers Poems
Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
Watching the small crowds of people declaring their rights
Guns on their belts in their hands yelling at Governors and pressing at policemen
Spitting at mask wearers, licking boxes and pointless fights
Indifferent to the sufferings of neighbors, family and friends
Unmoved by the tears and fatigue of nurses and medical teams
Please remember in years gone by the names who have lived and died
Suffering times, cruelty and fears— remember humanity’s most atrocious years
The Holocaust, Ann Frank, attacks on the disabled, the old
Hiding under wallboards and floorboards, in attics, in the woods,
Sent to Concentration camps, Russian work camps, to death in Siberian Ice
Mandela in Pollsmorr Prison, smallpox, the Indian’s Trail of Tears,
Refugee children now during our times from fear of the others its over 3 years
In contagious prisons torn from their families—hardship misery and pain
Yelling for our rights over the attempts to keep us well to help our neighbors and friends
As people drink beer and watch videos and complain and complain
How dare we protect our grandparents from this illness from death
Listening to the anger and threats — its fear I know its money, greed and attempt to blame
Presidential desire for power and pathological indifference to others all back again
But we must remember, we must, the horror on earth when mankind goes insane
Summer's wearing a disguise
Which sunshine lovers do despise
For, though we welcome it today,
The raindrops seem prepared to stay.
According to the news reports,
It's also way too cool for shorts
And jacket wearers get a boon
'Cause they've been needed all through June.
Though muggy weather's not for me
And it's been great without A/C,
Since summer season's now begun,
Ditch that disguise and show some sun!
My soul filled with pride and my eyes misted as the parade passed in review.
'Twas the annual hometown Veterans Day Parade that I was privileged to view.
Veterans, young and old marched behind the flag that they vowed to defend.
They sacrificed so much to uphold the liberties we enjoy in this land!
A Medal of Honor recipient served as Marshal for the parade.
Lively music provided by the local high school band was played.
An honor guard led the procession with Old Glory held high.
Old veterans along the street saluted with a proud tear in their eye!
There were survivors from the December 1941 Pearl Harbor Affair.
No doubt this day recalled memories of comrades who yet lie sleeping there.
Grizzled heroes of The Battle of the Bulge marched proudly with resolute stride.
Wearers of the Purple Heart rode aboard a float with heads held high with pride!
A company of Korean War vets marched representing the war in which they served.
Viet Nam vets received long overdue plaudits from the crowd they so well deserved.
Young men and women still on active duty, some barely out of their teens,
Represented the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and United States Marines!
Those gnarled hands that once held the terrible weapons of war,
Now beckoned for peace that we shall know war no more.
The hardships they suffered for liberty's sake we shall never know.
So much, so very much to each of these brave men and women we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The master forces his clowns to laugh
when polka dots become the wearers.
An audience roars…a pained choreograph;
behind the scene, the wounded howl tears.
What man is he who tugs the moppet strands?
Twisting acts at whim for raunchy tricks
and controlling moves through strict demands,
only to bruise the shame he inflicts.
The crowd hollers as he waves the rope
Oh master gloats; new slapstick begins.
Hushed are the young mimics just to cope,
till one bawls ,” please Dad, we are your kin.”
John Lawless' Puppets Contest
by nette onclaud
12/25/2014
Incertitude
Who am I...?
Am I the first born son, emanating from a fire of passion?
Am I the long lost hope, rekindled, ravenous in the eyes of my forebears?
Am I the caressed cocoon, spun out of love and compassion?
Whose silken threads, entice and embellish the vain vanity of its wanton wearers?
Am I a prodding prodigy,
Aimed at excelling in every sphere ?
Am I, a porous sponge, meant to absorb every single human emotion, a mortal can bear?
Am I a doted upon enduring exemplar or a doomed ephemeral effigy?
Am I the mellow and musky mist, exuding from a bare bosom?
Am I the naive, reticent lover, imperfect, yet dearest to my beloved?
Am I the longing in her eyes, a hypnotic hum?
Am I mere an object of desire- usurped, used, seduced, shoved?
Would I be another mere mortal among the countless thriving throng?
Lashed by grief, aged by time, thwarted by fear and smitten by love?
Would I be a forgotten fable or a perennial song?
Would I be remembered as -
A peacock- proud of its plumage,
An Owl- sombre yet subtle , of a lettered lineage,
A nightingale-serenading a song touching the core ,
A mystic bird from an ancient lore,
or , a dove – cygnet soft , gentle sitting on an alcove?
Oh Time! Tarry! A little,
Before I transcend from this world to the other,
Hark ! I plead, solve this riddle.
Oh Wind! Carry away my doubts to the omniscient;
Rush against all odds, be it a mighty mountain or a rampant ridge.
Time is running, I dread to lose myself in this mystic maze,
Oh Almighty! Accept my venerations to you my liege,
Enlighten me , before my mortal remains is set ablaze.
-Saptarshi Mukherjee
The necktie wearers, and flag pin bearers
Combing arcane smiles
With not one word out of place
Colluded to recreate
Pearl harbor's reincarnate
History's wounds slashed by new swords
A mirror of quondam contempt
Semblance of peace sat behind a podium
Truths interstice fogged
Aridity of public sentiment
Proved a deserted nature of love
Thirsty for blood of whom we know not
Patriotism painted from a teleprompter
As cobblers cleaned and mended
The boots which young feet filled
Whilst scoundrels signed a death waiver
For workers to pluck cold limbs
And prepare the fields
Where black gold geysers
Diluted the red stained, hallowed ground
Commissioned were penny whistles
And morts moaning on cue
For quarry men slouched
In the dirt, for eternal rest
Before rhetoric trumped up heroism
The azure above was clear and crisp
Til mercurial darkness was summoned
On desolations blooming row
As pinwheels kept on spinning
At the home of those who plot
Another stratagem, another canvas
To splatter blood upon
In times of trouble it outshines its glow
The supposed intrinsic value of its allure
Is a safe house in times of economic un-certainty
When money is being made but not through
Traditional means
The historian would if consulted dismiss
The hype surrounding this shiny metal
As nought but a greed reflex based on
Short-sighted ignorant mania
Its value is akin to a smoke screen
Of dazzling lights
And a house of cards
That will disintegrate when the fickle mob
Move to a safer bet
Speculation and speculators
With their shark instincts
Miss the point
Gold is shiny and there lies its allure
Our supposed sophistication
And technologically advanced state
Still makes us kids drawn to the light gold emits
To flash it and bling it
Is its purpose
Not a store of wealth to be kept in a vault
The man who buys a band to
Prove his love
The gangster who shows his wealth on his person
Are the true connoisseurs of gold
It has no inner magic
Its surface does the job
It was bought to do
A status symbol of wealth and prosperity
That was meant for show
Is gold at its best
And most appealing
`
When the wearers are outspent by an investor
Then gold has rusted
And speculators lose
It's true intrinsic value laid bare
That of hype caused by uncertainty in the money market
It is to the economic historian no power-house of value
The more coveted it is for gawping appeal
The more valuable it is
Speculative mania will only
Tarnish its dazzling glow
Wear it
Bling it
Don’t invest in it
Philosophers debated:
Can a medium ever be small or large?
Is faux leather from fake cows?
Does a hypochondriac think he has everything except hypochondria?
Do denture wearers always give us false smiles?
If a snail loses its shell, does it become a slug?
For Su’s Suzette Prime contest, 27th November
I’d soon disappear were mine Dor’thy shoes,
Fitted glass-sandals in apricot hue,
When clicked together ask wearers to choose,
Any fantasized place where dreams come true;
Outer-space, maybe, might orbit me right,
Closer to heaven and farther from here,
And death-grips wouldn’t need strangle so tight,
Since each dimension should have a neck-spare;
Or destinations, perhaps less stupid,
Where bunnies lay eggs while fat-men drink milk,
And arrows find fannies noticed by Cupid,
Whose boxers are made from Italian silk.
Nope, there’s no trouble afoot in my dome –
I’m simply sayin’ there’s no place like home.
- Just a fruitful vent (no judging) :)
The air drips over the lake
yet to be thundered awake.
Mirages waver.
Bare feet on black asphalt quake
Keepers on sand tractors rake.
That's summer's flavor.
Swimsuit wearers all partake
of young beauties and beef cake
as love is a savior.
Dip the babies toes, savor
the lake's cool icy laver,
hear her giggles rise.
See the lover's sink braver
and the old ones disfavor
soon to end July.
Scorched red by Sun's engraver.
Father's garden hose wavers.
Soon, summer good bye's.
August crisps the field's allies.
Summer's guests leave compromised.
The lifeguard's gone.
It's too hot for much but sighs.
The town theater's cool as ice,
from the heat in drawn.
Watch the actor's prance in guise
Fall with have it's own surprise,
Too soon, summer's gone.
Due process is never like
Federal Gains and to uphold
Transparency and equity
Is never as sweet as pleasure
Of the gains from constituency
Allocation to tyrants of back
Democracy
I want to be a representative
Of share and keep quiet
To travel with pleasurable
National incentives
I want to be a politician so that
I can sit in the parlour of few
Pot belly and native attire
Wearers who have the guts
To share the unending national
Cake like their family assets
I want to be an honourable
To insure my seeds with
Unquenchable monetary figures
To speak about patriotism
And good legislation
As to win the favour and fingers
Of the electorates with guilty
Singers as my campaign singers
English women love their hats,
From commoner to Queen;
If you watched William’s wedding,
Then you know just what I mean.
From wild and wacky to sedate,
The headgear called attention;
Most were classy - stylish, too,
And some defied convention.
The Queen was garbed in yellow,
With her hat a matching hue;
Camilla’s was humongous,
Partly hiding her from view.
Some chapeaus were feathery
And warn with jaunty flair.
Others tried to make their wearers
Seem quite debonair.
Princess sisters looked a sight;
One’s hat resembled snakes.
Maybe when they see the pics,
They’ll realize their mistakes.
Still, many hats were wonderful
And made me want to wear one.
If I lived in England, why,
I’d likely have a spare one.
A British mum with daughter
Would be wise if she’d instill in her
The skills and knowledge it would take
To one day be a milliner!
Ilene Bauer (http://primetimerhyme.blogspot.com)
They are truth wearers
They scream, cry, whisper, sing, laugh
Sometimes, people hate them
For displaying their wounds and scars
For making them sad and careless
For making them see the reality
Sometimes, people love them
Because of them, they dance
In the temples, on the beaches,
Through crowded streets
Because of them, blue sky , painted with gold
Rule the day
And when they read these wonderful poems
The veils which hide the light fall down
And the glowing comets
Flash around their suns
In the depths of a world breathing beneath the vast and silent sky,
Where shadows are memories of days that were never ours,
Someone, an architect of dreams and fear, stretches their invisible fingers,
Gently caressing the fragile threads of minds that believe they are free,
Woven from illusions, we, mask-wearers, lost in this dance
Of imposed thoughts, a silent waltz of an invisible government,
Floating above us like a storm cloud that never dissipates,
Led by the echoes of voices we have never heard,
Yet that shape our dreams and fears, tastes and desires,
Every evening, when shadows stretch across the sidewalks,
We wonder if we are merely puppets in a theater without a curtain,
And if we will ever feel that we truly are,
More than silhouettes moving to the rhythm of an incomprehensible song,
In a world where truth is a rare guest and silence
Is the lullaby of sleeping souls,
Awaiting the light to awaken us from the collective dream.