Best Wreaked Poems
There once lived a gambler named Dino
who was terribly fond of vino.
Since he’d drink and play bad,
and lose all that he had,
he was loved at every casino.
But drunk as a skunk, that guy Dino
wreaked havoc one evening in Reno.
Now his vices he’s licked
after being drop-kicked
by a mafia guy named Gino.
Written June 18, 2011
For Francine Robert's "Bottle of Wine" Contest
As We Stroll Along Lanes Of Truth, Lies Or Convenient Illusions
But if truth and light grace your soul
And a wisdom shields heart and mind,
You may in life hope for the best
As we stroll along lanes of truth, lies or convenient illusions
And either we come to know or not know
That to this dark world- we are less than nothing.
O truth! Does life and love gift all we need
As that gaze from stars crying while looking down
We then, that are not born of eternal seeds
Wade through this ever changing realm
Mired in the darkness which patiently lies, waiting within!
In love we think we are flowers blooming forever
In gardens devoid of decay
Yet invisible beyond that veil
Are powers that seethe in anger
Things that seek to destroy, and eat us alive.
Such foreboding exists, as does ground beneath bare and roaming feet
Although in blindness we see only with limited sight we have
Prone to seek peace, love and beauty,
We conjure up fantasies and dreams
Illusions that quell our deep and internal fears!
Ah, gone are days of the magical gods
They which could be insured to take the blame
Those that set us into perils, into savage wars
In our ignorance we saw- the gods played and wreaked havoc
As we, heaped upon this world mysterious gifts of darkness
And paraded forth as if living was a mere game
A thing which we mastered, a monster we truly controlled.
And in that deception we saw imagined gods that we had conquered
And we imagined the Gods that we had become-through our magnificent being!
Robert J. Lindley, May 20th 1989
Verse
Note: Deleted
The tricky question of how many animal farms we have
May be more complicated than most of us think;
There are at least some fifty-five animal farms in the world
Where wild mammals play and eat and drink.
And although there lightning is feared more than law,
These farms all seem to have the selfsame collective code.
Since different from the mainstream law, we may call it lore:
The silent cipher that governs the primitive farms.
There everyone is entitled to their share of breath
As long as they breathe within their native home,
Breathing within the territories of other beasts
Wins you mob lynching according to the animal tome.
No animal may acquire such vast knowledge
As to threaten the rule of the Elephant and the Lion.
The acquisition of illegal learning only leads
To the doom Artemis wreaked on the restless Orion.
There you must not shout of forbidden things
Such as animal rights and equality of beasts oppressed;
For it is clearly stated by the immutable silent code
That some mandrills are more equal than the rest.
A beast of worth begets offspring of the same worth;
If a beast be an outcast born, the same must a pariah remain.
No animal may rise from the bottom to the aristocratic realm:
No beast must such thoughts of improvement entertain.
The lore of the mandrills is not lean,
As said, these codes make a huge-volume tome
Which you can’t leaf through in a day,
Though you may get a copy and read at home.
Yet the problem is that censorship there is tough
And as such the lore has never been put in print;
The few Cheetahs who championed for a free press
Were one by one snuffed without a hint.
Tales of saints and sinners of ancient times
Where human nature becomes the paradigm
And the green eyed monster reared its ugly head
In the dust one brother lay dead
A tale of strength, but man was weak
And from his lips his secret slipped
As his lover's betrayal wreaked
his demise, and all his strength was stripped
Julius Caesar the perpetual king
No saint was he but fate did bring
him to a gruesome end
Lured to his death by a so called friend
Friendships often turn to dust
When betrayal is the sin from those we trust
My wrapper loose day after day
My motion and emotion unstable
I forget to think
But I wasn’t drunk
I remember in a trance
Stable I was
My wrapper tight on my torso
Not divulging the firm breasts
I remember vividly when it began to loose
Days turned nights
The sun withheld its radiance
I mourned unending
Breasts tumor I had
Oh! The pain hurts
One more ill has befallen me
A spinster at 50
Severally dumped I was
By men on trial
The life I live was wreaked
My heart fell apart
Picking up the fossils
Amidst courage and optimism
Dreadful incidence I traversed
Since my birth, early 60’s
Aargh! I’m bigoted
But utmost myopic
I wasn’t sleeping
Merely a spinster’s vision
When at 52
Men on trial returned
I had miscarriages
Pains were inflicted
53, I would be
The wrapper has slipped off
Revealing the sagging breasts
My legacy is gone
I’ve missed my menses
I’ve wept all day
I pled against miscarriage
But all hope is not lost
Because I’m pregnant!
OMEBE RITA
Fresh lavender, vibrant peonies, towering sunflowers,
Mystery unnamed flowers, and a sweet young girl in the center of it all.
You would think among all of the flowers
Your smelling ability would be overwhelmed with florals,
But she had a sparkly, strawberry sorbet smelling chapstick
That was so strong, it was all you could smell.
Two rose bushes to the left, was her mother watching in amazement
As her daughter, like any other child, examined each petal,
Smelled each smell, and named each blooming plant a name that came to her creative brain.
The sparkle among the mother’s eyes grew as she watched
Her daughter grow her own light of life within her.
One simple tear was released from the mother’s eyes in these moments
And as it fell to the ground the precious child found a perfect blossom.
She ran to her mother and laid it in her cupped palms
Instantly, the girl was joyfully swept in the air as a gentle kiss was laid on her cheek.
The mother and daughter danced to their own music in their heads.
They gathered lavender, peonies, and as many mystery flowers as they could
In a brown woven basket.
Later, they laid down with their faces to the sky
Looking at each cloud that floated by to depict what picture was created.
In the center of that flower field lay smashed petals,
Not because a raged force wreaked havoc on innocent flowers,
But instead it was a mother expressing
Her unconditional love for her child.
Throughout the days that followed, panic and carnage spread
The TV stations did their best to calm this human dread
All the hovering ships returned to whence they came
But thousands still appear above, New York now not the same
Communication now wanes, no power or mobile phones
You get a sense of feeling of being in a world that feels alone
Continual drones hum whilst the yellowed skies remain
Our planet we know as it was, will never be the same
Then came the day of reckoning as we all looked to the sky
A shuttle from the biggest ship lowered in hover fly
Suddenly the screens returned as we heard the visitors speak
We are ancestors of the Mayans, we treat as they were wreaked
From our original pasts demise, to earth we gave so long
To be part of here now gone, from an earth you once belonged
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-17.php
‘Tis lucky me father lies in the grave,
Than t’see the havoc I have wreaked
In the name of actin’ bold and brave,
My misadventures dastardly peaked.
In this musky gaol I am wasting away
While me life passes before me eyes
Chaplains teaching me how to pray,
Give up with their lugubrious sighs.
Long since I no longer wish for home
Before the blazin’ fires of the hearth,
Cedar sizzles and marshmallows foam
My children giggle at songs of mirth.
And me here so cold behind these walls
I no longer dream of freedom’s will,
While me sentence spurts and stalls
I swallow punishment’s bitter swill.
SEVENTH PLACE WINNER
Written October 17, 2022
Submitted to "2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 18" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
with punishing fury
yesternight
the skies wreaked their havoc
a rat-a-tat-tat of hail bullets
midst wave upon wave of rain
drenching the earth
this morn winds whipped
and whistled
cross bleak landscapes
occasional afterthoughts
of cloudbursts stinging the souls
of loners, prowling
debris-strewn alleyways
the glory and the grandeur
of Nature on display full force
some storm the heavens, call it evil
an omen of imminent doom
the wise man blesses the Creator
thanks Him Who makes seedlings bloom
Dark clouds loomed over the horizon
They broke loose in unprecedented force
Nature’s wrath, sudden violence acquired
It rained down as if unleashing all her fury
It was a downpour without one equal
The heavens let down dark misery for days on end,
Water bodies swelled and hollows filled,
Land mass slipped and trees fell,
The tame rivers looked fierce in spate.
Waves surfed and waters roared,
Like mountains they rose over the land,
Men in throngs were evicted from their homes,
Hundreds died and livestock perished
Such violence, never ever imagined
Helter-skelter, people fled for life.
Lands inundated and folks were marooned,
Homes were washed away with all belongings
Power failed and life had come to a halt
Rescue operations went on in full swing
But the deluge chanted the dirge of dying souls
Men sought shelter in relief camps
Epidemics broke loose and many died
Hospitals were flooded with ailing souls
Crops perished and misery prevailed
Havoc wreaked and penury struck
As Nature thus played her perfidious tricks,
Men stayed united and pooled all their might,
To regain for their land what had been lost
In a matter of months life was back to normal
It was a time that displayed man’s great resilience.
The Bullingdon Club
In the hallowed halls of Oxford's elite,
A secret society did convene,
A gathering of privileged retreat,
A club known as the Bullingdon team.
With tails and bow ties and polished shoes,
They swigged their champagne and plowed their way,
Through the city's streets, with no excuse,
Causing damage that others would pay.
Their laughter and shouts filled the air,
As they smashed their glasses and tipped their plates,
Their wealth and power beyond compare,
A reckless display of their estate.
Their arrogance reeked of entitlement,
As they wreaked havoc with their brawn,
A display of wealth and refinement,
With no regard for the damage they wrought upon.
For they were the privileged few,
Born with silver spoons in their mouths,
Their actions were beyond review,
And their behavior beyond any doubts.
The Bullingdon Club still reigns,
A reminder of the power of the few,
Of how wealth and privilege retains,
An insidious grip on the world's view.
So let us strive to topple this regime,
To dismantle this system and rebuild anew,
For the world deserves a just and fair esteem,
Where all have the right to thrive and pursue.
Bullingdon boys Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Biodiversity
Wisdom insured life
Man wreaked havoc on nature.
Spitting in God’s face.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
February 14, 2010
Poetic form: Haiku
There once was a couple of brats
who engaged in continuous spats.
The result was a tie
when each scratched out an eye -
an old-Biblical tit for a tat!
The brats awoke bleeding and weak
when, half-seeing the havoc they’d wreaked,
they discarded their clothes,
their behinds to expose -
a new-Biblical turning of cheek!
The surprise that is still to be seen
Whither grows the magic bean
Full of love and sparkling clean
Pray, don’t spill the beans, just yet!
The incredible charm that is the bean stalk
Full of strength and great talk
Is Jack of the axe prepared to walk the walk?
Pray, don’t spill the beans, just yet!
In this world is there a greater delight?
Than the surprise on the face of child with beautiful light
Or on the sparkling eyes of the elderly which shines sprightly
Pray, don’t spill the beans, just yet!
A soul’s tipping point under this ambience
Is not havoc wreaked by much incontinence?
Will faith work without patience?
Pray, don’t spill the beans, just yet!
01/11/2015 Ganapathiraman Raman
The price was thirty pieces of
silver
From the treasury of the Holy
temple
The contract for life, a deed in
blood
The Chief Priests and Elders
signatories.
The kiss of a friend, the betrayal of
a brother.
Piercing painfully than the dagger of
an enemy.
For the price of 30 pieces of silver.
The treasurer of the Son of Man,
The King of kings in earthen vessel
The lure of 30 pieces of silver
Of filthy lucre,
Ensnaring the soul deadened by
greed
So was the son of perdition bought
For a mere 30 pieces of silver.
That placed the noose over his
head.
Whose destiny was wreaked forever.
The Bishopric transferred to another;
All for filthy lucre.
30 pieces of silver
The worth of the Son of Man
Whose heavenly throne is arrayed in
precious stones,
Whose Kingdom streets are paved of
the purest of gold.
Oh my Lord and my God!!! Have
mercy!!!!