verbal brickbats skid
across waxed convention floors
ENOUGH! please, no more
I respect not the cruel world!
Brickbats at me it ever hurled!!
As a human, me it forgot!
The cruel world, I respect not!!
I do not know… how I survived!
Parental love I was deprived!!
Many snubs I did undergo!
How I survived… I do not know!!
As a stray man, me people stamped!
My freedom wings, they ever clamped!!
Upon me they did place a ban!
Me people stamped… as a stray man!!
No sailor of seas on a long journey,
Nor gold coffers, just words of poetry,
Yet, precious nuggets from the depths of sea.
Gone to explore as a graying old man,
O rudderless with no more than a pen,
And ready to return with empty can.
Ye have explored single minded till now,
And find it fruitless to take stock of wow
Bare of brickbats—a rule somehow to bow.
Shallow praises, if not hollow, of pen,
On a dunghill as if crackles stray hen,
Shrill, vague voices that few care to listen.
Cheer up, ye chase no goal-pointed measure,
Passing an idle time, nor tame leisure,
Let your pen toil for spirit’s sole pleasure.
_____________________________________
Tercet |01.05.2024| poet, introspection
Poet’s note: In an age when scores of things vie for people’s attention, when nothing succeeds unless promoted and marketed well, a pen ponders. The poem is classified as ‘Other’, but it should be called a ‘Tercet’.
Tried to be straightforward;
Misunderstood by everyone.
Common were the brickbats;
Discarded by the loved ones.
Though life seemed miserable,
Like a rock stood he!
Lost no hope…
Fought till the end uncompromised,
For the principles he believed in.
As a guiding light he emerged.
Truth is always bitter
For those who dislike it.
A BRIAN STRAND INFORMEL Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date: 14-03-2022
Placed:1st
The optimist said that fifty years is half your life,
but the audience surely knows
that men don't live much longer than
the heyday of their town's proud factory
or the life span of an empire in the modern age.
Fifty-five years down a blind path cluttered with bombshells,
every wrong foot a heaving blast,
brickbats, not lemons rain down on
my tiny comic parasol till
I am left here holding only bent and rusty bones.
This is the part where the optimist will spin a yarn
about weaving a tapestry
from the ragged bits remaining,
the breathless crowd expecting the hero
to run their happy gauntlet again and again,
till the last clod falls.
We are petals of marigold
In our innermost soul
Whether young or old
If the petals still in fold
in the buds are singed
or shouted at violating
the integrity in making
Maladaptation is obvious
Flowers are obnoxious
Parents and teachers
Priests and preachers
Be kind nurturers
Of the saplings and plants
No traumatizing no rants
Love of beauty and life
Husband and wife in step
Pep drive with love
For the tender buds above
Let us be poems
In the social page
Healthy gems
Birds uncaged
“The world is a stage”
You directors will decide
If the spectators would hurl
Brickbats or
Throw bouquets
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 7, 2016
It shouldn't hurt to be a child- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Becca aTeagan
I see how these people work to the hilt,
to offer themselves to a certain cause;
to take part in the so-called Project Hospitality
as they interact with all sorts of people.
An interfaith effort that takes its course in the island.
a wonderful institution that commits to people.
with numerous endeavors and assistance given;
they're faithful enough to lead them to light.
Giving shelter to the homeless
sounds clearly as part of the Beatitudes
Feeding the hungry and caring for the sick;
exemplify the gospel attitude
that one endeavors to fulfill God's criterion.
Beautiful souls, servants of the poor!
with great admiration they represent us all.
Like committed missionaries near and far;
a treasure, a gift, a pride of every culture.
Their smiles and hard work reflect who they are,
amid some brickbats and adversaries around;
still their foundation remains as ever
equipped with values meant for all times.