Counterfeits Poems | Examples

New Sonnet 4 'Unlike a Spurgeon, I by dull words unfold'

Unlike a Spurgeon, I by dull words unfold
The limits of my Sarah's love for me,
But I realize that the rot and stink and mold
Are all within my mind, beneath my See.
There is no other person who can love
For me.  It is my duty and my joy.
It is the Truth that True Love is made of
It is the difference of man from a boy.
I am no counter of the counterfeits
That weigh love by the dram of sweet words said,
But rather, I am one who from above
Receives the gifts whereby he bakes his bread.
Into the practical and humble things
I'll pour my Constancy and give love wings.

Londolozi

It will be beautiful
Light rippling across sky
Crisp air passing by
Can't wait for the morning

This joy is all I want to give
Stuff in dark places
Brighten lonely spaces
I think they've heard of you and me

Hand over hand
Sharing secrets not demands
The laughter and the touch
Remember the rough?
I have nothing to give my enemies

Preoccupied by forever 
I dare not waste this endeavor
When we used to be so hungry 

I've envisioned the vision
God has made provision
Every frame every man
Looked like the last of it
I chuckle at the counterfeits

I, the lady
You, the him
It could never be grim
The brightest of lights
Outweighed my God
Stifled life
Dreaming of being the wrong bastard's wife
Next to you, so silly and dim

General Admission

Tough enough to not look for a fight,
no choice but to watch as it rages;
A candle burns on a starless night;

Hit only if someone engages,
attention is never what mattered;
They stay away from well lit stages;

Lingering on the brink of captured 
by the snakes in the orchestra pits; 
General admission  is favored;

That dazzling shadow of the misfits,
cannot be copied by counterfeits.

A Fathers Immortality

Upon waking up this day, a single tear
Father your eternal immortality 
Still proves wise and gracious
I haven’t been misled by popular opinion
Which should be taken with a grain of salt
You showed me how to expose the counterfeits 
who foster misperceptions,
Which have shaped our faith
How to think with an open mind, heart, and soul
Father, your every word was a rare gift
A worth guide__
A teardrop of glad remembrance and a
Prayer for your soul

The Paint Mover

He leaves his silent signature on every piece of art
Not seeking worldly profit or acclaim,
Yet touches of perfection often set his work apart
And witness to his honourable name.

He moves his painter’s palette from the east unto the west
From north to south he coats the sweeping land.
His artistry is limitless and stunningly expressed
With every brushstroke marvellously planned.

Assorted textures bring to life the panoramic scenes
Resplendent in their richly varied hues,
From pastel pink to persimmon and dazzling emerald greens
Warm russet browns and iridescent blues.

A masterpiece can sometimes be neglected it is true
And counterfeits delude us at first sight,
So let us keep this perfect canvas in our field of view
And in the artist's workmanship delight.


06/10/18

(British spellings)

N/A :‘The paint mover poetry contest’ : Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen

Counterfeit

Does your smile convey true joy? 
Or does it mask a secret, coy? 
Do your actions speak of heart, or
From all honesty, depart? 

This, a world where shadows move
And rainbows dance in changing hues
Alongside clouds of smoky blear,
A world where water disappears. 

Nothing here will stay the same
No one born here, free of shame
If without a mask you be, 
Soon, in solitude be seen. 

Words you speak must always lie
Deeds performed, discreetly sly. 
Nothing honest, here, will thrive
Truth is unfit to survive. 

Welcome "home" where "heart" belongs!
Join a choir of crooked songs.
Counterfeits, we all are born
By gems deceptive, stand adorned.

The Cornerstone

I had a dream
But I dreamt it on clay
And it crumbled in the morning rain.

I envisioned still other dreams
Those reflected dimly on the surface of my desire
But they always vanished with a touch.

I borrowed another man's dream once
But it grew homesick
And flew away after awhile.

Then I caught a wild dream from the woods
But it lost it's will to live
So I let it go.

I went to buy a dream
But they were all whitewashed counterfeits
Nightmares in disguise.

I have to build a dream that will last
But first, I need a cornerstone
I need but a single kiss.

Not a kiss of papier-mâché
Nor of sandstone, or crumbling clay
But of Granite!

Or, perhaps even of diamond
One strong enough to pierce this calloused heart
I need that kiss....

A kiss to build a dream on.


Timothy I. Brumley

Suppression To Progression

Destruction only led me to the direction of construction
loyal to counterfeits that unconcealed disloyal

loved the wrong brothers now I preach to others’
preach to others open your eyes to the leeches

transformed my higher cognitive process from misinformed
my endurance will not be obstructed by any hindrance

distractions that come are rejected, only entertain reliable attractions
No one will damage thy self esteem…. Like a dreadful dream

cried alone till my eyes dried; guide my life with pride
clarity brings me prosperity; soaring blessings thy cupth overpouring

A Heart's Journey

A heart’s journey 
Into the world of minds 
With endless chatter 
And careless whines

Prejudices and principles 
Counterfeits of beliefs 
Drowned in confusion 
Lucid and trepid

To prick and prod 
Judge every and all
Resolute, Sincere
Or mired in fear?

A virtual universe 
Of impressions and reflections 
With tradition or fashion 
Still seeking salvation

A heart speaks 
Through the shadows of doubt
Tender, tolerant and kind
Seeks affinity in the crowd.

Flavor Sensations

We push to imitate nature's
flavors, both sour and sweet;
compare the taste of lemons
to that of a lush, ripe peach,
or the nectar of pure honey
to the tang of a dill pickle.

The fruit-flavored snack-pack
spilled into my hand,
perceived imitations of the real deal:
	One shaped blackberry (hardly)
	Two round orange slices (scored)
	One green apple (Granny Smith?)
	A bunch of cherries (close)
	Two raspberries (not)

I popped rubbery orbs into my mouth,
closed my eyes and chewed slowly,
seeking the flavor of raspberries
like those growing on vines
just beyond the entrance to Castlewood State Park.

The cherry almost succeeded
in replicating the original;
all others were blatant counterfeits.

I once met a Flavor Chemist.
How many blackberries must he consume
before he can approximate the taste?

He answered my question
with a smile, and a bottle
of imitation vanilla flavoring.

Counterfeits

Traversing atopia
I am touching your belly button,
to find the remains
of ancient connectivity.

Was that good-
asking for a nasal approach
to the golden incense
of a sleeping Buddha ?

The faith crumbles at 
the feet of a groping figure.
A falcon tears away the pink
globe, drinking the falling nectar.

Unzipped, a Venus now opens
the secret of a murder. The 
dismembered parts were strewn
around over the surface of moon.


Satish Verma

Impresa

In culture of counterfeits
a snip of intelligent gene
brings the pink tears
for the brown eyes.

A virgin goes for a spade
in the naked sun.
Let me think of polymorphism.
Can there be an answer-

for oblique questions ?
Can this tottering frame live ?
Life can still stalk the death
and stand for the body in the sack ?

Fielding the enquiry about race –
gap, you said the walls
are crumbling. I read the message
half-believing.

As a whole, the glory lives.
Is that true ?


•	
 

The gentle rain falls on
the emaciated Buddha.
Stand out from the controversy.
A foam-born goddess will
counterpoise the questions.


The grievers are sitting
in a circle for the dying moon.
The charred breast of earth
sends the flames.

Who has closed the window
of morning glory ? My blackened
words are traveling fast 
to reach the stars. I am
held in a shadow.



Satish Verma

Adding To Woes

Again I would hear the night sounds
through the hours of civilities
when there was a pause in the body
untouchable.

You were sleeping with counterfeits,
running down the golden dome
sailing over the silken clouds.
My rough palm was still holding the pen.

That mirage, that fire on the road
had cheated us. You had pushed me in an
aging portrait. Alive, I am looking at you
from an empty glass.



Satish Verma

From Lids

a facsimile of torture
candlelit in moony dark
i want to unread the anointed death 
on this tip of an arrow,

here it comes 
the hissed phrase
wrenching the gut –
for conceptual withdrawl,

dawn of dark secrets
without footprints of echo
extracting a price,

do not stop fighting,
smear me with blood
hot spurts of thrills to defend the pink

in valley of counterfeits blades,
the green was fake,
the red was fake,
pure white poison


SATISH VERMA

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