The poet John Keats
ran a hash-joint named, "John's Eats".
A Greek girl sought work. Disinclined to spurn,
he asked, "What does a Grecian earn?"
Never write a poem about the sky,
she says,
that blue and blue and blue
interrupted by shape-shifters,
squawking crows, grumbling
aircraft.
It’s been done.
Besides, the day is tranquil,
disinclined to fuss.
The porch rails studiously etch
the sun into diagonal slats.
A silver spider practices ballet
across them
A chickadee chirps predictably.
If you could breathe and
see and know, she says,
all at once,
the glimmering line that bisects the air--
the one the spiders left behind--
the absence of wind, of wings,
of words—the morning itself,
woken with the slurp of ripe pears
and the ashes of a dream--
that would be your poem.
I
refuse
to comply
with contests whose
requirements are nigh
impossible, amuse
the contest-setter with my
inadequate and bound-to-lose
creations. An old-school kind of guy,
I hold outmoded, prehistoric views:
am frankly somewhat disinclined to vie
with writers who (I’ll be blunt) abuse
the edicts handed from on high,
namely, poets pay their dues
(so call me due-or-die),
not with modern ruse,
but rather by
songs whose blues
defy
cues.
Conditioned since birth to follow a belief,
brainwashed souls thrust upon all others their view,
urging them to join their cult to get relief
from suffering by paying to god their due,
atoning for sin by turning a new leaf,
that by doing so, they sense divine light’s hue.
Caught in ego’s bind, the blind thus lead the blind,
sparking fear in hearts of those who’re disinclined.
In my old age
I have become bitter,
and disinclined
to hear pleadings from my sage..
It's only winter's cold curse,
how I long for summer's rays
to warm my soul
and slay my heart's malaise.
There was a time I’d think in rhyme
and daydream in blank verse.
O muse, you died; I’m sure I spied
you leaving in a hearse.
Methinks that I might force a try,
put signs up in the yard:
free room and board as a reward
to lure a minstrel bard.
O, whither go? A withered flow
is all you’ve left behind:
mere parlor tricks and limericks -
to heights I’m disinclined.
’Twas once I’d soar, but now no more,
seems I have crashed to earth,
so I will till and toil until
you germinate rebirth.
around the palace
walks the emperor
cluelessly clothed in
his birthday suit
goodness gracious!
how can that be?
he has two pairs of eyes, doesn't he?
avert your own, poor children...
look away!
please, look away!
ouch, the eyes, they hurt...
they hurt to fixate;
akin to a staring contest with the sun!
his ever-present minions
couldn't be more disinclined...
to persuade him
to put some clothes on.
since they seem unwilling,
guess who does the honors?
yes, emperor, you're indeed naked!
Up To 20 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Date written: 04/30/2023
Some friends are going on a tour;
Invited us to join.
You’d think it would be easy
To decide - just flip a coin.
We’d meant to take a trip with them
When Covid reared its head.
We got our money back; our friends
Rescheduled instead.
Since then, they’ve started traveling,
For life, of course, is short
And though this tour sounds wonderful,
I am a worrywart.
I’ll mull it over and discuss
But think I’m disinclined,
So once again, our friends will go
And I will stay behind.
Prolific used to refer primarily
to people, animals and plants
Those who produced abundant offspring
like kittens, puppies, and ants
Today we hear about prolific authors
Steven King comes to mind
But thanks to Malthus, Marx and Lenin
Folks in the West are disinclined
As much as I love music,
I’m not sorry to admit
That opera’s the exception,
For I like it not one bit.
It’s not that I don’t understand
The words (although that’s true),
But rather it’s the voices
All the critics ballyhoo.
Sopranos, tenors, baritones -
They all get on my nerves,
Then you toss in some vibrato
(Which no audience deserves),
Add some overdone emoting,
Make-up way beyond the top
And the flashiest of costumes -
I’d go on, but here I’ll stop.
Opera fans the whole world over
Are both cultured and refined,
But, though classical I covet,
Opera leaves me disinclined.
Perhaps I ought to publish my position
(as if there's anyone disposed to care!):
I'm not convinced that open competition
is profitable. Poets, self-aware,
and full of self-esteem (as many are!)
increasingly seem disinclined to share
the fruits of midnight labour. From afar
(and I do not possess a crystal ball)
I think that I perceive a lowered bar:
requirements (this is just my judgement call)
to dress one's thoughts in rhythm or in rhyme
do not delight our writers. They appal.
We need not think of strictures as a crime.
Does discipline torpedo erudition,
or might it help us grasp at the sublime?
Against the hazy sky
Mountains, seen grotesque
Frightening monsters, poking out
Here, there and all around
In the glinting darkness
The ravine, like a mythical snake
Gapes its mouth
Mist hovers,
Spider webs hang
As dew spangled veils
The leaves are tears stained
By the Night’s frozen grief
In stealthy steps,
With the jingle of anklets,
The wind comes to shake off the drops
And down they drip one by one
As the grass below shiver
At the sudden shock.
The leaves, rid of the load, flutter-
Faint stir of life!
From a distant habitation
The rooster in sharp notes
Sounds the siren
The East bleeds
As shafts of gold cuts through her breast
Darkness recedes,
Birds begin to chirp.
Slowly,
Slowly, parting curtains
The day emerges
Like a lazy boy
Disinclined to be roused from sleep
_______________________________
~ Placed Third~
Your Option Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Brian Strand
SNAKES IN RURAL PENNSYLVANIA
The snakes in his head
were timber rattlers, easily
agitated, disinclined to fight,
their rattling a warning to all
before slipping away silently from
conflict or harm
Unfortunately for the fortunate son
his bride to be was a young copperhead,
golden brown and beautiful on the
dark forest floor among the stones and
wet soil of a Blue Mountain summer,
and unlike the rattler she was silent
and aggressive, looking for a fight!
In innocence borne, a slave to none, the apple of the father’s eye.
Yet my father was not there, too sullied since birth, soiled by worldly lies,
Physically mature, yet inwardly still boyish soul.
Fear? Cowardice? paralysed from standing tall?
Pray face of integrity of fatherhood, the man you should be!
Still, a ponderance you may be found,
A heart thirsting, yearning to know
You think of me still and would even now
Breathe life betwixt the crevices of this broken soul
A momentary kinship as father son
He did not know; to him an encounter, simply the norm
To me, however, a mentor, heart burst open
A tangible touch of fatherly, brotherly love,
Confused, pure, innocent, misunderstood.
Yet powerful, screaming volumes; building a doorway framing my soul.
I cried inside but dare not foretell
The tenor, most disinclined to register so.
The chains that bind
Just make you blind
It keeps you disinclined
And in a constant grind
Break free, these chains that keep you intertwined
Close your eyes....relax and unwind
Circumstances are not definite
Your potential is infinite
Let your light show you the way
To overcome the hurdles of another day
Through pain, misery, sadness and sorrow
You WILL forge ahead to another tomorrow
Yes you are able to live your dreams
Just ignore the painful tormented screams
Of those dark moments that plague the past
Make your dreams and goals steadfast
No mountain is too high, no cut is too deep
Do not allow anything or anyone to make you weep
Fate is something we cannot predict
So don't imprison yourself like a convict
Will you allow barriers and emotions to withhold?
Ultimately you are the only one that can break the mould
So break free from these chains that so tightly bind
Believe in yourself and your own mind.
$
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