Eg Poems | Examples

THE CRY OF A MOSQUITO

A mosquito once cried 
Why do you all always 
Clap your hands 
Whenever you see any of us
Some of you buy chemicals 
To get rid of us
When you all know we're harmless and homeless.

An insecticide 
Screamed from a corner
You're big liar
You blood sucking vampires
Not just that
You also go around 
Spreading diseases; eg malaria.

A human replied
You're a pest 
Whoever you stick 
With your stylets 
Becomes sick
Whenever I'm about to sleep 
You always come
Disrupting my peace of mind
With your irrelevant songs 
Making a lot of noise while I try to sleep.

RADIOING

Knowledge empowers
Ignorance rules
Story-line
Never underestimate
Be the observer
Using discernment
God made everything
Good and bad.


A reason and purpose
As above so below
Day and night
Heaven and Earth
Creator of creators
Eg Jesus and more
Different masters
Light and darkness.


A reason to act or art
A price to pay or gain
God never hesitate dues
Spirits don't lie
Thoughts becomes
Actions or reactions
Taking you on a flight
Into the realm you vibrated
Fear or courage, be aware.


The soul is limitless
Very infinite
Never to be limited
By illusion
Steady seeking
Reality which is truth
The body deceased
The soul never
It's the DNA and Genres
In all bloodline and lineage.

God Alone Is

‘Mind negates, obscuring’ truth in a thought fog
Being but brazen attempts of our ego
To bemuse and confuse by such ruse, veiling light of God

‘So that under’ cloak of darkness, life an enigma
For worn, weary, wistful humans who’ve had a fistful
Of pain borne of heart’s stain, afraid to let go
Of fears and desires borne of delusion in world of illusion
‘As bound, caged’ and upstaged, soul feels not free

Life game losing by prioritising ‘Me, Mine and I’
Thus feeling remiss being not touched by bliss

06-September-2022

The A's Have It Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May

Time Passage

In these lives, let the seconds run
it soon reached the minutes.
the hours, eg days, the years
and centuries...
I remember well...
looks like it was
yesterday... !

Jabo

Jabo
NEVER EVER FORGET THEIR STORIES...

Be it the 5 MITSUBISHI A5M CLAUDEs that ditch due to fuel starvation in the sea

Or the 3 FOCKE WULF 190s that hit a German mountain. One had a red nose...

Or those perished on TINTWISTLE KNARR (AVRO LANCASTER-7 DEAD, 3X HAWKER HURRICANES-3 DEAD, LOCKHEED P-38 LIGHTNING-1DEAD)

And on and on and on and on...

There were 10,000 TEN THOUSAND training plane wrecks in the UK in world war2. Yet some was actual war acts eg the AIRSPEED OXFORD TRAINER that rammed a MESSERSCHMITT 410 HORNISSE... 7 dead... 2 German 5 UK...

And what of the woman who asked me for help who said her dad splashed a JUNKERS JU88G nightfighter with hand held infantry weapons? The 88 hit a house and 5 died there...

This is all down to my DAD RIP. His influence... Son this is a warplane...

Health Update

If doctors emphasize managing disease but not reducing their presence and  incidence (eg. cancers), then medicine is similar to managing excrement: keep it out of sight, but NOT reduce it. Remember, there is always a good Dr. Crap, too

To a Loved One At Christmas

Once again it is the time
When people think of gifts
What to give, what do they want
The things the spirit lifts

The calendar says Christmas time
As I see it once again
There is only one thing I would want
To have you love me Jane

I promise you I'll send it back
With interest for sure
'Cos there is one thing that I know
I could not love you more.



The second and last line in the second 
verse can be changed to suit other names

eg.
I see without regret
To have you love me Margaret
Same as has always been
That  you love me Kaylene
As since time began
To have you love me Ann
The decorations Pretty
To have you love me Betty

Second Conditional

Grammar Series
SECOND CONDITIONAL

If I were a gambling man as my sin;
(I confess an occasional flutter)
Then if I had an acceptable win,
 I would buy myself some new schmutter *

Note: it would make my verse more refined
If instead of "if I..." I wrote "we're I" and "had I"
Then perhaps The Immortal Bard would not mind
And Jane Austin would give me the glad eye

While I may forgive modern language’s slur
Wanting that which is sadly defunct, if 
We avoid "if I was", rather say: "if I were" 
Mindful that we are using subjunctive

Now the First Conditional suits admonishment
By uncles from Amsterdam, Delft or Utrecht **
While the Third is rueful and penitent
For sins of commission or those of neglect

But the Second tops my panoply
And it always has me beguiled
Inspiring creativity, phantasy
And imagination run wild

E.G.

Had I the combined wit of Wodehouse, and Wilde
I would put my pen to write such a tale
That would make the face of God crack a smile
And the heavens to burst in a giggling gale

Abstract Ekphrasis An Eg

re post inspired by my latest contest

cHaoTiC mOTioN a POLLOCK EKPHRASIS

Flinging, splattering,dripping drop..by..drop
Unaware of the present,random spontaneity
in liquid flowing paint.
Motion made visible,memories
arrested in space,the painting 
lives a life of its own in pure
harmony of easy give and take.

A Snowy Day

It's cold again today. 
Skies are gray. 
The North wind blowing. 
A blanket of snow on the way. 

To cover what we had yesterday.  

The fence line is furrowed white, 
and the tall grass bends beneath the weight, 
of each single flake racing to a destiny.  

Tomorrow there will be more. 
More sleet and then rain. 
More cold and more gray.  

Another winter day in Oklahoma.  

I have a photograph from 1978. 
Resplendent in its Polaroid clarity. 
A picture of Vincent, John and me. 
Building forts of snow in the front yard. 

I wore the coat mom and dad bought at Gibson's. 
A gift from Christmas, it still smelled new. 
The fake fur lined hood framing an 11 year old face. 
Wind blasted smiles as we posed. 

Now I watch the snow from my window. 
Building forts in my mind, and they are still icy.  
I drink my coffee and wonder about that kid.  
The one in the green coat. 
With a freezing smile.  

While outside the snow keeps falling, 
and the gray gets grayer.  

This cold, 
it chills my Soul, 
and I feel that I will die, 
if I do not see a flower soon.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

E G

I find myself looking in the mirror. 
More often at odd angles. 
Approaching from the side. 
A view askew through my pale eyes.  

Different angles offer new perspective. 
Like drawing pictures with lead. 
A turn of the page reveals an errant line. 
A shadow out of place.  

I count those pages more often. 
Stories each one. 
Lines told with hopeful outcomes. 
Growing deeper each time.  

Better left to soften out of focus. 
Alone on my bad side. 
Out of view from the mirror.  

But I still look for reasons,
       and why the seasons, 
              turn a little grayer each time. 

And why in your eyes, 
       looking back from the silver, 
              do I still see me. 

Running the hills of Little Dixie. 
Chasing U.F.O.'s at dawn.
 
Believing Santa wouldn't come,
       but Charlie and the Family would.  

To butcher me with knives.  

Childhood fears grown into years of reality. 
A borderline personality. 
Yes, I can tell you stories. 
Of haunted houses and nightmares come true. 

But you. 
You still look good E.G. 

Between Charlie, 
       the mirror and me.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Feathers and Airplanes

I have walked on fiery morning clouds. 
My hair like shooting stars behind me. 

I have chased lightning and whirlwinds in Hell, 
then drunk the nectar of Spring rain.  

I have stood at the edge of death, 
and felt peace.  

My children do not believe me.  
Having ridden in silver airplanes and thinking themselves wise. 
They say I am a crazy old man. 

I ask them, "if I have done it, how can it not be done?" 

I ask them, "if it cannot be done, how have I done it?"  

My children put feathers in their hair,
and wear turquois jewelry. 

They drink all the liquor in the house, 
put on their faces as if going to war, 
then go and paint the town red.  

Still they call me crazy. 
But I have ridden in silver airplanes too. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

The Honing of Blades

He always loved knives. 
Blades flicking sharp like a snake's tongue.  
"Knives never lie," he said. 

The moment depends on honing. 
A ritual all its own.  

       Scrip.
              Scrape. 

       Scrip. 
              Scrape. 

A soothing sound. 

Oil glistened and carried steel to the end of an Arkansas stone. 
He would flip it over and slide it back, 
       and forth, 
              and back again.  

"Mind the angle," he would say. 
"No more than a nickel thick." 

All his life he believed a knife truer than his name. 
From birth he knew by instinct. 
The cold hard reality of an edge. 

But his dark eyes held silence like the oil on his stone. 
Miserable and alone.  

His left hand gripped the table top. 
Wrist up and ready. 

The knife in his right. 
Waiting unsteady and above. 
About to fall.  

He said, "this requires the sharpest blade of all."  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

The Mercury

Did I come to you in the night? 
To tempt you? 
Tempt you into something right? 

Did I bring you nightmares? 

Nightmares of brown eyes. 
Lurking in the shadows of your mind. 
Locked in boxes you left behind. 
So you could scapegoat my reality.  

I fell from Heaven. 

Fell to lay at your feet, 
       burn in your eyes, 
              and freeze in your shadow.  

I fell to hold sunrises for you. 
Shining like the Mercury. 
Playing my guitar as you drift away. 
As you climb through the cold air above. 

Leaving me behind and searching. 
Searching for a frozen love. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2.

The Monarch

I saw it fly across my path. 
From north to south. 
On a hot summer day in Oklahoma. 

Monarch colors glistened in the low western sun. 
Its fragile wings beating to the rhythm of a tiny heart. 

I wondered. 

Was it thinking of a meal?
A pretty flower at the end of day?

Never thought it would be swept away. 
In a rush of glass and steel. 
Trapped and helpless in a wiper blade. 
Headed East on 51 toward the still water. 

So I stopped and examined the powder. 
Left when it hit. 
As if an airliner went down. 
Wreckage strewn along a trail. 

Leading to it. 
Alone with a broken wing.  

Not understanding the hand setting it free,
and placing it carefully,
on a bed of clover, 
beside the road. 

Then moving on.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

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