Idealists Poems

word play for fun

Imaginative idealists, Inez, Ian and Inkwell Ida
Illustrious industrious iguanas from Fiji Fida
Invited intelligent Ivan to invest in indigo ink in coveted China
Industries in Indiana, Iowa, Illinois and Idaho
Indicated to Inez, Ian and Ida this was the way to go
Informing ideal initial investors from Froffits
To imagine their insane ideas initiating profits

The Buzzbomb An American Sonnet

Given the incredible gift of wings,
always saw a different perspective;
Soaring high sailing into a nose dive,
you could say her energy’s a buzz bomb;

They never thought that she was possible,
women weren’t built for beautiful feathers;
Pristine in all her imperfect glory,
this added embellishment overwhelmed;

Grinding out eyes to erase a vision,
looking at the sky it’s hard to believe;
Still there she was smiling full of fervor,
the frenzy in her eyes so contagious;

Fanning idealists in spite of herself, 
this creature worthy of so free a flight.

Dying on the Vine

My idealistic mind dies on the vine
Day after day I worthlessly define
The rightful place for the needle 
The steady decay of idealistic people

Illusions of hope in murky pools rippled 
Visions of idealism effectively crippled
Convening in ceremonious empty vessels
Idealists left as outcasts with notions to wrestle

The vine’s journey is not completely clear 
Strategical route marred with ignorance and fear
They say culture will eat strategy for breakfast 
I’ve experienced nothing more firmly steadfast

Dream Crashers

Demented hall of dream crashers 
scented thick with calamity; 
Disoriented visitors can’t bolt, 
tormented by a lack of serenity; 

Swirling thoughts sit overloading 
looming darkness calls backup; 
Beckoning for you to quit, 
forgetting idealists never give up.

Frolicking Flirty Elusive Entities

elusive ethereal energy evades each extra entity

frivolously frolicking, fearlessly, forever flirty 

gratefully gleaning gentle grievers’ gratitude

happy heavenly hopper hastens home 

impulsive imaginings, intriguing, interested idealists

We Were Idealists In 1969

Optimism pranced up and down in hip hugger bellbottoms
Joy resonated from those who wanted peace not war
Gratitude basked from the corners of those who had not been drafted
It was 1969, and we were in our youth, full of confidence.

Emotions ran high; the Viet Nam grayscales were ruining our news.
We decided to buck the old ways, and begin anew, accepting everyone
We did not adhere to the absolute musts of the fifties or sixties.
We wore love beads and Nehru jackets, and smoked pot in cities.

In our hand-embroidered blue jeans which had not been washed for days,
We hitch-hiked to the promised land of California, or to New York City.
We were full of idealistic ideas and ideals. We were the youth.
We knew more than we had ever known in 1969.

A Nightmare

The other night I dreamed of spiraling downward,
But the earth delayed rising up to receive me.
I watched my unending fall into masses of despair
Falling rapidly, I found that I could not flee;
I could only hope that “better angels” would prevail,
That I would be spared this ultimate catastrophe.

The sudden dashing of my bones and blood
Into the seething cauldron of anger at the barricades,
I became embedded with the riff-raff insurrectionists
[For those two hours of storming the palisades]
Who were not impetuous youths or young idealists,
But malcontents gathered from all types and trades.

When I awakened I found myself suspended in limbo
Not discerning where I had been or what it could mean,
Until I recognized the statue of Lady Liberty atop
The shining golden dome that rises from the green;
Realizing how awfully close, like democracy, I had come
To disappearing into the disastrous and never again seen.

Revised and Edited March 31, 2021
Bookshop Contest 
sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann

September 23, 2022
Submitted to: "One from the Dark Side" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Lawless

Poets On the Other Side

Where do we poets go?
Hiding in the shadows of small towns and big cities,
Where do we poets go?
Spilling our hearts out onto paper for the world to see,
Where do we poets go?
When we no longer hold the pen with pride,

I’d like to believe we live on,
in ripped page corners and whispers of ‘where should I start?’
I’d like to believe we live where our imagination is needed,

Creativity welcoming us with open arms,
a smile for his lucky few,
his creative wonderers and idealists;
us who question the very fabric mother nature sewed,
us who like to scribble on her walls,
us who pinned our work up on her fridge,

Wouldn't it be lovely,
to be remembered for the words we never spoke,
the names we never uttered or even went by,
the streets and shadows we hid in?

Where do we poets go?
Because we certainly don’t die.


Wednesday 25 November 2020

Yesterday's Dreamers

from the cauldron of universities
budding philosophers
burgeoning idealists
determined to fix the world
of all its malice and corruption



AP: 1st place 2021

Posted on October 30, 2020

The Deep Well

remembering nostalgic days when
idealists aspiring to feel zen
would immerse in ink their fountain pen
to inscribe deep poems now and then



Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~SUNSETTING WHISPERS~ 2020

AP: Honorable Mention 2022

Submitted on January 13, 2020 for contest WHEN AND THEN sponsored by JENISH SOMADAS  -  RANKED 4TH

Sitting In the Dark Corner Kinda People

Sitting in the dark corner kind of people
Sloshing their troubles over beer and ale
Rolling their eyes and making fun of pussies
Who drink mixed drinks and wine

Putting up their fingers and laughing
at those who think they are better
The idealists, the ones who have 
not been hurt enough by life yet

Usually wants a super hero or anyone to save them 
Each one hoping their children will 
somehow carve out a bigger chunk
of this awful world, and not curl up 
and die in it like they have.


Written 9-25-2019
Contest: Pick a Line Any Line
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux

Reality

Wandering along I came to a throng being addressed by a voice.

With Rhetoric so strong it did not take long to realize this voice's choice.

He spoke of our "due " and convincingly too promised to take care of us.

In my state of lack his line drew me back thinking in him I could trust.

"All you need is yours indeed , Supplied by those with more"

"So join our band and walking hand in hand utopia is ours for sure."

It sounded so good I decided I would enlist in this worthy spree.

Then all of a sudden my mind was flooded with lessons life had taught me.

If all were entitled then none would supply and soon all would have nothing all told.

We reap what we sow,
Let those idealists know, anything else is fools gold.
11/24/16

Deep Autumn's Rise

DEEP AUTUMN’S RISE

Deep autumn rises
Alike a fond glance
At a balding friend

One is suddenly aware
That life – almost suddenly – changes
Almost certainly ends

Some idealists reach back
To summer    to a warmer time
And find upon vision’s inner screen

A happiness    all picnics
Beach volley    summer moon’s kiss
All the earth gone green

And    oh yes    deep autumn’s fall
That sea of curl    rust and ruby
Has open air painting’s charm

But maid moon    when seen cold circled
Through barren branches
Gives one’s summer soul alarm

Dave Austin

Someone For Me

Will there be someone for me
Who loves me with insanity?
Who wants me, entirely?
Who touches with intensity?

Will there be someone for me?

Will there be someone to kiss?
Who when gone, my kiss will miss?
Someone full of honesty…
Whose love is no travesty...

Will there be someone for me?

I want a love that’s wild and mad
The kind of love devoid of sad
The kind of love that’s, oh, so sweet
That “makes love”  like a tasty treat
That eats up every part of me
And brings to life each fantasy…

Oh tell me, tell me what you see!
Will there be someone for me?

Eileen Manassian

Idealists have it hard....Perfection just doesn't exist. Something to keep in mind! ;)

Maybe One Day

Maybe one day.


Maybe~ one day l will fly away,
Fly away to the moon,
And dance among the stars,
To discover the essence of spring,
On Jupiter and on Mars,
Ceteris~paribus (other things being equal),
To fill my heart with tranquility,
Fill it with harmony,
And feel the sounds of silence
Maybe l’ll then smile with my heart.

Maybe one day l’ll fly away,
To a world of realists not idealists,
Where politics is never deemed a game,
Somewhere where there is true benevolence,
Not benevolence to profiteer and make name,
A place where politicians don’t flaunt egotist credentials,
And absolute fabrication persists never.

I would love that kind of a place,
Away from the traffic boom,
Too far from the insanity of mankind,
So far from the energy crisis and global warming pronouncing world doom

Maybe one day l will fly way,
I might not have to,
If there be world war three,
Be it the last nail on the coffin of world problems,
Be it not, I’ll just have to fly away,
And see if dreams come true,
What has been, will not be,
What will be, that has never been,
Life runs in cycles.
So I’ve been told and so I believe.

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