Long Behoove Poems
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Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
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In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
{For Nelson and Winnie Mandela}
You, me said I to my honey bitter
When like the windy aether,
Blows us hither and thither
Bursting bubbles on elevating air,
I shall sleep dreaming with one eye open
Set you and I free on a chilly rest,
Virtually recalling the immure moments
I shall tell you of inborn pain.
Hence, that in these moments, hours
Days running in weeks, months into years
And coming to these moments,
It's love I suppose so
That I should be waiting, waiting and waiting
For you on this thing that like the windy aether,
Has blown away, blown away till this moments.
I shall sleep through to another day
Because of you, I and the offspring
And watch you through, though my heart is spilling
Could it be my strength has withered?
Or my agility has disappeared?
So when the night comes to eyes
And the silence deafened ears
In those moments, hours, days, weeks and months
And the years, O the years!
Which I have slept through just remembering you.
I have looked your face through,
When you are slumbering, thinking silently
Of your vanity, tells of enchantment saliently.
Let us lay on the lawn
And make sweater nothing of love,
Let us float upwelling in delight for the ocean,
And make sea-wine sip among arteries rejecting behoove.
It is love I suppose so
That I should be waiting,waiting and waiting,
For you on this thing that like the windy aether
Has blown away, blown away till these moments,
And you insinuate without times, whether
That ours prophesy shakable love lust,
It has not gone through the last
Of consent; well, it's all sentimental
Even though, I have gone and mount the pedestal
Like the Baboon drumming
Out his chest so loud;
My head had gone white shouting so loud
And the children care clamoured for
My greater loftier ladder,
Aged head has gone white like cloud.
You would say then, I have waited for ages,
I have trimmed the lamp for ages
I have fumbled with the candle for long;
But then flop;
Fell out of one uniting rope
I went so far flung,
Even though thinking of you then
As I now thinking of you so,
And you have on, on and on thinking then
I would wait for you so.
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie fair, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
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bona fide hormonal hankering didst since Adam and Eve a wake
aromatic, balmy, and captivating as effect from drinking sassafras
kin powerful pulsations viz diving rod erect phallus
creating con fusion pro bono er to enter lips engorged mass
Pussy swathed qua tangle of coiled, kinked, and thatched course grass
Willy wonka with vestal virgin hair line gonadal zone **** embarrass
twig and berries rutting, rusticating, routing and romancing intent
to deflower re: piercing hymen
with nary immune to perdition or déclassé
hello kitty edenic tropic of cancer coital compass
emitting pheromones culling asper a bong
clapping banging brass
intractable supremacy reproductive sport
waging whore with contemporary take
verboten fruit sexual pang thrust forward
omnipotent magnetic thirst to slake
unstoppable passions flared unfazed as annals
depict how hot coals feet did rake
despite hollow religious strictures obloquy,
the serum filled genitals did quake
infiltrate historical manifestations, naked humans
prey zing clear or opaque
deities of yesteryear demonstrable
bas relief showers copulation doth make
primal urges imbued *****sapiens
e’er since first man saw lady of the lake
triggering libidinal longing inducing salivation sans love struck drake
multi-tiered mouth watering orgasmic gastronomic carnal cake
Aphrodite spellbinding storied sport thrives inducing heart break
imbuing human guys gals feverish enthralled dizzy catnip behoove ache.
In the presence of the present sense of where things are.
I'm left to stay right where I am under this dark star.
The world in which I rotate on has tilted just a bit.
And what seemed like perfection, now doesn't seem to fit.
The time has come to watch for signs of new galactic shapes.
To strap on in and lock it down before it just escapes.
But we all know what spins this earth and fills our days with hope.
For without it to give rebirth, we've just no way to cope.
Some say that it is money, some say that it is love.
Some say that it ain't funny, and tend to push and shove.
But we all know that where and what it is, is deep inside.
And that it's always been right there to lovingly abide.
So I will now resume my search to find another place.
Where light can shine within my soul and also on my face.
Walking away from what I've found is going to be real hard.
But now the dealer's asking me if I want another card.
So once again I'll go all in and lay them on the table.
To take on any callers who think that they are able.
To beat me at this game of chance where love is all that's bet.
I"m getting pretty low on chips, 'cause luck hasn't shined yet.
But till my pockets turn inside out and I am just sent packing.
I'll play my hand at cupids game to attain what I am lacking.
For every heart that someone holds, another bluffs and another folds.
So deal me in, this hand is mine, the Joker foolishly beholds.
This sweatered nerd on Spectrums ad is causing me disdain.
He looks like he is trying to drill right through my brain.
It is enough to make me think that I might need to change.
The way I write my poetry, because this is too strange.
He just keeps looking straight at me and I cannot remove him.
He really should think this thing out, it really would behoove him.
This poem has turned, I am aware.
I'm having trouble with his stare.
I've clicked all buttons to delete him.
But Spectrum seems to have replete him.
I see the ad is finally off. :):):)
Start
I’m sure you’ve heard his name before
From stories of knights in days of yore
Born in village La Mancha in Spain
Was enthralled of knights, he chose to feign
After resurrection, to America he came
In search of adventures and fame
As legend goes, every knight must have a lady- love
To bestow his “victories” to her as it behoove
He chose Princess Melania as the apple of his eye
And began his quest with her name as the battle-cry
He persuaded a ‘Sancho’ to be his faithful squire
With promise of an island to govern as his gift to aspire
Obsessed by the chivalrous deeds of knights he read
He decided to ride a horse which was almost dead
In search of the helpless to defend and the wicked to punish
He began his knighthood with a resolve to fight to the finish
He soon discovered that times have changed
There weren’t any country sides where Kings reigned
Nor castles to conquer or giants to attack
His weird armor and battle cries only drew flak
Nevertheless, he charged at a parked garbage truck
Struck it with his lance using all his pluck
Construing it to be an enemy out to destroy him
But, he fell to the ground with a broken limb
Bruised and battered, Sancho helped him up
Took him to a hospital for a thorough checkup
The doctors patched him up and examined his head
Found its content deficient, but permitted him to go ahead
Resuming his journey he saw a kitten hidden in a bush
“Let’s grope for the pussy,” he yelled at his horse with a push
The horse galloped fast but stumbled as it fell
The kitten got panicky and fled like hell
It’s enough for the day, felt the Don and returned to his lady love
He took a ‘selfie’ with her sitting on the statue of a dove
He knelt before her and said, “Here are my trophies for you”
Presented the broken lance and smashed helmet, before bidding her adieu.
End
The closer you get
The more they seem to move
As their shapes become giant
And your hopes then behoove
Now anchored offshore
With the dinghy in place
You can see them more clearly
Each shape and each face
Like monolithic Gods
They reign high on the hill
Looking down on who enter
With a warning that’s shrill
But where are the people
The Island is bare
Just giant stone carvings
That linger and stare
As you land on the beach
The ground starts to shake
And from deep in your heart
The primordial aches
The mountain then trembles
All paths become closed
With the thunder a warning
Any trespasser knows
As you run to the dinghy
Its been stolen and gone
And your ship is now missing
In its place just a song
Calling out in those words
That you already know….
“A price not paid dearly
is only for show”
You turn back to the mountain
And in an explosion of light
You’re lifted up to the heavens
Spun around in a fright
Then shooting straight downward
Toward the mountain below
With force you are planted
Along monument row
And now that you’ve joined them
All questions abide
The distance and separation
In heaven collide….
“Can I leave, am I destined
to be left here entombed ?”
And in language you recognize
You hear back so soon
From those pillars immortal
Voices start to be heard
Your welcome now total
Reborn in their words
“You can leave if you want to
the choice is now yours
but this mountain goes
with you
all places defer
you’ve reached
through the mystery
you’ve passed your own test
the tonic’s within you
—the raven has fled”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2013)
Written by
Kurt Philip Behm
kurtphilipbehm.com
Granny said there’s signs from nature we’ll get,
and it would behoove us not to forget.
You’d best listen when she threw out her words,
because she knew the ways of critters and birds.
She knew how to read the nature she’d see,
more accurate than some guy on TV.
She could tell if it was fixin’ to rain,
if we’d have hard winter or early spring.
Things like how an Ozark persimmon’s seed,
will tell if it’s a snow shovel you’ll need.
When autumn’s squirrels up and disappear,
then old man winter will be coming near.
If the air’s heavy and you’re feeling low,
more than likely a storm’s going to show.
But if the air is crisp and full of light,
then you better be out hunting tonight.
When there’s a misty ring around the moon,
tulips and pimpernel close up their bloom.
If the flowers have cranked up their smell,
rain is on the way is what these foretell.
If a rainbow rises high in the east,
then that means the chance of rain is the least.
But when it shows its face low in the west,
that’s when any chance of rain is the best.
See a Red sky at night, sailors delight,
red sky of morning, sailor take warning.
If the sheep are gathered in a huddle,
then you’ll be stepping into a puddle.
When leaves fall early winter will be mild,
when leaves fall later winter will be wild.
If leaves wither but don’t fall to the ground,
an extra cold winter will hang around.
If roosters start molting before the hen,
can look for a winter that’s mild and thin.
If the hen starts molting before the cock,
then prepare for a freeze hard as a rock.
by Michaelw1two
The bond between, mind’s words once penned
and heart’s truth; exasperated thoughts
expressing mind’s din, or clarifying those
mixed deep within unconsciousness
and callous dream; one’s shadowy scene
crying out doubt, into redemption’s gleam
released upon time’s refresh
amidst renewal of one wright’s behest
this gatherings need, blood let, a soul’s bleed
poured afresh to pond, over parchment’s page
then mixed and splayed, until thoughts fused
render that write towards each mind’s surrender
in the enjoyment of this prose read
symbolic once and only thus
as ends to means, tales telling told
bawdiness or feelings bold
whisperings fresh behoove
thinking’s worst and then
behaviour’s drip an empty pen
scratching against this parchment’s thirst
and mind retracts, a fear filled tact
hesitant and then again dissolved
in other words searched, the line resolved
jealously tense and congealed, one’s thrall
ink’s stretch regains an opinion’s stroll
onto further ends, this thought extolls
as finish, to just this one phrase
contained therein, four lines or five
one thought or inspiration
leading where, to some place bared
upon this word wright’s persuasions
thorough twists and turns and subtleties
belie the chance peruse, believe
words meek alone but when combined
elicit an inner beasts cruel fury
or, calm the freaked and lost and dulled
cause to each, an opening mind’s discourse
and further bring to this wrights table set
a friendship earned and continuation
of thought through mind’s rapport.
May 2013
by Michaelw1two
Such is this thought, of all things thus bought,
material things, emotional needs, self-respect;
humanity today is wrought, from birth
until nature, accident, or incident;
sets your soul free from your peonage,
your prison, your ragged lifetime begot;
by this illusion that you are free…
humanity’s imagination, gleaned
from ideals on scripted pages,
begs from this universe an answer;
to the how and why of such deception,
and rejection, and inflection,
that minimizes the quality and worth of each being;
sequesters each special seed,
diminishes every opportunity given,
to each and every one of US sent
into this liars den of touts and thieves;
through ideals and thoughts,
to this blithe reality tossed,
that dreams indeed are nothing else
than a cherry less butt…
that nasty bugger picked and flicked,
into the face of the weakest one at school;
such fools believe, ideals behoove all of US,
onto the highest and most lofty deeds;
reality perceived is myth now lived,
for its braggarts, and beggars,
and hind end lickers,
that for a price precede to succeed,
causing honesty and truth to bleed;
red to black, upon the flesh
of the innocent and the weak,
and how these paid touts so smile,
at the chaos they willingly wreak;
all for a bit of valueless paper…
there then is reality flexed,
the pungent stool plopped into
these touts pursed and puckering lips;
gobbled greedily each drop pled bit,
as their Dominis takes his daily ****.!
Michael Darrell WalkerJohn
Could our verity be any unique?
Whenever the twenty-first century is antique,
Links are the best way to deal with everything
When even the pencils will betide self-replicating,
The whole would be vastly improved
And, the fortune of the rich would be approved
Would remove those in requisite thoroughly
There will be no grimness when there is no infirmity.
Autos would be entirely electrical
Fuel and diesel would behoove skeptical,
News and journals will be made ready on digital
People react to move visions by a flash signal.
Parcels won't be uttered for a long time
Besides, astonishingly swiftly and in prime
On voice order, pencils and pens would work
Baring, scribble down all that we would rework.
Everybody will include a robot in their house
That will perform anything, including catching a mouse
It will cook meals and neaten the home, with no screams
Additionally, conceive all your expectations and dreams.
The earth will deem even as sole leader
A man with odd propensity and backbone neater
We might glean the option to dwell out in the cosmos
And we'd stray out on rockets to shop for blue camos.
How slightly does the world treat spot our sacred history?
Purvey future posterity with a canvas to our glittery
Sober-mindedness is the best way to crumble in terror
Indeed, pens will be automatized to abject horror.
Written: February 06, 2022
Let's explore digital technology Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Simon Rogerson