Long Dead Poems
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Eleven years have spun like cotton thread,
Since the day they told us Grandpa was dead.
The fields of summer turned a mournful brown,
And a piece of my heart went six feet down.
I was just a boy, knee-high to a plow,
Clinging to his hand, wondering how,
Life could ever be right, or skies so blue,
When the best man I knew was suddenly through.
Now I stand tall, a man in my own right,
But Grandpa's not here to see my light.
He missed my first shave, my awkward first date,
The victories won, the stumbles of fate.
I often wonder, with a tear in my eye,
Would he recognize the man passing by?
Would he see his grit, his love, his gentle soul,
Reflected in the dreams that make me whole?
But there's solace in the scent of gasoline,
A comfort in the engine's powerful sheen.
I'm building a derby car, Grandpa, it's true,
Just like you taught me, with bolts shining and new.
You loved the rumble, the roar, and the speed,
The thrill of the race, planting a winning seed.
I feel you beside me, your hand on the wrench,
Guiding my fingers, helping me clench.
This car ain't just metal, it's memory and might,
A tribute to you, burning ever so bright.
Each car I smash, each victory I claim,
I whisper your name, carrying on your flame.
So though you're not here to watch me grow,
Your love's in my heart, a steady, warm glow.
And as I cross that finish line, fast and free,
I know you'll be cheering, right there with me.
The sun dips low, painting the sky with hues of gold and rust,
much like the memories
that time cannot fully erase.
Sometimes,
in the quiet of the evening, I swear I can hear his laughter
carried on the wind, a gentle reminder that even in absence,
love endures.
Building this derby car has become more than just a hobby;
it's a bridge across the years,
a tangible connection to the man who taught me the value of hard work and the thrill of the open road.
Each piece I fit, each adjustment I make,
is a testament to his enduring influence.
And so, I press on, fueled by love and remembrance,
knowing that though he may not be here in body,
his spirit rides shotgun, guiding me toward the finish line and beyond.
It was the peak of summer
In St. Mary Mead.
Miss Marple and friend
Had many to feed.
They hired a Butler
To meet their need.
"We must have wine at the party!"
They both agreed.
But like any sleuth,
Miss Marple's eyes
And ears were sharpened.
They became mini spies.
Seemingly scatty
In her old lady guise.
Would hints be dropped?
Or would the guests be wise?
Four mere days prior
An innocent dropped dead.
For out of the blue,
A bullet whizzed through their head!
This was not the topic
Conversed. But instead,
The guests talked trivia.
Pets, careers, kids, bed!
But Marple is not one
Who is easily deceived.
She was more with it
Than people believed.
Dotting I's, crossing T's
She at once perceived.
She shrugged, smiled sweetly
Content and relieved.
"Why should this man be
Brought to my attention?
Why hire him?"
She held the suspension...
All felt the heat
Of the rising tension.
"All is now clear. Though
It was not your intention."
Her eyes swept the room
And stopped, meeting his.
Could it really be him?
What's the meaning of this?
All were astonished.
Dumbfounded. Speechless.
Suspicion fell on the Butler!
Was it him? No or Yes?
Written on July 15th 2022
For the "One In Five 2" contest
Phrase 2 (Suspicion fell on the Butler)
Sponsor: Joseph May
Isolated and surrounded by her worst enemies
The lioness fought hard, but her fate was sealed
"You're gonna die tonight kitty kat" one hyena said
Then he bit her viciously
The others joined the attack....
When the dust had settled The lioness lay lifeless.....
"Hey did you hear the commotion last night"
one lion asked to the other
"It was the hyenas and lionesses fighting"
replied another
"Were there any casualties"
asked the lion with the black mane
" Yes, they killed a lioness last night"
answered another."But tonight they'll feel the pain" he added
Later that night they heard the hyenas laughing
A laughter that curdled their blood
The lions began walking towards the hyenas
The smell of blood was everywhere
The lions were focused on the battle ahead
"There'll be some dead hyenas tonight"
The golden maned lion said
They increased their pace as the stench of hyena intensified
The hyenas stopped laughing
When the lions came into view
The lions attacked immediately, the payback was swift and deadly
And many of the hyenas fled
When it was over 3 hyenas lay dead
And the faces of the big cats were stained in blood
Roars of victory echoed through the night
All of the Magic
erased from the world
darkness without end
no children laughing
a mass of drone like beings
wishing for nothing
not even sad dreams remain
black magic also died today
The poets have all thrown away their pens
no more reason to write
movies have been destroyed
there will be no christmas this or any other year
this is truly the darkest day the world has ever known
I would continue to write
but the lack of desire has turned my heart to stone
I will live out the rest of my days in darkness
not even the stars can free me from this desperation
I am being sucked down into the abbys
no thought of being rescued not even the desire exists
I am alive and still I remain dead
a spirit without dreams
magic has departed
will it ever return?
Perhaps a distant spark remains
No I am wrong
did it ever exist?
who cares?
Life with no Magic Contest
I’m a trilobite, I took my leave
Nature had a shocker up its sleeve
In hot water
Air gets shorter
Things got heated and I couldn’t breathe
I’m a stegosaur and I’m long dead
I got a chill in my poor old head
My world cooled down
The leaves turned brown
I breathed my last in a cold cold bed
I’m a mammoth and I used to swarm
I lived in hope of a winter storm
The snow that lay
Melted away
I lost my life when it got too warm
I’m a human and I’ve had my fill
Of blame and shame for every ill
But humans, I’m sure
Killed no stegosaur
Our climate changes and always will
sleeping (( COLLABORATION * Don Johnson ))
by~ DON JOHNSON
The Nullabor it does abhor
the desert in it standing
The broken heart
he keeps apart
where Eagles are a landing
kangaroo is prolific cos good seasons bring in millions
they shoot them for the last hundred years,
Hoppy is still there in millions
Almost a plague after rain
The cure the joy the madness ploy, just catch a little Shiela
but broken hearts tend to self destroy
The one true love, to feel her
so searching for the lock of eyes upon the Nullabor
kangaroo does abound, dead straight the road for sure
Ironic tale sour grapes inhale,
He sleeps upon the plain
his swag is near the old Ute, and the dog is ever watchful
his protector is a beaut
~civilization calls~
he has to go back to the city streets
And searching ever searching for the eyes of lady sweet.
***by~ POET D:
Searching and searching till weak eyes fall asleep.
~civilization calls~
Calls the plague of raining streets!
The sleeping kangaroo took me into the abyss of sour grapes.
A wildlife with wildfire turned over by wildflowers.
Seascapes; full of sand that no one dared to understand!
Drowning underwater in a universe that had no expand.
Where the passer-by's felt the expression of sadness in his sleeping face.
All it took was experiencing the world with one lonely look.
A grain of salt, in the night sky!
Where clouds ‘walk-sneak and / clouds-cry like a whirlpool’,
Tears from a near by fountain deep in a valley.
Where we can sing for roo's sleeping heart.
Death in a wild flower mourning asleep on the hour.
Seeing’ is believing when Shiela appeared.
Drying tears with her sweet eyes over the desert lands.
A Collaboration with *DON JOHNSON
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
he signs death like he signs autographs—
quick, proud, no eye contact.
the ink smells of burnt orange peel and sweat.
he’s got the sun behind him,
and a pen that tastes of rust.
the papers call it “justice served,”
but i see a man trying to outpace his own shadow,
killing the ghosts before they vote again.
he changes the rules—
twelve men in a room,
now only eight have to agree
that a man deserves to die.
he smiles for the cameras,
says it’s for the victims,
but the ghosts nod off in the gallery,
too tired to haunt the living anymore.
they say it’s quicker now,
no more appeals that last a lifetime—
just a warrant, a date, a needle.
a machine that hums efficiency
in the land of oranges and hurricanes.
he calls it strength.
the newspapers call it leadership.
the preachers call it divine.
but the dead call it silence.
you can’t see mercy in the muggy air,
only steam rising from asphalt
and the sound of another man’s name
being crossed off the list.
politics is a blood thirsty business,
and power drinks best from a warm vein.
The ‘net’ is closing in, revealing a ‘web of lies’ Those who use AI and those who plagerise poems fool no one but themselves! Quote by poet!
A gossamer shroud drapes the old lych-gate
I’d hopes it would vanish, alas it’s too late
A ghostly poet rises from her earthly grave
I’m grief-stricken, why can’t people behave?
Posting copied works seeking notoriety
A playground for Dead Poets Society
Stealing poems leaves me groaning
Write your own words, it'll stop me moaning!
I loathe seeing work that has been taken
Why do folk do it, it’s just Godforsaken!
I'm fed up of reading lots of work by AI
Yet poets post it, then vehemently deny
Please pick up your pen, use your brain to write
Pretending that it's your work just isn’t right!
I call to you
and wonder if I have been heard
but the only means
I have is by the written word
I sang to you
a song of Love and Truth
what more can I give
and open to you the proof
Like the Father
who we with voices praise
offers up to us
Love with endless days
There is hope in Love the book says
but I am afraid
my heart to men is dead
But Love and Truth
will set you free
and you can find
your joy in me
stretch forth your hand
open your door
and find out
what your living for
Matthew 7:6-8
reading Gods Word is the primary
means of getting to know him and
his requirements for his favor.
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Our excited Easter Bunny was a woman this year
She popped in and threw eggs around, full of cheer
She has quite a fluffy tail, my daddy said
Mommy gave him a look that nearly struck him dead
The eggs she left were decorated in glitter with touches of gold
Some were vintage in green art deco, others just looked old
We ate the ears and heads off our chocolate bunnies right away
This will be a great day! I heard my grandma say
She was heading to the kitchen to fix us potatoes and ham.
No one can cook better than our favorite cook, Grandma Gram.
Mommy followed her in, probably to learn her secret recipe.
I already knew it, for she had shared it with me.
Daddy said “isn’t it time for church?” I ran up those stairs
For my new Easter frock was gorgeous; I put on airs
You are a beauty, Grandma said. What a gorgeous dress!
At the church we said a prayer for Daddy, for he is a mess.
He’s a good mess, Grandma said. Afterall, he is her son.
And he is my hero, my Daddy, and a lot of fun.
He would have a difficult time sitting silently here.
Church is not for my chatty loud Daddy dear.