Long In the heat of Poems
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We placed a pine box casket on a sawhorse table.
There weren’t but little notice, did as best we able.
I watched the flowers wilting in the heat of August.
It seemed a shameful squander given what they cost us.
She was a stoic widow, though a might diminished.
She clutched a carved wood angel, one he never finished.
Then came a stovepipe preacher, smelled of hair slick tonic.
He kept his manner formal and his speech laconic.
It was a simple service in a smoke wood setting,
Another taproot sermon I’d be soon forgetting.
He hammered nail to cross the way the Good Book reckon,
“All sinners need God’s mercy when The Judgment beckon.”
He spoke some other hoo-ha ‘bout “The Lord's forgiveness,”
And I just shucked it off to get about my business.
I might be pissin’ sawdust when it come to prayer,
But when they toss on vittles, count me first hoss there.
No-one knows precisely when the rivalry began;
thirty-two the legend goes; eighteen or nineteen?
It's not clear, nor can it be confirmed.
Apart from once in fifty-nine
For reasons lost in time;
The Fresno Fuzzy Socks
And The Chattahoochee Crocs
Have squared off in heated competition
every year.
The rules; written on a napkin
from the Rutabaga New Cafe,
and framed by Fred the Frame
are simple:
Meet once a year on Labor Day
A team of five (ladies now allowed)
Last years winner host, at their expense;
the loser chooses the new challenge,
with no repeats allowed.
Once volleyball, dodgeball, baseball
And almost anything else you can do
with a ball, bat, feet, head, and arms
Had been exhausted;
The challenges became, let's say;
somewhat bizarre.
In the heat of twenty-nineteen
Snowball fighting was, surprisingly
won by home team, Crocs.
The Fuzzy Socks not anticipating
The commandeering of Carluccio's
Ice truck for the event - nothing in the rules!
The following year the 'Socks
won blindfolded pitch and putt
but by default; when Anna May
Knocked out Birdie Blaire - sliced ball!
Sycnchonised swimming in seventy-three
That was a hoot and nearly came to blows.
A new rule was added,
sorry, not mentioned earlier:
No competitions that require a judgment call!
More work for Fred the Frame.
The events were friendly; usually!
Oh, there was the cheating scandal
when Crocs; accused of entering a ringer;
Big Red Jock McTavish
in the toothpick tossing challenge
had to provide ID and quickly.
Thank you, Photoshop and Kinkos.
Worm charming in sixty-three went to the Fuzzy Socks
Who won again in sixty-four; Toe wrestling,
and sixty-five for Cellphone tossing - bad call.
The Crocs finally broke their winning streak,
when Aldon Ardy; who won Cherry pit spitting,
became a local hero and invented
Aldons pitless cherry pies!
Embarrassments for both abound;
the Crocs lost Rolling in the Grits
and Fuzzy Socks the raisin flicking.
Yet still, they meet each and every year
passing the challenge on
to kids and grandkids too
The Fresno Fuzzy Socks
and The Chatahoochie Crocs.
fuzzy socks and crocs Poetry Contest; honorable mention.
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
Date wrote: 15-June-2021
C ountry roots beckon regrets of past transgression
O ne-way ticket meant to soothe my innermost obsession
M emories of you not fading with passing of the years
I mmortal flame has kept alive cherished souvenirs
N aively thinking I’d drift and just avoid the truth
G ames were played in the foolish gardens of my youth
B almy nights not forgotten in the heat of summertide
A ugust breezes summon me to return home by your side
C innabar and cinnamon reverie of your perfume in moonlight
K aleidoscopic magic remembered in your eyes at midnight
H eartstrings of surrender repentant to bygone wanderlust
O pen your heart and grant me a chance to earn again your trust
M oonstruck and lovesick ready to prove myself and pay my due
E nchanted under your spell I’ve come back home to you
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on February 14, 2021 for contest COMING BACK HOME sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 2ND
I hate you,
I never liked you,
Who would?
And why someone, should?
You are a lonely night,
And people don't like lonely nights,
Lonely nights are poisonous,
Lonely nights kill their victims until they're begging for death on their knees with their eyes bleeding exhausted from tears chocking them with their wailing fears while being spectated by their ones so dear.
You are a feverish fire,
And no one likes feverish fires,
Feverish fires burn down the city of dreams and desires of the country of heart and roam around the planet of the brain like a tourist wandering to see the great ruins of the Roman Empire until it's tired.
You are a ghastly ghost,
And no one cares about a ghastly ghost,
A ghastly ghost wanders alone on the road to destruction while its brain remains fretfully in the future and its body rotting in the present rested at the bed,
A ghastly ghost is alive whereas a ghost is just dead.
What a puppet!
Of your parents you are,
How are your tears in the jar?
You are a nobody, no one
Suffering in the heat of the sun,
Burning and burning and burning,
But why aren't you from your mistakes learning?
I apologise,
I am so sorry for,
Letting you down.
For the ashes of the pictures in the drawer,
For always making you act like a clown.
You are just a human,
Who can blame you ?
You try so hard,
And all the things that you do,
Always keeping up your guard.
If only you could sleep
but the night's fires cause me to weep.
Deep in the heat of burning embers
it's your heart I want to remember.
A lifetime ago now teetering
your smile found me quivering
but as the years raced by
you have little recall of that you and I.
I'm here, wiping away your tears,
comforting your delusions and your fears.
Listen to my voice
you still have that choice.
Cruel is nature that brought us here
when sharing our senior years.
Say my name, say it once again
remember that I knew you when.
When -
the world was ours to take
young and escaping fools' mistakes;
when -
if only time would could restore our trust
listen my heart, my soul recalls the very best of us.
Come back to me in this moment
be still your inner mind's torrents;
I'm here, the caretaker of your memory
what happens next lies in the mystery.
Rest now, don't cry, don't weep,
what's shared is forever ours to keep,
stay the tears, hold my love and sleep.
I had a dream one night that the poetry soup members held a convention
a meeting of minds, an assemblage
of International poets getting together for an annual conference
to discuss poetic matters, bonding and foraging new friendships and words
in New York City . . .
because it has a major port of entry and International airports- so perfect
we will find each other in Central Park . . .
in Strawberry Fields created in the memory of John Lennon
at the "Imagine" mosaic donated by Italy
the trees in this area coming from every country- how fitting
a meeting for like-minded poets . . . oh sublime
we will meet in the heat of July when the birds are fluttering
when all the flowers are in bloom and people are mingling
yes, "imagine" poetry soup poets from all over the world meeting
for the first time ever . . .
________________________
March 9, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/"Imagine" A Poetic Convention
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1122-409-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, First Annual Poetrysoup Conference
sponsor, Line Gauthier
First Place
Around this war-scarred earth, American heroes lie asleep,
Attesting that the cost of freedom does not come cheap.
Etched upon simple marble stones for all eternity,
Are the names of those who belong to a very special fraternity.
Tho' they came from diverse backgrounds, they bonded as one,
Forming a band of brothers and sisters to see the battle won.
Of all races, cultures and divergent religious creeds,
They set aside such differences to fulfill their nation's needs.
They cared not that in the heat of battle a Hebrew was at their side,
Or that a Catholic or Muslim tenderly embraced them as they died.
They forsook all such prejudices and truly understood,
That love transcends all else to create true brotherhood!
Afro-Americans and Caucasians lie side by side in sacred graves.
Asian and Mexican heroes rest beneath the roiling waves.
They sacrificed all upon the Altar of Honor defending liberty,
Ensuring that this land would remain free to foster diversity!
Upon each stone a young hero's bio is briefly sketched.
Alas, space does not permit his aspirations to be etched.
If space allowed, no doubt his earnest prayer would be:
"No more war! Follow the Master's Golden Rule is my plea!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
In the shadows of a fractured consciousness, where words fall like shattered glass,
The man, unable to articulate, to express with clarity, retreats into action.
His thoughts, like wild horses, gallop through the vast and tumultuous plains of his mind,
Yet his tongue, bound by the chains of a limited lexicon, stumbles, falters, and falls into silence.
In the theater of existence, where every gesture becomes a desperate cry,
The vocabulary of action is tethered to the body,
Each movement a scream, each breath a prayer,
Yet the silence of true understanding hovers, vast and unmoving.
When words fail to bridge the chasms of human connection,
Violence erupts like a wild, primal, and relentless storm,
A language of fists and fury, born of frustration,
The man's body becomes his voice, his weapon is his extended lexicon.
In the bleak landscape of limited expression,
Weapons become the dictionaries of the inarticulate,
Cold metal and sharp edges writing sentences of blood and pain,
For in the heat of conflict, the unspoken finds its violent release.
Men tread shadowy paths, their souls burdened by the weight of miscommunication,
The frustration of unspoken words etching scars upon the fabric of their beings,
Seeking solace in the harsh clarity of confrontation,
An incomprehensible lexicon that speaks in echoes of fear and aggression.
In the swirling depths of consciousness, the storm's fury continues,
A symphony of silent screams and unspoken desires,
Bound by the fragile chains of an inadequate vocabulary,
Eyes that ask what can't be answered, hands that seek what can't be grasped.
Yet in this maelstrom of silent agony, a glimmer of understanding remains,
A hope that beyond violence, beyond primal cries,
There lies a place where words can heal, where silence gives way to connection,
Where the fragmented pieces of the soul can unite in the harmonious dance of true expression.
For in the heart of the storm, in the eye of the silent tempest,
Lies the possibility of finding one's voice, of breaking the chains,
Transforming weapons back into words,
Reclaiming the language of humanity, the melody of understanding,
In the perfect blend of hearts, where silence no longer reigns.
It was you
that pitch black night
held me in the silk of your touch.
We strangers
had never seen one another.
I entered the youth hostel
late that night.
A young man
with a flashlight
led me to my cot.
I laid quietly
ready to sleep,
suddenly
your hand
moved up my leg.
It was you
removed my pants
put my hand
on your naked breast
wrapped your lips around me.
It was you
who mounted me
you
who rode me.
We never uttered a sound
not even a faint whisper.
I held them in
my screams,
my wish to yell your name,
had I an inkling...
what it was.
I restrained
my words of endearment
those words
those beautiful words
one shares
in the heat of pleasure.
It was you
who made me explode.
It was you
moved
so I could lap you up
like hot sweet milk.
It was you
scented in the fragrance of lust
as I held your shivering body,
as I inhaled it
over and over again
addicted to its effect.
It was you
left
before I awoke
that morning.
It was you
decided never to reveal
yourself in the light of day.
It was you
left me wondering
...
Who?
19~12~2014
Maurice Yvonne
If it was you
SoupMail me!
January:
Journey into an another Era
with many aims still raw
begins with a Jaunty January
into a heart throbing journey.
February:
Flower in fine fields flow
into a stream and film of rows
It is the quite Freezy February
welcomes us with unique flowering.
March:
Mutely comes the month Marching
with many multiple matters
of music, It is the Melodious March
exactly a nice tune played mutely.
April:
Aspiring interest are adored
like a hill covered with lot of snowed
May the struggle rise it is Aiming April
If you miss to aim, then no aspiring.
May:
Metres high in the heat of feet
full of melons, mangoes and meat
definitely rare, its the Magic May
none other shower love in high metres.
June:
Jotting the dates that went
with the rest left for rent
Its the Juicy June
That’s, just to sip and jotting.
July:
Jaded with full of work
nothing there to wonder
As it is the fine Joyful July
a month with loads jaded.
August
Attention! you're in the mids
try to know the way it leads
surely it is lovely and a Attracting August
never to miss the way, have attention!!!
September:
Smooth and slow, free and low
like a pure stream with no blow
busy with songs of Singing September
lovely song birds utter sweet and smooth.
October:
Old is gold as goes a line
often with many memories fine
still all goes well in Oddless October
as the gold move the new and the old.
November:
Nature with all good and best
rest in a few places and others waste
As it's a Naughty November
changes everyone into a fine nature.
December:
Down the end comes the dues
with all the do's to be done in sue
as not to be away in Dreamy December
always to be correct though we come down.