Long Posting Poems
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This is now my unofficial Poetry Soup Blog.
I know you're only supposed to post poetry here,
but as far as I can tell,
I can blog here as well
as long as my blog rhymes poetically to the reader's ear.
So check back here now and then occasionally.
I may have announcements to share for all of you to read,
but I'll post these blog announcements poetically.
That should justify my posting a Soup Blog
in a space that is most strictly reserved to log
all kinds of styles of all kinds of poetry.
If I have any new news that needs to be released
I'll leave this web address posted on my last posted poetry piece.
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*******
12/03/ 2009 -
I have deleted the following pieces from my postings.
Thank You Bird Of Prey & A Pale Male Tale.
I also have revised a couple of postings.
Pale Male's First Love & In Loving Memory Of Pale Male.
With both of those pieces I've eliminated the entire text
and substituted all of the text with a single web address.
Feel free to give them both a quick look see.
Do you think this is a good idea?
Your opinion matters to me.
In Loving Memory Of Pale Male> Site Under Construction
Pale Male's First Love> Site Under Construction
**********************************************************************
12/12/2009 -
This Is Not My Poem (Author Unknown) Parts 1 & 2
will be deleted at the beginning of the New Year
so you might want to give it one last view.
It's a special Holiday poem that you may want to read.
I posted it with the hope that a fellow Souper might know the author's identity.
I know the author's name now, thanks to one Mr A. W. Nutter, aka Anthony.
The author's name is Michael Marks. I'll leave his web page address before I leave
so that fellow Soupers who join in the new year can also give him a read.
Michael Mark's "A Soldier's Christmas"
http://www.michaelmarks.com/asoldierschristm.html
Here's the web address also for Mr Nutter's Poetry, aka Anthony's Poetry.
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=14459
This Is Not My Poem (Author Unknown)
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=185645
**********************************************************************
To Continue Go To:
My Poetry Soup Blog, Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=192344
Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again
Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process
Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because
He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels
He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more
Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool
Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt
In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted
“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”
“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”
Later, Mr. Obvious noted,
They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”
Mr Trump later told reporters.
“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief
France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump
sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude
could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”
the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief
When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.
april 17 poem for April Month of Poetry Challenge see Writers Digest, All Poetry and my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for the rest
Twas the night before Christmas and all were in need
as we waited for Santa who had promised us Weed.
Our parents were sleeping with not a clue in their heads
that their children were Stoners and away from their beds.
The cheetos had been placed on the table with care
with an idea dear Santa soon would be there.
The winter was cold with no time for a snack
hoping Kris Kringle would come with fresh Pot from his sack.
I had been to the Bank and had obtained hordes of cash
with a fervent desire St. Nick would bring the best of his Stash.
We had our concerns for a reasonable fellow
who was honest and straight... no harshing our mellow.
The time had been set as I looked at the clock
knowing the waiting was tense and we needed our Pot.
And then from the porch a strange sound did we hear
but it was only friend Jim who had gone for some beer.
I stared out the window and peered through the snow
and we were greatly concerned whether Santa would show.
And then from the street... what did I observe?
A '72 ford Pinto... which was stuck on the curb.
The engine was smoking and the tires were flat
and with the windows quite frosted... I reached for my bat.
This didn't look good as I gave way to doubt.
Wondering who was the driver and who would come out?
And who should come forth? But Santa himself
who was all bearded and fat, a jolly old Elf.
He climbed to our rooftop... was nimble and quick
thus avoiding the doorbell... this fella was slick.
He was now in the chimney and this lightened our hearts
and we knew he was close when we heard the Elf fart.
And then in an instant the Big Guy appeared
but asking double the price for which we had feared.
We told him our troubles as he pondered our point,
he then lowered the price on every third Joint.
The payment was made and the dope was obtained
and up the chimney he rose unconcerned for the flame.
I'll remember that night... for it was a doozy
when Santa came through... and brought me a Doobie.
As he drove out of sight... I heard him calling my name...
Merry Christmas to all and goodnight Mary Jane.
The End
*For those who are interested. I will be posting my cartoon 'Bob's your Uncle' on my homepage. A new one will appear every second day.
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
My first poem on the soup:
Honouring the Wartime Dead
They fought with grit to save the nation,
From poverty, squalor and infidelity,
And when they marched it was the Nazi’s or them,
Who would suffice to keep their dignity.
The Second was really over the same as the First:
The freedom and equality that democracies offer;
Hitler was not to rule the freethinking lands,
Which representative governments quietly did proffer.
Their Ladies’ which, it was said, almost flew themselves,
Were engineered by women as superior planes;
Through dogfight and bullet, over occupied territories -
The pilots exploded German ammunition trains.
In Response to My First Poem
As a child of four and five,
And right through my early primary years,
My dad talked at dinner about the war,
And of his wartime distresses and fears.
But a few times when I was really young,
He took an arm chair and gave voice,
To how he felt and dealt with his posting,
And that it was his and only his choice.
It was just him and me who had discourse,
So I dug as hard as I could but gave him his space,
For just exactly how he’d enlivened,
The plane of his of which he was an ace.
He called it to me his lady,
And from then on I understood how to handle,
Planes and all kinds and tech and devices:
That you should respect them and tangle.
He told me what the two world wars meant,
And suggested sexual sterilisation was at stake,
And that it was grit which retained the dignity,
Of the western world which did quake.
I am a political, scientific and atheistic poet,
And wished to allude to that with my first poem,
That I love poeticising culture and technology:
Computers and all that, ‘cos I know ‘em.
As a child of four or five,
I promised myself to give back to him somehow,
Most definitely in the form of a literary poem,
That knowledge he’d imbued in me, his dow.
The poem Honouring the Wartime Dead,
Also quietly murmurs atheism’s practical arms,
As my dad had quietly admonished mindset and action,
Without any reservations or qualms.
I hope that on the soup,
You find from me a good read,
Enjoyable but educational and with a view,
That lets you tell the bloom from the weed.
29/9/2015
For the A Response to my First Poem contest by Silent One.
The Master Artist Pt 1 --Pt 2--the ending, is the next posting
The artist’s tray was loaded with colors, each pastel waiting for its turn:
Hues of indigo blues lie impatiently, sparks of carmine seemed to burn.
While English chrome colors lay in anticipation for the Master’s touch.
The yellow ochre pansies readied to fill the void on the painter’s scene.
Each hue was waiting for its turn but chosen first was the yellow green.
Winds blew lightly against the canvas and upon each color that he lay
Each sound had a melodic lilt as the grass seemed to grow and sway
Under a fountain of colors, each strike radiant upon the colored field.
Cerulean blue skies lightly painted waited for a stray, pearl-grey cloud
To float above the lively meadow, yet no spring rain would be allowed.
The artist was tired, yet couldn’t wait to return quickly the next day.
Morning came and his fervent fingers reached for the pastels that lay
Undiscovered upon the palette—more hues waiting for their chance.
He painted a sapphire blue creek moving snake-like up then down.
The artist smiled wisely, painting groves of trees of Van Dyke brown.
Afternoon came and pastel shades were glazed upon the flowing water
As the creek rippled over the violet stones painted on by the Master.
He seemed to lose all sense of night and day as each hue told a story.
Colors flew from left to right and the meadow seemed to come alive
Ruby hues were topped upon the phlox as fragrant flowers did thrive.
His hand would not cease until he had painted the bluebird at its song.
The misty meadow was melodious as he painted crickets to sing along.
The artist looked upon his growing scene and knew what it still needed
But his hand was weary and the pastel scene would wait another day
For colors that still lay brightly unused upon the Master Artist’s tray.
The next day he painted against the sky purple hills gently sun-kissed.
His hands worked with great passion as twisting trees seemed to tryst.
Pastel colors floated upon the land as pink butterflies flew here and there.
Sounds of songbirds were singing as his meadow seemed to nearly burst
With every color and every hue that the great artist had fervently dispersed.
Part Two has the Master Artist poem ending that I posted after this one--
(PoetrySoup doesn't allow enough space)
Adumbrated aeration regarding...
crafting reasonable poetic rhyme
nothing to sneeze... at chew
asthma lingua franca –
acts as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious glue
inspiring me to skip to my loo,
and ye to play altruist gist
imagining how and why I still rue
cashing mucho moolah legal tender
courtesy bitcoin cryptocurrency,
which absolute zero funds recouped,
nevertheless dumbfoundedness ironically
found steely mettle to get smart
courtesy posting gofundme page
(titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth)
on my part already got told to you
dear readers visiting my literary endeavor
written within vernacular English
spoken amidst human zoo.
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking and savings accounts averred
asked from one
FaceBook English literary
Jim Hensen creation and
Sesame Street resident Big Bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin (means 'pure' in Sanskrit
and another name for Hindu God, Shiva.
The most famous Sachin
ranks as recently retired
Indian cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar).
Impossible mission to expunge poison
regarding stupidity and never be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen plus three
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with profuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed.
First day as the Sheriff
and he's feeling real good.
Wants to make a difference
like any rookie should.
Working in a town
where boredom grows like grass.
He pulls into McWilleys
looking for some gas.
Attendant checks the oil
while he looks at open space.
The radio starts a blaring...
to head for Miller's place.
The Sheriff soon arrives
and Widow Miller's looking strained.
It seems some men from outer space
are playing in her grain.
She says, 'When I left the house
I thought I heard a noise.
I was quite concerned and thought
I'd find those pesky Parker boys.
But I found concentric circles
so I sent the Mayor a tweet.
Then I heard a Martian say, 'Sorry Ma'am...
for packing down your wheat.'
New to the job, you're in for a ride.
Fake it till you make it and let your worries slide.
If it's soon discovered you haven't any skill.
Then get your prettiest girl and run for the hills.
The Widow's in a panic
but the Sheriff will not yield.
Refusing to tell the Mayor
there are Aliens in the field.
When along comes a truck,
just adding to the fear.
The rancher yells, 'Them Aliens...
is carving up my steers!'
Unsure of what to do,
the Sheriff takes their names.
For trying to trick a rookie
and playing silly games.
The Sheriff's on the road
trying to finish up his day.
When cresting Pepper Hill,
there's a spaceship in his way.
He's going through his options
and thinks of turning back.
When a Martian taps his window...
and his world goes black.
He wakes up in a haze
and hears a Martian blurt.
'You'd better pucker up boy,
this is gonna' hurt.'
New to the job, you're in for a ride.
Fake it till you make it and let your worries slide.
If it's soon discovered you haven't any skill.
Then get your prettiest girl and run for the hills.
Then get your prettiest girl... and run for the hills.
Then get your prettiest girl... and run for the hills.
The End
*For those who might be interested, I will be posting my new cartoon, 'Bob's Your Uncle, on my homepage every second day.
Several weeks ago, I passed a church
that had a special sign. There was
nothing said about COVID-19, but COVID was clearly there.
COVID was there because
COVID had left its mark, its atmospheric debris.
Such debris was not visible,
but the psychic permeation was everywhere.
On a large print posting for any and all to see, it said,
Grand Reopening. My vision isn't any better than
most, but I tend to see more than most.
I tend to see and sense what is presented
as well as what isn't obvious. So I think to myself, "One can only reopen something that has been
opened before, and closed".
Our beautiful English language can be very tolerant with multi-meaning words. i.e., A word such as the
noun house( pronounced haus)-a building for human habitation;
and a word such as the verb house( pronounced hauz)-to provide
with or take shelter. If I do not know the difference, therein lies a dilemma that could change everything.
So, as I pass that sign, I think to myself again, "A church can clearly be closed, but THE CHURCH cannot". So I asked myself, "Does this location comprise both 'a church and THE CHURCH'? This is problematic if we do
not emerge from the pandemic with a better distinction. To some, this is merely semantics, sounds trivial and simplistic,
but to me, it is rather defining.
071821FBPS
Bring Peace to Whole World
Introduction.
This is Jim Horn who loves writing poetry and posting it
on Poetry Soup. I also hate typing. It is now 0500 in the
morning and I am just starting to prepare my latest poem.
Just started my Hawaiian Blend cup of coffee and am
drinking it. Laptop is in my lap and notebook with my
poems in it is on left side of me. I am reading what I
wrote down and posting it to Poetry Soup right now.
I always write down my poems in my notebook first.
My fingers seem to naturally flow onto the peace of
paper. Typing it up on computer is one of my dislikeable
points and even despicable as a cartoon character said.
This poem to me is the best that I have ever written. It
explains exactly how I would like my poem treated and
properly respected. I am the first to have broken Haiku
not Hiaku rules by rhyming some of the lines. To me,
this is a modernized version of haiku. Oh, and one other
thing. The website address should be at the bottom of each
poem so it can be located. Here is an example that was just
sent to me: www.poetrysoup.com/poem/quiet_of_the_night_696787
Lastly but not leastly, I feel that every poem should start off with an
introduction. Now on with the show and my poem. Jim Horn
Sun soon arose and later started to set
Then I would write one best ever and yet
That a poet has been written before
Will love everyone and thoroughly adore.
So great my poem always will be to me
Deep as an ocean wide like some sea
And tall mountain majestic and mighty
To be taken seriously and not lightly.
When further and further into poem explore
You will always appreciate it more and more
And somewhat later much to my very surprise
Poem would win a Nobel and Pulitzer Prize.
Prize by my President to me was presented
And to read it before Congress I consented
Poem is attached to wall in an archive
Forever and ever there it will survive.
God who I praise and because of Him
My each poem is in a book all of them
So you can now read and start to sing
Peace to whole world thy all will bring.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
All comments and criticisms are gladly welcomed.
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/bring_peace_to_whole_world_697785