At the risk of coming off turgid
I offer this tale esoteric
Hoping it’s not found insipid
Nor causes one to be apoplectic
But rather received with alacrity
Without the need for paroxysm
My word there’ll be no chicanery
And avoidance of anachronism
Far from being sesquipedalian
Nor need for any razzmatazz
The tale of the slubberdegullion
Who thought himself full with pizzazz
Though being so supercilious
His affect stirred only dudgeon
Any good was so very fugacious
From this untoward tatterdemalion
Yet still he persisted a mumpsimus
If you will, and worse a panjandrum
So aggravating and rumbustious
Redeeming qualities not a modicum
An unquestioned snollygoster
Given to being quite vagary
An ill-reputed hugger-mugger
And a voice of such cacophony
But I see that you are insouciant
And consider my warning malarkey
Since you wish to be recalcitrant
My apologies for being persnickety
I end my tale of the rapscallion
Without further ado or rigmarole
Avoiding becoming ultracrepidarian
I have met my supererogatory parole
Please help me in my confusion
Come to my rescue
Do not leave me sitting all alone
On this lonely beach of abandonment
Help me my brothers
Help me my compatriots
Help me you all men of good will
To make a modicum of sense
From all disconcerting confusion around me
My country has become an enigma
Difficult to fathom and rescue
From self inflicted contradictions
We were in the abyss of despondency
We were in dire need
To wriggle out from Economic strangulation
Kidnapping and banditry
General insecurity and insurgency
Glaring leadership failure
And like furious flash flood
We trooped out with hope in our hearts
With one goal in mind
To cast our votes and make a change
Particularly the youth eager
To put their trust once more
In a system bereft of any trust
And like a Gale of disappointment
Our hope came cascading down
To the abyss of disillusionment
And cacophony of claims and denials
And waiting for the unseen hands of destiny
To steer her from annihilation
To the habitual and perpetual state of inertia
she said to refuse the path
diverge and emerge upon your trail
the first step is always fraught
with a queasy uneasiness
a modicum of doubt is natural
ask the lemmings that survive
life is all about listening to within
large measures of accrued wisdom
adorned in virtues a necessity
as you walk each step grows assured
the aim of life is to walk away
with who you are
always aware that ordered order
is the fog of chaos
the delusion of illusion
the elusion surviving lemmings share
the goal in life is to die free
scars are there to remind you
life comes with a price
mistakes are never to be denied
they are a gold mine of learning
the coin to the Ferryman
must be what you have earned
upon your forged trail
be worthy of the scales of Anubis
the quiver of quodlibets
no longer serves the bow
the path is straight and narrow
human questioning
is nothing more than grasping straw
to be counted amongst
the forgotten men
numbered amongst the homesmen
OKC 11/22
sawed-off on the
crimson emerald from a cloudy sky
squeal
and, at times, the reason
low-slung why
sparkles of a pearly salver
modicum of encrusted damask mist
befuddles me
albeit
moon, amber, and opalescence
spawn a charming sight
the perspective
strikes each crevice of the flesh.
and psyche advise
shrouded in a cinereous cloud
hapless and helpless, a glum-blue wolf
growls out a bluesy bemoan.
creating a lacuna
of gallivant love touchstone
leaden wails of anguish
rhythmic echoed refrain
plainchants of auric yearning
reminiscent of challah
aiming for eleemosynary seeds
cahoots to germinate and thrive
2nd place contest winner
Written: March 20, 2023
A Strand No 1201 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Within the heart of everyone
There lurks an evil mystery.
Undermining good intentions,
Spurring on to malefaction.
God declares, our hearts are wicked,
defiled by sin and selfishness.
Yet in our sight we are upright
With a modicum of malice.
Sinning for the sake of sinning
Not just occasional misdeeds,
But delight in sin and evil,
was Augustine’s apt conclusion.
Solzhenitsyn clearly saw it
As he lay in Russian gulag.
The line between good and evil
runs right through every human heart.
Even gangster Mickey Cohen
thought he was a decent fellow.
With no need for transformation,
Or God’s gift of soul salvation.
Deny not the evil within
Treat it as a venomous beast.
Plead like Paul for God to free you,
Give you grace, to eschew evil.
My father passed a few years back, and he keeps appearing in my dreams, always on the same street and roughly the same dialogue. The poem/story has no real format. Just my feelings on it. Thanks!
Silent Street
On streets where past and present collide, holograms ride delta waves
You sidle up, gate light and easy, mid conversation
I Parse the rhetoric for glimmers of acceptance
But again benign, drivel muddles the way
The one sided blather on photography labors uncontested
Your catalogue, a thorough exhibition of you
Fitting. Buried emotions etched in celluloid
Reveling in silent shame, feeling a camaraderie
of sorts
Time is short, so silent I stay
Ears hinged for signs of accountability
A modicum of responsibility
And so I wait...
The pipe store beckons, it's almost time
Fading into the night he says We'll meet up later
I know we will. So Maybe, next time.
Till then, in silent space, I standalone. Apologies unrendered.
waiting
milky Way
eyes
riding
shooting star
choosing
hallucinations
tumbled
from modicum
heart
scattering
under light
&blood red moon
grasped?
defying
lookup
remember
stars are
lost dreams
&gazing
back
at you
yet
mourns
each stolen
soul
crying
muted
again never
cogitate on
dawn
nor
sun lentigines
expectations
enters two
shades:
torment
&fear
black
for isolation
red
for blood
&Intoxication
Written: Sep 12, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
I used to think my ship would come in
Dreaming of fortune, a modicum of fame,
But learning to be content where I am
Has taught me the real name of the game.
Finding oneself and being happy inside
Is more important than loads of currency
Though security is certainly a desirable
So is just knowing “the Lord will provide.”
When the fates deal me some bitter pill
And my future is looking especially grim,
I need to remember He’s with me still,
Sustenance depends on my trusting Him.
Written August 8, 2022
Spare me the agonizing of disaffected trolls
Who find nothing of substance worthy of note,
Desperately seeking a modicum of control
Their unconcealed nastiness a matter of rote.
Have they nothing better to do with their time
Than to criticize the successes of legitimate poets
Who, themselves, have difficulty making a rhyme,
But coming up with a dig, they promptly throw it.
Let’s preserve Poetry Soup from this pitiful type
Who comes here only to stir and create turmoil,
Making sure not to give them impetus or hype
In another place may they find more welcome soil.
Doing all we can to maintain peace and goodwill
Let’s keep Poetry Soup free of fractious voices,
Being careful not to engage in avoidable overkill,
But never failing to silence disconcerting noises.
Written May 17, 2022
Such is life
A mixture of happiness and strife,
Not always in equal measure
The sadness and the pleasure,
We must take both in stride
For we are only along for the ride,
Trying to gain a modicum of control
To make ourselves indelibly whole.
written March 15, 2022
So, who says it takes ten years to become a poet?
I’ve read incredible lines from second graders --
Some may write for sixty years, you’d never know it
For all some have become are mediocre shaders!
Do you consider it “good” poetry to criticize others
When you’ve not developed a modicum of expertise?
Your propensity for negative thoughts only smothers
While most Poetry-Soupers skills steadily increase.
So, be careful how you turn your venom on Soupers
Whose work is far superior to what you are showing
Open your Comments for those you call “poopers”
And we’ll share our true thoughts, not so glowing!
I hope when you read this poem, you do take offense*
For we are tired of being the butt of your nasty intents.
#55 on Best New Poems List
Written November 29, 2021
*for your information, this is a classical form put
to good use, in this case, since you criticized us
for using classical forms!
I have little sympathy for constant whimpering
Playing the victim and saying, “Woe is me!”
With that self-conscious smirk of simpering
The sort of thing that repeats itself annoyingly.
Few things I experience will trouble me much
I have little sympathy for constant whimpering,
I find myself impatient with an unwanted touch
And that kind of tete-a-tete of sly whispering
In my presence, where I am constantly tempering,
These are types of behavior I cannot abide,
I have little sympathy for constant whimpering
So, whiners and whisperers, don’t sit by my side.
Give me that modicum of respect I have earned
Observe polite decorum opposed to whispering
In early childhood my father made sure I learned,
I have little sympathy for constant whimpering.
written October 18, 2021
Jeopardy fans are asking, “What the heck?”
While the producers try to replace Trebek.
I understand they are working harder still,
But, so far, no one has appeared to fit the bill.
How can it be so hard to find a candidate
Who has a modicum of ability to moderate?
When guests are the real stars of the show,
It’s not the host, but what contestants know
They could dub in an A.I. robot, for all I care,
It’s contestants who knock me out of my chair
I will support whomever they ultimately get
Meanwhile I watch re-runs and do not fret!
written September 8, 2021
My generation did what we could
To make the world a better place
But sometimes for our feverish efforts
We got nothing but a slap in the face.
Weighy problems we could not solve
In spite of our many concerted efforts
So, we passed them to the next generation
To find ways to overcome our discomforts.
Overall, we improved the quality of life
Made mistakes along the way, we admit,
Some of them so far-reaching we regret
But, we did not on our laurels sit.
Your world will be different, I am guessing,
From the world that was handed to us
And while I won't be around I am certain
You'll have some thorny issues to discuss.
You won't be able to solve all the problems
Facing you in your new and strange world
Take some time to reflect on the criticisms
At us, your ancestors, you cavalierly hurled.
You won't solve all of your world's woes
Even the ones you are responsible for
But give us even a modicum of respect
And admit we triumphed over some, for sure.
written August 12, 2021
A Spider sat both broad and fat
In a wake of morning dew.
Hoping a juicy fly would catch its eye...
But any old bug would do.
The Spider waited through the day
With nary a bug to eat.
Feeling low of ebb... it left its web
Looking for a treat.
The Spider crawled some distance...
With not a modicum of fear.
It was the King at hand of all these lands
But still no bugs appeared.
"I am the victim of my own success."
The Spider emphasized with glee.
"Is there no one there to chance compare
With someone great like me?"
The Spider wallowed in avarice narcissism
As it found something quite brand-new
Where its ravenous hunger abated
Now staring at the bottom of a... shoe.
"What is this?" The Spider wondered.
"It does provide a little shade.
How well and grand to understand
Such kindness to display."
The moment was a fleeting one
As good things tend to be.
And by and by... the Spider died...
On this we can agree.
But pity not our bold brave Spider
As there are lessons to construe
With people gamboling about like Spiders...
Just waiting for a shoe.
The End
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