The man in the elevator hung a sign
which said that going up will cost you a dime,
and he barred the entrance with some bright red twine,
which the man would unfasten from time to time
whenever the coin was pressed into his hand.
And thousands of people who worked in the tower
went up twice a day and so paid it offhand;
He would remove the sign at each midnight hour
The man in the elevator every eve
said, so many sheep, it's hard to believe.
For only he knew that the sign wasn't real.
And hey, only ten cents - it's not a big deal!
eccentric
mischievious
quirky
sensations
insouciance
splashed
in
glimpses
of complicated
offhand
fashions
witty
comical
coherent
counterpoint
so
unnervingly
curious
in exaggerated
nonsensical
carricatures
seething
teeming
augmented
elongated
elaborations
absurb
amusing
into
rough-hewn
reminders
I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
So many more. Just a sampling of favorites, per contest instructions.
For each poet I have included a sampling of titles in parentheses.
THREE OF MY FAVORITES
Gershon Wolf
Gershon lands me in stitches.
In his wise and funny hands,
I can’t help but smile or laugh.
A grin happens, belly twitches.
(Sex Sells, War is Hell; Tingles, Twitches, Creaks;
Scant Solace in the Solstice, Old Bessie)
Caron Krutsinger
Caron carries me to Wonderland.
Her muse and faeries’ mischievous.
Earthbound - school, kids and pets.
Her quaint stories, written offhand.
(Sleeping Elfin Baby, Santa Puppy Begs for Bones,
Unicorn with the Rainbow Tail, Fluffy Fat Robin)
Evelyn Judy Buehler
Evelyn’s poems’ immersed in hues.
An imagistic touch of stirring magic.
God will gift her with eternal colors -
Not one of them, she will refuse.
(Clashing Colors, Scarlet Noon, Green Door, Moonlight Blue)
12/30/2022
Who is your best PS poet or poetess Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Clouds loom drifting, passing by,
The west wind gently tempts them on
Though no one knows what cause them cry
And no one hears their pleading voice
As all their acid tears well dry.
Snowy white, in rank and file,
The south wind warmly glides them far;
Smiling wryly all the while
Natant high above the earth
Ambling on, mile after mile.
Alluring to the offhand glancer
The east wind briskly chafes them forth
Skittering like the showtime dancer
Yet hidden deep within their breast
A growing rude and covert cancer.
But nature's wrath will bid her toll
The north wind casts the clouds astray
Freezing, breezing, pole to pole,
The stricken, tainted, wisps will wane ~
Dare no one care to save their soul?
So now as time is dwindling low
As the ill winds clime their worst
The poisoned rains, in flooding flow,
Rape our land to end mankind ~
And still, the winds shall wanton blow.
Belief systems rigid:
enslavement to a cult,
offers mind some solace;
type of self-hypnosis
but of God, not a trace.
Belief systems rigid:
hymns and mantras we chant,
address but lower mind,
wherein we praise ourself,
whilst in scriptural bind.
Belief systems rigid:
makes us intolerant
to views others expound,
which we dismiss offhand,
since we ourself are bound.
Belief systems rigid:
of what avail are words,
offering not clear sight
nor surge of bliss vibrant,
that heightens heart’s delight?
11-June-2022
I do like poems I can understand
Written with plain everyday words
Thought out, not merely offhand,
Observing basic poetry standards.
Written with plain everyday words
I want to feel the rhythmic flow
Observing basic poetry standards
A poem that has somewhere to go.
I want to feel the rhythmic flow
As lilting language tripping along
A poem that has somewhere to go
Singing like the lyrics of a song.
As lilting language tripping along
I am partial to sight and sound
Singing like the lyrics of a song,
Fresh, original, breaks new ground.
I am partial to sight and sound
Teach me something I don’t know
Fresh, original, breaks new ground,
Plant some seeds likely to grow.
Teach me something I don’t know
Thought out, not merely offhand,
Plant some seeds likely to grow,
I do like poems I can understand.
Written May 16, 2022
Oh great divide you stand to look at me
while I on bended knee grope for you
between this world and the next
we are like ocean book ends ,
meeting in the center of the Universe ;
Oh great depression you are killing me
offhand remarks ingrained in my psych
your a wedding band on my finger
and joy can never ring us
when our hearts meet, we suck air ;
Oh great divide why can't we feel
the day we married we had the flu
between our worlds there is no next
we are like rivers running wild
meeting only through the great divide
Anger, I summon you then squelch you,
what is a broken heart to do, I ask you?
The Lord offered His wondrous love
Bringing forgiveness from above
I’m handpicked.
Upholding my faith’s fervent zeal
His truth-covenant shows great seal:
God’s handshake.
Saviour’s branch I am; He’s the vine
My heart accepts His work divine
as handmaid.*
Mighty sovereign of my soul
He leads toward triumphant goal
not offhand.
With Christ making my life blissful
I thank Him, being His grateful
handiwork.
*Luke 1:38 And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word…
May 13, 2020
5th place, "A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1218" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 5/22/2023
Some people don't have habit to listen
when one talks, it seems words go in one way;
speaker regrettably fails to convey;
May be one can find, why they don't listen.
One can speculate for days on reasons;
Is it no concern in topic at hand?
Maybe they love to hear own voice offhand
or their minds busy, can't take ideas.
Can we adopt ways of dealing with them?
If one can get on their level to speak
to make sense to them, a true way unique;
or asking them more questions for outcome.
Can one involve them with topic being
talked or show genuine care about them,
they'll feel much more comfortable in some
way talking and to express their feeling.
By involving them the speaker creates
a bridge of communication direct
and earn their respect, what makes a perfect
way to make them listen, appreciate.
It's an art to make people absorbed to
listen, understand topic that's explained
knowing new thoughts and interest displayed;
Some through talks reach hearts of audience too.
~X~X~X~
A pity I couldn't comprehend
What is happening to my homeland?!
Utter disarray harming my stand
Lives in the clutches of evil hands
The paths we are to walk have no ends
Face demons or bury heart in sand
Bend to the will, the risk in the wind!
To whom would I spill my reprimand?
Motherland, my love is fine and grand
My words of ivory wrap your land
On your sole soil, souls grow and expand
A pity I couldn't comprehend
What is happening to my homeland?!
In cage, dreaming of a promised land
On my life, you have the upper hand
My words if you feel and understand
My pain if you heal and put an end
Rise to a dare and hold a whip hand
The beast took hold of my fairyland
Reins of reign seized by anarchy bands
The world of lies, my ink couldn’t stand
The rain of words beyond my pen's hand
Homeland, if only you apprehend
To your turmoil I can't be offhand
Forgive my passion to a twin land
World of Ivory, my wonderland!
January 17th, 2019
60's Child
I found myself at the tail end of childhood then,
Coming out of its long sunny sleep;
The days and nights of pleasures, terrors, wonders
Strung together to make up the pitted landscape
Of being small
Still filled my world and made it whole.
Mostly i remember things like:
Summer crab feasts, "I Love Lucy" reruns
"Laugh-In" bits, the drone of ball games on t.v.,
Trips into town to my Grandfather's old store
For candy and comics
Back before my town became Yuppie Central.
Another child raised beneath the cathode rays' glow,
My mind absorbed images, words with only hinted meanings
- Like the smiling faces in the cigarette ads
The offhand reports of body counts
From a faraway, makebelive war,
i heard and felt the many signs of strain
Between the longhaired Bigger Kids and their parents;
But not for me their world of confused revolt.
That would come later, milder in my case
When I became one of their second, weaker, wave.
No, I stepped out of the close land of childhood
Just after it was all over;
Wondering ever since,
Just what it was I'd missed, or hadn't
By dint of being a kid of the fabled 60's.
A sure shot, he sets up a can, and digs his heels in the sand
feet spread, a hat on his head, a gun in his hand: he looks grand.
Cloudy skies shade the sun from his eyes, letting him aim as planned:
and that can, flew apart, just like he knew it would, beforehand.
His friend wants to end their partnership, he said as much, offhand:
a showdown’s coming; it'll all come down to who's quick of hand.
Their morels a hoax: they rob folks and sell stolen contraband
and hide their cash in the wetlands, stashing their loot in quicksand.
Two of the roughest, toughest gringos north of the Rio Grande
stand ready to test how much pain the other man can withstand.
Their shared desire to fire... will send one man to the promised land:
this is life and death, final breath, well beyond a reprimand.
They're fighting for reasons neither man can quite understand:
it's all about ego, and which gunslinger is in command.
The Blue Bandaid
on the track to the river
the red shoe
green skirt
blood stained knickers
splatter on the trail
the hacked off hand
the offhand remark
brings you back
to where you were
the blue band aid
on the river track
was forensic evidence
of a gruesome
rape murdercase
of yet another
innocent child
One sun-kissed day along a path
Serene inside the city’s park
We ambled slowly, hand in hand;
A couple passed, old man and wife,
Content, they seemed, with flower beds
All sun-lit gold and crimson-licked,
And then you paused, grew mesmerized:
An iris, pink, had caught your eye—
Your face turned down, your gaze adored,
You mentioned in an offhand way,
“So feminine,” you conjectured,
“These petals, smooth, the way they curve,
Like velvet flesh just touched by dew,
And see—it opens, pretty bloom.”
At that, you turned your lovely face,
You hotly trained eyes into mine—
We clenched and kissed as lovers will
While couples strolled, ignoring us …
At last, we sped, we hurried on,
And found the path to rush us home.
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