.
hern purty hover'd mine
shoulder (i savour'd her powder)
take'n note she were
mine mark'd up slip
"that indent'd line
'long hern torso'z
hips
unto her glabrous
monz"
she perused this poesy
some dayz in mine
past
now again
hern
visits
overwhelming mine
think (no not with powder)
with linez
glabrate linez
ONE OLD HAT AND FRYING PAN
Our life is like a book of endless short stories..
filled with a myriad of highs and lows.
Stories we will write today stretching as far back as our memory goes.
One of the wonders and beauty we possess…as every day we age
is how easily a memory can be triggered…opening our book to a certain page.
Sometimes it a thing, a word, a photo…a melody…
and before we know it our book is opened to that page in our memory.
Today before my morning walk…two memories awoke…
both of them unplanned.
Stirred by Deborah’s dad’s old fishing hat
and her mom’s cast iron frying pan.
I stopped and smiled at the memories evoked
and since there were more memories I wanted to see…
I asked these two memories if they’d like to take a walk with me.
So as the three of us walked this morning
with the stars shining and the wind whistling through the trees…
I perused through a few short stories in the book of my memories.
What a beautiful walk we had this morning…
and to think it all began…
with memories awakened by an old fishing hat
and a cast iron frying pan.
Perused so many poems
Plunged into a few
So much talent distilled
into lines aching
to be discovered
Familiarity
Familiar as an old book,
but priceless.
Worn and frayed like,
an ancient tome.
Pages bent and torn,
heavily perused.
Annotated musings scribbled
bring back memories.
The shininess, sexiness, luster,
crispness of new pages,
new cover long gone.
Marriage is like that old book.
Now used, worn and tattered,
but warmer, deeper, richer.
The Empty Page
It sat there at my student desk
In wait of task to tend.
Write a poem, the teacher urged,
Your thoughts to paper, penned.
Intently, I perused the sheet,
Pale white and yet unmarked.
It lay there teasing my first move,
“Don’t leave me unremarked.”
This paper, college ruled and prim,
Well-bleached and full of aughts,
Stared blankly back at me to help,
With all my labored thoughts.
I searched the room for any clues
Of how I was to learn.
The clock was running faster now,
No time to wait and yearn.
I sat there squeamish and unnerved,
Too weak to brandish pen.
It was my first time close to death,
Too late for where and when.
Surely, all the class can see
My torment and refrain.
I’d rather have a spelling bee.
I’m circling ‘round the drain.
In looking back these many years,
My eyes were outward bent.
The chalkboard hung erased to black.
My mind, abridged, was spent.
But time has made its mark on me,
Halfway granting one old wish -
To find that poem in myself,
And give to Mr. Nish.
Robert Farrell Waltrip
I wandered and pondered my bleak isolation
As I slowly perused this wide open space
That one cloud above me seemed, like me, quite lonely
Its passage was slow as it matched my own pace
And then I saw poppies so tall, red and bold
I wished they were daffies in yellow and gold
The lake in its vastness reflected the skies
And sprinkles of sunlight beyond that lone cloud
Peppered the ripples with myriad eyes
And led me to feel like I walked with a crowd
While unopened poppies stand tall with bowed heads
They’ll stand even taller displaying their reds
Could there be any more precious a day
I all at once yearned to be no other place
With sunlight and ripples and poppies that sway
I found that a smile had enlivened my face
For such a sight might make an old poet gay
(Which one should interpret the old fashioned way)
For oftentimes upon my old sofa lain
I reminisce of all those poppies so red
Their petals occur to me now and again
But gold hues hold sway in my head
Though poppies, that day, cleared my mind of its ills
I still wish that they had all been daffodils
ABRACADABRA
In magic, was this exclamation really used
Perhaps it’s another myth to colour the tale
All those djinns in bottles, all the magic carpets
A time when most believers ended up confused
Thinking something unnatural is going on
Yet showtime audiences today are amused
Magicians are but entertainers as you know
Yet of trickery and cheating, few are accused
But the use of witchcraft is still beyond the pale
All the magic carpets, all those djinns in bottles
Perhaps that book of secrets has to be perused
Why do some people judge others
By the way that they look
Good looking people are often seen as good
Less fortunate seen as bad
Without reading their book
I once knew a woman with auburn long tresses
And smiling eyes that sparkled and talked
Lips painted rouge
She was no angel
With mud on her shoes
Everyone thought she was beautiful
But she was ugly inside
She lived however she chooses
But she was no angel
And had mud on her shoes
She was a ruthless huntress
After helpless prey
The perused would always lose
She was no angel
And had mud on her shoes
She always thought something was missing
That left her confused
She had everything and more
But she was no angel
And had mud on her shoes.
I want to be God
Just as I was meant
I wanna be loved
In and out of the tent
I want to be praised
All throughout the world
Want to be adored
By the loveliest girl
And just as the world
Will come to its end,
I want it to be said,
“He was better than men.”
I want to be God
The kind in the book
You’ve perused His name
You’ve heard how it took
I want to go back
To 1247
‘Cause in my estimation,
That was close to Heaven
But Heaven exists
On the top of a pearl
Let’s abandon this thing —
Let’s give it a whirl —
I want to be God
The instiller of fear
Oh won’t that be sweet
To be held so dear
So deep in the pavement
Beneath human feet
The killer of traffic
The idol of meek
I’ll creep and I’ll crawl
Like a certain snake
There’ll be no limit
To the abuse I can take
So God is a question
And God is a snack
God sits on a throne
In a Missouri shack
God does his business
And wipes with his hands
The squalor of reason
Is what God understands
You’ll see the difference
All throughout the land:
The inglorious servant
Will one day gain command
Gray evening's like gray dawn's ties thicken
At the exact same pacing expanse—
Both briefly hold the sun's motions in
Pallor moored with unmistakableness.
I am shaken by her warrior crest,
For I more than feel gray's breaking touch;
Though not cutting paths perused in lust,
But being where gentle pigeons send—
For gray evenings like gray dawns there must
Be a soft kindred line between them.
Seizuring so as if escaping from fright
You awoke suddenly around midnight
Then rolled over, meeting my body halfway
By habit, drew nearer and kissed me straight away.
Your cheek, always soft, nestled against mine.
Your wandering hand came to rest upon my thigh.
In my ear, your breath came like wind rushing.
By the touch of your tepid skin, I sensed flushing.
My eyes perused you in the moonlight
Convincing me for a moment that all was right.
You fell again to sleep peacefully it seemed
Perhaps to dream that time a pleasant dream.
A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.
A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.
Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.
No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.
Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.
Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.
But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.
Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?
Confusion hits a club
That’s when some began to be confused:
When in their club new blood was infused,
Prayers for starting meetings refused!
Soon, Treasurer in Mercedes cruised,
On weekends a Toyota used;
Now, finance files for hours perused!
“Who has our twenty million used?”
Hurt voice responding to the hearts bruised
A Treasurer by query bemused
But sometimes about query enthused…
Next, separatists from what had been fused,
Freshly ticking time bomb long defused
‘Calls for an understanding’ abused…
Wouldn’t club’s foes with joy be suffused?
Upon a winter’s outing I
a lovely cottage did espy;
of lovely blues with snow atop.
How I would love to have stopped,
just for a chat with merry folk,
whose home of happiness bespoke.
Within my car, I sat and sketched,
this lovely winter blissfulness.
On tree branch, sat a bird, a’twitter;
he was cold but, clearly not bitter.
Blue spruces dotted white landscape,
red maples reveal buds, new-birthed.
Some cattails waved behind a hedge,
the half-scraped sidewalk invited guests,
as an old red fox, behind house lurked.
but I thought better of my artwork.
So I sketched all that I could,
finishing as twilight lowered its hood.
As moon peeped up from among the clouds,
I perused my sketch, head bowed;
A tap upon the window I heard.
Imagine the surprise that occurred
when owner of that lovely place,
invited me in for hot tea and cakes!
You Select Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
1-20-2023
Whence the first rays of sunlight fall,
And nary a bird awake,
The purple shades of sky,
Signal for the war-drums to be played.
Sleep blown away,
The gruelling struggle stirs,
And the blueing sky calls,
For the armies to lay waste.
A thousand graves are dug,
Lifted aside are fallen men,
Letters put into being,
To be perused by brood and and bruv.
War stems from hope and anger,
In an inebriated state of righteousness,
Unfounded assumptions seeded by desire,
To be brought to rest in a book or melancholy tune of lyre.
So beware, raconteur,
the golden crusade, a facade of wreath of laurel,
For triumph is founded on the back of coercion.
Alas, nations will fight with power,
But men will be flayed away,
Not unlike the fabled golden crusade.
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