For the rush of water through pipes
For the sounds of Saviour's screaming
For the gentle touch of night
It is a play toy for madmen
With children's voices silenced
Listen
For a door silently closing
A neighbor's defiant cry
Or a baby weeping in the sullen
darkness
Listen
For the unrung phone
For spiders crawling
Across yesterday's destiny
For a drunkard's slurred voice
When he falls
Listen
For the knocking of souls
And the plaudits of martyrs
Silenced
July 20 Praises to God Bible Meditations Based on Proverbs 24-26
Key Verse – Proverbs 24:21 My son, fear thou the LORD and the king: and meddle not with them that are given to change.
PRAISE BE TO GOD FOR ADMONISHING US
TO FEAR HIM REVERENTIALLY
Praise be to God for admonishing us to
fear Him reverentially to overcome:
Mischievous persons with their meddling pestilence
Mishandled pressures due to mocking pleasures
Mismatched plans midst misbehaving posture
Mistaken plaudits caused by mystifying ploys
Misjudged pursuits along melting poverty
Proverbs 25:22 Praise be to the Lord for
rewarding us for our:
Heart of honour
Hope against hell
Help for the helpless
Hunger toward holiness
Hatred against haughtiness
Proverbs 26:10 Praise be to the Saviour for
rewarding us toward:
Victory from being a victim
Venture that vies over void vices
Virtuous vanquishing with our vow
Valuable vigour against vicious vanity
Valiant voyage against voluminous vexations. Amen!
July 20, 2024
Your eyes are failing
It's been a while
Although you've got
That cheeky smile
Their service contract
Long expired
So grandpa you should
Have retired
Your speedy legs
Once raced the best
Now traded plaudits
For old string vest
You fought and won
With strength and poise
Now mostly sleeping
(plus buzzsaw noise)
We know your parts
Are obsolete
Just worn so thin
Or incomplete
Yet priceless you,
So loosely held
No screws in place
Just fractured weld,
Have grasped our hearts
With all you've done
Guided the truth
For everyone
Your value
Can't be held in stocks
Although you've shared
It's you that rocks
You might be old
And slightly rustin'
You'll always be our own
Steve Austin
You are quite priceless
That's our opinion
To us you are
One in six million
He knows it.
He knows how beautiful all the world thinks he is.
Aware of the adoration, shallow infatuation.
He’s not blind to where this has led.
The fame
The fortune
The girls
The boys
The sex
The kudos
The parties
Yet
No matter the adoration, plaudits and swooners,
No one sees inside your soul.
Your own misgivings, insecurities.
Fighting your own demons that lurk within.
But this is not without merit.
For despite the the here and now, the gifts and the glory, he is smart.
He knows it will not last, does he burn bright to the last?
A short yet powerful flame?
One he controls?
Or does he turn to an ember, a lost forgotten spark which has ebbed away its heat, to a puff of smoke that’s lost on the wind?
While the sun set
While at rest,
the hay is lay,
Write me beautiful songs
and poems
fill my corridors
with plaudits
While you can,
knock at my door
and with me share the
good news
perhaps, sing them
like lullabies
While you can
praise me. praise me.
for a good work done
before streams of
eulogies turn into mournful
dirges
And while there's time
show me that you care
I will do same,
to you who breath and
water flows
©Min Smartt & Doris Mawusi
Usain Bolt is a phenomenon.
It used to be: "Stockily Built,"
"Shooting like the ball from a canon"
And seriousness up to the hilt!
Along came Usain like a bolt!
Not with the tight and stringent run
But with the elegance of a colt
Directly from the sound of the gun.
He executes the knees-up style,
His chest's at maximum capacity.
And is held out all the while
While the legs speak agility.
He monopolizes not this style of running
But engages all departments to their limits.
He sees that all engines are firing
And ultimately deserves all plaudits!
How will I know if I’ve written a good poem?
Is self-assessment the best measure of its worth
Shall I seek a plethora of plaudits at random?
If it’s funny, then perhaps, laughter and mirth,
If it’s serious, I should think some reflection
Is self assessment the best measure of its worth?
Some fine poets have a particular predilection
And those poems shine, others not so much,
If it’s serious, I should think some reflection.
I believe most important is how it flows, as such
Being like a strong tide carrying flotsam and jetsam
And those poems [may] shine, others not so much.
Some poets say a poem must rhyme, yet some
Without rhyme, like blank verse, are excellent,
Being like a strong tide carrying flotsam and jetsam.
Excellence comes down to absolute raw talent,
How will I know if I’ve written a good poem?
Yet, without rhyme, like blank verse, is excellent
Shall I seek a plethora of plaudits at random?
Written July 31, 2022
Sunrise
Warm amber rays
Greet me with morning light
Softly peeking through my window
A welcome voyeur is this peeping Tom
Who wakens me in time to hear
sweet trilling of songbirds
Plaudits to the
Sunrise
July 17, 2022
Radical Rictameter Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
I'm always the supporting actor
I've never been the star.
It seems I'm always the chauffeur
driving someone else's car.
I've always been a loyal player
never the captain of the team.
It feels as if I'm playing a part
fulfilling someone else's dream.
I've always been a Joker
I'm feel happy playing the clown.
I find a sense of humour
helps make this world go around.
I'm honest and I'm loyal
although it doesn't always pay.
Some see it as a sign of weakness
where they can have their Way.
I do things without question
never asking what its for.
I let others share the plaudits
knowing I've helped is my reward.
After all is said and Done
we should be happy as we are.
For if God made us in his own image
then everyone's a superstar.
You may talk of submarines
And of other war machines
As you sip your beer and talk of yesteryear.
You may even look with awe
At the ships that roll and yaw,
And the carriers as steady as a rock.
And what’s prettier to see
Than a ‘can’ while out at sea
With her bow that’s dancing through the brine.
A destroyer, tough as nails
Boarding seas bury her rails
Staying vertical is truly an ordeal.
To the frigates plaudits go
They put on a graceful show
As they sleekly speed along at sea.
But there is a far-famed ship
And to her our caps we tip
To the Sweeper who was where we’re heading now.
See their sweeps when they outreach
Clearing paths from deep to beach
For landing craft to bring the soldiers through.
Knowing mines unswept ahead,
Resolutely then they thread
And their sweep gear clears a channel for the fleet.
So we give them our salute
Every mine-sweeping galoot.
And raise a toast to them when they’re ashore.
I know some folks who would not know a poem
If it slapped them in the face.
The way some string unrelated words together
Is an absolute disgrace.
Sometimes, the grammar is so bad it really smarts,
Basic spelling forgotten,
Lines that have absolutely no meaning, for sure,
Rhyming, well, it is rotten.
These wannabe “poets” have a gift, I suppose,
All kidding aside, my friends,
For the life of me, I cannot make heads or tails
Or make the necessary amends.
But, if we are seeking plaudits, trophies, awards
Or seeking lasting fame,
We must be sure that drivel and gibberish never
Appear beneath our name.
Of the hundreds of poems and verses I have written
In my long writing lifetime,
Perhaps two or three were truly worthy of note,
Ones I would call sublime.
Most of us poets like to see our name in print
But, for goodness sakes, we ought
To make sure that our poems say what we meant
And set forth a logical thought.
Written June 20, 2021
Who makes an enemy of a wounded child of God,
Who claim to understand God’s amazing grace
They walk unrighteous paths with feet unshod.
They choose the path to perdition, long and broad,
While all the while seeking to impress, save face--
Who makes an enemy of a wounded child of God.
It is they who perpetuate the bothersome fraud
As they go about, day by day, from place to place,
They walk unrighteous paths with feet unshod.
They solicit plaudits and stand among the flawed,
Clasping minions who share their earthly space
Who makes an enemy of a wounded child of God.
Eschew the hypocrite; with them do not be awed
Do not seek their welcoming unholy embrace,
They walk unrighteous paths with feet unshod.
God has created every soul to walk upon the sod
To do His will; to longingly search for His grace
Who makes an enemy of a wounded child of God
They walk unrighteous paths with feet unshod.
May 30, 2021
The Last Walk Together
Shrouds cast purposed a dire malaise,
inscribed plaudits hallow tombstones,
absorbing bores coped brimmed blase,
a raised veil, e'er wet-eyes stream blued,
stays balanced, shifted acquiesce,
resume pace, neglectful of mood,
umbrae molds clear, a mien shone glit,
poised calm prosed a pious meek speech,
laid wreaths, last steps rounds a life flit.
*Used HMS & RZ
2020 October 23
*3rd Place*
Writing Challenge - Tercets
~~Constance La France
As the blazing king from far eastern horizons
Glows and smiles on wee infant toils beneath,
He's by man's ever-sprawling greeting praised,
Basking in vast kudos by eyes and bared teeth.
The new sovereign savors every regal sign
As he arcs past the virgin noon's latent line,
Unwilling to pause despite cloud-born snags,
Undeterred by jealous dusk's advancing tags.
Against evening's envies moves that demigod,
Still unshaken by all enemy barriers miles high.
Into puffed twilight barricades he finally sinks,
And once-lauding eyes dim as doom taps nigh.
Like our gloom-deposed emperor here-above
Is each offspring born of mortals' carnal love.
Salutes of great joy hail them once they come,
And rise beyond midday into life's ebbing term.
When time's long-halted scythes finally strike,
Men's veiled flattery's replaced by cold dislike.
They never understood him,
But in him burned a spark.
Peculiar, a genius
A man who'd leave his mark.
And leave his mark he did,
His mind an unknown road.
What he saw they couldn't,
He broke the nazi code.
No plaudits though for him,
Invisible was he.
His role, it was top secret
But led to victory.
His private life would end him,
It would hound him to his grave.
His only crime was being gay,
Which society thought depraved.
How ungrateful and forgetful
Society can be.
Suicide his only balm,
A hero though to me.
Entry for HERO - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
21/11/2017. Placed 3rd.
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