My term as a head student will come to an end.
But my three-month term I intend to extend.
I have friends here you know and acquaintances are many
I hope that votes will come, each will contribute his penny.
Take Jenny there I’m sure of her
I will not of her lovemaking refer
Don’t let that shy look distract you
Hidden inside her is quite a shrew.
My program for next term should simply be
Friendship is first, don’t you agree?
There’s Guy and Gus, they are such friends
They give me thumbs up, finger extends.
At least I hope that’s what I’m seeing
I respect them as every human being.
We all must act like a great friendly community
It will be for us friends a great opportunity.
Just like our dear sexy Moll,
A deep cleavage baring her all!!
Oh well let’s concentrate on our thesis
Forget about silicone and another prosthesis.
Between us, I heard that some are cheating,
I don’t wish to bring it before a board meeting.
What, are you leaving so soon, we have much to say.
How come everyone can’t exchange views but shy away?
NB This poem is meant for just fun.
Categories:
prosthesis, simple,
Form: Couplet
There’s a man lives in my house
He’s as quiet as a mouse
I’ve never ever seen him
Don’t hear him move about
He doesn’t seem to eat
And he doesn’t drink my beer
But though no floorboard ever creaks
I know that he is here
I don’t know where he hides away
Don’t see him come and go
How does he lurk so silently
It seems I’ll never know
I almost don’t believe in him
My sanity Kaput?
I’m sure he has a missing leg
Or maybe just a foot
But there’s no peg leg pirate
Who aims to cause me fright
No ‘Ship ahoy’ or Jim lad’
Is whispered in the night
It’s no long dead seafarer
Who dwells invisibly
My evidence is tangible
As real as you and me
There’s no sign of prosthesis
Perhaps they cost too much
But any man with just one leg
Should have at least a crutch
My wife tells me I’m off my head
But I’m no loopy liar
For every day I find his sock
In my tumble dryer
Categories:
prosthesis, humorous,
Form: Rhyme
Those Night Shoes
Behind the pane of storefront glass,
upon a pedestal, they stand,
ornate, black, sexy- six-inch heels-
these special shoes my dreams command.
A night out with a chosen love-
to dance and whirl within his arms;
my night shoes joyously will send
me to new worlds of hidden charms.
Oh, how they beckon me, those shoes!
Come try me on, their whispers say;
We'll take you to your land of dreams
where lovers dance the night away.
Tears fill my eyes- and right on time,
my mother turns my chair around.
Not now, night shoes- I'm on my way
to see a doctor whom I found-
for my prosthesis- cause, you see-
I am a right leg amputee.
Sandra M. Haight
~6th Place~
Premiere Contest: Night Shoes
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Judged: 05/25/2019
Categories:
prosthesis, dream, sad,
Form: Rhyme
The human spirit needs places where
nature has not been rearranged
by the hand of man
Author Unknown
A metal rail now mocks the space
where a massive trunk once rose two hundred feet,
and a long stairway, and a sign,and a doorway
make up ‘The Stump Hotel.’
As a roadside attraction this once magnificent tree
is more suggestive of an amputee
whose prosthesis
could never recapture the living limb or,
a whisper of the spark within.
Think -of the many who came and stood,
here on this altered stump.
Did anyone look up to see its phantom trunk
rising to the moon?
101 in a ROW contest - 12
Contest Judged: 9/8/2016 10:36:00 AM
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
8th Place
Published in “ PS, It’s Poetry” Anthology available on Amazon.
Categories:
prosthesis, environment, nature, sad, tree,
Form: Free verse
Changing thoughts
were creating chaos in frenzy,
unabashed, following the stricken
prey, to reclaim
the violence of a stalker.
Was there any law of jungle ?
Or rule of law in the midstream
of a formless prosthesis,
gaping void, throwing up
a primordial fear.
Becoming tired of looking at
the wastes around. No mystery
was left in life. How often you
will sit on the pyre to ignite the high
priests of knowledge ?
The curved images of receding
years are disappearing. How long
you will wait,
how long ?
Satish Verma
Categories:
prosthesis, art,
Form: ABC
Loss of a Mate
By Leonard Kleeman
The loss of a mate is a terrible thing,
particularly when wed together for over 50 years.
You will miss your mate all the time
and for the rest of your life, no matter what happens.
It is like losing an arm or a leg.
It is no longer there but you miss it considerably.
And there really is no replacement.
Even if you get a prosthesis.
The limb is still missing and you feel it.
The prosthesis helps but it is not the same.
When you remove it the missing part becomes
apparent and you feel the deep emotion
of having lost something forever.
It is physical and it is emotional and it is always on your mind
no matter how it appears to others.
With the loss of a mate,
a lifetime is lost and you know it,
sense it,
and will never forget it.
The above is metaphorical concerning finding a companion after the loss of a spouse. Children usually do not understand the meaning of companionship and the loneliness that occurs with that condition. They have to understand that a companion is not a replacement of the one who has passed away. The companion is a prosthesis for the soul.
Categories:
prosthesis, death,
Form: Free verse
I cling to the tangibility of paper
its connection to earth,
the feel of the grain
on the skin.
Words do not exist
thanks to the mashing
of keys and buttons, but by providence
of the paper.
The forgotten paper
is still alive. Soft
and crumpled
yellowed with age.
Though forgotten
never erased. Never
extinguished.
I do not bleed red
cells but globules
of words, coagulated
phrases and lines.
The pen is a prosthesis,
supplementing blood
where soft flesh leaves prints-
other swirled lines an whirls.
The pencil
whispers
words,
lightly brushes her lips
against slate,
ever the timid lover.
Even when erased
the word is
forever imprinted, its curvatures
embedded in the soft
fiber of the page.
The screen
is an evil thing; coveting
its symbols and codes.
It hides
away your words,
entombs them
behind an electric moon.
When the screen dies
so do your musings.
Categories:
prosthesis, art,
Form: Ode
Fears that the
escalator to get
down to the
parking lot
stifling you..
The
Pile does not end.
Cars together as people
do not let you go
pass between.
This madness.
Clutch with madness on your mop.
Underground garage
A book of poems
Born yesterday
Crushed
Claw.
Instead of hands
Cold metal
Prosthesis
Still silent.
I'm bleeding on the way
not sold
not enough
Gorgeous
Not enough
Poet
Are you afraid?
are you afraid?
are you afraid?
not to be
shown
as a
Po-et
Categories:
prosthesis,
Form: Dramatic Monologue
Planetary percussion:
the sphere reels through black space
with cries of, Help! Help!
We need Help!
"Just go shopping," speaks the Poobah Bush.
Just take this pill but look out for the headache,
the chronic constipation of promises to
perpetuate your victimization and,
oh yes ... Praise the Lord !
as indeed polar bears do believe!!
Planetary Earth child
amidst creature extinction.
What you do destroy for your condominium
as dust gathers on your soul so cold.
Who are you?
A pilot drops bombs through an open door,
several thousand feet above, too blind to see
ten thousand feet blown off the Beings.
Must have stock in a prosthesis company.
Planetary prosthesis
ah, what splint to bandage while beneath the gauze
lies the rot?
Is this a plot?
And, if not ... then surely it is
Insanity.
Planetary pestilence.
No one to care
When we are not there
Anymore.
Categories:
prosthesis, angst, death, visionary,
Form: Free verse
Prophet of my profits,
put your legs in the stirrups
force me out of you, shrieking
dripping of drug, reeking
immaculately dressed
adulterous, childish
a little worse for wear,
a bastard of metaphor.
Heir of my errs,
cast a neurotic prosthesis atop the saddle
trample all bards, those pleading
laden with morose and fleeting
lousy with expression
hopeful, hopeless
all my eggs in one basket,
all breathless from orphans.
President ill of precedent,
flirt your hand to the holster
load the chamber, saluting
empty the casings, alluding
rife with self-assurance
bootlicking, apple-polishing
what goes around comes around
what shall us servile accept?
Categories:
prosthesis, angst, life, philosophy, social,
Form: I do not know?