Remit Poems | Examples

The Curious Coif

Enigmatically stubborn to style, the coif
Some days it can be easily pulled off
Other days it requires an exorcism
Like Zoolander it can look like ‘Magnum’

Hides my receding hairline like a charm
Sophistication to my head’s yardarm
Its antidote is a very windy day
Requiring heavy doses of hairspray

When it works my lady wants to stroke it
I recoil in fear, making her remit
For a single finger can ruin it
It’s a fickle angel to babysit

captivate

wandering past the same tree twice—
would remit that one was lost,
but like a book,
maybe it’s the one you picked up again that you never finished,
but why didn’t you finish it the first time?
for what you seek lies past the spine,
but a great story should not captivate solely at its
departure,
for leaving one to sit through pain for a happy ending

is delusion.

For the Life of Me

I swore I'd turn and back away,
Resist the call, from the lurking flay.
For the life of me, I could not allay the stay!

Before me lay a morsel, a mere tit bit.
A taste I took, another, another, but could not scoff remit,
For the life of me, I could not help it!

I told myself to turn away, to quell the surge.
To resist the temptation with a denial's purge.
For the life of me, I could not resist the urge!

Danger lurked, the danger warning plain to see
Alas, the hurt to me was not meant to be.
For the life of me, I could not flee!

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out.
Why was my will so weak, and prone to doubt?
That my life was so worthless, such a sellout!

Press-ed into serfdom

New York times and Washington post, better watch
The reports in the columns you host, keep within any
Remit, for the wokesters wish to poke' specially those in
The big-house, who'll treat as serious any old joke'
Don't be tilting at thir windmills, or landing any clouts'
Being negative on e v's like 'just asking about? How
They go real dead in winter, blow a fuse in deeper floods'
Keep burning on' though fire brigade extinguishers run out
How their weight causes pot-holes how they belt hard other
Cars, that they're becoming liabiltys in the world
And here; both near and far.! Far be it from you to truth tell
Just remain within the lies..Keep on massaging those figures.'
All those 'old lockdown blighs' cause you really don't matter
Or your families and friends, you bury the corpses and
Press freedom.' even the intents.'  You'll be part of the problem'
And you'll pay so very dear, when they draw up all the rules
Then you'll know.. 'you once; were free' free to save many
People and countries..The many lands you have sold out..You'll
Be colouring the pavements, fir there your talent you will tout.'

The Ghosts of Lime Kiln Road

Summon your demons, devils, and wraiths,
visit moments of hurt and loss.
Replay what might have been, wrestle with regrets,
Do “if only” scenes haunt your past?

I follow the faint ribbon of sand on Mackinac Island,
lined with sugar maple tree, aspen and lilac.
Wild lilly of the valley, its fragrant musk, from dusk to dawn,
clings to lichen and headstone, 
in the old cemetery at the end of Lime Kiln Road.

I am as ghostly as the local specters.
The fine young military boy, 
eyes wild and strange,
wandering across the old rifle range, 
striving to collect his remit.
Payment for the murder he did not commit.

Or darling Miss Biddle, only eight years old.
They handed her Mama her green Christmas coat.
Drowned when the ice cracked, no-one saw.
Lost in a snowstorm on the island of Mackinac.

Ghosts are so practical. They wander, they howl, 
always in the same place, always the same sound.
Patient in time eternal, that their fate will dissolve or resolve.

My earthly body moves through life,
restless in my quest to change the past.
Spirits moan, I am not lost.
I close my eyes and dance with my ghosts.

Matthew Henry 1662 - 1714

Matthew Hendy lived centuries ago
a non-conformist minister in England
although Welsh-born lived across the border
lived 51 years made true Christian stand

His greatest piece of work by far
whole Bible commentary is so excellent
covers six volumes in every detail
this exposition was heaven-sent

It's agreeable to remit of scripture
being sold, strong and understanding
not based on vain speculation
practical with depth but never too demanding

Another gem from his gifted hand
is his book 'a method of prayer'
has great insights on praying
that helps believers to always share

Matthew Henry's words still speak today
to all who faithfully study his writings
such blessings they receive in full
thanks be to God for this gem he brings

(One of my favorite writers is Matthew Henry who has written a marvelous Bible commentary, so this is written to highlight him and his writings.)

Tortured Poet Extolling Rhetoric

I am not a Poet

I know this fact true and full well 

In the orthodox conventional literal way

As I am not able to use set standard form

So what I write

Therefore does not conform 

So I agree wholeheartedly not disagree 

Technically I am not a Poet

All I am is simply someone who

Likes to write and comment about things

That don't necessarily fit any set remit 

But yet I still want to have a go

So I end up having to encroach

And impose and join in other ways

And blur the lines and rules of engagement

Because although I may not be a poet

1 thing I can admit is this

I suffer through my words

Like any tortured Poet would

As to me writing is more about

Exposure of one's true self soul and heart

Than a form of compliance to an art 

If that stifles my openness and integrity 

And does not keep my demons at bay

Rather lets them lie in wait

And my silence further leads onto

Yet more inevitable tortured mistakes

Wounded Whisper

Thoughts regurgitated though repugnant,
coil of self loathing tightens its noose,
venal thoughts a fragmented whisper,
to sabotage, undermine, disrupt,
one’s frail ego under siege,
wounded whisper n as barbed wire plume,
internal bleeding one must staunch,
if only gumption triumphed,
vacuous a notion one brazenly floats,
inane virus of the mordant gibe,
its origin welded to an anonymity,
so vast in its remit,
defying bold attempt at confrontation,
acid laden cut deep within,
over trivial and flimsy oversight,
imagined stain, partial blind slip,
transgression not worthy of indictment,
court proceeding deep welt juror,
nodding in consensual conspiracy,
wounded mutter, wounded sibilant sigh,
homespun crime against oneself

They Heard It Screamed a Damn It

When they heard it screamed a 'Damn it!'
One of them had dared to submit
That Charles, Incurable Hermit,
Chair their forthcoming First Summit
"I'm not shocked, his own dad Hermit:
Why wouldn't he such views permit?"

More screams of 'Bull !' and 'Damn it!'
Didn't George reckon that summit.
To hermits is outside their remit
Not like to a kin cash remit
And face a life of self-limit...

I Let It Slip Away

I let it slip away, that final day-
with judging soon to come, it waited there.
This prize I'd captured in my special way
went flying instantly into the air.

I'd held it in my heart for a long time-
until my mind reworked it, as should be.
My interaction led my soul to climb
beyond the vision that had come to me.

What would become of my creative task-
would it be rated as I wished it might?
This question stirred inside as I would ask-
was it not worthy on the judgment site?

My poem- win or fail- did not remit;
I let it slip away- deleted it.


April 28, 2023

Contest: I Let It Slip Away
Sponsor: John Lawless

Tradition

TRADITION
observed
  unchallenged
so
  prosaic
in
recollection

a remit
of
vivid
  memories
wit
pleasure
  in vogue
the
fall
 in
  perspective

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

Ecclesiastic-

Haven't got time to repay your debts 
Haven't got time to remit and accept 
And definitely don't have time to kill 
Don't have time to wander or wonder 
Don't have time to fear 
Haven't got time to fumble it's not a game 
These there's no ball here 
Almost got time to say I'm sorry
Almost got time to rejoice with you in your pain 
Haven't got time to bother you don't bring time to the game 
Ain't got time to worry 
Barely got time to leave And get time for no song to fruit
 But tomorrow there's a pit in the rain 
Time belongs to no one and no one belongs to time 
How often are we depleted 
And are we the changes in the seasons that we define we bring
Old time be a reason are we the reason for the change 
For when we cry and we pour out all are we
 dispensing sorrows repented rain

8/7/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr  2022

Lentil Soup Ear

Please do not try to categories me
so as in order I may fit into your own 
personal remit 

Or what box you want me to be placed

So other's can jump upon the same painted
wagon encircled in the pyrex flame's

These savage's attack with such vitriol
and vigour 

As we're they once now wishing to pay
forward for nothing more than to revenge

An eye for an eye natural enforced justice

Do unto others as others would do unto you

No 1 turns a blind eye or looks the other away

Until the day as such comes when

In the land of the blind the 1 eyed 
Man is King

And he can get away with anything

Because he alone narrates the narrative

And has everyone's ear lent

Get Back Angel Ghost

I
As a person
Me

Without devoid of a spine

Green

Buckle at jointed knee
Cap in hand
Crackle like the wilderness
Inside my stagnant mind

My skin is red to the bone
She'd upon my empty bed

So care no more
Angel fair
Ghost of nowhere
Declare the wanting is pray over

For if as please be for the deaf
Born with pallets cleft
Numb and horse of voice

1 , 2 , 3
A , b , C

Then open up my heart
So my eyes dare feel
In which or whatsoever category
I should sit

In order to fulfill my remit of aligning interplanetary love division

So I can bleach , spit , and shine my
Hubbard shoe's and house in order

Before I red bone buckle and she'd
this ghostly angel back

From whence it came unto me

Resolution Soup

No sneers from me
No spite for thee
No malice for you
Bonhomie on view
No fight day or night
Hmmm…
That’s about right

The moral of this
That ought to be told
Is serve your soup warm
Neither too hot…
Nor cold

                  *

[This was written for Milton’s ‘5 New Year
resolutions’ contest, but I felt it didn’t quite fit
the remit. Wasn’t going to post it, but in light
Of Soup’s communique re bullying, I felt it held
Some water.]

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