Riposte Poems

The Punchline

It started off as a domestic
Nothing new in that
With one word borrowing another
The usual case of tit for tat
Men are not so well versed with verbals 
While their better halves have words to burn
Yet her sharp and stinging words
No headway  were making to take him down
Until she threw in the dynamite ,"You're driving me mad!"
An opportunity he should have done better to resist
Fool that he was ,he just could not let his flippant riposte 
Be missed
And out it came, "It's just a short drive."

His convalescence is going well

CESSATION

CESSATION

That pain is like treading on bottle tops
Or stumbling into some hidden caltrops
Suddenly, as when some lightbulb pops
The welcome relief when it finally stops
Like making big gains on currency swaps
The blood pressure and heartrate drops
Yet is thought so typical of all milksops
With a false sympathy everyone adopts

Once ended, one hopes it never returns
Not just pain, but embarrassment burns
Yet that is only one of several concerns
How to grin and bear it, one soon learns
To hold your breath as the jury adjourns
It is more a prize of resilience one earns
But recall how much the stomach churns
When it’s never over, if one so discerns

Some sort of final line must be crossed
Ideas of permanent pain must be tossed
No wonder that one may then feel lost
As if buried deep within the permafrost
Like being frozen stiff without a riposte
Or see one’s ongoing destiny embossed
But with a better ending than a holocaust
Just seeking cessation at almost any cost

A Portrait of Love

for Corredo

Her round eyes are like singers and actors
sing songs and perform
her lashes and brows
raindrops of sadness
preventing it from penetrating the mind
her soft, straight nose is on a snowy highway
her ruddy cheeks are the color of frontier ocher
her lips are smooth as the peel of an unripe peach,
there is a feeling of swelling that is not painful
her hairs are "S"  to one side
                                other side, "I"  like a falling falls
without fear,
cover her shoulders
her shoulders, trained by swimming,
point toward the sky
her neck is neither thin nor thick
supporting her forehead
Above all
She has  all things about Love:
saying the riposte of
passionate and strong waves.

Litter On My Mind

Litter on my mind

When I walk into the garden of my mind
I sometimes pick up weeds that must be rid of in the cold light of sanity.
A person, from the past, sent me a rancid email claimed 
I had been lying when  telling him I had crossed the Sahara barefoot when it was a simple spelling mistake 
He also claimed that I had only been a cobbler's assistant and that knew nothing about upper soles of
clogs; it is a mystery how he found out I thought my abstract world was mine alone.
I'm told the rude, offensive person dabbles in electric matters.
I played with the idea of writing a devastating  riposte 
to this person, but two hurt people do not make one 
person sane
I dignified silence is the best answer.

What Suits Her

"All a man really wants, is a girl who looks good in a bikini." - Jack Freestone


----------


Though the suit has us somewhat engrossed,
I’m inclined to share this quick riposte:
though those patches and string
scarcely cover a thing,
how she looks with them off counts the most.


----------


for the Bikini Quote Poetry Contest
sponsored by Julia Ward
written on 07/31/23

Expectation Feud

I waited, anticipated
Hopes were high, bloated
It was too much to ask, inflated
I lowered my sights, deflated
Tried not to be hurt, shielded
Numbed my senses, phlegmatic
Checked the date and time, could be wrong
I fought back and forth, sparred
Willed a lunge, parry, riposte, touché
But, when it came, it fizzed
The expectation feud, 
blew out the candles.

Seeing Both Sides

Standing up, on top
straddling the seesaw
one foot on each side, now.
Whichever way I lean
sends the upside down
and the downside up.
Slippery slide 
to the flip-side
is unworkable.
It's lunge, parry
riposte.

Operating On Christianity

Can I claim to be Christian without casting judgment
in ways that aren’t Christ-like? Aspiring to faith proves faith’s real?
Or does saying, “I’m Christian,” more grant I’m a sinner
apart from God’s Grace that Christ bought on the cross as it’s price?
Can humility honor self-praise, “I’m disciple?”
Can Grace I derive from Christ’s blood be man’s ‘willful sin’s’ salve
when the fact makes a lie of what I pray redeems soul?
Christ taught, “Works aren’t proof of our faith (that can lead us to boast!)”
 
Let us pray that Grace lives in what Christ says shows pigment
the colors Love brings when works flow from changed hearts to reveal
what faith looks like: the servant: the gold-medal winner?
Is faith shown in mercy (to others?), a grand sacrifice?
Best to work in ‘our wisdom’ or rest in ‘Christ’s Gospel’
that swears that it’s only in faith one gets saved? Is improv
soul’s best gambit, vague hope time discovers a loophole?
The best one can give to this world is a succinct riposte?
 
 
Long Tooth
October 21st in 2020

Phil - a Memorial Poem

Phil (A Memorial Poem)

Phil was more than a father, a mentor, a friend, 
Though each day born in sunrise will come to an end. 
Phil's day passed far too swiftly, although it spanned years, 
His was light omnipresent to mitigate fears
Her strength failed to let go of, that surged when he set
Down his burdens (like rainbows some darker clouds vet:
In last brush with tall leaves, breeze surrenders its ghost)
With a sigh where no angel would hear a riposte
To a life so well-led, to the peace all will find
If Christ's Grace means a thing: if Love's proved more than kind!


Brian Johnston
1st of May in 2020

Poet's Notes:
A poem of celebration, of consolation written for Kayla Mai on the
day of Phil Aftoora's passing.

Staircase Wit

Aggrieved and incensed a lot
I thundered some dull abuse
Que sera sera said a passing sot
Act Betimes or else, there’s no use!

Some possess the wit to cut
At anyone who stands in their way
Sometimes a Parthian shot
At times words to disarray

But many of us cannot find
The words to appease our souls
Someone’s words blow us blind
With rage and we drop our goals

Only after the moment does pass
And moaning Alas, we just toss and turn
Do we think of the way and pass
That make us less with ire burn

Yet does it all matter that much
To riposte an insult and cut back?
Off a firm tree, cut a tiny notch
Is that a massive deadly attack?

Suicide Riposte

In midst of evading sounds and shadows
Lurks the soulless in search of reasoning
Whilst in the fullness, a youth bud still grows
Yet heard less, seen less, and not be wanting.

Death be heard, death be seen, what does it mean
The dearly departed, was it so dear
Having lived those years till age of nineteen
And suicide caused the family smear.

A precious life gone, was it worth the price
For whilst that soul lived and was being ignored
Gladly chooses a way, self-sacrifice
A soul leaves behind a life as pictured.

In midst of evading sounds and shadows
Lurks the soulless in search of reasoning.


Date: 06/24/2019


***NOTE: I extend my appreciation to all soupers for choosing 'SUICIDE RIPOSTE' as your 2nd most FAVE poem, My Heartfelt Aloha, indeed!

The Gilded Leaves of Autumn Sigh

When fleeting storm said goodbye
The darkened sky detected a lie
Besting clouds her thoughts host
Drenching doubts that block riposte.

As the cobalt sky and ocean meet
On the sapphire arc revelers greet
The changing season's vibrant theme
In golden attire of autumn's dream.

The sound of wind whirls in trees
Musical tones of rustling leaves
And the falling foliage flies with ease
Orange hues in autumn's breeze.

As the sepia tones enchant her eye
The gilded leaves of autumn sigh
On buoyant horizon drifting high
Where crimson vistas touch the sky.

Vivid vibes spell a brand new start
As blazing colors awaken her heart
And amber passions begin to reveal
Tinges of magenta in love's appeal.

September 2, 2018
Placed first in One in five (II) poetry contest by Joseph May
Placed first in contest #560 by Brian Strand

Restless Rebel, Control the Ball On the Ground

Restless rebel, control the ball on the gregarious ground
Looking within and hooking dignity to the home
Where a restive riposte resurrects the meandering mound

Detriment and its cement sediment groom
In search of answers and cancers
Growing without control and throwing mud on the room 

That without mercy plays into the hands of bouncers
Primed to jettison the happiness for which you crave
At the time and in the clime where pesky pouncers

Storm forth and chide the wonderful wave
That steers stability and versatility in the home where
Your truculence and petulance dig the grave

Where your treasure trove and freedom measure dare
To resist the onslaught of seething thoughts brought on board
To confuse order and disorder in your home, slaying vestiges of care

In the wake of asinine attitudes that accord
Dignity and sanity to restlessness which your home can’t afford 
As your restive riposte resurrects the meandering mound
Restless rebel, for the sake of stability, control the ball on your gregarious ground.

A Moment's Worth of Being

Situation

Switch off mind’s clutter and swish with your soluble soul
Seize the second swirl away seizure’s silent convulsions
Sequence sequesters surpass surreptitious soliloquies

Resistance

Ruminating reason and ravenous rapture restrict and resurface
Reticent roads as they relinquish romance and rhapsody’s roar
Re-infest the refuge re-establish revulsive rigid riposte in return

Peace

Paint pastels’ panache peruse provident past pastures
Pack pipe dreams and perilous pitfalls persist and perceive
Proceed to pink palettes of plentiful panorama and passion


                 Every day He Searches Recollects and Ponders when all he

Might think of is to breathe in and out without thought

Colossi

Qi and phi,
Murder and hijinx.
Averting worth to silence the clink.
Yet it is there; impaled through the chink in my armor made of kinks.
I'm a topological quantum knot; if my thoughts were anymore entangled, I couldn't think.
Too much or less would be false so no waltz.
Assaulting the heedless mind with hyperbole or nulling it with apathetic faults.
Adapted with facts fabricated by clocks.
By this insult, I assert a Ballista of rage and riposte.
That acts as a swift handed counter attack.
Tit for tat with the Colossi; in opposition to gargantuan adverts.
As such, I am tasked with being poise and strategic in the face of futility.
But that is what the hero does in every fable; as such it is fitting for mine.
Wielding qi and phi with guile, so be it when my time is nigh.

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