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Best Poems Written by Perry Mcdaid

Below are the all-time best Perry Mcdaid poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Pantoum For the Promiscuous

We're not supposed to act like sheep 
just because He is The Shepherd. 
He is much more inclined to weep 
when we refuse to heed His Word.  

Just because He is The Shepherd, 
our blind-born sins torment Him so. 
When we refuse to heed His Word 
we defile more than we can know.  

Our blind-born sins torment Him so 
as our freewill we waste away.
We defile more than we can know 
when with sly Lust we choose to lay.  

As our freewill we waste away - 
just because we may feel “left out”: 
when with sly Lust we choose to lay;  
oft sleeping thoughtlessly about.  

Just because we may feel left out,
we ignore our blessed patient guide: 
oft sleeping thoughtlessly about, 
from honest conscience seek to hide.  

We ignore our blessed patient guide, 
while truest Love looks helpless on. 
From honest conscience we seek to hide, 
fearing the chance of "bliss" is gone.  

While truest Love looks helpless on, 
He is more inclined to weep: 
fearing the chance of bliss is gone. 
We're not supposed to act like sheep.

Details | Perry Mcdaid Poem

Rubaiyat For the Climbing Poet

While I blew on my hands and held my tongue
A startling star swung out of the sky,
And though to gravity need not comply,
Descended to ledge where envious clung.

Of course we all would climb to the summit
To leap from the acme, fly with the winds,
But not all have wingspan: some just have fins.
Some blaze aria, others but hum it.

If toe-hold needs gained, deny temptation
Its perilous urge to drag on the guide,
But rather find core of stillness inside
And trust to Sherpa, not own impatience.

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Shit Over Feature

It’s called a Blitz
It’s more like shit
Shit on the feel of it
Shit on those gone before
Before when readers were respected
Before some tortured verse unnecessarily
Unnecessarily complicated composition
Unnecessarily nurtures the arbitrary
Arbitrary in its construction
Arbitrary in direction
Direction Now there’s a laugh its
Direction is but aimless wandering 
wandering here to sniff at lamppost
wandering there to check out other scents
Scents not sense the random aromas
Scents upon the wayward verse
Verse I scoff it’s more like adverse
Verse or obverse it is an insult
Insult to all who seek out poetry
Insult to the very masters 
Masters little in way of imagery
Masters few if any devices
Devices which make a poem a poem
Devices poets helped develop
Develop then sweet assonance
Develop an onomatopoeic smash
Smash this form and all its sill repetitions
Smash and use for ammunition
Ammunition Yes wordy ordinance
Ammunition for the worthy form
Form a theme which is coherent
Form thoughts not lines blindly adherent
Adherent to aberrant mathematics
Adherent to last word second line
Line up line up for revolution
Line up against this monstrous construct
Construct of weary would-be wordsmith
Construct of an idle mind
Mind the child that is the poem
Mind your head on low-set bar
Bar this nonsense from your consciousness
Bar this form from any gathering
Gathering dust it should remain
Gathering no moss as it rolls its distance
Distance yourself from this word pretzel
Distance is its charming feature
Feature nothing which at our art chips
Feature not this confused bull
Bull…
Chips…

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Of Mad Dogs

The walker prevails without his brimmed hat, 
skirting whirling dervish of hungry gnats 
which seek to explore each orifice bare - 
to sample the blood from here and from there, 
as discerning vintner sups from each vat.  

Tackling a gradient sure to task fat 
the rambler struggles, with scowl for farm cat 
which extended stretch and yawn smugly shares. 
The walker prevails.  

Somehow, surroundings seem terribly flat - 
land less a life-force than foot-worn doormat. 
Even the birds have no energy spare; 
in the heat of this day, fox ignores hare. 
Yet, like strong tail-ender last in to bat, 
the walker prevails.

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Moment of Truth

How much stark evidence, how many proofs 
will be dismissed before conceit it fails; 
and of His mercy decide to avail 
this presumptuous species from faith aloof. 
Flashbang rumble! A thousand unseen hoofs 
galloped overhead, as clattering hail 
mass-pogoed as if emptied from some vast pail 
upon unsuspecting Tarmac and roofs.  

Mercy, I swear I heard the atoms split 
from molecules to create ozone 
as, outside close nearby the lightning hit; 
its acrid tang prevalent in a home, 
which for a charged instant that bolt lit: 
thrilling spectator as he watched alone.

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Grace

The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.

Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”

To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.

This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.

See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.

Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.

Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.

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Discovery

Finger 
of hungry child 
finds unsavoury fare 
in mysterious crevice of 
nostril.

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Autobiography of An Atmosphere

I am a party animal, my heritage is mixed
quite content to lounge about when conditions remain fixed. 

Suppose that’s the nobility which Krypton must provide,
maintaining stiff upper lip when I’m all buzzed inside.

Then too, I’m mostly nitrogen, which is very stable, 
tamping volatility of oxygen: it’s able

to combine with hydrogen (that’s also in my make up).
Uncontrolled? Oh that would lead to an explosive break up.

Carbon Dioxide? Its percentage varies night and day:
vegetative respiration, or so the boffins say.

I wonder why I don’t glow multicoloured in a storm:
my neon, argon, radon being Vegas lighting norm.

If I had more Helium the humans would sound squeaky.
I imagine the attraction of that chap Enrique

Would suffer greatly from affliction. He’d become mundane,
and prove downright offensive if I gave him more methane.

I’ve also Nitrogen Oxide, not Nitrous NO2, 
and a soupçon of ozone which had once protected you

from harmful rays from Out There much more than now is measured.
It seems that humans cannot see what really should be treasured.

I’m moved by friction of the Earth and pressure off the bat
while Coriolis effect pushes me this way and that:

north and south of the equator, the opposite I spin.
Any other speculations, my friends, are simply wind.

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Thumbing the Nose

The goal of a poem: its intrinsic I.D.
is grab folk: to show them; to imbue imagery –
to say something profound and to then sculpt the words
 into a form that’s sound and is pleasantly heard.

Note that augmentation, achieved by devices
Like alliteration should not pose a crisis
But should more go with flow: more embrace than a grope;
Less stagnation than growth … to surprise Alex Pope.

So “caesura”, don’t cease: use sensuous metre.
With reined rhythmic release; caress – don’t just beat her.
Steal past each armoured guard: have Words blithe crash each scene; 
refute yon jaded bard who ‘dissed’ Alexandrine.

Details | Perry Mcdaid Poem

The Ballad of a Shattered, Laminated, Home

I remember living in one room dingy and dire 
with old lino on its rotting wooden floor. 
I remember crystallised spit dangling from guard at the fire; 
as mother cleaned, he'd only honk the more.  

I recall how we went hungry, waiting for the paltry sum 
he allowed us for board and keep, the cheap fink, 
and how he served apprenticeship to becoming a true bum 
by treating as priorities his fags and drink.  

I remember all the rows he caused demanding back the cash 
which was supposed to feed and clothe his we’ans
I remember every Christmas morn' the gifts received were trash 
because he'd pissed the present-money down the drain.  

I recall one awful night my mother hunting high and low 
with a hungry bedraggled child on either hand, 
she finally catching that boozy stinker sate in the Dungloe. 
How he fumed, outraged that food she dared demand.  

I remember his begrudgement of those sparse few days away– 
one hour upon the beach or at the fair: 
how just when we were relaxing would be dragged from play. 
Homeward-bound: him the ‘bookies', us despair.  

I remember trudging up to Creggan to the ‘Housing Place' 
every week with mother and sister, come rain or hail, 
and how that worthless, selfish, monster did not even have the grace 
to commend her dedication, instead railed.  

I can picture his expression when she got herself a job, 
determined not to lose her new clean home. 
I remember his wild tantrums when she'd saved up for a hob– 
the delivery man was perplexed at oral foam.  

I remember those miserable times as if they were today, 
how he made odd help with homework living hell– 
so that now a friend's assistance, however gracefully 
put, grates my tortured psyche so much I cannot tell.  

When we started working, my sister dear and I, 
it seemed for him a licence to give less. 
Many weeks he'd keep house-money and, as the months went by, 
we discovered he'd drunk the rent; that was a mess.  

So now sot has retired, and it seems his mind has gone– 
for he's telling all how great he was those years: 
he built house on the prairie. He was such a con: 
the only thing he constructed was a legacy of fear.