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Shelly Berkeley Poem
It’s a sad situation, the state of this nation
of murderers, molesters, and thieves
I can’t help but wonder as we continue to plunder
at how we create our own grief.
We bully and batter, look out for the splatter
as we rob our own children of pride,
It’s no wonder our sons take up their guns
while we all sit back and ask why.
In this generation, of vain masturbation,
which can create its own self in a tube,
Each woman is master and can now choose to blast her
fetus right out of the womb.
Gender reversal is no longer controversial
(in fact it’s barely thought of as odd).
As men become women I find my head spinning
at man’s struggle to be his own god.
When possibilities ignited we just got so excited
about the fact that we could,
that perhaps we forgot to think whether or not,
as a civil society we should.
Somewhere in the thicket chirps our Jimminy Cricket,
hoping that someone will hear,
While we in the piety of civilized society
stand stoic with fingers in ear.
Make no mistake ‘bout the risk that we take
by not heeding ol’ Jimminy’s call.
Consider the thought that God you are not
and pride always precedes the fall.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
At the risk of being called “rabble-rouser,”
I think poor old Barky Von Schnauzer,
should practice his aim,
his master to maim,
in the back end of his very best trousers!
My hero I would call dear old Barky,
if he could just muster the stealth of a sharky,
and covertly steer,
right straight for the rear,
of that great big old bag of malarkey!
I think I should send Barky a big four leaf clover,
so his bad luck would finally be over,
he could retire his fame,
move away, change his name,
to Bowser maybe Lassie or Rover!
Obviously I have been driven completely insane by that stupid t.v. commercial!
Happy St. Paddy's Day!
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
blue jay
jealous jester
your jabberwocky sounds
jettisoned across the grove through
jack pine now rebound, jack hammering the
warning “junco, fly away! This,”
you jeer, “is my feeder!”
unjust you are
blue jay
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
We nurture them within our bodies, birth them in a blinding pain,
suckle them on breasts so swollen, till we think we’ll go insane.
We kiss away each painful boo-boo, bandage each and every wound,
show them that in spite of roundness, peas can stay upon their spoons.
We intercept their nostril’s flowing, be it green or white as snow,
wiping gently ever hoping, for the day they’d learn to blow.
We give to them each ounce of wisdom, try to teach them everything,
suddenly, for unknown reasons, screw it up and give them wings.
We mourn a bit, those cherished moments, when on us they did depend,
days when we were super heroes, possessing wisdom without end.
We watch the journey proudly knowing, as they soar into the light,
Mother’s wisdom, though not perfect, lends the wind that gives them flight.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
I
am
a single
tear drop,
who casts the
the floodgates
open, sole liberated
elixir from seclusion’s
silent secret,heavy bellied
now in eloquence calling
to my cohorts, “come let
us gather in our sorrow
to languid dance the
night away!”
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
As I listen to the lark’s surreal melody to her mate.
I wonder does she ever feel there’s too much on her plate?
Ever beside him juggling, tediously feathering the nest,
in her discomfort struggling, incubating without rest.
I wonder if in her daydreams does she laze as her mind lingers
in bygone days pursued by teams, of young and gallant singers?
Or does she occupy her days with tending her small brood
not entertaining winsome ways as gaping nibs crave food?
Does he while out a’gathering, squirming tidbits for their young,
ever give way to lathering ‘cause his work is never done?
Does his keen eye ever wander over lighter creamy breasts
allowing himself to ponder his days of youthful quests,
or does his steadfast honor seek but to gather and bring home
supper for each tiny beak never thinking once to roam?
As I hear the song bird warble, with expectancy to her mate
I’m thankful for each morsel placed in love upon my plate.
And listening to the lark refrain his bride’s devoted call,
I find being called a birdbrain the best compliment of all.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
When the call of the Lord came to Jonah,
“set out for the great land of Nineveh!”
he was angry inside,
and decided to hide,
on a Tarshish bound ship leaving Joppa.
Then the Lord sent a great wind on the sea,
ne’er a more violent storm could there be,
there on destiny’s brink,
the ship threatened to sink,
while, old Jonah, was below deck asleep.
Surely, each sailor’s heart fainted with fear,
as the ship they were unable to steer.
“Wake up, Jonah!” they cried,
“get thee quickly topside,
and fervently beg your God to draw near!”
Now, Jonah knew that this storm was for him,
as in his heart he remembered his sin,
he thought he was sunk,
when they gave him the dunk,
and had to choose whether to sink or to swim.
As soon as Jonah met up with the ocean,
Both the winds and the waves ceased commotion,
then along came a whale,
and old Jonah grew pale,
as it swallowed him up in one motion!
Three long days in that big fish he stayed,
vowing never again would he stray,
relieved not to be dead,
and with kelp on his head,
onto dry land, our dear Jonah was sprayed!
Please, allow me, now this moral to mention,
that when the Lord God gives thee direction,
you must not delay,
set out right away,
His good judgment you must never question.
Should by chance, you hear God’s voice compelling,
“ head thee out to Bangladesh or New Delhi,”
best get on the right boat,
and pray that it floats,
lest you end up kelp covered and smelly!
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
The poet writes from
heart not head, and
from his nib
poised words are
bled upon spun papyrus.
Drawn deep from inkwells in
his soul, both veracity and chimera
flow into word wonderment. From poet’s
veins there flows a stream, vernacular eddies,
profound, extreme, give way to eloquence. On
hardened pulp, at his bequest, wounds once found
beneath his flesh have now been given voice.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
Gripping, searing , yearning,
a mother for her son,
vacillating, pride and heartache,
head wars that can’t be won,
precariously, dangling,
by her fingertips
somewhere between hope and despair
trying hard to get a grip!
Crying, seeking, praying
a mother to her Lord,
begs His tender mercies
as promised in His word,
“Gentle Lord, bathe my son
in the comfort of your light.
Hold him near, calm his fear,
keep him safe tonight.
Do not let him dash his toe upon a single rock.
Let him always feel your nearness,
together with him walk.
Give him daily sustenance,
in your word bid him sup’,
hold him when he’s weary,
should he fall, Lord, lift him up!
Assure him when he’s lonely,
that where he goes you go
Remind him that we love him more
than he could ever know.
Until this nightmare’s over, Lord,
and his tour of duty’s done,
until the desert lays behind him,
and he’s resting safe at home,
command your angels to surround him,
his protective hedge of light
ever vigilant, ne’er tiring
keep my son safe tonight!
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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Shelly Berkeley Poem
I will never be a poet
for even I can clearly see,
my words are plain (I know it)
and a little singsongy.
My head’s as filled with adjectives,
As is my pen with ink,
though I write with all I have to give
most times my poems stink.
I do not know the difference
betwixt haiku and senyru,
(lucky, writing’s not my sustenance,
It’s just what I like to do.)
Yet here I sit with pen in hand
considering my plight;
I need to (oops) or get off the can
for it seems the time is right.
just plain white bread (can’t control it,)
I know my poetry’s just okay,
so since I’ll never be Poet Laureate
The contented rhymer I shall stay.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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