Whatfinger Poetry Contest The Society February 27, 2023 Poetry, Poetry Contests 28 Comments . ABOUT THE CONTEST Many poets who have been published by the Society of Classical Poets have had their poems linked to, and therefore promoted, by the news aggregator Whatfinger over the years. The people who put this grass-roots site together are genuinely interested in truth and justice despite being in a world that seems increasingly at odds with traditional values. In appreciation, we are hosting a contest here for the best poem dedicated to Whatfinger. It could directly be about Whatfinger or it could just be dedicated to Whatfinger. Read more about Whatfinger and the people behind it by clicking here. . SUBMIT Post your poem (one poem per entrant) dedicated to Whatfinger directly in the comments section below. It’s easy. Just scroll down and post. Only one poem per entrant. (If you posted more than one, let us know which one you would like to keep and we will erase the others.) . PRIZE $100 and publication on Whatfinger. . DEADLINE April 1. Winner and honorable mentions announced April 10. . SUBMISSION FEE None . WHO Anyone anywhere may enter, with the exception of Mike’s own family who are not allowed to enter. . JUDGE Mike Bryant, SCP Moderator . . . NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments. CODEC Stories:Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 28 Responses Damian Robin February 27, 2023 Thank you Mike for setting up this support. A pity your wife and yourself are out of the prizes. But maybe you, both, could give encouraging trail blazers to the rest of us. :^) I’m already encouraged by what you’ve done so far so here’s my little one: Support the online enterprise that picks the brave from molten lies, that fields the small heroic acts and hits the twists of woken ‘facts’. It shines a light on broken bends and soaks the fires from token ‘friends’. A worthy wordy wordly slinger of stones like David’s — Go Whatfinger !! Reply Roy Eugene Peterson February 27, 2023 WHATFINGER NEWS SOURCE By Roy E. Peterson Whatfinger’s a news source to which I now relate. They stand for truth and justice overcoming hate. They take on transgressors like with a sword and shield Pinioning opponents and make the dastards yield. Fake news is running roughshod everywhere I look. We become the victim when truth the news forsook. I count on Whatfinger to rectify their sins. Research is the answer to cease their careless spins. They list vast sources on the right side of their site. Whatfinger aggregates the news from left and right. Whatfinger is the answer to the “Drudge Report.” They share more news than the combined next nine import. Reply Helmut Licht February 27, 2023 I have a recipe for Oatmeal And one for Apple Pie But my recipes keep changing As my cooking days flit by My meat loaf is quite scrumptious I let it cook all night Those buttered mashed potatoes! And my omelet’s out of sight Beef Stroganoff, my specialty No one makes it as I do I add some good Chianti And soak it through and through My Bouillabaisse and Quiche Lorraine Get compliments all year When I serve them to my gourmet friends With a glass of German beer. My Wiener Schnitzel’s hard to beat My Strudel’s wunderbar My Moussaka and Souvlaki Are the best I’ve had so far. As I mention these delicious meals I get hungry more and more There’s a Wendy’s right across the street- I’m heading out the door! Reply Norma Pain February 27, 2023 While many sources wallow in decay… Whatfinger points the way. Reply Patricia Allred February 27, 2023 HELMUT,. Your poem on being a puppet impressed me. At times I wonder. What’s the fear of being yourself! Yet, it seems most on the planet are this way. If raised to be one, it is possible to be otherwise. Sometimes, one needs a big push. Without that push, it’s hopeless, It takes courage and the willingness to walk in the face of adversity, and have best friends avoid you. Your poem is awesome! A puppet cannot be responsible.anymore than an infant. They live in a perfect town called, ‘Blamesville.’They follow orders like puppies plus are the most boring people on this planet. This poem is relatable and thoroughly enjoyable, yet may I say, profound. Thank you and best wishes! Patricia Patricia Reply Helmut Licht February 28, 2023 Patricia (one of my favorite Chachas) – Thank you so much for taking time to write to me. I really appreciate your comments. Do you write poetry? If yes, where can I find it? Have a great day! Helmut Reply Patricia Allred March 14, 2023 Helmont! I apologize for this late reply. I like Latin Jazz, plus other kinds. Yes, I have tons of varied poetry at another site. Should you choose to email me, I will send it. )) I don’t advertise it. Only been writing a few years. Thank you, Helmut. Hope to hear from you. Leonardo Sferruzzi February 27, 2023 Solace in Sorrow In the darkest night, sorrow grips my soul And thoughts of loss and grief consume my mind I seek the solace of a peaceful whole And find, in time, a peace that’s hard to find. Though you’re gone, your love lives on withing, Your passion and spirit that I shall haul, And though the tears may flow, I’ll not give in, To sorrow’s grip, for love will conquer all. And thus, to recollections, I’ll cling tight, Of all the joy and laughter that you brought, Thrust that, though apart, our love is my plight, Your love will always be a comfort thought. And though the road ahead may seem so long, I’ll find my way, with you to guide me on. Reply Mark Stellinga February 28, 2023 Stick With Guys Like Us “Who do you feel’s responsible for ‘taking out the garbage’?” Carlton Whitney quizzed me, as we filled our cups with ice. “Anyone who can,” I said, “especially – guys like us… And well before they get a chance to do their damage twice! “Long before they break the law again which, as you know, Isn’t often lengthy ’til the day they do arrives And, once again, they flood their victims worlds with endless Pain, unconcerned with crushing hearts and mutilating lives. “Steve an’ Dave agree with me…Grant says he’s on board… And based on what you’re saying, Mark, I’m guessing you are too.” “Count me in,” I spouted, “it’s a fight I’ve hoped to join For several years and many reasons, and…the same as you… “When I fin’ly get the chance to save the county funds By ending someone’s spree of crime… even fifty cents… I’ll make absolutely sure…to which you’ll testify… The move I made to stop the perp was done in – self defense! “Sergeants Pat an’ K an’ L an” Mike are on our side, Deftly using Whatfinger to put things back on track… To point out who the culprits are…expose them one and all… And make them pay the piper for the common sense they lack! “See…’rehabilitation’…though a tactic worth attempting… When it comes to actually working seldom ever does, So…count me in, Whatfinger, ’cause the only way I see For – ‘taking out the garbage’ – is to stick with – guys like us. Reply Flannigan McGaffigan February 28, 2023 Wake in the morning And coffee taste linger Read news of the day All found on Whatfinger Reply Peter Cowlam March 1, 2023 Graduation and the School of Correctness Censorial editors defended In public debate their ‘emendations’, But in private defer to my student Scholia, and secretly theorise. Choice tutors connived, of course (commended My texts), made haste with the explanations: Graduates learned what was always prudent, If not to overlook, then sanitise. Let me predict: the tactical footnotes, Mountainous litter, foil for my learned Paper, swamp what I have in the margins Of combative life. The exam board gloats, Shored up by institutional wealth, earned, Note, where a profession of lies begins. Reply Michael Theroux March 1, 2023 Drop the hammer, Mother Mary I’ve been too long at my beads Hailing your Grace-fullness When all the while, You knew… You watched the Pope commute The Bloody Horde, declaring By default, that Divine Logic does not compute. Mary, by your spared rod, which In some corner must surely wait: Spare not these cruel actors Collectors of fingers, Fresh from ballots These smiling bandits of elections, for whom Only Wars bring on erections They’re strong on Electoral Procreation (talk to the Pope, dear Mary about Political Contraception. Dedicated to WhatFinger: “Drop the Hammer” Reply Heaven Rowell March 2, 2023 Mona Lisa By: Heaven Rowell How dirty a soul is to be divide At will that is and my heart I provided Like pig in filth he sat there and lied While he continues to plague my soul with lies How dirty is a soul to be divided I wonder how she felt, were her feelings subsided A dirty soul who plague two hearts His lies poetic such glorious art Art so glorious so bright and so blinding That i never understood what secrets were hiding Reply Warren Bonham March 5, 2023 Broad Brush Art Dedicated to Whatfinger What’s considered great art isn’t static at all. There are always new trends that beguile and enthrall, We’ve had cave art, art deco, abstract and baroque . There was cubist, impressionist, pop art and folk. Each with palettes and brushstrokes that set them apart, But the newest and greatest is called Broad Brush Art. It takes years at an Ivy to study and train Where all traces of wisdom are washed from each brain. Once inspected and found to be empty inside, Each fresh brain can be loaded with undeserved pride. They will then get a palette containing a list Of long words that all end with a “phobe” or an “ist”. Either suffix plus any new sex. creed or race, Makes new words to be used at the right time and place. They’re then given a brush that’s uncommonly wide That has bristles to which all their words are applied. For a canvas, they use any privileged class, Which with one artful stroke, will get painted en masse. Those with functional brains largely sigh in despair. They think broad-brush attacks on a group are unfair. Broad Brush artists will say great art needn’t be true And besides, truth is based on one’s own point of view. Once the paint is applied, though it never comes off, It’s seen only by people whose brains are shutoff. Using logic on those who adore Broad Brush Art Will befuddle your brain so it’s really not smart. Though they speak very loudly, their numbers are small. It is best if you never engage them at all. So, avoid cars with stickers that say “Coexist” Since the driver is likely on their approved list. Most importantly, those with an Ivy degree When engaged may infect with their toxicity. Do not trust their opinions on art history They created this cult of Broad Brush lunacy. Reply Joshua C. Frank March 6, 2023 In Praise of Whatfinger If something should happen disproving woke “truth,” It’s labeled “fake news;” disagreeing’s uncouth. The sheep hear the wool-wearing wolf howl and eat, And they’re bullied to blindly believe it’s a bleat, But Whatfinger News shows you both kinds of sound; You decide who’s a wolf and where shepherds are found. Reply Breauna Michelle March 6, 2023 The Reason We are born with this thing given us Exactly what we do not know It sometimes seems a lonely curse in a world that’s just for show We want so much to just make sense of the way that humans seem to be We see the many ways we imprison ourselves and wonder why we can’t just be free So we made our attempts to assimilate, to get along the best that we can in a society that doesn’t seem natural but forced into some greater plan Now the masks are all starting to crumble and the curtains are being pushed aside The evil has gained enough power that it no longer bothers to hide We know now what it was we were given though we still do not know its name But we care about truth and justice more than we care for the game There are things in this life more important than the surface that can be easily seen There is something above and within us that’s more powerful than what’s in between We see clearly now what is our purpose Shine the light wherever we’re able And though most don’t yet want to see it, we spread the darkness out on the table We can see through the lies for a reason Yet we have a formidable foe They are gathering their army against us made of people who would rather not know So why must we keep pressing forward when it appears we are so far behind Because humanity is only worth saving if we can hold onto our soul and our mind Reply Carolyn Mack March 10, 2023 Mercy Me, Mr. T____ Dedicated to Whatfinger.com, Voices raised in song, a psalm: Fetch the little fishes in to flay, and gather all the unsuspecting lambs, Who never sing of life in such iambs; his epitaph to fleece them on the lea. Read no remorse, he fed the birds of prey. Beside himself with glee, others’ discourse bans of foreign breed, truth bought in trade opines as, even in his testament to slay. Gathered all their wits, packaged it to sell He must collect and grind their bones to ash, turn every once of flesh and bone to cash. Practiced for the capitol crashes that Corporate Body prospers, an ass sins in his master plan most heinous the Creed of Mammon of this narcissist’s greed; would he kindly not reject U.S., please? Then listen to the deathwatch tortured pleas? Reply Matthew Miles March 13, 2023 Dedicated to Whatfinger.com Gestures of requited idylls wax more mundane as memory and nostalgia render a mere tawdry conjecture. Specious kisses haunt moonlit shadowed halls where scenes of angry passion betray an encumbered, false romance. Youth left breathless cannot detach the retinal damage love’s imposture optically transposed from ecstatic pain to elastic bitterness and deceit. Let the mask bare the guilt, the thespian stoop for roses! And yet, with all alacrity we storm the beaches long abandoned in our childhood misgivings. We mourn the passing of halcyon days when castles stood on distant shores of innocence. The wallflowers beckon, the sirens call, hearing only the droning clangor of a mind enrobed in stoic rapture. The shrill report of souls entrammeled in that Gall of Callow, as the band plays on we dance the St. Vitus, we spin stilettos in the snow. There, dashed upon the rocks the gleam of father’s eye; his wish we should solve love’s conundrums pondered, though we bury them in misty, dank vicissitudes. In caliginous solitude we find our heart a traitor; our love a mere contrivance that degrades us as we tumble, and we fall, and rise again to grasp straws of proud insouciance strewn about the shores of misspent yesterdays. Let us dance and paint a new milieu with figures from a brighter notion; that perhaps we might attain more perfect knowledge of feigned returned devotion. A semaphore raised up on summer breezes point to stark realities, while question and enigma tie a ligature of self-imposed diversities. With fettered minds we spin and toil to fashion perfect paradox. A solipsism perched upon collective insight weaving tapestries of indecision and that oh! so tender intellectual morass! Is it not the crafty things that cause so great a colic when brought into that effulgent light of a perfect, zealous penance? We ponder an existence cobbled from whole cloth of mendacious platitudes served cold and barren; much like our estimation of bards of old who enchant with impassioned eloquence, their beggarly message left spinning on empty potter’s wheels: ‘Tis truth! ‘Tis life! ‘Tis virtue! And the canker molders in the shadows while the meaning goes unnoticed. It mocks them in their esteemed repose. Feigned enlightened and retiring spent to golden slumbers, only to awaken more obtuse and facile in their righteous contumacy. Yet, each new day dawns with the hope of better visions, but alas we see through a glass darkly: the candle burns the shadows deep gaze upon the question turning within the instant grasp of sleep the pain of books we’re burning we hold these truths on slender threads a stifled, false soliloquy leave tattooed fictions in our heads they burn without the urgency recall the yearning, soft caress upon the breast of our sweet sorrow the dead man often says it best leave the worry for tomorrow in morning light I’ll know my part take up the staff and follow wither take me foolish heart to innocence, or sorrow? On this the equation turns. Our knowing often brings a greater anguish, though cool libations might be bought with but a trinket. Warm, wet circles pockmark the bar, those archetypes of misfortune and enigma demanding perquisite for their tender. Yet, the coin of the realm too often trades in torrid ignorance with a penchant for rapine, leaving the innocent darling of such altruistic pride bitterly ravished, trailing bile upon those wide, gilded lanes: their signets Sloth and Greed stamped between the hedges. And the knowledge forsaken becomes the swill and effluent we think better to divest from such Kingdoms that might approximate a more perfect penetration, as union is now considered mere epithet! Indeed, can we tease a brief respite from such dapper, churlish fellows? Is it within our ken to call to dowsing fluids deep and recondite laid with pointed trowel in our nether antiquities? Sweet lips oft conceal the steely poniard poised to tear at tender virtues, while deceitful charmers pipe merciful dirges teasing briny tears from a misplaced childhood. The midwife held the pedigree, the mother has left the building. From a juxtaposition we see through this grand epistemology an intractable misconception leading to a breached birth. If we could only see the love upon which we strike the bead, shall we find instead a homicide forsaken? Perhaps this species might arrange the parts to better gestate more mature, resplendent destinies — laughing Dante left mistaken? Or, perhaps, we dance again. If, perchance, we reach yet further to partake of placid vistas, that reckless man will put aside his quiver. With cadence-mustered never-mores and ne’er do wells, an offish sultan may hold the title to some picturesque province that better suits such rabble clothed in their bold torpor; where doleful creatures screech in twilight, calling to their flagitious brethren. For even they are sure of that needful thing in the depths of remorse and bane. Lacking chivalry, they bewail their plight and lick their sores in vain. Shall we turn instead, fetch a compass, and point the brow toward some hospitable shire where the story meets a surer fortuity; to court a promise yet fulfilled? Or, perhaps, we dance again. Oh! The sordid rhapsodies that rack within my cortex, discordant voices raise a tension as the strings sag ever lower. Those bespoke gardens waft through balmy visions of school yard cronies steeped in Poe and Kipling; they have left a festering marrow that yet yearns for that sweet vermilion of yesteryear. The chalk mark hearts on playground steps remain my veiled affliction. I raise my staff to trellised florets smirking, by the river wayside, provoking images of sepulchers, in summer sunshine splendor, the sprays forever blind to that sardonic beauty. I see the roses she demurred beaten senseless on the pickets! Stained with tinctures of their crowns, the wage of innocence – ever cruel – betray not genteel coquettes. The recompense due abject eidolons of unrequited idyll is oft paid in a most shameful specie of currency. The mask tossed on the cobbles. The thespian has left the stage… The midday sun streams down upon the hedges, the coins remain casting back their bitter plight. Of innocence infused with passioned, pleading prose! Of knowledge left reposed! The blind eye turning cannot refuse the light. In that stark reflection we find that cynic! That feckless specter proudly indifferent to more affable natures ever our importunate companion. We fail to grasp those tendrils of a deeper empathy, which might articulate a placid actuality, raised up on summer breezes, where we may esteem the wonder of greater serendipities. Perchance to dream. Perchance to let the tendrils soak beneath that azure sky, where we might finally awaken from our golden slumbers. Or, shall we dance again… The St. Vitus. Reply Frank Mangum March 14, 2023 Stories they do tell, of times true and fell. Brave patriots do stand in defense of their homeland. ‘Gainst betrayers who lie, hanging soldiers out to die. We read of systems failed, or that right it did prevail; of times that change, leaving no remains of that we once knew to be good, holy, and true. Asking, “What can I do?” We read through it all with amaze and appall; Day after day, Page after page. Are we the slob? Just a part of the mob? We have no power, ‘cept to vote or glower! Thumbs raised up or down, maybe the one-fingered clown… This we can do, So Whatfinger will you use? Reply Stanley March 14, 2023 The last sunrise I Jumped out of bed this morning, as chipper as could be, turned around and found myself, looking back at me! “Oh my, how can this be?” Moseyed into the kitchen, to make a cup of tea, before returning again to check on me. And There I lay, as peaceful as could be. I wandered to the patio to watch the sunrise, thinking, Maybe I should go back and check on me? No, enjoy the pastel sky, let it be. Reply C.B. Anderson March 14, 2023 This might be a bit strong, Mike, but here it is anyway: The Point Thumbs up, thumbs down — We’re just expressing our opinion, Detached from Government dominion In this old town. I like the truth Served raw, without incessant cooking The Leftists try when we’re not looking. I like a sleuth Who never shies From tracking down a malefactor Or anyone who might have backed her Most blatant lies. There’s Hillary And also Darth Pelosi; foreign To me is that Senator Warren. A pillory Out in the sun Would suit all three, where we might linger To point them out. With what finger? The middle one! Reply C.B. Anderson March 14, 2023 The indentations for the short lines (the first and fourth of each stanza) were not preserved, Mike. I’ve forgotten the tag that makes this happen in the translation from one formatting program to another. Reply Kenneth L. Horne March 15, 2023 Please replace my original submission with this corrected copy. Thank you. Have I Got News for You If you’re obsessed with news my friend If you seek truth and that’s your end Then look no further than this page For I shall guide you to my sage A sage that truth will surely speak Ensuring that the news won’t reek Of bias and of censorship Or false and vile news that is hip The news as sent by print and wire Should really set your hair on fire And if you turn to keyboard, well That’s even worse or so they tell This sage you see will tell the truth It never will be called uncouth As others shift both left and right The truthful news is its sole sight How does it manage such a task I’m very glad that you have asked Well common sense it is its guide The truth foremost it will not hide At last to you I shall reveal This sage of truth with whom I deal “Whatfinger News” does make my day With sources from so far away It gathers truth from all around The news that’s always hale and sound I hope that you might try it soon “Whatfinger News” will make you swoon Reply Sally Cook March 18, 2023 An Interlude Dedicated To Whatfinger He was the stream and she the underbrush; The rain that fell upon his upturned face. She was the shadowed glade in evening’s hush That memorized the sun, received its grace. She was the sea, and he the wavering shore; Sometimes she was a fragile bit of lace, He was the harvest moon above her door, Creating out of shadows an embrace. But then, shadows of their closeness clashed— For beauteous as they were they could not stand— Once all poetic similes had smashed He shouted; she withdrew, crawled up the sand. The moon went dark, winds rose, high waves were lashed Against their crystal edifice, which crashed. Reply Scott Roach March 18, 2023 Inkling (dedicated to Whatfinger) Life on a page, in 2-D, drawn without input from the image to be. Given direction from the stroke of a pen, immature, the lines a lure, to draw the viewer in. So much is said with the toons that are fed through drums of what’s read. Inklings of opinion of mind and to minion, printed, to discern a truth. Reply Mia March 20, 2023 Dear Mike, thank you so much. This is the new much corrected version Hopefully there aren’t quite so many errors left now! Ithaca My precious child as you set off for Ithaca Take these, hold them fast, let them be your Guiding hand relating to the one true path, They will help avoid mishaps, treacherous Quick-sand and a myriad of veritable death traps. Remember to be always on guard and to beware Of all beguiling falsehoods especially the one that You will manifest only all the good that you hold In your heart. Close your ears to that siren song, For you must be as cunning as a serpent my dove! My brave child clasp the map, the shield, the bow Close to your heart and tend the lamp for you Will need them in the dark. Know that the sad truth Is that the purest hearts are the best delicacies For half-blind Cyclops, evil Medusas and Minotaurs. I will pray that on your journey you will remain Unharmed for your travail may be long and far From home where you belong. Tread without fear Where heroes trod to banish evil from their midst And know you will need the strength of Hercules. My child do not neglect to choose your companions With much care for they may be the means to your Salvation or demise; know true friendship’s rare, Although ’tis true, Odysseus was by his companions Saved from the sirens’ song the mighty Sampson Was defeated, from the betrayal of one who should Not have had his trust, and so was lost. He sadly Succumbed to idle ease forgetting that the map was Drawn by those of old, who travelled far through Babylon to bring the guiding light that never fails Therefore pray that you will merit a steadfast mate Who’ll share your toil and aid in remaining loyal To this Quest for the path to Ithaca is not strewn with Rose petals but with thorns, A Trojan horse, Assassins Of the soul, but it is the surest way to grow in strength, You have the shield, it will deflect all ill intent and so I will say farewell and God Bless; Go in peace and sing Your song with joy then you will arrive victorious if you Remain within Truth’s grasp, sheltered by the wings of love You’ll soar above the lies where evil dies and truth prevails. Reply Hicham El Qendouci March 20, 2023 Love River Forever (dedicated to Whatfinger) Where do I start? From any wound among thousands of them, From the beginning of the tough infection Three months ago… I suffer from pain and disease, sick with a virus Lurking like fire beneath my skin, a hidden danger waiting in ambush. I suffer within my wounds. And even my weapon betrays me! I’m still looking for a safety, but it is safe to stay here Sick, homeless, hunted and besieged? Even our brothers drink our blood and eat our bones. Darkness goes on in my eyes. And the speech shall die in my mouth Until I stop asking for silence. Even if morning comes I can do nothing About leaving, except to cry. Where do I start? All our streets are closed, And our tongues have become spoons And our borders gallows. My yellow face hates to invade the mirror. Only nights of lamentations come, And the same old funerals and wailing. My heart shakes as a dead body or a massacre echoes, Full of flashes, colors, and sorrows, Waiting until a favorable star enters The orbit of death or the homeland of losers. I head to the river, a beautiful river Reflecting in its flowing the mixture above me Of planets, stars, and enormous galaxies filling the universe. I walk slowly, through tears, seeing clouds and stars, While my ears hear explosions and my hands touch flowers of light. I long to go to a distant planet where there is no disease. Because I want to live in peace away from Earth. I feel my body trembling; Each organ vibrates with limitless longing Sometimes I think I see my love, a red flower above the beautiful river, And whisper gently, Sarah, my love, I love you! I write my love lovely poetry To open wondrous horizons. Oh, what limitless love!! Our days might be wine, But our lives are silent graveyards Into which our eyes stare. Where do I start? Is it useful to start In the time of the end? How can I enter Where there is no longer a door for me Except the death door? Oh, Homeland, You no longer give me even a shroud, And I keep screaming in madness. Earth does not hear or care about me, Nor does death. From tent to tent And from place to place My heart is full of pain and sorrow. I stay awake all day and treat my burning heart alone. I do not see the face of anyone who cares about my voice or suffering. I have a sticky sickness in my gut, So I can’t eat, only take water, but, thank God, whose mercy is revealed, That I still live, breathe, feel…and love. I know my life seems limited, A small light hanging in space. I feel like a dead planet Just like the Moon, Mars, and Jupiter. I should stop circling the Sun under which I was born And take the first spaceship To another planet in a distant galaxy, Away from this place of virus and disease, Where life may continue, And love flourish forever. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. 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Damian Robin February 27, 2023 Thank you Mike for setting up this support. A pity your wife and yourself are out of the prizes. But maybe you, both, could give encouraging trail blazers to the rest of us. :^) I’m already encouraged by what you’ve done so far so here’s my little one: Support the online enterprise that picks the brave from molten lies, that fields the small heroic acts and hits the twists of woken ‘facts’. It shines a light on broken bends and soaks the fires from token ‘friends’. A worthy wordy wordly slinger of stones like David’s — Go Whatfinger !! Reply
Roy Eugene Peterson February 27, 2023 WHATFINGER NEWS SOURCE By Roy E. Peterson Whatfinger’s a news source to which I now relate. They stand for truth and justice overcoming hate. They take on transgressors like with a sword and shield Pinioning opponents and make the dastards yield. Fake news is running roughshod everywhere I look. We become the victim when truth the news forsook. I count on Whatfinger to rectify their sins. Research is the answer to cease their careless spins. They list vast sources on the right side of their site. Whatfinger aggregates the news from left and right. Whatfinger is the answer to the “Drudge Report.” They share more news than the combined next nine import. Reply
Helmut Licht February 27, 2023 I have a recipe for Oatmeal And one for Apple Pie But my recipes keep changing As my cooking days flit by My meat loaf is quite scrumptious I let it cook all night Those buttered mashed potatoes! And my omelet’s out of sight Beef Stroganoff, my specialty No one makes it as I do I add some good Chianti And soak it through and through My Bouillabaisse and Quiche Lorraine Get compliments all year When I serve them to my gourmet friends With a glass of German beer. My Wiener Schnitzel’s hard to beat My Strudel’s wunderbar My Moussaka and Souvlaki Are the best I’ve had so far. As I mention these delicious meals I get hungry more and more There’s a Wendy’s right across the street- I’m heading out the door! Reply
Patricia Allred February 27, 2023 HELMUT,. Your poem on being a puppet impressed me. At times I wonder. What’s the fear of being yourself! Yet, it seems most on the planet are this way. If raised to be one, it is possible to be otherwise. Sometimes, one needs a big push. Without that push, it’s hopeless, It takes courage and the willingness to walk in the face of adversity, and have best friends avoid you. Your poem is awesome! A puppet cannot be responsible.anymore than an infant. They live in a perfect town called, ‘Blamesville.’They follow orders like puppies plus are the most boring people on this planet. This poem is relatable and thoroughly enjoyable, yet may I say, profound. Thank you and best wishes! Patricia Patricia Reply
Helmut Licht February 28, 2023 Patricia (one of my favorite Chachas) – Thank you so much for taking time to write to me. I really appreciate your comments. Do you write poetry? If yes, where can I find it? Have a great day! Helmut Reply
Patricia Allred March 14, 2023 Helmont! I apologize for this late reply. I like Latin Jazz, plus other kinds. Yes, I have tons of varied poetry at another site. Should you choose to email me, I will send it. )) I don’t advertise it. Only been writing a few years. Thank you, Helmut. Hope to hear from you.
Leonardo Sferruzzi February 27, 2023 Solace in Sorrow In the darkest night, sorrow grips my soul And thoughts of loss and grief consume my mind I seek the solace of a peaceful whole And find, in time, a peace that’s hard to find. Though you’re gone, your love lives on withing, Your passion and spirit that I shall haul, And though the tears may flow, I’ll not give in, To sorrow’s grip, for love will conquer all. And thus, to recollections, I’ll cling tight, Of all the joy and laughter that you brought, Thrust that, though apart, our love is my plight, Your love will always be a comfort thought. And though the road ahead may seem so long, I’ll find my way, with you to guide me on. Reply
Mark Stellinga February 28, 2023 Stick With Guys Like Us “Who do you feel’s responsible for ‘taking out the garbage’?” Carlton Whitney quizzed me, as we filled our cups with ice. “Anyone who can,” I said, “especially – guys like us… And well before they get a chance to do their damage twice! “Long before they break the law again which, as you know, Isn’t often lengthy ’til the day they do arrives And, once again, they flood their victims worlds with endless Pain, unconcerned with crushing hearts and mutilating lives. “Steve an’ Dave agree with me…Grant says he’s on board… And based on what you’re saying, Mark, I’m guessing you are too.” “Count me in,” I spouted, “it’s a fight I’ve hoped to join For several years and many reasons, and…the same as you… “When I fin’ly get the chance to save the county funds By ending someone’s spree of crime… even fifty cents… I’ll make absolutely sure…to which you’ll testify… The move I made to stop the perp was done in – self defense! “Sergeants Pat an’ K an’ L an” Mike are on our side, Deftly using Whatfinger to put things back on track… To point out who the culprits are…expose them one and all… And make them pay the piper for the common sense they lack! “See…’rehabilitation’…though a tactic worth attempting… When it comes to actually working seldom ever does, So…count me in, Whatfinger, ’cause the only way I see For – ‘taking out the garbage’ – is to stick with – guys like us. Reply
Flannigan McGaffigan February 28, 2023 Wake in the morning And coffee taste linger Read news of the day All found on Whatfinger Reply
Peter Cowlam March 1, 2023 Graduation and the School of Correctness Censorial editors defended In public debate their ‘emendations’, But in private defer to my student Scholia, and secretly theorise. Choice tutors connived, of course (commended My texts), made haste with the explanations: Graduates learned what was always prudent, If not to overlook, then sanitise. Let me predict: the tactical footnotes, Mountainous litter, foil for my learned Paper, swamp what I have in the margins Of combative life. The exam board gloats, Shored up by institutional wealth, earned, Note, where a profession of lies begins. Reply
Michael Theroux March 1, 2023 Drop the hammer, Mother Mary I’ve been too long at my beads Hailing your Grace-fullness When all the while, You knew… You watched the Pope commute The Bloody Horde, declaring By default, that Divine Logic does not compute. Mary, by your spared rod, which In some corner must surely wait: Spare not these cruel actors Collectors of fingers, Fresh from ballots These smiling bandits of elections, for whom Only Wars bring on erections They’re strong on Electoral Procreation (talk to the Pope, dear Mary about Political Contraception. Dedicated to WhatFinger: “Drop the Hammer” Reply
Heaven Rowell March 2, 2023 Mona Lisa By: Heaven Rowell How dirty a soul is to be divide At will that is and my heart I provided Like pig in filth he sat there and lied While he continues to plague my soul with lies How dirty is a soul to be divided I wonder how she felt, were her feelings subsided A dirty soul who plague two hearts His lies poetic such glorious art Art so glorious so bright and so blinding That i never understood what secrets were hiding Reply
Warren Bonham March 5, 2023 Broad Brush Art Dedicated to Whatfinger What’s considered great art isn’t static at all. There are always new trends that beguile and enthrall, We’ve had cave art, art deco, abstract and baroque . There was cubist, impressionist, pop art and folk. Each with palettes and brushstrokes that set them apart, But the newest and greatest is called Broad Brush Art. It takes years at an Ivy to study and train Where all traces of wisdom are washed from each brain. Once inspected and found to be empty inside, Each fresh brain can be loaded with undeserved pride. They will then get a palette containing a list Of long words that all end with a “phobe” or an “ist”. Either suffix plus any new sex. creed or race, Makes new words to be used at the right time and place. They’re then given a brush that’s uncommonly wide That has bristles to which all their words are applied. For a canvas, they use any privileged class, Which with one artful stroke, will get painted en masse. Those with functional brains largely sigh in despair. They think broad-brush attacks on a group are unfair. Broad Brush artists will say great art needn’t be true And besides, truth is based on one’s own point of view. Once the paint is applied, though it never comes off, It’s seen only by people whose brains are shutoff. Using logic on those who adore Broad Brush Art Will befuddle your brain so it’s really not smart. Though they speak very loudly, their numbers are small. It is best if you never engage them at all. So, avoid cars with stickers that say “Coexist” Since the driver is likely on their approved list. Most importantly, those with an Ivy degree When engaged may infect with their toxicity. Do not trust their opinions on art history They created this cult of Broad Brush lunacy. Reply
Joshua C. Frank March 6, 2023 In Praise of Whatfinger If something should happen disproving woke “truth,” It’s labeled “fake news;” disagreeing’s uncouth. The sheep hear the wool-wearing wolf howl and eat, And they’re bullied to blindly believe it’s a bleat, But Whatfinger News shows you both kinds of sound; You decide who’s a wolf and where shepherds are found. Reply
Breauna Michelle March 6, 2023 The Reason We are born with this thing given us Exactly what we do not know It sometimes seems a lonely curse in a world that’s just for show We want so much to just make sense of the way that humans seem to be We see the many ways we imprison ourselves and wonder why we can’t just be free So we made our attempts to assimilate, to get along the best that we can in a society that doesn’t seem natural but forced into some greater plan Now the masks are all starting to crumble and the curtains are being pushed aside The evil has gained enough power that it no longer bothers to hide We know now what it was we were given though we still do not know its name But we care about truth and justice more than we care for the game There are things in this life more important than the surface that can be easily seen There is something above and within us that’s more powerful than what’s in between We see clearly now what is our purpose Shine the light wherever we’re able And though most don’t yet want to see it, we spread the darkness out on the table We can see through the lies for a reason Yet we have a formidable foe They are gathering their army against us made of people who would rather not know So why must we keep pressing forward when it appears we are so far behind Because humanity is only worth saving if we can hold onto our soul and our mind Reply
Carolyn Mack March 10, 2023 Mercy Me, Mr. T____ Dedicated to Whatfinger.com, Voices raised in song, a psalm: Fetch the little fishes in to flay, and gather all the unsuspecting lambs, Who never sing of life in such iambs; his epitaph to fleece them on the lea. Read no remorse, he fed the birds of prey. Beside himself with glee, others’ discourse bans of foreign breed, truth bought in trade opines as, even in his testament to slay. Gathered all their wits, packaged it to sell He must collect and grind their bones to ash, turn every once of flesh and bone to cash. Practiced for the capitol crashes that Corporate Body prospers, an ass sins in his master plan most heinous the Creed of Mammon of this narcissist’s greed; would he kindly not reject U.S., please? Then listen to the deathwatch tortured pleas? Reply
Matthew Miles March 13, 2023 Dedicated to Whatfinger.com Gestures of requited idylls wax more mundane as memory and nostalgia render a mere tawdry conjecture. Specious kisses haunt moonlit shadowed halls where scenes of angry passion betray an encumbered, false romance. Youth left breathless cannot detach the retinal damage love’s imposture optically transposed from ecstatic pain to elastic bitterness and deceit. Let the mask bare the guilt, the thespian stoop for roses! And yet, with all alacrity we storm the beaches long abandoned in our childhood misgivings. We mourn the passing of halcyon days when castles stood on distant shores of innocence. The wallflowers beckon, the sirens call, hearing only the droning clangor of a mind enrobed in stoic rapture. The shrill report of souls entrammeled in that Gall of Callow, as the band plays on we dance the St. Vitus, we spin stilettos in the snow. There, dashed upon the rocks the gleam of father’s eye; his wish we should solve love’s conundrums pondered, though we bury them in misty, dank vicissitudes. In caliginous solitude we find our heart a traitor; our love a mere contrivance that degrades us as we tumble, and we fall, and rise again to grasp straws of proud insouciance strewn about the shores of misspent yesterdays. Let us dance and paint a new milieu with figures from a brighter notion; that perhaps we might attain more perfect knowledge of feigned returned devotion. A semaphore raised up on summer breezes point to stark realities, while question and enigma tie a ligature of self-imposed diversities. With fettered minds we spin and toil to fashion perfect paradox. A solipsism perched upon collective insight weaving tapestries of indecision and that oh! so tender intellectual morass! Is it not the crafty things that cause so great a colic when brought into that effulgent light of a perfect, zealous penance? We ponder an existence cobbled from whole cloth of mendacious platitudes served cold and barren; much like our estimation of bards of old who enchant with impassioned eloquence, their beggarly message left spinning on empty potter’s wheels: ‘Tis truth! ‘Tis life! ‘Tis virtue! And the canker molders in the shadows while the meaning goes unnoticed. It mocks them in their esteemed repose. Feigned enlightened and retiring spent to golden slumbers, only to awaken more obtuse and facile in their righteous contumacy. Yet, each new day dawns with the hope of better visions, but alas we see through a glass darkly: the candle burns the shadows deep gaze upon the question turning within the instant grasp of sleep the pain of books we’re burning we hold these truths on slender threads a stifled, false soliloquy leave tattooed fictions in our heads they burn without the urgency recall the yearning, soft caress upon the breast of our sweet sorrow the dead man often says it best leave the worry for tomorrow in morning light I’ll know my part take up the staff and follow wither take me foolish heart to innocence, or sorrow? On this the equation turns. Our knowing often brings a greater anguish, though cool libations might be bought with but a trinket. Warm, wet circles pockmark the bar, those archetypes of misfortune and enigma demanding perquisite for their tender. Yet, the coin of the realm too often trades in torrid ignorance with a penchant for rapine, leaving the innocent darling of such altruistic pride bitterly ravished, trailing bile upon those wide, gilded lanes: their signets Sloth and Greed stamped between the hedges. And the knowledge forsaken becomes the swill and effluent we think better to divest from such Kingdoms that might approximate a more perfect penetration, as union is now considered mere epithet! Indeed, can we tease a brief respite from such dapper, churlish fellows? Is it within our ken to call to dowsing fluids deep and recondite laid with pointed trowel in our nether antiquities? Sweet lips oft conceal the steely poniard poised to tear at tender virtues, while deceitful charmers pipe merciful dirges teasing briny tears from a misplaced childhood. The midwife held the pedigree, the mother has left the building. From a juxtaposition we see through this grand epistemology an intractable misconception leading to a breached birth. If we could only see the love upon which we strike the bead, shall we find instead a homicide forsaken? Perhaps this species might arrange the parts to better gestate more mature, resplendent destinies — laughing Dante left mistaken? Or, perhaps, we dance again. If, perchance, we reach yet further to partake of placid vistas, that reckless man will put aside his quiver. With cadence-mustered never-mores and ne’er do wells, an offish sultan may hold the title to some picturesque province that better suits such rabble clothed in their bold torpor; where doleful creatures screech in twilight, calling to their flagitious brethren. For even they are sure of that needful thing in the depths of remorse and bane. Lacking chivalry, they bewail their plight and lick their sores in vain. Shall we turn instead, fetch a compass, and point the brow toward some hospitable shire where the story meets a surer fortuity; to court a promise yet fulfilled? Or, perhaps, we dance again. Oh! The sordid rhapsodies that rack within my cortex, discordant voices raise a tension as the strings sag ever lower. Those bespoke gardens waft through balmy visions of school yard cronies steeped in Poe and Kipling; they have left a festering marrow that yet yearns for that sweet vermilion of yesteryear. The chalk mark hearts on playground steps remain my veiled affliction. I raise my staff to trellised florets smirking, by the river wayside, provoking images of sepulchers, in summer sunshine splendor, the sprays forever blind to that sardonic beauty. I see the roses she demurred beaten senseless on the pickets! Stained with tinctures of their crowns, the wage of innocence – ever cruel – betray not genteel coquettes. The recompense due abject eidolons of unrequited idyll is oft paid in a most shameful specie of currency. The mask tossed on the cobbles. The thespian has left the stage… The midday sun streams down upon the hedges, the coins remain casting back their bitter plight. Of innocence infused with passioned, pleading prose! Of knowledge left reposed! The blind eye turning cannot refuse the light. In that stark reflection we find that cynic! That feckless specter proudly indifferent to more affable natures ever our importunate companion. We fail to grasp those tendrils of a deeper empathy, which might articulate a placid actuality, raised up on summer breezes, where we may esteem the wonder of greater serendipities. Perchance to dream. Perchance to let the tendrils soak beneath that azure sky, where we might finally awaken from our golden slumbers. Or, shall we dance again… The St. Vitus. Reply
Frank Mangum March 14, 2023 Stories they do tell, of times true and fell. Brave patriots do stand in defense of their homeland. ‘Gainst betrayers who lie, hanging soldiers out to die. We read of systems failed, or that right it did prevail; of times that change, leaving no remains of that we once knew to be good, holy, and true. Asking, “What can I do?” We read through it all with amaze and appall; Day after day, Page after page. Are we the slob? Just a part of the mob? We have no power, ‘cept to vote or glower! Thumbs raised up or down, maybe the one-fingered clown… This we can do, So Whatfinger will you use? Reply
Stanley March 14, 2023 The last sunrise I Jumped out of bed this morning, as chipper as could be, turned around and found myself, looking back at me! “Oh my, how can this be?” Moseyed into the kitchen, to make a cup of tea, before returning again to check on me. And There I lay, as peaceful as could be. I wandered to the patio to watch the sunrise, thinking, Maybe I should go back and check on me? No, enjoy the pastel sky, let it be. Reply
C.B. Anderson March 14, 2023 This might be a bit strong, Mike, but here it is anyway: The Point Thumbs up, thumbs down — We’re just expressing our opinion, Detached from Government dominion In this old town. I like the truth Served raw, without incessant cooking The Leftists try when we’re not looking. I like a sleuth Who never shies From tracking down a malefactor Or anyone who might have backed her Most blatant lies. There’s Hillary And also Darth Pelosi; foreign To me is that Senator Warren. A pillory Out in the sun Would suit all three, where we might linger To point them out. With what finger? The middle one! Reply
C.B. Anderson March 14, 2023 The indentations for the short lines (the first and fourth of each stanza) were not preserved, Mike. I’ve forgotten the tag that makes this happen in the translation from one formatting program to another. Reply
Kenneth L. Horne March 15, 2023 Please replace my original submission with this corrected copy. Thank you. Have I Got News for You If you’re obsessed with news my friend If you seek truth and that’s your end Then look no further than this page For I shall guide you to my sage A sage that truth will surely speak Ensuring that the news won’t reek Of bias and of censorship Or false and vile news that is hip The news as sent by print and wire Should really set your hair on fire And if you turn to keyboard, well That’s even worse or so they tell This sage you see will tell the truth It never will be called uncouth As others shift both left and right The truthful news is its sole sight How does it manage such a task I’m very glad that you have asked Well common sense it is its guide The truth foremost it will not hide At last to you I shall reveal This sage of truth with whom I deal “Whatfinger News” does make my day With sources from so far away It gathers truth from all around The news that’s always hale and sound I hope that you might try it soon “Whatfinger News” will make you swoon Reply
Sally Cook March 18, 2023 An Interlude Dedicated To Whatfinger He was the stream and she the underbrush; The rain that fell upon his upturned face. She was the shadowed glade in evening’s hush That memorized the sun, received its grace. She was the sea, and he the wavering shore; Sometimes she was a fragile bit of lace, He was the harvest moon above her door, Creating out of shadows an embrace. But then, shadows of their closeness clashed— For beauteous as they were they could not stand— Once all poetic similes had smashed He shouted; she withdrew, crawled up the sand. The moon went dark, winds rose, high waves were lashed Against their crystal edifice, which crashed. Reply
Scott Roach March 18, 2023 Inkling (dedicated to Whatfinger) Life on a page, in 2-D, drawn without input from the image to be. Given direction from the stroke of a pen, immature, the lines a lure, to draw the viewer in. So much is said with the toons that are fed through drums of what’s read. Inklings of opinion of mind and to minion, printed, to discern a truth. Reply
Mia March 20, 2023 Dear Mike, thank you so much. This is the new much corrected version Hopefully there aren’t quite so many errors left now! Ithaca My precious child as you set off for Ithaca Take these, hold them fast, let them be your Guiding hand relating to the one true path, They will help avoid mishaps, treacherous Quick-sand and a myriad of veritable death traps. Remember to be always on guard and to beware Of all beguiling falsehoods especially the one that You will manifest only all the good that you hold In your heart. Close your ears to that siren song, For you must be as cunning as a serpent my dove! My brave child clasp the map, the shield, the bow Close to your heart and tend the lamp for you Will need them in the dark. Know that the sad truth Is that the purest hearts are the best delicacies For half-blind Cyclops, evil Medusas and Minotaurs. I will pray that on your journey you will remain Unharmed for your travail may be long and far From home where you belong. Tread without fear Where heroes trod to banish evil from their midst And know you will need the strength of Hercules. My child do not neglect to choose your companions With much care for they may be the means to your Salvation or demise; know true friendship’s rare, Although ’tis true, Odysseus was by his companions Saved from the sirens’ song the mighty Sampson Was defeated, from the betrayal of one who should Not have had his trust, and so was lost. He sadly Succumbed to idle ease forgetting that the map was Drawn by those of old, who travelled far through Babylon to bring the guiding light that never fails Therefore pray that you will merit a steadfast mate Who’ll share your toil and aid in remaining loyal To this Quest for the path to Ithaca is not strewn with Rose petals but with thorns, A Trojan horse, Assassins Of the soul, but it is the surest way to grow in strength, You have the shield, it will deflect all ill intent and so I will say farewell and God Bless; Go in peace and sing Your song with joy then you will arrive victorious if you Remain within Truth’s grasp, sheltered by the wings of love You’ll soar above the lies where evil dies and truth prevails. Reply
Hicham El Qendouci March 20, 2023 Love River Forever (dedicated to Whatfinger) Where do I start? From any wound among thousands of them, From the beginning of the tough infection Three months ago… I suffer from pain and disease, sick with a virus Lurking like fire beneath my skin, a hidden danger waiting in ambush. I suffer within my wounds. And even my weapon betrays me! I’m still looking for a safety, but it is safe to stay here Sick, homeless, hunted and besieged? Even our brothers drink our blood and eat our bones. Darkness goes on in my eyes. And the speech shall die in my mouth Until I stop asking for silence. Even if morning comes I can do nothing About leaving, except to cry. Where do I start? All our streets are closed, And our tongues have become spoons And our borders gallows. My yellow face hates to invade the mirror. Only nights of lamentations come, And the same old funerals and wailing. My heart shakes as a dead body or a massacre echoes, Full of flashes, colors, and sorrows, Waiting until a favorable star enters The orbit of death or the homeland of losers. I head to the river, a beautiful river Reflecting in its flowing the mixture above me Of planets, stars, and enormous galaxies filling the universe. I walk slowly, through tears, seeing clouds and stars, While my ears hear explosions and my hands touch flowers of light. I long to go to a distant planet where there is no disease. Because I want to live in peace away from Earth. I feel my body trembling; Each organ vibrates with limitless longing Sometimes I think I see my love, a red flower above the beautiful river, And whisper gently, Sarah, my love, I love you! I write my love lovely poetry To open wondrous horizons. Oh, what limitless love!! Our days might be wine, But our lives are silent graveyards Into which our eyes stare. Where do I start? Is it useful to start In the time of the end? How can I enter Where there is no longer a door for me Except the death door? Oh, Homeland, You no longer give me even a shroud, And I keep screaming in madness. Earth does not hear or care about me, Nor does death. From tent to tent And from place to place My heart is full of pain and sorrow. I stay awake all day and treat my burning heart alone. I do not see the face of anyone who cares about my voice or suffering. I have a sticky sickness in my gut, So I can’t eat, only take water, but, thank God, whose mercy is revealed, That I still live, breathe, feel…and love. I know my life seems limited, A small light hanging in space. I feel like a dead planet Just like the Moon, Mars, and Jupiter. I should stop circling the Sun under which I was born And take the first spaceship To another planet in a distant galaxy, Away from this place of virus and disease, Where life may continue, And love flourish forever. Reply
