Whatfinger Poetry Contest The Society February 27, 2023 Poetry, Poetry Contests 45 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 commentary. 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) 45 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 Shaun Vader March 30, 2023 Kool poem Damian./ Sharp, Clean and Laconic. Reply David Dowse March 30, 2023 Thank you. Except I’m not Damian. My name is David. Thanks anyway. Vance M Gilbreath March 30, 2023 I sing it also glad i can share it 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 Mike Bryant March 19, 2023 You can correct it Mia… just post again and I will delete the old… 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 Stevo March 30, 2023 So, once again I’m talking with my wife And she says “Did you hear about….can you believe it?” Once again I say “Yeah, I heard about that 6 months ago.” “How in the world do you have your finger on all this stuff?” she asked I just couldn’t resist “Whatfinger?” I said Reply Mike Bryant March 30, 2023 Can you turn that into a poem? Reply Stevo March 30, 2023 Mike, as a published poet – this is one – while many write with pen or keyboard, I write mine with a sledgehammer Stevo March 30, 2023 Here’s one from 2016 I’m reading a book about the history and future of genetics I’ve made progress but not yet reached the central plates de rigueur The kind of book a dilettante reads in order to be one And the author has explained that most genes don’t do just one thing but many, at different times in different combinations, cascades genes manipulating proteins manipulating genes manipulating proteins And since I know, dear reader, that you’ve studied my other work it’s no surprise to you that this, to me, might be another proof of God that I am explaining to my wife and she says “Then you live in a snowglobe.” Which reminded me of a short story by Philip K. Dick and It’s probably not anything like this but here’s how I remember it: The fifth grade project was to make a universe and the boy was real proud of his, it was beautiful and whimsical, the peoples peaceful and happy. He took it to school but it didn’t fit the political agenda – the teachers chastised and belittled him and the kids jeered. On the way home, the other boys and a girl made fun of him some more and made him cry and, all alone, he smashed his universe on the sidewalk. And I wonder: Would I do that? Would He? Reply Mike Trauffer March 30, 2023 We are the race called man We boast of our purpose at hand The good we do for a brother The deed we do for the other The pains we take to right a mistake When indeed we are making another Reply Vance M Gilbreath March 30, 2023 Tarnished Star The Outlaws They Rode into Town and Shot the Sheriff Down A Stray Bullet did Mark a Pretty Young Heart and now She lay Dead on the Ground His one true Love is no More for She Died by the Hands of the Men that he Searched for and his Heart that was Filled with Love is Now Driven by the Hate for the Man with the Gun in his Hand There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands Riding the Outlaw Trail to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell In the Desert He found a Man Half Buried in the Sand and There Upon his Chest a Tarnished Starr was Pinned to his Vest and He realized with Shame That him and the Outlaws were one and the Same and Wished that He was Through with what he Had to Do There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands Riding the Outlaw Trail to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell He found them on that night and the moon was shinning bright He drew his 44 and told them they would kill no more. He heard the shotgun blast and knew he breathed his last My love i’ll see you soon and died by the light of the moon. and the man with the gun in his hand let the tarnish star slip from his hand Vance M. Gilbreath Reply Susan March 30, 2023 My son broke his neck when he was 16 and wrote the following poem after he came home from the hospital 6 months later, pretty good for a 16 year old that is a qaud: HALO By Adrian West, 1993 They screw it in, I scream and shout, I’m in pain without a doubt. Cuss and swear but cannot fight, It is for my own good, To a Halo what a fool. Cannot move accept my eyes, Doctor, please tell no lies. No more Halo, it has been taken off, Nothing man can do is enough. Full of pain without a doubt, Have become spiritual and more devout. The natural body full of strife, The spiritual body is eternal life. For my good and in my fear, A spiritual Halo given me this year. No more faking, no more games, Beginning to focus and use my brains. All I see, unseen before, That invisible force no longer a chore. My heart, my love so deep within, Has conquered the physical of Adam’s sin. Reply Steve March 30, 2023 Skate Lives A young boarder is angry With his local skate scene Always chased by security They’re always so mean What did I do? Why do I run? Just trying to have Some boarding fun Never occurring was the thought That I’m not in my place Maybe that’s why security Is all up in my face Grinding the mall fountain Keeps bringing the heat Day after angry day Grind, run, repeat Knowing not what to do Because he’s just a young man Skate Lives on the concrete With an angry spray can I am tired of running I just want to ride These words that I wrote Will restore my pride After this first public sign The old boarders unite All boarders have stories This just isn’t right The boarders decide To clean up the blight And then they go do What we all know is right They find the young boarder To make it well known Put down the spray can We take care of our own If you’re looking to fight me My fists make me clear! Whoa bro, go slow That’s not why we’re here We’ll show you what it means To be who you are You’re a boarder, be proud Boards can carry you far Just free your mind We’ll do all the rest We want you to meet Who you are at your best Come out on my boat Said the boarder from wake Bring all the skills That you learn when you skate Bring switch for blind landings And landing with speed What to do with the handle Is all that you’ll need Whirlybirds and back rolls Let’s get productive Out here your tantrums Are much less destructive When you get bored with your inverts I’ll teach you some grabs Wake wipeouts hurt much less No road rash or scabs Our boats are filled With friend after new friend We will wake surf the river From end to end And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my wake scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride Come up to the slopes Said the boarder from snow Powder days are here So get ready to go Up here we all share As we ride up the chair Both skiers and boarders And others who care At the top we part ways With new skiers we found As they head for their moguls To bump their way down He looked at his board The lesson was plain I’m not built to follow them Not without considerable pain I’m a boarder I see The path I’m to ride I’ll meet my new skier friends After I slide We teach all young boarders Who think only one board can matter Strap your feet into my bindings And that idea will shatter Ride a day in my terrain park Huge launch ramps we own And our railslides are faster Than any you’ve known Steep drops and back bowls And overnight snow drifts Waist deep, can’t sleep Right back to the chair lift As a boarder my job Is to help riders who fall And sometimes help youngsters Who think they know it all Strap on your brain bucket Let’s get out and about Hitting the pow pow Before it all gets tracked out Try not to rag doll On your way down Yard sales on YouTube Make you look like a clown Rodeos and Mistys All fully tweaked McTwists and Shiftys Adrenaline peaked And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my snow scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride Come out to the beach Said the boarder from kite I’ll show you a way For you to fly right The wind is kicking up We are gonna fly high Today you will learn how to Ride your board in the sky These boards are longer Than the longest board you ride But don’t be afraid I’ll be right by your side Send it into the power zone Edge as fast as you might Then flick your board back When you boost your kite With your board on your feet Up up and away Believe you can fly It’s the only way And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my kite scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride All these boarders made their point Said the old surfer smoking a joint For one final lesson Come out to the surf break Reset your priorities And peace you shall make Out here we respect Our ocean and tide Our planet, our world For our children to ride If you question the wisdom Of this crusty old boarder Watch as I show you Life’s pecking order On a way outside roller The longboarder rode proud He had toes on his nose Before he even got to the crowd As he shot through the young bucks None even dared To drop in on this master They just sat still and stared A cross stepping boss He rode his own way Tucked into the barrel He did not come to play He owned that ride And the whole crowd too He was a proud old boarder Through and through Respect in this world Is only commanded Respect is not something That can be demanded So when you decide You have something to say Make the world hear you scream By the course that you stay Speak with your actions Not only your words And just like my barrel Your voice will be heard And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my surf scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride with pride Reply David Dowse March 30, 2023 A Knock at the Door Some bright day, when I have gone, Perhaps you’ll think and speak of me with Sadness on the tongue, Trying to picture the man who wasn’t your pick. But truly – it was just too late and too young, All in all, And foolish of us to take on chores of Spring In the thick of the Fall. But what of these two, fine children, you say – And how do they measure ‘gainst the order of the day? And how will they make our sad excuse For what’s been and been elusive, after all? Some dark night, thirty years on, when you are feeling old, When you’re tired and your children are grown, You’ll hear someone calling at the door as you retire, Interrupting the corrupted song. You will answer the door, sure that he is there. But he will be gone. And one can’t retrieve what one’s flung casually to the stars, Nor can love be had for even a montain of gold. Reply Portly Bard March 31, 2023 On Whatfinger and America Truth unfolds where circumspectly evidence is viewed directly. Thus Whatfinger rose to being certain wisdom came from seeing but for earnest aggregation “news” becomes indoctrination blatant as intimidation — blazing hell of conflagration — melting down our nation’s treasure, liberty in lawful measure, precious by articulation progress knows as innovation springing from so well respected moral courage resurrected liffted from its cemeteries where the prayerful conscience tarries holding sacred what is hallowed — truths eternal never fallowed. Reply Portly Bard March 31, 2023 Mike — If you leave this up, please remove the period after “seeing” in L4. Thanks, PB Reply Anmol Dubey March 31, 2023 Echoes of a Lost Companion In a land of weary beasts, on a day most ill-fated, Sat I by the ebbing embers, whilst singing a song ill-stated As the gloaming, most maleficent, chased away the meridian hours, A mutation indolent crept in, of which to thee I impart Akin to one of a werewolf exposed to the lunar powers Autumnal leaves fall to the earth, A chill doth breeze, a mournful mirth. The setting sun casts its final rays, As the night descends, my heart doth stray To memories of yore, a life now confined In the dim light, I spy my companion’s visage, A reminder of a life now lost to ravage. I take a needle from my hand, marred by sores And use a magical potion, to keep him nigh, though far I converse with him, but the memories are obscure We discourse of days long passed, of joy and woes, Of the camaraderie we shared, that naught could oppose. We reminisce of our youth, and the torment we bore, And how we turned to magic, to flee and find a new shore But as the effects wane, my companion vanishes, my eyes turning sore I reach for more, to keep him by my side, To keep the memories alive, to keep the pain aside. But as I take more, my mind becomes hazy, And I’m lost in the oblivion, my mind becomes lazy. I query my companion, why he leaves me every morn, And only returns when the night is born. But he doesn’t answer, he just smiles and fades, Leaving me alone, in a daze. I strive to hold on, but my wits can’t bear the weight, And I slip into unconsciousness, my mind sealed in a state. In the morn I wake, with a head full of pain, And the memories of my companion, driving me insane. But forsooth, I’ll keep speaking with thee, as I age. As the night falls once more, I grasp for the magic powder Hoping to gaze upon thee again, despite the tragic end But I know deep within, this is not the path, To mend my shattered heart, or bring thee back from death’s wrath. But forsooth, I’ll keep searching for thee, in my mind, Hoping that one day, I’ll leave this cycle behind. The memories fade, but my heart still aches And I’ll keep taking the enchanted concoctions, for my mind’s sake But the memory of the cold room, and the silence that ensued, forever will remain But I know, deep down, this is not the way, To mend my broken heart and find a new day. I’ll break this cycle, and seek a new path, To move on from the past, and find a brighter aftermath. And though I’ll never forget the tragic end, I’ll find solace in knowing we’ll meet again Reply George Gorman April 1, 2023 The Door of Time I. Carry the weight of time Like a sleepy child in arms Too strong for such a priceless gram of gold. Bend the verge of desire Around the place you are, Until you stir the flower in its fold. Flush the quail of thought Out of the bushy brain. Aim for what real nourishment is there. Bare the trembling wick Of what would burn in you, As long as there is flesh to feed the fire. Give your face away To another’s eyes, And let the ghost within you dance above. Talk to who you will be When the world is gone, And all that you can keep is how you love. II. There is a dark, dark doorway, A cave within the sun, Through which the ancient builders, Returning one by one, Have left a trail behind them, An alphabet of weeds Besieging mental sidewalks With artillery of seeds. Hear the forest laughter Dancing in the gloom. Hear the brilliant moments Sing a childlike tune. Read the deftly curling Writing on the wall: “Those who would go with the seed Must let the flower fall.” See the pitch black doorway Open in the brain. Step into electric Storms of spirit rain. Curl into magnetic Lines of serpent power. Feel the slivered second Strike the rounded hour. After grace and breakfast, Begins the work again. After death and taxes, What is left at hand? Alphabets of fire? Artillery of clay? And the dark, dark door of time Through which the lovers play. III. In summer when the moon is full She teaches me to love again. She is the spirit of the corn. Of gentle rain and soothing wind. In winter when the moon is new, Beneath the quilt of snow and dark, She teaches me to penetrate Her delicate and wondrous art. She revives my heart with love, Then thrills my soul with mystery. Doubly she confounds me, for Each half of her has history. Her summer half, so sweet and warm, Is sometimes lotus, sometimes rose, The Virgin first, then Magdalene, Agape dancing with eros. First, she is a lotus flower, A Kwan Yin of inclusive grace, As I am one with all that lives When I behold her soothing face. But then she slips her other mien Of wild, rapturous ecstasy Into my heart, and I’m a man Brimful of pride and certainty. Thus she becomes my fearless guide To all the arts of love’s embrace. Our bodies fuse in joyous warmth When I behold her ardent face. Then her winter half provides relief From kinds of love that haven’t been defined. But this is no vacation for, as she Awakens me, she blows my gobsmacked mind! As muse, she’s always happy to impart Her experience of fulfilling goals. As sweet reason’s germ of science and art, She comes with dreams and is, through dreams, made whole. For it was she that men claimed as their own, Then burned her at the stake to hide the deed. They made a world of marvels from her bones. A sterile world, alas, without her seed. Still she engenders life and gauges well. She has no care for triumph or revenge. She is the gyroscopic hub of truth That shows how every excess countertends. So as she leads me stepwise through the spheres, While orchestrating countless harmonies, Her cunning face assures me of my part Among the tiny, vital subtleties. Then, as I finally somewhat comprehend The intricate demonstrations of her thought, She turns her staggering depths on me again, And all my proud philosophy comes to naught, When I behold her mystic face. Reply Nick Prima April 3, 2023 Hello, I know I passed the due date, but I would still like to support this contest and so here are my few lines: The American ideal of freedom they caught, As Whatfinger let people discern dark from light, To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Both sides listened to, the true story they got, Since freedom of speech is the American’s right, The American ideal of freedom they caught. Criticism with the blade of a pen they fought, Amidst this, they did not disdain to show their might. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Unlike the others, not by China where they bought, Supported by those who they helped through the dark night, The American ideal of freedom they caught. To get to the bottom of things, they work a lot, But they do it with the ease of flying a kite. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Important it is, to have truth in every jot, May those who support truth no longer need to fight. The American ideal of freedom they caught. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Captcha loading...In order to pass the CAPTCHA please enable JavaScript. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.
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
Stevo March 30, 2023 So, once again I’m talking with my wife And she says “Did you hear about….can you believe it?” Once again I say “Yeah, I heard about that 6 months ago.” “How in the world do you have your finger on all this stuff?” she asked I just couldn’t resist “Whatfinger?” I said Reply
Stevo March 30, 2023 Mike, as a published poet – this is one – while many write with pen or keyboard, I write mine with a sledgehammer
Stevo March 30, 2023 Here’s one from 2016 I’m reading a book about the history and future of genetics I’ve made progress but not yet reached the central plates de rigueur The kind of book a dilettante reads in order to be one And the author has explained that most genes don’t do just one thing but many, at different times in different combinations, cascades genes manipulating proteins manipulating genes manipulating proteins And since I know, dear reader, that you’ve studied my other work it’s no surprise to you that this, to me, might be another proof of God that I am explaining to my wife and she says “Then you live in a snowglobe.” Which reminded me of a short story by Philip K. Dick and It’s probably not anything like this but here’s how I remember it: The fifth grade project was to make a universe and the boy was real proud of his, it was beautiful and whimsical, the peoples peaceful and happy. He took it to school but it didn’t fit the political agenda – the teachers chastised and belittled him and the kids jeered. On the way home, the other boys and a girl made fun of him some more and made him cry and, all alone, he smashed his universe on the sidewalk. And I wonder: Would I do that? Would He? Reply
Mike Trauffer March 30, 2023 We are the race called man We boast of our purpose at hand The good we do for a brother The deed we do for the other The pains we take to right a mistake When indeed we are making another Reply
Vance M Gilbreath March 30, 2023 Tarnished Star The Outlaws They Rode into Town and Shot the Sheriff Down A Stray Bullet did Mark a Pretty Young Heart and now She lay Dead on the Ground His one true Love is no More for She Died by the Hands of the Men that he Searched for and his Heart that was Filled with Love is Now Driven by the Hate for the Man with the Gun in his Hand There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands Riding the Outlaw Trail to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell In the Desert He found a Man Half Buried in the Sand and There Upon his Chest a Tarnished Starr was Pinned to his Vest and He realized with Shame That him and the Outlaws were one and the Same and Wished that He was Through with what he Had to Do There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands Riding the Outlaw Trail to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell He found them on that night and the moon was shinning bright He drew his 44 and told them they would kill no more. He heard the shotgun blast and knew he breathed his last My love i’ll see you soon and died by the light of the moon. and the man with the gun in his hand let the tarnish star slip from his hand Vance M. Gilbreath Reply
Susan March 30, 2023 My son broke his neck when he was 16 and wrote the following poem after he came home from the hospital 6 months later, pretty good for a 16 year old that is a qaud: HALO By Adrian West, 1993 They screw it in, I scream and shout, I’m in pain without a doubt. Cuss and swear but cannot fight, It is for my own good, To a Halo what a fool. Cannot move accept my eyes, Doctor, please tell no lies. No more Halo, it has been taken off, Nothing man can do is enough. Full of pain without a doubt, Have become spiritual and more devout. The natural body full of strife, The spiritual body is eternal life. For my good and in my fear, A spiritual Halo given me this year. No more faking, no more games, Beginning to focus and use my brains. All I see, unseen before, That invisible force no longer a chore. My heart, my love so deep within, Has conquered the physical of Adam’s sin. Reply
Steve March 30, 2023 Skate Lives A young boarder is angry With his local skate scene Always chased by security They’re always so mean What did I do? Why do I run? Just trying to have Some boarding fun Never occurring was the thought That I’m not in my place Maybe that’s why security Is all up in my face Grinding the mall fountain Keeps bringing the heat Day after angry day Grind, run, repeat Knowing not what to do Because he’s just a young man Skate Lives on the concrete With an angry spray can I am tired of running I just want to ride These words that I wrote Will restore my pride After this first public sign The old boarders unite All boarders have stories This just isn’t right The boarders decide To clean up the blight And then they go do What we all know is right They find the young boarder To make it well known Put down the spray can We take care of our own If you’re looking to fight me My fists make me clear! Whoa bro, go slow That’s not why we’re here We’ll show you what it means To be who you are You’re a boarder, be proud Boards can carry you far Just free your mind We’ll do all the rest We want you to meet Who you are at your best Come out on my boat Said the boarder from wake Bring all the skills That you learn when you skate Bring switch for blind landings And landing with speed What to do with the handle Is all that you’ll need Whirlybirds and back rolls Let’s get productive Out here your tantrums Are much less destructive When you get bored with your inverts I’ll teach you some grabs Wake wipeouts hurt much less No road rash or scabs Our boats are filled With friend after new friend We will wake surf the river From end to end And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my wake scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride Come up to the slopes Said the boarder from snow Powder days are here So get ready to go Up here we all share As we ride up the chair Both skiers and boarders And others who care At the top we part ways With new skiers we found As they head for their moguls To bump their way down He looked at his board The lesson was plain I’m not built to follow them Not without considerable pain I’m a boarder I see The path I’m to ride I’ll meet my new skier friends After I slide We teach all young boarders Who think only one board can matter Strap your feet into my bindings And that idea will shatter Ride a day in my terrain park Huge launch ramps we own And our railslides are faster Than any you’ve known Steep drops and back bowls And overnight snow drifts Waist deep, can’t sleep Right back to the chair lift As a boarder my job Is to help riders who fall And sometimes help youngsters Who think they know it all Strap on your brain bucket Let’s get out and about Hitting the pow pow Before it all gets tracked out Try not to rag doll On your way down Yard sales on YouTube Make you look like a clown Rodeos and Mistys All fully tweaked McTwists and Shiftys Adrenaline peaked And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my snow scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride Come out to the beach Said the boarder from kite I’ll show you a way For you to fly right The wind is kicking up We are gonna fly high Today you will learn how to Ride your board in the sky These boards are longer Than the longest board you ride But don’t be afraid I’ll be right by your side Send it into the power zone Edge as fast as you might Then flick your board back When you boost your kite With your board on your feet Up up and away Believe you can fly It’s the only way And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my kite scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride All these boarders made their point Said the old surfer smoking a joint For one final lesson Come out to the surf break Reset your priorities And peace you shall make Out here we respect Our ocean and tide Our planet, our world For our children to ride If you question the wisdom Of this crusty old boarder Watch as I show you Life’s pecking order On a way outside roller The longboarder rode proud He had toes on his nose Before he even got to the crowd As he shot through the young bucks None even dared To drop in on this master They just sat still and stared A cross stepping boss He rode his own way Tucked into the barrel He did not come to play He owned that ride And the whole crowd too He was a proud old boarder Through and through Respect in this world Is only commanded Respect is not something That can be demanded So when you decide You have something to say Make the world hear you scream By the course that you stay Speak with your actions Not only your words And just like my barrel Your voice will be heard And when we are done With our day full of laughing The tricks that we stuck And ones we went crashing You will leave my surf scene With your eyes open wide To what being a boarder means Deep down inside Now go ride with pride Reply
David Dowse March 30, 2023 A Knock at the Door Some bright day, when I have gone, Perhaps you’ll think and speak of me with Sadness on the tongue, Trying to picture the man who wasn’t your pick. But truly – it was just too late and too young, All in all, And foolish of us to take on chores of Spring In the thick of the Fall. But what of these two, fine children, you say – And how do they measure ‘gainst the order of the day? And how will they make our sad excuse For what’s been and been elusive, after all? Some dark night, thirty years on, when you are feeling old, When you’re tired and your children are grown, You’ll hear someone calling at the door as you retire, Interrupting the corrupted song. You will answer the door, sure that he is there. But he will be gone. And one can’t retrieve what one’s flung casually to the stars, Nor can love be had for even a montain of gold. Reply
Portly Bard March 31, 2023 On Whatfinger and America Truth unfolds where circumspectly evidence is viewed directly. Thus Whatfinger rose to being certain wisdom came from seeing but for earnest aggregation “news” becomes indoctrination blatant as intimidation — blazing hell of conflagration — melting down our nation’s treasure, liberty in lawful measure, precious by articulation progress knows as innovation springing from so well respected moral courage resurrected liffted from its cemeteries where the prayerful conscience tarries holding sacred what is hallowed — truths eternal never fallowed. Reply
Portly Bard March 31, 2023 Mike — If you leave this up, please remove the period after “seeing” in L4. Thanks, PB Reply
Anmol Dubey March 31, 2023 Echoes of a Lost Companion In a land of weary beasts, on a day most ill-fated, Sat I by the ebbing embers, whilst singing a song ill-stated As the gloaming, most maleficent, chased away the meridian hours, A mutation indolent crept in, of which to thee I impart Akin to one of a werewolf exposed to the lunar powers Autumnal leaves fall to the earth, A chill doth breeze, a mournful mirth. The setting sun casts its final rays, As the night descends, my heart doth stray To memories of yore, a life now confined In the dim light, I spy my companion’s visage, A reminder of a life now lost to ravage. I take a needle from my hand, marred by sores And use a magical potion, to keep him nigh, though far I converse with him, but the memories are obscure We discourse of days long passed, of joy and woes, Of the camaraderie we shared, that naught could oppose. We reminisce of our youth, and the torment we bore, And how we turned to magic, to flee and find a new shore But as the effects wane, my companion vanishes, my eyes turning sore I reach for more, to keep him by my side, To keep the memories alive, to keep the pain aside. But as I take more, my mind becomes hazy, And I’m lost in the oblivion, my mind becomes lazy. I query my companion, why he leaves me every morn, And only returns when the night is born. But he doesn’t answer, he just smiles and fades, Leaving me alone, in a daze. I strive to hold on, but my wits can’t bear the weight, And I slip into unconsciousness, my mind sealed in a state. In the morn I wake, with a head full of pain, And the memories of my companion, driving me insane. But forsooth, I’ll keep speaking with thee, as I age. As the night falls once more, I grasp for the magic powder Hoping to gaze upon thee again, despite the tragic end But I know deep within, this is not the path, To mend my shattered heart, or bring thee back from death’s wrath. But forsooth, I’ll keep searching for thee, in my mind, Hoping that one day, I’ll leave this cycle behind. The memories fade, but my heart still aches And I’ll keep taking the enchanted concoctions, for my mind’s sake But the memory of the cold room, and the silence that ensued, forever will remain But I know, deep down, this is not the way, To mend my broken heart and find a new day. I’ll break this cycle, and seek a new path, To move on from the past, and find a brighter aftermath. And though I’ll never forget the tragic end, I’ll find solace in knowing we’ll meet again Reply
George Gorman April 1, 2023 The Door of Time I. Carry the weight of time Like a sleepy child in arms Too strong for such a priceless gram of gold. Bend the verge of desire Around the place you are, Until you stir the flower in its fold. Flush the quail of thought Out of the bushy brain. Aim for what real nourishment is there. Bare the trembling wick Of what would burn in you, As long as there is flesh to feed the fire. Give your face away To another’s eyes, And let the ghost within you dance above. Talk to who you will be When the world is gone, And all that you can keep is how you love. II. There is a dark, dark doorway, A cave within the sun, Through which the ancient builders, Returning one by one, Have left a trail behind them, An alphabet of weeds Besieging mental sidewalks With artillery of seeds. Hear the forest laughter Dancing in the gloom. Hear the brilliant moments Sing a childlike tune. Read the deftly curling Writing on the wall: “Those who would go with the seed Must let the flower fall.” See the pitch black doorway Open in the brain. Step into electric Storms of spirit rain. Curl into magnetic Lines of serpent power. Feel the slivered second Strike the rounded hour. After grace and breakfast, Begins the work again. After death and taxes, What is left at hand? Alphabets of fire? Artillery of clay? And the dark, dark door of time Through which the lovers play. III. In summer when the moon is full She teaches me to love again. She is the spirit of the corn. Of gentle rain and soothing wind. In winter when the moon is new, Beneath the quilt of snow and dark, She teaches me to penetrate Her delicate and wondrous art. She revives my heart with love, Then thrills my soul with mystery. Doubly she confounds me, for Each half of her has history. Her summer half, so sweet and warm, Is sometimes lotus, sometimes rose, The Virgin first, then Magdalene, Agape dancing with eros. First, she is a lotus flower, A Kwan Yin of inclusive grace, As I am one with all that lives When I behold her soothing face. But then she slips her other mien Of wild, rapturous ecstasy Into my heart, and I’m a man Brimful of pride and certainty. Thus she becomes my fearless guide To all the arts of love’s embrace. Our bodies fuse in joyous warmth When I behold her ardent face. Then her winter half provides relief From kinds of love that haven’t been defined. But this is no vacation for, as she Awakens me, she blows my gobsmacked mind! As muse, she’s always happy to impart Her experience of fulfilling goals. As sweet reason’s germ of science and art, She comes with dreams and is, through dreams, made whole. For it was she that men claimed as their own, Then burned her at the stake to hide the deed. They made a world of marvels from her bones. A sterile world, alas, without her seed. Still she engenders life and gauges well. She has no care for triumph or revenge. She is the gyroscopic hub of truth That shows how every excess countertends. So as she leads me stepwise through the spheres, While orchestrating countless harmonies, Her cunning face assures me of my part Among the tiny, vital subtleties. Then, as I finally somewhat comprehend The intricate demonstrations of her thought, She turns her staggering depths on me again, And all my proud philosophy comes to naught, When I behold her mystic face. Reply
Nick Prima April 3, 2023 Hello, I know I passed the due date, but I would still like to support this contest and so here are my few lines: The American ideal of freedom they caught, As Whatfinger let people discern dark from light, To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Both sides listened to, the true story they got, Since freedom of speech is the American’s right, The American ideal of freedom they caught. Criticism with the blade of a pen they fought, Amidst this, they did not disdain to show their might. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Unlike the others, not by China where they bought, Supported by those who they helped through the dark night, The American ideal of freedom they caught. To get to the bottom of things, they work a lot, But they do it with the ease of flying a kite. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Important it is, to have truth in every jot, May those who support truth no longer need to fight. The American ideal of freedom they caught. To let people know the truth would be good, they thought. Reply
