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"Missouree" or "Missourah" | Donal Mahoney - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

"Missouree" or "Missourah" | Donal Mahoney

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In some parts of Missouri
some folks say “Missourah”
instead of “Missouree.”
When politicians mount
the podium at a county fair
to speak to straw-hat farmers
they say Missourah
with the oomph of a tuba
but in St. Louis they say
Missouree nicely
so city folks won’t think
they’re “hoosiers.”
Some city folks call
country folks hoosiers
without malice.
Hoosiers are country folks
who move to the city
and never go home.
In some parts of Missouri
they say “crouch” instead of
“crotch” and “southmore”
instead of “sophomore.”
It so happens that
Wilbur Fenster got
kicked in the crouch
playing soccer his
southmore year.
It was then a doctor
discovered he had an
undescended testicle.
Wilbur and Tammy,
his steady till then, thought
all boys only had one.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.

Yes | Gary Glauber - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Yes | Gary Glauber

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When I finished the large tome,
I felt proud.
I had toughed it out,
and even though I felt
I probably was only getting
a small percentage of the author’s
inside jokes and allusions,
I still felt a sense
of huge accomplishment.
Sure there was the accompanying guide
by the celebrated scholar
who assured me it all matched up
to Greek mythology, quite precisely,
chapter by chapter,
and I had no reason to doubt it.
That helped some,
but the real pleasure was
in completion
not comprehension.

I was an innocent then,
a cocooned pest
eager to emerge changed
with a writer’s wings
and a bold new attitude.
I was well into my year abroad,
living in London,
writing, reading,
attending plays on the cheap.
Shopping second-hand stalls
at Portobello, scrounging by
like some self-fashioned
rag and bone Fitzgerald,
chasing the spiciest curries
when not in search of romance.

I rose from my park bench
taking in the sunshine
somewhere in the northern end
of the wild heath, knowing
the vagaries of spring
might bring unannounced change.
The bird chirps were the
symphony of creative destiny.
I wandered through the deep woods
unaware that Karl Marx and family
once did the same,
finding easy solace
in nature’s budding pageantry.

My head was filled with
a complex mosaic of words,
imagining myself strolling
along the Liffey, episodic
challenges at every turn.
I kept walking.

A few turns later,
one path lead me away
from the heath’s
frolicking squirrels
to more urban surroundings
of a local newsagent’s.

It was nice to be back
in civilization proper.
The shopkeeper was a
chatty older gent who
inquired about my day.

I told him the source
of my beaming pride,
how I had conquered
the final 45 pages’
stream of consciousness,
no easy task, and had
finished the classic at last.

“First time?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I told him.
“Well, that is magical,” he said.
“A feat deserving reward.”

He steered me toward the
row of Cadbury delectables,
and urged me to pick one out.
I did and then offered to pay.

He wanted none of it.
“This one’s on me,” he said.
“From one reader to another.”
Only in London, I thought.
“Please accept this gift,” he said.
“Yes I said yes I will yes.”

Towards the Evening | Dinka Bednjacic - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Towards the Evening | Dinka Bednjacic

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Towards the evening
even the wind winds down
At the end of the Court
mini pine forest ablaze- at sunset
Sky master flaunts
brilliant fusion of colours
on open canvass
Clouds paint heavenly scenes
And if you close your eyes for a moment
they vanish into- emptiness

Towards the evening
fragile twigs fall from trees- weightlessly
Autumn leaves settle on moist earth
Birds become restless,
unsettled- like human hearts

As you walk, you tend to turn back and check
who is following on the same path as you

Nothing is clear like in sunlit hours
tension seems to linger
inside the chest, under sparse dim light
Thoughts wrestle, hurried like birds
searching for a place to slumber

Towards the evening
our reasoning wavers,
doubts sneak in, though
I will never admit I fear of being old
Now when my vision gets blurry
when I walk awfully slow,
and each bone in my body aches

I fear not of what night might bring-
but sad I will be
If I can not
see Martha in her garden- whispering
to last flowering rose
Leaning on a cane
Watching a teenager flying down the street
on a skateboard, racing for time
Careless- fearless
And a boy still attached
to his mothers thigh
gazing in wonderment

How sad I will be not to see another Fall
Marvel at flaming maple leaves,
walk on emerald lawns
covered in dew
Witness another day
one more sunset
And a chance to wait-
for wintertime to arrive

Cocoon of Broods | Ayoola Goodness - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Cocoon of Broods | Ayoola Goodness

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I

shall we dance the dance of one leg up
in the groove of this seeming merriment here?

lewis, these rhythms are the rumbles of friendly adversaries
they beat the skins of drums into foxy sweetness

how they beat the skins of drums to tear and to tears…

these strings are strummed with vipers’ plectrums…pure craftiness
melding the howling bass of hyenas and the hooting treble of owls…

shall we not dance the dance of one leg up
in the waves of this seeming merriment of the rhythms here?

perhaps, we would save ourselves a leg and a limping
from these rhythmical mines orchestrated to lame us…

II

shall we clad our legs in boots of iron?
for our sturdy-steady stand on these slippery paths

lewis, I must tell you, these paths are slippery
they slip giants careless treads in boots of fur…

they slipped ignorant akanni…and he kissed death…

these paths have widowed adunni…
these paths are ruthless carnivores…unsatisfied gourmands!

shall we not clad our legs in boots of iron?
for our sturdy-steady stand in these miry paths

perhaps, we would scale antecedents’ flaws and failures
and leave remarkable footprints for hopeful feet of posterity…

III

shall we rent leaves of deafness for stillness of storms?
and find tranquil silence for our troubled ears

lewis, these are not onomatopoeias of fireworks, for today we mourn
these are whistles of missiles, booms of bombs…shells of darkness
and doom

these storms are not festive raucity, they are tidal wails of turmoils

shall we not rent leaves of deafness for stillness of storms?
and find soothing springs of inner rhythms for our troubled ears

perhaps, we would tell, under milky spills, folktales again
and drain the dreads in the hearts of our innocent children.

IV

shall we undo the muteness of our mouths?
for how shall we speak the writings of our grief if…?

lewis, our golden silence has brought us no gold
we have endured…we still endure silver and bronze of pains

our writings are relics of fame…silenced existence…

shall we not undo the muteness of our mouths?
for how shall our arts bring the index of change in mutes?

perhaps, we would win beauty again for our worn fates
and crown our feather pens as mightier than the sword indeed!

I Am Me VII | Ajise Vincent - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

I Am Me VII | Ajise Vincent

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I am a sailor
oaring through life’s
odyssey.
I paddle a meandrous destiny
a tempest of despondency
has been my confidant,
wheedling my esteem to
salivate for death.
yet I am undeterred
I may feel seasick, today,
mourning flashbacks of
drowned dreams
but tomorrow
I will drink
pints of rum in remembrance
at Manhattan
—–
Ajise Vincent is a Nigerian Poet who derives utility from the smell of coffee, the erraticism of nature, and the dynamism of solitude. His works have been published in Eureka, Sychronized Chaos, Harbinger Asylum and various literary outlets.

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