A C T C - 2014/09 Entries - Poem Hunter Poems - (Disqualified But Noteworthy) Poem by Brian Johnston

Two poems of the following three poems, though too long for the [Challenge] Title for September Contest and the third, entered too late, are all worthy of your attention. If you would like to comment on any of there poems please do so on this page. You may also rate the poems if you wish in with your written comment. And it is my pleasure as well to welcome new poet Achill Lad to the growing list of talented poets here on Poemhunter.com as well!

I have had to block rating of many of my poems on PoemHunter because of weaknesses in PH software that allow malicious people to give an author's most successful poems a low rating by using multiple memberships in PoemHunter to give a target poem many votes of 1.0. Indeed Merov Tac, a banned PH former member, has already done so on this poem under a new false identity, so I have blocked voting on it in the normal way.

At a later time Diane and I will both be able though to move your votes to our actual poems so that your ratings do not just disappear. Both of the poets here appreciate your comments and your legitimate and considered ratings.

Enjoy while you are at it the humor in Merov being blocked and humiliated so completely that the only thing he can do now is to say he does not like me by giving my picture a negative value (I am tracking his chicken scratching in my Biography) and then again on this page as well he has already given this 'Poem' fourteen negative votes. Poor Merov! His profanity in comments and letters to members has now gotten him banned from PH forever under his own name and again just recently under two nom de plumes that he was using as cover for his attacks. They also have been banned.
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God's Kind of Poetry
By Diane Hine September 17.2014


Bribeham, England 1664

Timber-framed houses overhung a dingy lane.
Motley drops clung to their undersides, or skittered
down the waxed shawls and skirts of two widows
passing below, or plashed on motley cobbles.
‘The candlewax will protect us from diſeaſe-cauſing
miaſmas won't it Lotta? ' said Widow Key.
‘I very much doubt it Anna', replied Widow Crock,
‘but it's uſeful for keeping owt the fleas.'

Widow Crock rapped on a door with a stick.
The door opened a crack.
‘Did the grave Sexton sende ye? ' asked an old woman.
‘He did Goody Bryte', replied Widow Croak. ‘Where is the Bodie?
Goody Bryte led them up a dark stair to a low-
ceilinged room where a wan corpse lay on a bed.
‘How did he dye? ' asked Widow Crock.
‘I murther'd him', replied Goody Bryte.
‘Murther you say', breathed Widow Key.
‘Aye', said Goody Bryte.
‘How so? ' asked Widow Crock.
‘I murther'd him with a curſe.'
‘What sort of curſe? '
‘The waſting beaſtie curſe.'
‘Oh yes? What did that do? '
‘Peck'd him from the inſide out ‘til he cough'd up blood
and dyed.' Goody Bryte wore a triumphant expression.
‘Maybe it was juſt Tissick? ' suggested Widow Key.
‘No, no, NO! It were murther! ' insisted Goody Bryte
and was herself overcome by a fit of coughing.
‘Ah….....I see', said Widow Crock. She inspected the corpse.
‘A cough you say? Was it perſiſtant? ' she queried.
‘Aye, hideouſly peſtilant', replied Goody Bryte.
‘Murther it is then', declared Widow Crock.
‘I knew it! ' cried Goody Bryte looking relieved and cheerful.
‘The Bodie can be bury'd now', said Widow Crock.
‘We'll find our own way owt', added Widow Key.

Continuing on their way, Widow Crock turned to Widow Key
and asked, ‘So what d'you make of that Anna? '
‘A fowl murther indeed Lotta', replied Widow Key.
‘Nonſenſe', scoffed Widow Crock, 'it was Conſumption'.
‘Oh', said Widow Key, not a little confused.

The widows lifted their skirts to avoid the fetid drains
and hurried to their second appointment of the day.
This time, a heavy-set man showed them
a wrapped corpse lying on the stone floor.
‘What was the cauſe of death Goodman Nye? ' asked W. Crock.
‘Hysteria', replied Goodman Nye.
‘You'll have to unwrap the Bodie', said Widow Crock.
‘Why? ' asked Goodman Nye.
‘Because we're charged by the Parish Clerk to inſpect the
Bodie ourſelves', said Widow Crock firmly.
Goodman Nye reluctantly unwrapped the corpse.
‘Ah…….Hysteria, quite so', agreed Widow Crock quickly.
‘But, but, but, but, but…….', stuttered Widow Key.
W. Crock rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry to be a nuiſance Goodman Nye,
but would you be so kinde as to explain the wounds.'
Goodman Nye narrowed his eyes. ‘What wounds? ' he growled.
‘The multifarious bloody cuts! ' exclaimed Widow Key.
‘I was nurſing the poor soul', said Goodman Nye.
‘How so? ' demanded Widow Key.
‘Bloodletting, to releeve her convulſions' said Goodman Nye.
He scowled and clenched his fists.
‘Oh yes, silly ', said Widow Key quickly. ‘The wounds are perfetly
conſiſtant with the wholeſome practice of bloodletting.'
Goodman Nye's scowl softened into a squalid grin.
‘The Bodie can be bury'd now', said Widow Crock.
‘We'll find our own way owt', added Widow Key.

Continuing on their way, Widow Crock turned to Widow Key
and asked, ‘So what d'you make of that Anna? '
‘Was it Hysteria Lotta? ' asked Widow Key doubtfully.
‘No Anna', said Widow Crock, ‘It was moſt aſſuredly murther! '

The widows' final appointment of the day was in one of
Bribeham's slightly nicer streets. Mistress Perk answered
the door before they knocked and bustled them inside,
looking up and down the street as she did so.
‘It's not the Plague! ' Mistress Perk blurted.
‘Nonetheleſs, it is our dutie to inſpect the Bodie, Mistress Perk',
said Widow Key, covering her nose and mouth with a hanky.
The corpse lay in the shadows of a curtained four-poster bed.
W. Crock used her stick to lift the nightgown. ‘Hmm…swollen
buboes in groin and armpits…purple rash…bliſters…'
She lowered the gown and backed away.
‘It was Pleuriſie' said Mistress Perk.
‘Not credible Mistress Perk', said Widow Crock.
‘What would happen if it was the Plague? ' asked Mistress Perk.
‘Ye'd be board'd up and guard'd for fourty days', said W. Key,
‘with the words ‘Lord have mercy upon us' paint'd on ye door.'
‘It was Gowt', said Mistress Perk desperately.
‘No it wasn't', said Widow Crock.
‘Spott'd Feaver? '
‘No'
‘Strangury? Horſeſhoehead? Choak? Jawfaln? Dropſie? '
‘No, no, no, no, and no.'
‘Well what would be credible then? ' asked Mistress Perk.
‘Hmm…we could perform a second autopſy', said Widow Crock.
‘Yes, pleaſe do', said Mistress Perk.
‘Autopſies are thirſty work, tho', said Widow Crock.
‘Of courſe! Let me fetch you two pints of ale'.
‘Also there's the fee to conſider.'
‘Fee? '
‘Two groats is the cuſtome for a second autopſy.'
‘Of courſe! Moſt reaſonable.'
‘And some tobacco to chaw to thwart the miaſmas.'
‘Of courſe! A roll of beſt tobacco'.
‘Very well, we shall inſpect the Bodie again', said Widow Crock.
The widows stood well back and prodded the corpse with their
sticks. ‘Now we muſt conſult', said Widow Crock.
The widows muttered in the corner while
Mistress Perk nervously wrung her hands.
‘The cauſe of death was Leproſie', announced Widow Crock.
‘Leproſie! How wonderful! ' exclaimed Mistress Perk,
clapping her hands and dancing around the room.
‘The Bodie can be bury'd now', said Widow Crock,
‘but make sure it's well-wrap'd up.'
‘We'll find our own way owt', added Widow Key.

Continuing on their way, Widow Crock turned to Widow Key
and asked, ‘So what d'you make of that Anna? '
‘Some days it's good to be a Searcher Lotta', said Widow Key;
‘We made three greevers happy today and that makes me
happy too. Look, the sun's shining! The puddles are twinkling
like silver groats and the drain is burnish'd like a rope of rich
tobacco and the smoaky sky is the bleſsed old gold of beſt Ale.
Liſten, the church bell is ringing and we'll be conſoling more
greevers tomorrow. All in all it's like a kinde of poetry.'
‘It is indeed', Widow Crock agreed, ‘God's kinde of poetry.'

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God's Kind of Poetry
By James B Johnston Sept.19,2014

The finite contemplating the infinite
The stardust male and female still flush with light
From exploding stars, seeding new possibilities, our true progenitors.
So that even God Himself must take note of our passing (in its season) ,
Such elemental purity of spirit, such shining stock do we hail from.
Thinkers cannot grasp the number of galaxies the universe holds
Let alone name them or divine their future, human brains too slow,
More galaxies than all the grains of sand from every beach on the planet.
Where once this metaphor was applied loosely to stars alone,
Now galaxies are what might be counted, counting stars unimaginable.
Oh we are clever and have our tricks to make us look wise,
Like when we prove that one kind of infinity is bigger than another,
But all infinities are truly beyond our ken, mere children who count
‘One, two, three, many, ' and think we have accomplished something.
In our childish wonder we are only newly aware of galactic reach,
Theoretically sure now that our universe does have a furthest edge,
But totally unaware of its dimensions or of its actual shape.
New maps of different galaxy locations in space surprise us too
As the distribution of galaxies follows an unimagined ribbon like pattern.
Galaxies are NOT evenly distributed throughout the mapped universe
But shoot off in flares like star shells on the 4th of July!

We are dreamers who woke one day to discover that once fixed stars
Are now time machines to those with eyes to see, revealing our past,
And to those with ears to hear comes the certain knowledge of the Big Bang.
Now, vision enhanced by scientific revelation, we can share with God,
‘Seek and you shall find, ' being the foundational faith of Science,
The wonders of this creation, several billion years past, naked before us,
As if we were there, reveling in its wonders (though now a cosmic rerun) ,
Sharing a nice glass of Merlot with God in front of His Big Screen,
(The miracle of buttered popcorn always tender, hot, and fresh! Yum!) ,
Looking back to times when even laws of physics had not matured yet,
Laws, which, perhaps, like human beings, still evolve, biding their time.

But tantalizingly fresh is the QUESTION of other universes
Which now skips across the surface of human thought horizon like a stone
Every bounce suggesting another universe's possibility,
And every impact seemingly perfectly elastic, with no loss of energy,
Leaving another new universe in its wake,
Rippling outward like concentric waves from a whale's breach,
On a salt sea/air interface that reflects our astonishment like a mirror!

God's kind of Poetry, a window into infinity,
A scaled down version of Divinity, almost human in fact,
The footprints of God's Son along a sea curving with the earth's surface,
Distant realities always just out of sight, but there still.
Calling us into service, calling us too to be Fishers of human souls,
To love to heights and depths beyond our understanding,
And in so doing, to in fact become God's Children,
Trusting Love, knowing Love, feeling Love, giving Love…
Millions of Prophets, Buddhas, Saints, Poets, all siblings of the Christ,
A living poem, universally true, surfeit of God's imagination,
Novice initiates of a Grace that fills every nook and cranny,
Penetrates all flesh, all bone, and saturates soul like a sponge.

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God's Kind of Poetry
By Achill Lad Oct.3,2014

I'm just a simple little man.
I live a simple life,
In this simple little home I share
With my simple little wife.

I'm just a simple little man,
And simple though I be,
I have a simple little thought
That I will share with thee.

I've read 'God's Kind of Poetry',
And it took me quite a while,
Though I respect what most believe,
Genuflection ain't my style.

So I'll write 'God's Kind of Poetry',
And you may think that it's absurd,
For the greatest poem of all time
Is wrapped up in just one word...........

..........NATURE.