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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.
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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.)
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PRIZE
$100 and publication on Whatfinger.
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DEADLINE
April 1. Winner and honorable mentions announced April 10.
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SUBMISSION FEE
None
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WHO
Anyone anywhere may enter, with the exception of Mike’s own family who are not allowed to enter.
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JUDGE
Mike Bryant, SCP Moderator
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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 !!
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.
Kool poem Damian./ Sharp, Clean and Laconic.
Thank you. Except I’m not Damian.
My name is David.
Thanks anyway.
I sing it also glad i can share it
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!
While many sources wallow in decay…
Whatfinger points the way.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
Wake in the morning
And coffee taste linger
Read news of the day
All found on Whatfinger
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.
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”
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
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.
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.
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
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?
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.
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?
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.
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!
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.
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
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.
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.
You can correct it Mia… just post again and I will delete the old…
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.
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.