"nameplate" poems
Try this! Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:
Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.
Here was my submission....does it make sense?
Yours Truly
(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)
No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns. A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.
07Jan12
D66d
By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
And then he coincidentally fell on his back,
All were up perpendicularly each of his paws,
They put a nameplate to him,
It was just the word DOG inverted,
People had never seen anything like that,
They tried to assert what happened to him,
Someone said, "The animal has gone back to GOD, the creator now."
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
your name
is still on my door’s
nameplate.
next to mine.
i haven’t had
the strength to
change it.
you know how much
i hate doing
mundane things:
cooking dinner,
washing dishes,
folding clothes.
but sometimes,
you just need to do it;
you know…
the work.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 6:47 PM UTC
They call me Subject B.
Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,
legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,
inside a playground
that ignores my miming,
shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.
Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.
Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.
I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
( story 03/14/11)
I saw a man coming down the road
Head held high, eyes were strong.
He stopped and asked of me
If he could have a bite to eat.
His clothes were all torn and tattered
I asked him what was the matter.
He looked at me and his eyes turned down
His face changed from a smile to a frown.
Hard times I have come across
I was let go by my boss
He said the times was making him downsize
And he had to let go of people to survive.
Everyone was doing the same
People losing their jobs was quite a shame.
Being a farmer who had hard times too
I knew exactly what he was going thru.
So I invited him inside to sit for a spell
For traveling these roads could really be hell.
He was given some soup to take
the chill out of his bones
And was told by the farmer that he wasn’t alone.
He was then given some dinner to eat
To this man it was quite a treat.
The farmer told him he could bathe and
stay the night - and if he wanted to leave
He could leave at first light.
He laid out some pajamas for him to wear
Even gave him some clean underwear.
The bed in the spare room was “ oh so nice”
And he slept peacefully throughout the night.
When he awoke there was breakfast on the table
Coffee, ham and eggs, and cream cheese on a bagel.
After having breakfast he felt like a new man
He looked for the farmer to shake his hand.
He thanked the farmer and asked him his name
He pointed to a wooden nameplate which said:
J. CHRISTHISSON- but some call me J.C.
He then told him he put a fresh set of clothes
On his backpack, turned around and didn’t look back.
So he put on his new clothes and out the door he went
Thinking that this man was heaven sent.
As he walked a mile down the road
He felt guilty that he didn’t thank him properly
For being so kind to a man in need.
He ran back to the farm house and knocked at the door
To be greeted by someone he had never saw.
“I am looking for the farmer who owns this place!”
That would be me ! What can I do for you?
He said : no ! that can not be ! It was a younger
Man, not as elderly with a beard and shoulder length hair.
He gave me dinner and invited me in, let me bathe
And to have a good nights sleep, then gave
Me these clothes and breakfast to eat.
I don’t see how here you could have stayed
When my wife and I were in another county far away.
But there has been stories going around
About someone helping people when their luck was down.
As he said that - the strangers back pack fell
to the ground ,and he heard a clatter.
The man looked at him and asked what was the matter.
He opened his backpack and a wooden name plate fell to the ground
And broke in three- when he looked he could not believe what he saw.
The three parts said : J.CHRIST-HIS-SON
And a cross and rosary laid alongside with a note with one word.
HOPE
Now who could this man have been ?
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
Will anyone look for that One Alone?
When this book on loan
has been returned
to the Library of Lamps as all its oil is burned?
When the waves retreating
have finished erasing
the messages I whispered
those etched with sobs unhindered
on the sands seemingly numbed
on the seashore of your heart succumbed?
Will anybody wonder what’s going on?
The nameplate’s gone
on the face of the closed door
of that room on the upper floor
that a while ago was Altar of Magnum Opus
of the tiring writer’s stylus
and Tabernacle
of a cramped leg muscle
of that voice that preached Darwin’s epistle.
The gong’s now muted
Just yesterday it was calling unrelented
upon fellow believers demented
The sun now starts to peep
As stars bid goodnight to sleep
The frail shadow shall lay down, no scent of frankincense
in the tomb of forgotten replies, with reminiscence -
of a hundred “wait till tomorrow” in any sense,
a thousand “just a minute” in any tense
“see yah later”, for a thousand “Whens?”
“soon . . .”, and now just silence . . .
Life leaves a million lessons.
and yes, I, we, will always remember . . .
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC
I never make resolutions.
I feel I'm just setting myself up
for failure.
January always brings changes
for me.
That's just a coincidence,
I think.
I stood in front of your apartment
door.
I noticed it's green
yesterday.
Today,
I noticed there's a nameplate.
"Doctor"
it says.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
The Mason and His Statue
at first, I am a block of stone
and you are a chisel
carving pieces of me away
and then you are a diamond drill
and then I am polished
mounted
wheeled out of the room covered in stone dust and into the liquid darkness of a hallway
and ten arched windows pass me by
for the very first time I can see the sky
I’m in the middle of the room
with a nameplate on a stand beside me - did I have a name before?
I’m just me
and there’s more of me all around me
standing
sitting
eyes reaching… quiet.
The doors open and the footsteps arrive
I hear water outside and see out the windows at the end of the hall and sometimes if I’m lucky they open them and I feel a breeze on the side of my face
but the funny part is -
the best time of day is when they close all the doors
and it’s just me and the janitor who’s mopping the floors
in case you were wondering
why I’m not there anymore
in the middle of the room in plain view on my pedestal
they took me down
too dated or too worn or just not new
wrapped me in canvas and put me in the back of a storeroom
where for the first time I experienced damp, and cold
and I learned that it was a bad thing to be old
but
then I was worn enough to be disposable
and they put me in the park
I’m by the fountain - come and find me
there’s no barriers and no nameplate telling you what to see
and yes, the wind blows and I’m a little more exposed
but I’m free
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC
GEM💎
I speculate your beauty in these world
With this splendour isn't of blood
For I couldn't identify who's nameplate own
For which your smiling face is but a rare gem 💎
When you speak, thousand of aid ⛑️, added up to my den
For which caused me,me of all people
Spate because Iwas in gaze
Your face are fireflies which flew around my pen 🖊️
Glittering,how so bright in the darkness
Your heart I see, it's unsaken Star ⭐✨
Well I don't think 💬 more to fetch
Since I really ****** fight through my dream
Dragging all my soul,this maybe the only reason I get with thee
And I know you, would show up
Since you and I need one soul
You've get this splendour bodybuilding
And it's very splashy to everyone
For it's like a star to every wondering bark
What could a man speculate about an angel
Who showed in my books,my dream,when I take a look at the summer's faces and even in the mid night 🌃,when it's dark 🌑,you shine.
This has been what I've long wait for
For which I left for a journey which I could not noted an headline for
I went to Sea, drowning at the waves
But not did I see but only the image of yours
What I desire for
When though, I've shun from the sea to the sky,
Looking at the galaxy, nothing amoung your part I do see
Natural you are ,how are you
If be it,what and many years
That had passed without you without you and I been loved
It is but a waste in this world 🌎
Allow me your love,to serve as a wheel of change
In my life,I wish a change
If your love could effect
You and I should be singular
I shall build you a spaza in my heart.
Nov 4, 2024
Nov 4, 2024 at 3:23 AM UTC
I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see,
Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor,
Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon,
Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable,
And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room,
Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn,
With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous,
Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish,
With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust,
Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered,
And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames.
Next I enter my room, the place where it all began,
All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations,
The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out,
The walls had spit out it’s true colours,
And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten.
I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me,
Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all,
Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out,
Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories,
I close the main gate, lock the house,
And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat.
The nameplate read “Home”.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
when he saw the nameplate
on his dull, grey cubicle,
it reminded him of an epitaph on a gravestone
sentencing him to a life
and death of reading e-mail
he would not be remembered
he would not be missed
but his inbox would never empty
and his boss would be ******
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
My Epitaph
by Michael R. Burch
Do not weep for me, when I am gone.
I lived, and ate my fill, and gorged on life.
You will not find beneath this glossy stone
the man who sowed and reaped and gathered days
like flowers, well aware they would not keep.
Go lightly then, and leave me to my sleep.
Keywords/Tags: epitaph, epigram, death, grave, stone, marker, nameplate, tombstone, inscription, life, days, flowers, sleep
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 11:52 PM UTC
A single bullet was all it took
And I needn’t have wasted that,
He sat alone in that dismal cave
In an old Field Marshall’s hat,
His eyes were sunk in that pallid face
A demented cast to his jaw,
He didn’t move as I knelt and aimed
And put an end to the war.
It was getting late, it was ‘68
When I ventured into the cave,
My friends said going spelunking was
A bit like digging your grave.
‘Expect big rats, and giant bats,’
They said, before I’d begun,
So I added that to my haversack,
Just to be sure, a gun.
It wasn’t a normal cave I sought
But one by the autobahn,
Where I’d seen a crevice opening up
That nobody else had done,
It seemed to lead deep down in the earth
Could easily close, if found,
So I took a pick, a dynamite stick
And burrowed into the ground.
I had a lamp on my helmet, like
A miner’s, casting a beam,
And climbed on plenty of rubble
That had collapsed in a steady seam,
It led to a concrete tunnel
Plenty of rock strewn passageways,
A giant work of construction that
Lay hidden in former days.
I seemed to go on forever
Then ran into a barbed wire cone,
Blocking one of the passageways
And a sign, ‘Halt! No Go Zone!’
The wire was rusty and fell apart
As I pushed it away to the side,
But then the sound of scuffling rats
Brought the gun out by my side.
Then finally it had opened up
Into what would appear a cave,
With flags and banners arranged about,
The glory of former days,
A corpse sat propped in an easy chair
In a uniform from then,
And there, attached to the shirt front was
A nameplate, ‘Bormann, M.’
Beyond, and under the banners was
A barely human form,
Who stared at me in the darkness there
As if I’d not been born,
The greatest conqueror of our time
And there’s no disputing that,
Lost in pain in his vast domain
For there der Führer sat.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
It makes me sink
that we have come this far
and I am still unsure of
how you’d remember me?
Would you flinch
when picking out china patterns?
Would your heart stutter
when choosing nameplate designs?
Would your heart place you in conflict
when doing things without the partner
you had dreamt of such minutes with?
Would your mind need to be calmed
if it arose at the mention of my name
or would it skip your attention
without needing to dismiss it as a coincidence?
When I speak of all things certain,
I don’t speak of us
Thus, I am sunk wondering how you’d remember me
Thus, I am sunk pondering how I don’t have a choice
I’d wish, though, you don’t have a choice either
that I always emerge a feeling hard to suppress.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC