torments soupers fully
picks on others writes
although her writing bites
great big bully
eyes must be woolly
she attempts hurt
with words curt
January 29, 2012
Contest - Clerihew 2
“poetry is freedom of expression. Soupers should feel free to share their innermost thoughts without fear of being persecuted. Nobody likes a bully. If you do not have something nice or constructive to say, don’t say it”.
---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********
now and again
approaches the fog in me
screams its name
apropos adverbs appear
slick little nouns
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
beneath eight parts of speech
within prison walls
filled in the past
like Job's tedious job
homographs from heteronyms
words never mind...
they wind the mind
in the wind...
Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me GAY ??...
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
Sometimes I catch them easily,
The words I'm reaching for;
At other times watch helplessly
As they crash to the floor.
I try to reassemble but
They've landed in a jumble.
I grab too fast for floaters and
My chair and I both tumble.
Susie thinks it is hilarious
And joins into the fun.
Before she hears my "stop", she has
Already swallowed one.
I am truly very sorry
There are no poems from me.
You will know why when I tell you
My dog ate my poetry.
Won 3rd place
"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."
Please do not edit the quote , or add anything to it, use as given.
It can be the first line of your poem if that is what you want
FAMILIARITY GROWN STRANGE, COMFORTS NAUSEATED.
CARRESSING HANDS CAUSING SHUDDERS WITH
THEIR CLAMMY COLD TOUCH.
PASSION PAUSES IN YOUR AVERTED EYES,
WHILE YOUR LIPS PRETEND TO SAY OTHERWISE.
THIS EMOTIONAL HAULOCOST
CAUSING MY ARMEGEDDON.
IF ONLY MY HISTORY,
IS TO REMAIN, RATHER
THAN REMAIN THE MOMENTS,
OF MY PRESENT REPEATING THE,
SAME SONGS OF SORROW.
METHOIC MEMORIES HYPNOTIZING EXISTENCE,
OBSERVING OTHERS ALLOWING DISTANCE.
BETWEEN SELF AND SENSE,
SEARCHING, THRU CROWDS OF CONFLICTS,
WITH THE OCEANS OF EYES IN THE HORIZON DROWNING,
IN THE SEA OF LIFE.
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust
for things start to be.
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
of the causation
is the clarification
or the realization
is a manifestation
of your fixation.
I wrote this in 2003 and it was the first of it's kind known at the time.
The poetry priestess Dawood
Donned her Bowler ,as only she could .
But a bad Irish breeze
Jellied her knees .
Still her squiggly scarf wrapped her GOOD !!!!
I admit that I’m a poetic tart,
I’m as fickle with scribes as they come,
I giggle at Nash, Frost makes my lips part
and Burns leaves me completely undone.
As for Auden, his words take me home
until cummings sends me a sly i,
then Shelley, that rake, bids me to roam
while Poe gifts me a reason to sigh.
I curled on a loveseat with Longfellow,
Later with Yeats I hummed a sweet song.
Basho shared my old, feather pillow,
but I clung to Kerouac all night long.
Poets, a warning, I adore you all,
I’m smitten by verse, whether formed or free.
Over and over I submit to the fall
yet still play the fields of poetry.
Young Shakespeare didst say to his tutor,
"Methinks I wouldst be much astuter,
And per chance, I wouldst say,
Mightest write a screen play,
If some fool wouldst invent the computer."
I shalt ne'er be a famous bard such as William Shakespeare.
From mine pathetic poetical quill he hath naught to fear!
Mine immoral mot, "Where'er thou mayest be let thine water flow free",
I fear shalt ne'er compare to Bill's immortal line, "To be or not to be!"
"He hath eaten me out of house and home!" could be said of mine cat!
(Why could not I have conceived that line - all I can say is drat!)
"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" cried Richard The Third!
(If I had said that, people would have deemed me quite absurd!)
"Brevity is the soul of wit!" and thus "This is the short and long of it!"
Alas, I shan't match wits with Willie so while I'm ahead I'd better quit!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
G ood God! How I’ve tried,
E ven outright denied
M any times the persona you see.
I nside of my skin,
N either conscience nor kin,
I have you and yes, you and that’s me!
I have entered many poetry contests
to display my best...an amazing number of sixty or more,
only one of my poems has won first place;
poets are like enduring athletes who fight to the very core!
One big hurray goes to myself for the first win,
congratulations to the other participants
who are on the top of that list, or have been
awarded Honorable Mentions for their efforts!
When my poem doesn't make it to the finalists's list,
I don't feel discouraged, I brazen out the doubt and try again;
even Lance Armstrong, with his skills, can't always win his race,
and the trophy must be given to someone else!
I rejoice when some of the chosen poets appear
on the winners' list; I am happy for their accomplishment,
and into a word-restricted message's box I gladly comment
on their poetry...with the insight of an achiever!
And for those whose names never made it as previously thought,
I honestly tell you, from experience, not to be a bit discouraged...
your time will come when your enthusiasm will require a big shout;
never put the word, " Winner " to rest, write for fun and persist instead!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
All these words and all these lines
Just keep running through my mind
By the dozens, they drown out sound
And force me to quickly write them down
Lines and lyrics in poetic rhyme
Written within record time
Words so simple and plain to me
Can bring a smile or a tear you see
Though these are more
Than mere words to me
It is a part of my soul,
From way down deep
So please excuse me
While I let it all out
Or these words will drive me crazy
Without any doubt!
If I were a word,
Then 'peent' it would be.
It's something unique,
Just exactly like me.
With mystery and flow,
Like a forest hid stream,
Like memories unrealized;
Some faraway dream.
Any sentence could fit me,
I'd make stories complete,
My meaning’d be endless,
My harmony sweet.
Yes, if I could pick one word,
That fits only me,
There's only just one word,
And 'peent' it would be.
Time has come
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?
I opt for the one
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.
If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again.
Sensitive ears of nature I have
Poetry is not the sight of words
but the sound.
Spoken,sung or played on a guitar...
Human, machine,instrument or nature.
Any of these are cool as long
as they're written down.
A flute playing, a bird singing ,
a car engine starting.
Someone whipping , chopping,
cooking in the kitchen.
Hear it first, then write it down.
For what is poetry but the text
the sound that you've found?
I do not know?
So many different poems to write
If given the time, I’d sit here all night
Too many things I want to say
Too many thoughts to throw your way
Hundreds of stories left untold
Thousands of rhymes I just can’t hold
Memories that haunt and feelings of fear
All of my laughter and all of my tears
My emotions run deep and drown out sound
I wake from sound sleep, to write them all down
So many things I have left to say
God didn’t put enough time in my day
I wish that I could convey to you
My thoughts and feelings in a way that is new
A new and easier way to understand
Just how I feel when my heart won’t mend
Feelings come and feelings go
But the visions that are left, continue to grow
Way out of hand, and out of control
What was once smooth, is now uneven flow
My mind is vast with rooms unknown
Through poetry I try to let it be shown
I do not know?
Thinking of O, Ms. Jill Martin was in her solitude “Quietly…breathing”
That, she just waved her hand greeting April Lewis “Without Speaking”
I spied humorist Donald Meikle, writing a “Note to a Lady in Waiting”
Let’s party! exclaimed silent Sami Al-Khalili, but not “Only In Winter”
That’s a real cool idea, and I said, how about in “The Field Of Summer”
Dame Marcyle Beer offered her place, called “Welcome To Fort Beer”
A rising star Taryn Melville proudly breezed in: saying “I Am From…”
But, party guy Anthony Slauson showed us his “Fingers of Freedom”
Leaving noble Alyssa Finley’s young mind fixated in “Dreams Come”
A free verse expert JeanMarie Marchese of Homosassa, uttered “Slow”
Let snow lover Linda Smith tell us first her “Footprints In The Snow”
Indeed, we’ve our time to introduce ourselves, before “The Cockcrow”
Sweet Elaine George arrived, when the night still had a “Tender Heart”
With a special gift, for Raquel Nicholson, ‘cos she has “a broken heart”
I learned that Big John Tanaskow did not wish to go “Back At the Start”
The party made poetic Mark Hansen expressed himself, in “Cloud Nine”
Perhaps he had consumed much of shy type Nicola Steel’s “Plumy Wine”
For he was too excited, to meet a bright Seema Ali, on a “Poetry Online”
Before the party was over, Juanita Ganir, sprung from her “Sacred Well”
And, old Londoner Matt Doe spoke, of his mighty “Showdown In Hell”
To a sexy Tamiviolet Manchas, but, she xoxoxo urged him, “Don’t Tell”
Many thanks, to photographer William Jones, for his “Living In Color”
A souvenir that reflects my own plea to “Make Me Whole, Once More”
A plea to everyone, to all friends, to remember that “My Name Is Thor”
All these words inside my head
drive me crazy while in bed.
They will dance inside my brain
and fall down like pouring rain
When I try to dress for work
down the hallway they will lurk.
When I leave and drive my car
on every signpost there they are.
What this soul now has to do
is write down these words for you.
Taking pen and pad in hand I'll
write down what they demand.
When it's over and all done and
these words have had there fun.
They will leave me then to rest
you know the rest,,,,,,,,,......
This Lil' poem
had to change it's name
With a title so lame
nearly got sent
to Soup's Hall of Shame!
dude's on the poetic rise
silky set a' verses
new curves in them thighs
new flow's strapped
like an automatic weapon
Yep she's got new features
but didn't cost six grand
with a new set a' headlights
give the new girl a hand!
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Here lies a man who had no name.
There was a funeral; Nobody came.
No one cried, and None was blamed
Only three men attended; what a shame.
Blank Verse Rhyme
The master said “create blank verse in lines of ten”.
Form five Iambic feet without a rhyme.
“These five Iambic feet you must achieve”.
The verse will have a rhythm you can hear,
when studied closely this will be revealed.
For, lines of blank verse rhyming discontents
the master. “Do it over, take all night”!
The lines of blank verse sing a little song,
each syllable, each rhyme, you’ll hear them ring!
You’ll sing the tune of verses blank and pure.
And now I keep up with this blank verse trick,
I hear its tick ten syllables per line.
It rhymes so soft; I have it mastered now,
so naturally it falls right from my pen.
Oh, where will this blank verse rhyme find an end?
Yet, twenty lines of syllables came out
much faster still than I had thought they should.
I love each rhyme, the timing so precise,
I hope it pleased the eye and ear. I turned
it in, it came back very clearly signed
Why can’t I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are simplistic at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal’s vapid test?
Behind a block of writer’s I’ve been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused
There’s elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this I belabor all my thoughts
Create an elegy for elegance in time
Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams
And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters in their stead
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
I promise it won’t be a trite conceit
You say my writing’s convoluted, so, I strive to simplify it
Then you call my writing sophomoric and cheap
Yet still my writing exists, remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do just exactly what it feels like
And it finds you and your editing, perverse
It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn’t want you to consider it profound
For if you did then it might accidentally be common
And make cool people like me put it down
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
At the very least try to be noncommittal
Here lies the golfer,
Richard P. Shore.
He expired at 5
'Cause he didn't yell "fore."