Best Literary Poems
I feel a sense of déjà vu as I listen
to the cacophony of voices:
dilettantes discussing poetry
under baroque chandeliers. Masquerading
as avant-garde writers or bona fide critics
(black turtlenecks; color is an anomaly and suspicious),
they claim carte blanche to spew
pompous platitudes,
pronounce entire oeuvres as lacking elan
while all they create is endless ennui.
1/22/2018
For contest: Contest: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
Sponsor: Silent One
When my spirit was fogged in gloom
After i impacted concrete; like a lead balloon
It lifted my strength as I started to write
Of a beautiful girls toy; on its maiden flight
Intended for a contest by souper trouper P D
But I wrote it wrong in "form" if you look you'll see...)
Yet on its immersion in "the soup" I felt satisfied
It seemed to numb the pain; i had been feeling inside
Its not winning or losing while on "the soup"
Though neither string bean; or minestrone (i feel) in "the loop"
There are many places to spend a while,
But the "draw" for me is "the soups" unique flavor & style
It has content..) that's peaceful, stimulating; its fine"
Yet words versus" its essence is exercising my mind,
Let its writers and their themes be the answer to why
I extol "the soups" virtue; that's my definitely my very best try.!
Copyright Joe Maverick 2012
in support of Carol Browns what you love about "the soup"
amended 19 02 2012.
Simply ran out of reason and rhyme,
not even words worth a dime.
Got nothing to say, the mind is empty,
damn muses have deserted me.
Cracked my brain searching for ideas,
found nothing there but paranoia.
Lost confidence to shape and create,
completely busted and feeling beat.
Unable to throw even a few punches,
barely surviving now on crutches.
Cannot count on them muses no more,
might as well run to the nearest whore
for some extra push and inspiration
to awaken this dormant imagination.
My world-class confidence is all gone,
I’m out of here, I’m completely done.
Literary Viagra I badly need to quench
this temporary artistic impotence!
R-eader
O-f
N-ame's
E-xcellent
L-ine
L-ets
W-ords
A-pply
R-emarkable
R-ighteousness
E-mploying
N-obility
A-s
L-iterary
M-ind
A-uthors
N-iceness
Topic: Birthday of poet Ronell Warren Alman (August 26)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Traveling through the jaded discourse
With bartered pen and little remorse
Brandishing sharpened scalpel; tour de force
Unabashedly seeking all texts from lexicon to divorce
Developing underlying themes to alter the broader context
Freely abridging each verse to establish the pretext
Isolating each stanza to create a subtext
Inferring connotations to establish a hypertext
Disassociating words to broker more inflection
Delinking phrases building new bridges for reflection
Deconstructing patterns to sculpt out a new direction
Decoding mores and values to foster introspection
Voiding punctuation; compressing verses to scuttle metric time
Extrapolating dominant motifs to devalue the inculcating paradigm
Decoupling dissonant accents to deflower the sublime
Erasing phonetic schemes; disbanding symetrical order; decelerating rhyme
Solving depression
If this equation by Victor Frankl is true
D=S-M
Despair = suffering – meaning
I suffer from despair
My despair causes me suffering
My suffering clouds my true meaning
The clouds stop me from finding my true meaning.
–S+-C=-M
We all need meaning. What is my meaning?
What will my meaning equal to?
When my meaning reaches its equal
What will it mean to me?
How will that meaning change my despair?
What is the meaning in my suffering?
If suffering hurts why not find meaning to stop the suffering
-M=D+S
If I obtain meaning I can remove despair and suffering
This equals happiness and then gives me more meaning
-D-S=H=+M+M+M..........to infinity
Is this equation true?
LAMB AMONG THE LITERARY LIONS
Housewives, secretaries, the odd pro willing to stoop,
All came, delinquents, child prodigies, derelict old men
“All welcome” – the Chair of the Writers’ Group
To those looking for support, with a love of the pen;
They were decent people bonding, scorning the pub
The roll call a hedge school of ancient fame
They read poems and stories like a literary club
And enjoyed playing the great writing game.
Anthology reviewed, the twelve year old took accolade
From the shyest to the most arrogant, all were shook
He was savaged by the grande dame in an envious raid
She was terrified someone so young would produce a book!
Even the chair demurred, and went to The Times
Requesting deletion of “all welcome “– young souls are stilled by such crimes.
Still winter season today
We don't tolerate cold, take today
Hard more than warm sunny has too be
We didn't bore still today
We shall hoist the flag in public.
Literature has escaped from the gust
Literature of the new agreement, both floor
All language culture show.
Legs then gave out the grass we bend
A small drop of dew from water to revived,
Today our hope has an open heaven
Where the narrow range won't expect.
O greet persons
O bore can't ambassadors
O heroes
O martyrs
Today we are the only flight leg to bend grass
From Grass bend water sprinkle peace to you today.
You people's soul has been happy
You people's learned philosophy
Ever lasting for live.
Bodo goes live
Bodo culture live
Bodo literature be open
Win would be the mother of the bodos.
Someone once said,
"If opportunity doesn't knock,
build a door."
~ Milton Berle
__________________________________
It Knocked, So I Built A Door
Building doors, and other construction,
That I performed
Was the most incredible opportunity
That I couldn't ignore.
I'm at a retired state now,
From being a carpenter stake
But it was such a great adventure
I had to take.
The building, like "Jesus did,
When God became Man."
Great profession it was in like kind,
That one could achieve in his mind.
If its indeed in your heart,
A passion that you possess.
You'll succeed there it's guaranteed,
A success!
Opportunity knocked again for me,
But in a place, I never thought I would be
In a field of study, different from before
In the literary world of creative writing,
Sometimes about doors.
So, here I sit, writing as I do,
The grandest of opportunities
That now displays to you.
A muse, if you wish, to me,
A product of options success.
Edited: May 22, 2023, 9:35 A.M. (EST)
Ears listening to only their lies,
And their lies speaking only to them,
Trying to be quiet yet still screaming,
Drowning in rants never heard,
So concise but not too clear,
Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession,
Muttering useless ancient literary rules,
In love with yet hating poetic expressions,
Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations,
Trapped behind walls of old thought,
Grasping yet never holding reality,
While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded
minds,
Judging without thinking one step ahead,
Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement,
Still their bodies move forward to nowhere,
Their voices the only sound left to comfort them,
Unaware of love just beneath their windows,
Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains,
In pathetic awe of ancient written rules,
Never really meant for ones of their ilk,
For they were penned for poets of consciousness,
Aware their times and rules would surely end,
Were never truly meant for all the centuries,
Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived,
Afraid of new ideas of written expression,
Created from the minds of what they fear most,
Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change,
And still,
They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Heresy...spell of the gods and the angelically demonic last temptation and passion of jesus christ superstar of montreal corpus christi and paris....
Or....the Writings Of Lewis Findley
________________
Lucilla invictus sings her song and opens her door
A bright chartreuce caboose as she waltzes cross the floor/?
Or maybe one of rising sun happy and mellow
Beware for the clockwork is bright orange o that fellow
Red alert. And rockets fired across the entire earth
Soon I am marooned and teran to give birth
Zero hour nuclear night ...grandeose of sorrow
Two days have passed...it is the first day past. The morrow
Now the truce is called , it was all .....in retrospect...somewhat scary
The next generation tahes the reins as I go to sanctuary
Restrained flow of ink expressed from a dusty pen,
to the faded paper creased like a wave in an angry sea,
tucked inside a tattered notebook,
closed until another bittersweet day when the golden sun will rise.
Minds eye reflects,
to the thoughts that travel through endless days,
until the pen reconnects with the delighted literary soul.
Eight authors were killed today,
some of them, somewhat prominent,
and an unknown number were injured,
when a very large crowd of words
came rushing toward them, and
crushed them under the throng
Hundreds of onlooking readers were aghast
at the sight of surprised writers,
running from the tens of thousands
of words, phrases, and stanzas shouting
loud rhyming, some carrying sharpened prose
A bloody mass of heaping humanity
was cast over the civil edge into
a brownish-reddish swaled blog beside as
poets, slammers, and lyricists fled
Many widows and orphans sat beside the ruck,
weeping softly near the edges of their pages,
stunned, stupefied, even utterly dumbfounded
as multi-syllabic words flashed their anger,
and chased the writers to a gruesome end
Diphthongs and anagrams on the scene said
that they'd never seen such a riot of language
or a plethora of grammatical constituents
rise up against their mortal masters
The literary community is expressing
their deepened sorrow and angst with
a spontaneous outpouring of pens, pencils
steno pads, and small digital tablets
left at the scene of the rampage
Editors, secretaries, and linguists unified
to say that the guilty will be found, caught,
and expunged from the lexicography of
modern civil discourse and authorship
"Words cannot express our feelings" they said
© Goode Guy 2013-02-12
Literary Ménage et Trios
I have fallen in love again
Yet I do not see your face
But I feel your mind,
Know your words and see
A zillion facets of your heart.
Clever minds fall subject to exposure
Hide behind walls of words.
Yet you scream to the world in boldness
Hypocrisy, passion and childhood.
While nature surrounds your heart
I have found the path to the opening
Of tender and dreamy desires
My desires expressed by your words
My past lives
Lived through your thoughts and expressions
As lover’s memories yearn for those days
Of long gone romance and fire.
And yet the fantasy of the many you
Finds me addicted to your written scent.
Only to laugh at the flutters you provoke
In my mind.
"Knock-Knock!" - Who's there?
"Knock on would!" - Knock on wood who?
"Who the hell would ever knock on wood?!"
"What are ya some kinda unbelievable idgit?!"
"May I offer you a complementary pamphlet?"
"It explains how and why God loves you
more than anybody else ever could..."