Best Affront Poems
Yield? Not to you, I certainly won't.
I'll parry on hot coals, I'll lunge to your affront.
Succumb? I'll not breathe your air of lies,
Since no honeyed sweetness makes me compromise.
Supplicate? Then throw down your armor at will.
Once freed from this battle, you will be my love still.
This is Mine, All Mine by Chuck Keys
Fall day, perfect,
Sunny brisk alive.
Filtered rays of sunlight.
Shimmering through semi barren trees
Almost skeletal
Scattered blown leaves
Patiently waiting their first winter freeze,
So - very serene, calm, barely a sound,
A bird or two chirping
Sounding lost,
Looking about ready.
There, a small sparse bush
Proudly showing a tiny new green innocent bud,
Nonchalantly waiting about.
His chance to grow,
Fading with shortened cooler days coming
On the trail, my dog,
At my front, back and
… side,
Protectively jumping, sniffing, flying, yelping
Majestically prancing about and over,
Manly pawing his ground,
Feeling heat from
The October daytime warmed earth
Dried decaying broken leaves of time fading,
In motion,
Wind behind his gate,
Cantering soundlessly but hard, manly
Racing airborne paws;
Panting with passion, drooling in chase,
Soaring gleefully effortlessly in-flight,
... off the ground
... leaping high, higher, highest
Endlessly into the wilderness,
On his ground. His movements
… echoing, uncontrolled.
The tamed beast; driven as ever,
Head locked rigid aimed forward, high, tongue draped aside out
Eyes opened squinting into the wind, starring affront
Nose twitching alive on fire in hunt,
Tail erect, straight as an arrow on
Legs in sync with one another, together
Body pulsing as one, muscles taught,
On guard, with pride and ownership.
He stops, panting eyes piercing,
… side to side, front to back
"This is mine, all mine" ... he says
... he says to his daddy.
….And no one spoke…
protecting all about them from
the perception of impropriety,
insensitivity, misunderstanding
…and no one looked…
shielding their eyes lest their gaze
be taken as an affront to the fashion
choices of a passerby, an insult to
the sanctimonious clerics wardrobe,
an assault on the personal space of
a nearsighted Neanderthal.
…and no one listened….
for fear of hearing anything….
that might offend their sensitivities,
sound a tone that was not in
complete compliance, allow the possibility
of conversation.
So did the monkeys take the throne,
the threesome of denial, risen
to the peak of power because they
heard no evil – spoke no evil – saw no evil
became the dupes of evil - because they
heard no good – spoke no good – saw no good
John G. Lawless
8/13/2015
Ravishing Predawn Vision, Return To Me
My panacea, vision shining forth, wee hours of morn
Her chatoyant hair, flowed in my all consuming dreams
Her demure gaze, always smiling, never a look of scorn
In paradise, ingénue bathing in moonlit magical streams.
Ineffable appearance, stardust in hair healed heart so torn
Something intangible, mellifluous echoed with her words
Tasting of honey, her kiss removed my heart so forlorn
Her lissome dance was as easy as mere flight to birds.
Cynosure born, her beauty sent me into a trance
Such glamor, Hollywood starlets would die to possess
In love, I boldly begged for her sempiternal dance
For that affront, my princess gave me her last caress.
Never again, did mornings glow with her grace and soft kiss.
Beauty's perfection, my grieving soul will forever miss.
Robert J. Lindley, 5-12-2016
Sonnet- Mixed Syllable count , 13/14/15
Syllables Per Line: 14 13 14 15 0 15 15 14 13 0 13 13 14 13 0 14 14
Total # Syllables: 194
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 128
My answer to Silent One's challenge to write a poem using the ten words below.
Chatoyant: Having a changeable luster. A chatoyant stone or gemstone, such as the cat's-eye.
Cynosure: Something or someone who is the centre of attention.
Demure: shy and modest
Glamour: defined as the elegant, exciting or attractive quality that makes someone or something seem special or desirable.
Ineffable: too overwhelming to be expressed or described in words; inexpressible
Ingénue: A naive, innocent girl or young woman
Lissome: Moving or able to move with grace and ease; lithe and graceful
Mellifluous: something musical, melodious or pleasant to hear
Panacea: A remedy for all diseases, evils, or difficulties; a cure-all
Sempiternal: Enduring forever; eternal
Who are you, my Lord?
And what am I standing here as a weather-beaten tombstone,
O Lord, reveal yourself to me on the tombstone standing here alone.
Long, long ago
Cain averted his face from the light,
the condemned river, surrounded by a dead
Cain laid atop of his own brother, flows into the valley
carrying the curse.
And the condemned river flows to the dark side of the sun
since the time Abel’s blood cried out.
My eyes grew so accustomed to the darkness
and, thus, though I am no longer able to stand in light,
I face you, the Lord of the origin of light,
standing here as a tombstone.
O Lord, are you the very person whose voice I hear?
are you the man who is rolling and tossing on the ground
under the out-pouring lashes who moans:
“forgive them,” each time I call for aid of my destiny?
O Lord, are you the one who crawl on the path
that leads to the Place of the Skull
in the mixed air of cries as the fools shout,
mockeries of the evil ones affront,
and the useless tears the women shed?
Are you the one who mutters: “forgive them,”
while falling under a rootless tree
for the weight of the tree is too great to bear?
For the good nature of humankind is numbed
by the weight of sins too deep to break loose.
The emotion of human kind becomes cold and cruel
and, therefore, O my Lord,
do you groan with pain unbearable:
“forgive them,” when those stone-hearted drive spikes
pierce your hands with no compunctions?
Are you the one who stands as a decaying wooden pillar
on atop of Golgotha with a darkening sun on your back
to close the shamefully-mistreated hard life,
the miserably-humiliated painful life?
Are you the benevolent kind-hearted one who looks up at heaven,
and at mobs who accused you, appealing with tearful eyes:
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
When the wooden pillar collapses from its own weight
and darkness falls onto earth to cover the unsightly world,
I, the tombstone with no name or epitaph,
see a sad image standing atop of the Place of the Skull
tightly holding the world’s anguish.
Did she say time numbers or prime numbers?
I was sure it was not rhyme numbers.
She is staring at me. Miss Johnson, math teacher.
Takes daydreaming in class as a personal affront.
Her eyes narrow. I yawn. Bad move.
Could you demonstrate this on the board, Caren?
Out of all the students in all the math penitenturies in all the galaxies….
Miss Johnson moves her head toward the blackboard.
When I get there I pick up a piece of smeary chalk.
Where to begin?
“Make two columns,” she says primly.
I understand now why no man has been desperate enough to marry her.
“One for prime and one for composite.”
A clue. Maybe prime is odd and composite is even?
I make the columns.
The second I throw down the one and the two hands are up.
Every classmate wants a turn to redo my work.
The math brains are dying to show Miss Johnson they were listening.
I remember thinking “When am I ever going to need this?”
That was fifty-seven years ago, and frankly, I never have needed it for any reason.
Prime, crime, rhyme, dime, lime, mime, lime.
Who cares?
P.S. Miss Johnson never did get married.
In twenty three, we waved goodbye to much celebrity
But in the clouds the welcome party takes them three by three
Tina Turner, Jerry Springer, Mister Donald Trump
(Of which, one is poetic license; please don’t get the hump)
Before the Lord, upon their knees, they had to state their case
And detail what they did to benefit the human race
The Lord had seats, one on each side, to help him rule the sky
And now he sought two occupants to give consul on high
The Lord looked at the first arrival, she looked rather proud
And rumour had it that she’d always been a little loud
The Lord said, Woman, tell me why these seats on either side
Here on my left or on my right should be where you reside
Tina Turner said, Dear Lord, I used to dance and sing
Your angels will all know the joy and love that that can bring
I had some upset in my life but fought with all my might
So I’d be honoured to sit with you as a guiding light
The Lord said I admire those with strength to fight the fight
And so you may sit in the seat positioned on my right
The Lord turned his attention to arrival number two
Okay, Mr Talk-a-lot, so, why should I pick you?
Jerry Springer said, My Lord, I find this slightly odd
I doubted in my wildest dreams I’d face questions from God
Yet, here I am enduring this admission interview
But from that seat upon your left, I could interview you
The Lord said, Hmmm, I guess you would be upset and bereft
If I didn’t offer you this seat upon my left
But there is still one candidate for consul in the sky
So let me hear the testimony of this other guy…
Trump said, ‘Look, it’s great, so great, it’s really really great,
I kinda thought I wouldn’t be here till a later date
But since that pawn star mowed me down as I walked in the street
At least I get the chance to tell you…
That you’re in my seat!
[Regret.., had to miss-spell p.o.r.n. because Soup is becoming an affront to the English language. ]
The hour matters none ... for the energies have exhausted.
In the year of our Lord ... nineteen hundred and twelve, April fifteenth.
Writes a future living star ... wish their joys so he may shine.
'Tis to be a deliberate endeavor ... they call life.
An unaccountable ledger of sums ... know he the worth of it.
For in that great beyond is an opened book ... ere his youth.
There'd be certain measures that wretched body ... once unmasked.
Natures of a retired validity ... that aloof vainglory.
Tarries an elusive shell ... the semblance of human sorts.
A cub sponged in denizens hound ... the spoils of settled earth.
Masques of the poor scores yon ... and indifference spared them from their kind.
Their pain slices him whole ... in this grand finale of truth.
The role he crawl from under ... frees a den's claimed orphaned cub.
He conformed to their ways ... indulgence begets an awakening.
De-sands a timepiece from Giza ... transforms the silent lamb.
Qualities of Osiris ... no longer foxes kinsman.
Without manipulative truth ... mainly defines reality.
Loss crept e'er so close ... as circumstances affront him now.
The iniquities ... recorded in that hallowed ledger,
He lay claim to its authenticity ... 'twas him who'd inflicted;
upon those who were of wickedness ... and the righteous few.
He included self ... in self-afflictions of great numbers,
wherever the blame may lie ... be it concerning his existence,
thereupon points those sharpened fingers ... deserving of it.
Repentance for his sins ... subjugated through crying eyes.
His life for another ... sans a name or a face in lieu of tears.
They shared the deafening silence ... two muted distinct smiles.
One in tears looked onward ... to a face of blessed assurance.
The last boat edges off into the dark ... desperation arose.
A great clamoring ascends ... into the bitter abyss.
The hymn, "Nearer My God to Thee," ... the chaos stops to song.
Ships officer calls out, ... "Abandon ship, every man for themselves."
Lost lamb hopes his roll's called up yonder ... as his last words read ...
Headline news proclaims disasters
Man made climate change the fear
But fewer die now, caused by weather
Death rates falling year by year
There are data that are false
There are data that are true
There are data that have little
Effect on me and you
All white people deeply racist
Causing darker folks to cower
Once a fact of observation
Now a myth some use for power
There are data that some use
to play upon our fears
That when they are viewed, apply
Not to now but yesteryears
Hockey stick of global warming
Caused by man’s CO2 burst?
Cause/ effect turned on its head
It was warming that came first
There are data that seem crazy
Giving logic an affront
When inspected it turns out
The events were back to front
Teenage girl uneducated
Filled with arrogance and rage
Says to all the world: “How dare you!!”
And is treated as a sage
There are data well reported
As important in what’s what
But we find out when we look
That they matter not a jot
Portrayed as a white supremacist
‘Ain’t black’ with points he made
But look there at his photo
Face a rich and dusky shade
When the data is presented
You’ll reach wrong conclusions, doubt
If the information given
Leaves important factors out
If you always would speak sooth
That you may be forever right
You neglect the greater truth
Total right is out of sight
Reason is not binary
But of infinite degree
A BRUSH OF ARS POETICA
Rhythmic verses wherein death paints a picturesque of life
or life itself is written in lethargic-dying state:
a dusty stocked vocabulary still cuts like a knife
when done and re-phrased witty, nonparallel and ornate.
Like the azure fluffy clouds parading affront the sun,
its smiling hue of yellow-orange kisses sleeping hope--
softly flaming those frugal thoughts in grace and wonder stun,
remarkable enough to line dream stanzas ropes and slopes.
Strokes cast spells of rattles, rambles to erratic silence
allowing trembles to twang murmurs upon hardened hearts
same as magnet it attracts eyes and ears to your essence
because your speech ushers morals incubating fresh starts.
_______________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Ars Poetica
++Placed 1st++
O.E. Guillermo
2:26 pm, March 06, 2015
***I define art of poetry as variations of light and dark, life and death, pale and vibrant, real and fiction... Writing poetry resurrects life even to a scene spelling disaster and death. Art of poetry embodies every angle aiming to touch the senses. Deep and superficial, all around breathing or not screams/is an art of poetry.
What due is this, O feline fierce,
for what affront thus penalized
with calibrated nips that pierce
for soft caress unauthorized?
T’was you with brazen move unasked
who burnished coat upon my limb.
What dire affect iconoclast
did stir your feral feline whim?
The cat is oft like womankind
beyond man's feeble intellect,
a primal spirit state of mind,
requiring manners circumspect.
Palm Sunday
Shopping and hawking,
purchasing and vending their wares;
the observant noticed;
the indifferent paid no mind;
the powerful perturbed by all the noise
make their way to confront
and charge the man
some call anointed.
Loud and raucous singing
disturbs the quiet of the status quo.
Those who should be seen and not heard
are making the utmost clamor;
appreciated by some;
angering others
insisting they turn the volume down.
Boulders will sing
while trees will give their branches
to welcome the mighty
if the lowliest of participants
are muzzled by the powerful,
but they sing in applause;
an affront to the self-made mighty.
Shaking off the winter greys and
waving springtime green,
a shout welcomes the anointed one.
Thrown off fashion lines the path
covering eager rocks
postponing the clearing of their throats.
Join the cavalcade
and raise the benediction;
awaken the sleeping alleluias
and the slumbering hosannas.
Join the lowest of the low
and applaud the highest of the high.
But beware,
the shoppers are eager to buy,
even if the cost is high.
And the hawkers are ready
to sell their merchandise.
Whenever they travelled in front
The Ark Of Covenant did confront
The kept it well lit
And that was just fit
Only some to God could talk'd affront.
Dorian Petersen Potter
Aka ladydp2000
copyright@2014
September, 8, 2014
Our eyes blacken by sins,
But our lips curve in a malicious grin¬¬
Ah! So easily we slice another man’s skin.
Hidden in the dark, we are dipped in grace,
But our aura! Oh, it sure leaves a trace,
Disappearing from light, we saddle into space
We come from the hunt,
To our mighty palaces affront;
Of the gardens of bloody stunts.
So many are killed by our filthy hands
And yet, with pride, we stand,
Devastating is our presence in your holy land!
Whatever we do, we do it for a reason,
We make our lives a heavenly season:
We blaze your homes so you won’t commit treason
To assassins we belong--
The Eager blood seeker and ethically wrong:
But Oh! We live between the walls very strong
Accept the defeat as we are the mighty,
We squash the flowers sown by you so tightly,
Drop your hopes or we’ll bomb you quietly.
And anger
Is a friend
That the oppressed
Must seize;
A purgative drug
To cleanse and preserve
The knowledge
And indignation
With which they affront
Agglutinated
The excesses of apartheid!
Come! Behold the scars
That those who angered
Seized- arms outstretched
Their spears flaming!
And you who dither
De-ice your souls
With flames of anger;
And un-reason
Will succumb
To reason!
Hail vanguard
Of our freedom! Hail!
(Poem written for that dark era, happily, now past!)