Best Antic Poems
Indigo ink dreams
Dripping from heart
Tattoos tongue with kinetic kiss
Green electric buzz like sip
Of fine blueberry wine so sweet
Dreamy turquoise love touch
Filling me up with red desire
On fire for your romantic antic
Sweeping me off my feet
Carrying me with ease
Of a blue breeze to deserted love island
Where tan sands caress like brown hands
White waters flow warm and toasty
Fast slow then in closing cold
Never let go of this love
For it floats like a boat
Inspired by the write of you
creamed through a paper sieve to cup
with both hands the leavings that you trail
the write of you
like the chewed edge of hand pressed paper
like the apostrophe of lash on the cheeky page
I ogle the syncopated semen-antic drop of
the write of you
how often does the wonder of you flash
across the film of my eyes unable reach
for I am so enchanted with the coffee-au-lait
write of you
ANAGRAMMATIC Poetry Form
An anagram mantra
Gramma acting manic
Mama in a catamaran, cramming in a cigar
A martian mating in mint gin
A cat antic, grit at a rat act
Magma in a tin, anti-gamma rant
A tram cart ramming a car mart
Magi antic tracing air art
Gain magic in a grim margin
Am I an ant? A racing gnat?
I grin at rain, I’m a maniac again
Tag. I am it. ;)
As each squall breaks the random motion starts
Leaves twigs and dust in chaos whirl and skitter
Yet at its core remains a still calm heart
The land shall be restored to a pristine glitter
But this metaphor denies a truth thereon
That neath that placid heart there is motion frantic
As vigorous paddling of the gliding swan
Not still, though cool and smoothing surface antic
Thus these images of one who many a year
Maintained a calm at eye of every storm
Was anchor to this college barque sans peer
Then held its course to waters clear and warm
16 September 2019
Poem in exactly 100 words
Oh, poor Anna Creontic
Reduced to a poetic antic
Who in her prime,
Exuding rhythm and rhyme
Broke the hearts of so many
Including mine.
Therefore, I shall not disclose
The “cut of her jib” or point of her nose
And lest I be severely beaten
Unveil a heart sugar can’t sweeten
Say what you will of old Anna Creontic
As history will always inflate
The touch of her hand, the wisp of her hair
And the list of her suitors irate
Among those living and dead
It has never been said
That she didn’t excel
On dance floor or bed
Eerie
Witches
Ugly
Creepy
Freaky
Sneaky
Floating
Chanting
Cackling
Laughing
Broom sticks
Flying
Moonlight
Passing
Shadows
Waving
Witchcraft
Praying
Evil
Lethal
Hexing
People
Wilful
Wanton
Values
Rotten
Cats and
Magic
Crazy
Manic
Fear and
Panic
Wicked
Antic
Spell cast
Spoken
Lotion
Potion
Hocus
Pocus
Witchy
Slogan
17.10.23
Til confession and contrition bring the soul’s dark night to day
In bright winter morning sun the boughs stand clear and free of shade
Those black crows gather now in jaunty comic antic hay
On the grass our feet may tread freed from the prison that we made
4 March 2020
Rithimus Divisa 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Gregory Barden
Taken from poem: Amid the Jagged Shadows.
The Endless Green Meadows
On those long ago sultry days
Out in the endless green meadows
The virgins of the ancient sun would roam.
Roam they would, talcumed and perfumed,
With white lacy sleeves and bare feet,
Hiding like ghosts in the lusty shadows.
Hiding and peeking from behind sweaty branches
With leaves and pears and throbbing flowers.
Out in the endless green meadows
Seeking just a peaceful moment of repose,
A sensuous peaceful moment
In the intoxicating shade of new discovery.
Seeking the virgins of the ancient sun
The lads of stone and metal and rock
With desire as billowing as a relentless storm cloud,
Walk and saunter in the exalted sunshine
Walk like antic heroes with swords prepared and unsheathed,
Finding and embracing and enveloping
The gasping virgins of the ancient sun
With lemons and oranges and red ripe apples,
And a pulsating pink universe of wild overwhelming sensations.
I was there too,
Running as free as a wild thought,
And as light as an ethereal dream
That had miraculously come true.
I heard harps and violins in the distance
And she and I
Both naked and breathing heavy,
Stared deeply into the soulful recesses.
Our moist lips met in the shade there,
Out in the endless green meadows.
Mr. Bean has made the world go laughing
and if laughter tis the best medicine
then Mr. Bean sure is doctor of laughter
for quite apt is he at appealing humour!
Perhaps the world's best most beloved buffoon
with antics that could beat and defeat any clown or cartoon
King of joke, king of mock
he could send you rolling with laughter
With a serious silly face he played his pranks
to send you laughing ever after.
A funny man who purposely makes slips
or amuses the audience with amusing quips
A man immune to derision and ridicule
for he deliberately prefers to be comic
Funny is to watch him break any rule
for we all know it's just an onscreen antic.
Laugh and laugh, laugh till your sides ached
but watch how he has the last laugh
This jocular chap has mastered the art of comedy
He amuses quite single-handedly without aid or staff.
So before him on your small screen
your attention span for once shan't be mean
Just prepare to broaden that jaw
you're totally free to guffaw
at this engaging man of mock
this deliberate laughing-stock!
Few have not gone into rhapsody
over this funny fellar, King of comedy
So come heal yer malady
The king of jest
Jester's truly best
(I wrote dis last yr n recently i heard n confirmd it thru google too the nice news that mr.Bean converted to Islam. Skeptics had rather doubt it yet im sure d news has some basis. If true then mr.Bean im more yer fan than eva )
A deserted house awaits spirits to enter,
trapping whomever chances temptation.
Secret rooms align front and center,
hoping to give an antic sensation.
On the porch a jack-o’-lantern waits,
to scare someone with his ugly face.
Howling winds blow the rusty gates,
just in time for the black cats race.
Naked arms stretch for the moonlight,
planning to snag a witch on her broom.
Shadows hide in the blackened night,
waiting for Dracula to leave his tomb.
A dense fog cloaks the dank cemetery,
where the dead lie with rotting remains.
Rising to an itinerary of skeletal vary,
dragging their lengthy rustic chains.
Grizzly ghouls sleep in a stagnant swamp,
awaken only by sounds of screaming laughter.
Suddenly the leaves rustle with a stomp…
leaving a Halloween haunting here after.
Copyright © 2007 By Caryl Muzzey
Up in that old attic are an antic Raggedy Ann Doll and a rocking chair well used by my grandmother.
Grand she was and as great as she to be; she instilled value and principality.
Up in that attic is an old Raggedy Ann Doll and an antic rocking chair my great grandmother rock from.
Short in statue but tall in her stance, my great grandmother guidance departed wisdom.
In that attic is all kind of memories of how my great grandmother and I loved each other as family.
Friends bonded and she as a life-long mentor, in that old attic resides expressive art.
In a far corner that was east to the sun stood a portrait of my great grandmother.
Knowledgeable was the face with eyes of hazel brown painted at the age of seventy-five (75).
The reminiscence of youth is a mural seen as I sat down in the rocking chair thinking… (“Mama, let’s read The Bible together.”)
In this old attic is love unknown because of the time I had with my great grandmother before she was beacon home.
Have you had a dinner overlooking Rome?
A quiet, garden setting, where you two are alone?
Darkened bushes, candlelit table, with tiny lights all aglow,
romanticize the setting, as we all know.
Start with a glass of a fine red wine,
aged just right, and sweet as the vine.
A little Antipasto is what I certainly would say,
Cheeses, Salami, Pepperoni, and Flatbreads all go a long way.
A Caesar Salad prepared at your table side and done,
by a young Brazzi look alike, with a certainty of perfection.
The glass of a fine white wine will next set the pace,
changing the evening, while staying in place.
The Entree ordered is a delicious Piece of Sole,
large enough to share, baked to its flaky goodness in whole.
Asparagus Spears, Broccoli, or Italian Beans simmered with soy,
could all be accepted as Side Dishes with our fish to enjoy.
Tiramisu for her, Creme Brule' for me with its golden crown,
with an Ice Wine to wash these tasty Desserts down.
Then a Latte or Cappuccino might just do,
with some Creme Sherry to finish the mood.
A short romantic walk to the Trevi 'neath Rome's idyllic moon,
means that our dinner has ended all too soon.
Our "Special Evening" however, is only done,
When we later make love to each other...uniting as one.
written: 10/25/15
The breaking,
the shaking;apace
my king's fall is rise
my land is anon taken.
The antic,
the discholeric;as
albion her age;as
arras on her skin.
The abstract,
the seas;our compact
heartless disease;
let's decoct,
let's not calm
The beaver,
the savior's hand,
she will for aye crave
for her not a bedlam;
she is sane.
The cautel,
the hidden truth;
Cadent ties;fret
channels in her cheeks
frail less chuff.
The voidness,
the lifeless mess;cloy
there wines of death;
there ciphers;there empty,
shut their tomb.
The wall of wails;
the jews.
the rock that never fails
the doors.
The breaking
the making;apace
enough;her surfeit
her swain eternal
remnant of no transgress.
The maker,
her end;Yeshua,
truimph of her;
light in the cautel,
my messiah;so i break.
You ask for too much, tho
your categories make me so
frantic.
Teachers are like that, right?
('cept for the few, of course,)
who know how to deal with recourse
that has something to do with antic.
Could go on and on
but wouldn't want anyone to
panic.
as I whistle
and so on
And so on
And So On
.......
and the beat goes on
for the third class life is surrounded by, not a single affirmative element but utter negativity, it may be a condemned one, yet is still worthwhile living the life because in the total negativity one can disavow everything just like an absolute authority
for the third-rater is always treated by those around one with contempt, the life may be miserable, yet is enjoyable because the anger i swallowed in every moment of my life and kept in the depth of my heart with tears can be spewed out at any time, in anywhere, just like a most powerful tyrant
to impress others, may be impossible, i flapped the wings that actually i didn’t possess; the beauty of life was then however, it doesn’t matter if i was a performer of first class theatre or of third. even with those inexistent wings, i was able to fly boastfully in the spotlight dazzling colorful air though for a little while
although i searched for a way to wonderland and went after a good and ripened time for harvest, the soul rent with grief and mortified, alas, i was always wound-up to standing in the damned same starting point because no matter
how hard i searched, the way to wonderland was nowhere on earth it never
existed for me, no matter how eagerly i went after it, the ripened good time was never there for me to harvest; nonetheless, even with deeply wounded heart, i was able to find the moment of peace at the point where i started off was, may be my numbed sensitivity, caused from the debt too great for me to pay off, caused from the destitution never be filled to flee from it
“why don’t you laugh at this ludicrous fool’s tears?” the fool being ousted from even this filthy third class theatre which was filled with rowdy audiences! “why don’t you cry for this helpless buffoon’s laughter?” mimicking Caesar with antic,
‘et tu, Brute!’*
even in this crucial moment
of losing my one and only vocation the buffoon ever had
*William Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 1. ‘You too, Brutus!’