Best Appall Poems
Red is the crayon that I love to use.
So vivid and bright without any abuse.
I color so lively and make each stroke count.
Even making the water red in the fount.
In my pictures the hair on everyone's head.
Yes you guessed it, they're all a bright colored red!
The seasons of summer and winter and fall.
I color them all red without any appall.
So if you're an artist you plainly can see.
Everything will be red if you depend on me.
If you've heard like me, as it's often been said,
That "Passionate people always love red!"
Negative comments depict a lack of respect
PS Admin protects poets, and they object
By saying that's a no no
Don't be a cause of woe
Defiance shows a paucity of intellect
Others have offered this as a piece of advice
"If it's not your nature to write something nice,
write nothing at all"
'Cause rude words appall
Don't make Poetry Soup a fool's paradise
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - Canada
We all know you now
You have fallen at our feet
You have guarded them all with life and limb
Noble and brave
Only to fall at a cowards last call
You have stirred the souls of the unknown heroes
Their appall shall seek the just dues of our defamers and saboteurs
Young lads who now welcome you in the hereafter
Shall haunt our enemies from near or afar
The drum rolls sound, as the rifles salute
The Unknown Soldier
You are unknown no more
Notes: In memory of Nathan Cirillo and Patrice Vincent both killed in cold blood on the week of Oct 26, 2014 by cowards in the name of Islam. Nathin Cirillo was standing guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Also in memory to the 1000’s of unknown soldiers, young men, who fought so that we may be free.
embrace sleepless night
trepidate of eerie nightmares
appall hours of sleep
4-18-2016
Murmuration of starlings high. I’m high!
Low stars twinkling with wings. The trumpet’s call!
As winds of war, incline, in warm wind sigh,
the flock, a shock, sans enemies appall.
These friends do fascinate, heard like bombers,
like Japanese over unsuspecting
Pearl Harbor fight ~ these darling bird-balmers.
The nudge of melodic buzz, quite affecting.
Not of national consequence, abuzz
not with politicking but peace of soul -
remains of war pittance, the scrawling-t’was.
My awesome sight, this di’mond-bling of coal.
Mere humans offer crumbs ~ my heart flaps wings.
With murmurs high and low, communion springs.
As the sun set, a dare unfolds
Black streaks tinged with orange and gold
One lone swimmer jumps and fast falls
In the dark abyss, maybe pall
Dark sea waters, quickly enfolds
Will he rise, or on death's threshold
Never heaven's beauty behold
Deeper into waters appall
As the sun set
Arise, oh, swimmer, break the mould
Look to the sky its blue grab hold
In the water, one dot so small
All the angels can hear the wrawl
Remember the view, a jump bold
As the sun set
Written: August 14, 2018
Picture # 3 the inspiration!
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Cry of the lonely night is seldom heard
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Facing choice stark in dread of fate’s call
Alone she bemoans of dreams deferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Enduring deep pain her emotions squall
Concealing the blows of bashing incurred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Sensing signs of impending harm, fears befall
As bawl of her laments remains unheard
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Her stone-cold beats in servitude thrall
From passions parched and love interred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Shattered tones of her heartbeats appall
Repelled by futility of the vows conferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
January 19, 2020
HM: Strand choice 10 contest by Brian Strand
Autumn woe
To live an see an have it all,
To slip an fade and taste the gall,
To run out if time, which does appall,
Till only death is waiting.
To cast a spell, where women came,
To catch an eye, where love is waiting,
To win a heart, ignite the flame,
To seduction, so invigorating,
To now no longer play the game,
To feel the passion & the strain,
To make love, like you’re yet, insane,
Fatal, autumn is awaiting…
Don Johnson
Ream After Ream
What I have written was ream after ream
Of good poems which I rated as supreme
Of such great quality could hardly find
In any imagination of a normal mind.
When I wrote this it was at midnight
After sleeping tow hours with all my might
Suddenly I awoke and each poem was there
Appearing incredible and beyond compare.
Many can't make any sense of them at all
And to others are outrageous or may appall
While I wondered how much effort it took
To arrange poems so they could become a book.
Was struck by awe while my eyes opened wide
My new poems did come out from deep inside
Me, myself and as hard as I definitely did try
Wanted to complete poems before I would die.
For writing my poems, I have this great thirst
And even if it is for better or absolute worst
Every day I keep trying to pave the way
For nice things about my poems thou shalt say.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
(Only considered to be
a Viet Nam Era Vet.)
PS. Birth of new ideas.
Joining a tour you meet people
Who may not be like you at all –
Politically, age-wise and maybe
With views that repel or appall.
Religion’s another divider
As well as the places you live
And quickly, you’ll learn who’s not social
Or those who have much they can give.
But mostly, the group comes together,
Conversing and laughing despite
All the differences that are apparent
To all from the very first night.
The young and the old, the Christians and Jews,
The urban and rural-type folk
Connect as they share in their journey,
Enough to enjoy the same joke.
Of course, the director’s a factor,
Uniting his charges until
There’s sufficient concern for each other
That some friendships may form (and they will).
At the end, though, with hugs and “Safe travels!”
The tour group, at last, must disperse,
Their experience richer for meeting
Fellow travelers truly diverse.
I gave whatever you wanted-
Thy but took me for granted-
Neither you paid attention to the appall
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
Tsunami had been a story for you-
You forgot the huge ash spew-
You quickly forget the squalls-
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
On the surface I gave you so much green-
On using oil instead you were too keen-
Empty soon is going to be bowl-
This is an important call
your earth I am, you dear all-
The entire hydrocarbon already you burnt -
Solution that I gave never you learned-
Energy in alcohol is not small-
Never will it let cars stall-
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
What was for the future you drank –
Pain then you felt inside near flank-
Livers and kidney now take great fall-
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
To preserve for the future still there is time-
But you have to consider condition mine-
On me you concentrate huge steel n concrete-
For my balance it won’t be fine-
I shall spin then like a bent bicycle wheel-
Towards nadir will I go, or in the Zenith-
I might fall into the dark infinite beneath-
Where then be you and who to listen the bawl- (cry loudly)
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
If I do not fall but loose declination degrees-
Either then you will heat or get highest freeze-
Wooden poles might become trees all
This is an important call
Your earth I am, you dear all-
Dad never shunned something new
He felt he could learn “HOW TO”
Dad could do it all!
Amazed me, what he could do
And all the stuff that he knew
New things were a ball!
As time went on, and I grew
Like Dad, I liked new things too
They would just enthrall!
Engineering was my call
Lots of new stuff to install
Was I up to it?
I made it without a fall
Some classes I did appall
But I’d never quit!
Retired after the long haul
But never am I banal
Life’s good I admit!
Writing poetry’s a hit
I made golf clubs quite a bit
Play golf till I’m tan!
Fix guitars that are unfit
Then publish “How to do it”
Start a Bluegrass Band!
Building models from a kit
Don’t watch TV and just sit
New passions are grand!
This poem is a Virelai, not shown in the poetry form list
Here I stood, drenched with idiosyncrasy of evil rain;
Utterly dazed by what was said to be brightness,
Yes! I was poked in the eye by the dazzling lights of the terrain,
And I kept on swimming in the withered waters of wilderness.
I gave myself in, and was being smashed on an anvil just to go wasted.
Admonishing instincts gave me a cavil, but the fan for life, I really wanted.
Everything was okay, but the air, was it really soothing?
Oh no! I believe there was no fun to it at all.
What there was to it was really making me appall.
Now, I am overwhelmed with joy for I am king.
I was made king when He tapped me on the shoulder with affinity;
When I gave in and admitted it was all vanity.
He never cast me to doom though I was a slave of doom.
A new day I have seen, and will never get intimidated by gloom.
People glower; horns get louder -
I wonder why a drive so dour
was ever termed rush hour.
.
Dollars followed by point 99
Are dollars with one more assigned.
Retailers think shoppers math blind.
Business phones in America evolved
With English as option, not default,
Like a blond joke saw phones solved.
In the USA, I cannot afford to die
So place my body atop funeral rates
Until they pass sky for heaven-high.
Halloween is marketed in July,
Followed by Christmas in August –
Greed's gone awry, I won't comply.
Medical care doesn’t care at all,
Should be re-termed medical gall
As many are ill from medical appall.
The law fits fine if one is rich,
Others needing a justice hit
Need a thief’s help to pay for it.
Let me end my sad word hurl
As born in my dramatic world:
Hyperbole debris, reality decreed.
I was a little girl with a tattered ragdoll,
and I lived in an attic that was not tall;
in fact, there were parts where I had to crawl.
I liked to play make-believe till nightfall,
and write- so I wrote on the wall;
listening to dreamy gentle rainfall . . .
and on that wall, oh yes, I did scrawl.
Then in the morning I heard Mom call,
she beheld my wall writing in great appall;
oh yes indeed, it was my curtain-call . . .
Mom left and returned with a can of spray Lysol.
I want you to clean it and I mean all,
and went away muttering- I was a bit oddball;
so I cleaned it and then lay on my bed, I recall
crying and holding my tattered doll.
____________________
February 8, 2017
Poetry/Rhyme/A Bit "Oddball"
Copyright Protected, ID 17-873-515-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.