Best Arrogance Poems | Poetry
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by Collins, JG
by Gauthier, Line
Sweet talking to arrogance
by mcdaid, liam
Arrogance of a Sporting God
by Shaw, Kevin
by Parker, Frederic
by Gauthier, Line
Arrogance of the Resurgam
by Carthwright, Maude
Arrogance Of The Poetry
by Hossain, Md Shahadat
Fallacies of Arrogance
by Cami, Margo
by Vassilev, Ross
View all new Arrogance Poems
The Best Arrogance Poems
Love neither gives or takes but from itself.
Be not wiled by fantasies of arrogance.
Take no more than is offered by yourself.
Leave nothing trapped in tortured irrelevance.
Seek not a barter for desires that sue your heart.
Worthiness is the only tender that comes due.
Suffer willingly the melody of pain it may impart.
Bleed joyfully from the wounds that will ensue.
As tree branches lift their hopes towards Heaven's door,
hands together reaching higher than alone will seek
heights that love's imagination most beautifully implores
that from a poets words unending ecstasy must speak.
Whatever you desire your life to be,
may loves reflection be all you see
Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2017
Why does the voiceless canary stare so bleakly?
Why do the sullen grey clouds desert a sombre sky?
As the ugly black smog blots out the valiant sun’s rays
The honey less flowers kiss the dying bees’ goodbye
Blinded are the eyes to threatened extinctions
On deaf ears the warning of ‘Mankind Beware’
Lies and deceptive denial that our planet is dying
Inhale lightly ~ there’s carbon dioxide in the air
No ‘free life’ for marine life stressed and bewildered
Aghast with horror at garbage dotting our oceans
Growth - Expansion - Development - Decimate the forests
Strip and deprive us our oxygen with demonic notions
Vanishing breeds because of your avaricious greed
We hold our breath in Hopes for this planet to Hold
Like a thief the stars you pluck from the night sky
In illogical arrogance you build your towers of gold
Contaminating our soil with defective seeds of profit
The clock of fate ticks ~ ‘Choke these weeds of greed’
New oceans we form with teardrops that we shed
Over broken promises ~ that Man let fall ~ to succeed
No matter how dark the shadows
A ray of Light will always penetrate
Hong Kong -
Dedicated to Kinzie a friend of mine originally from Canada who is devoted to the campaign to clean up Hong Kong, and is succeeding.
‘HK heartbeat’ which was born on 21 October 2001 as a simple text email from Kinzie in response to requests from friends
Today, the HK heartbeat community is a dynamic network and home to thousands of individuals and organizations making a difference. They are making our world a better place today for future generations. www.heartbeat.com.hk
The Buddist monks, recognising the need to protect the islands staple food of fish, for years collect the empty plastic bottles – recycle them, making them into recyclable bottles that you see gracing the department store and supermarket shelves.
Have a strict recycling policy I’ve never seen anywhere else in my world travels. There are different bins for various categories of recyclable trash.
Are WE all doing enough?
Video Clip -
Loren Allred - Never Enough (Live Performance) - From the Greatest Showman
A very compelling song though not connected with this poem describes the sentiment perfectly.
I trust you will enjoy it.
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2018
I'm hearing rumors that are easy to believe
but none of them give me reason to grieve
You've been telling people their poetry sucks
Words from your mouth flow in a fetid flux
What arrogance is revealed in your slander
You don't rile me enough to raise my dander
The absolute truth is that I just don't give a fig
Your remarks show you to be an arrogant prig
How dare you disparage so many other poets
People call you 'rude' in case you don't know it
I've laughed at your slurs and each bitter assault
If the truth hurts your feelings, it's all your fault
You've mocked and criticized lots of poetry
making you a monster with green-eyed jealousy
I've heard from many, and in their point of view
'they' say you're a nasty male version of a shrew
There's been quite an extensive survey taken
and the unanimous results should jolt and awaken
you to see that on you this request they bestow...
The message: "Open your big mouth and eat crow
Oh, but that is something you would never do
so there'll be no lamenting nor feelings of blue
No tears of sorrow on the smiing cheeks of many
of those you've insulted, and there's been plenty
Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2018
Stood upright, between two roads,
On a thin metal rail,
A solitary, brown coloured bottle
Sporting a red and whitle label,
Emptied and callously abandoned...
Just like the tin can of cider
Plonked down beside you on your
Little polished mahogony table.
An unremarkable glass bottle,
As if a piece of submitted
Street avant-garde left on display,
Purposely discarded by some
Unknown person or persons here;
Whilst, with the whole passing
Seated in driving ignorance before
All existence dashing endlessly
When frantically tumbling and
Inside the madly spinning,
Somewhere, after enduring a short
Every advert dryly commented upon -
Each being accorded an equally
Dismissive and condescending stare,
One in particular informing it's
Of the frightful perils
On developing pancreatic cancer,
A warm couch, motionless,
Suddenly stirs and starts upwards
Like a cornered panther
Snarling before the hunters gun!
Your sullen visage momentarily
When briefly enraptured by dazzling
Of the shimmering Aegean:-
And you, swimming alone, in your
Perfectly constructed little rocky
Where brightly coloured shoals of
Exotic fishes teem;
Then that reinstated glare,
Fiercely conveyed with all the
Of a blazing Grecian sun,
That perpetually resides
In all its burning arrogance there!
For I envision a single angry tear,
Pertaining to a faint hint of dark
Hesitating against a brushed
As if a last remaining,
Being pushed acrosss the oily
Of my panoramic windscreen...
A tear that contains, perhaps,
The whole of the worlds filtered
The pitiless look in those wild,
Awash with the currents surging ebb;
Low utterances of broken trusts,
Unrequited love and misplaced
All precursors to oft repeated vocal
Spawned from some unjustified,
Obscure, nagging doubt;
Recalling my own dismal resignation's
When knowing better
Than to try and hopelessly intervene!
Same old recriminations and wearisome
Now being muttered, I should'nt wonder,
Barely audibly throughout...
Will herald the onset of newly
As you struggle wretchedly
In preparation for another troubling
Overhead, lunar dignitaries, arisen
From behind confinement of their cells
But irrevocably anchored to the
Here, patiently awaiting, in all their
The defeated Titans and great usurped
Cronus soundly sleep;
And a gathering together when offering
Cloistered abominations of awakened
Whose exultation's shine brightly in
Dutiful obeyance -
In worshipful praise of his most
They whomst unashamedly dare to
Upon portrayal of flushed irreverence;
Now attempting, albeit she greivously
Like a cast-out Angel,
To stagger up the step's defiant
Which, in supportive awkwardness,
Stoically resists the steadying
Proffered from thickly carpeted
But I have long since fled.
For soon I will join the thining lines
Of departing cars
That invade upon the unearthly realm
Of flittering Bat and barred Nightjars.
Please read part two.
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017
Emerald forest hiding from man's curse
if found, its never better , always worse.
Wretched destroyers we are in this abode
in our arrogance we are firmly sold.
Greed for taking everything in our path
we in our false pride deliver our wrath.
Astonished that some may in this rebel
when seeking their deaths, damn them all to hell.
If true, the meek inherit this sweet earth
then our dear souls must love for all their worth.
Where river and bend meet with shining sky
Nature teases us to ask how and why.
Shall we pray that emerald forests hide?
Take action on that we can not abide?
Robert J. Lindley, 11-29-2016
Syllables Per Line: 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Words: 108
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016
a modern man in a steel bird,
with all the arrogance of
ancient Icarus, but my wings
did not melt nor I swoon.
I flew high, very, very high
over Asian lands and homes,
and below me, very, very far
down where the bombs fell
like the rains of hell...
I saw the face of the moon.
Copyright © L. J. Carber | Year Posted 2016
As the monsoon rains fall heavily on the ground,
I sit by the window pane wishing you were around.
The thunder strikes and I run to hide away
In search of your loving arms, where I long to stay.
I go back to that place where we first met,
The quaint chapel by the meadows, our eyes set.
Our tender hearts: innocent, youthful and frail
Together on love’s current we set sail.
Against what they say we took our every chance
But stumbled upon our childish games and youthful arrogance.
Somewhere in the journey we both lost our way
And “I love you” were just meaningless words we say.
There were many beautiful things we learned together
As we basked in sunlight and battled stormy weather.
Now, all that is left to hold on to are memories of you.
The sound of your voice that faintly says your love is true.
The lightning flashes and slowly I open my eyes
It was all but a dream, from my bed I rise.
I sit by the window pane wishing you were around,
As the monsoon rains fall heavily on the ground.
Copyright © Bianca Reyes | Year Posted 2009
A soul is but a slave that serves the heart
and flails in presence of true loveliness.
The heart commands, therefore I must impart
this ceaseless craving, yearning for caress.
I did foretell this destined rendezvous
though not foretelling why she came this way.
To answers why or how, I’ll not pursue,
for what I’d sought was “when” would come this day.
She walked inside to shelter from the rain
then raised her eyes to browse the languid room.
She looked at me, then glanced away again,
oh, to see such elegance in bloom.
To be fulfilled leaves nothing to explore
but restless souls, they simply wish to soar.
But restless souls, they simply wish to soar
and so she swanned the room without delay.
I watched her as she prowled the parlor floor
then brush my booth, pause and look my way.
She pursed her lips and asked me for the time,
then stood in hush, awaiting my reply.
But as I tried to speak, as though a mime,
my voice fell mute and words just passed me by.
I caught my breath then looked around the room,
such trepidation left me little choice.
My mind was shrouded with impending doom,
for I was not the master of my voice.
Before those fears could tear my dreams apart,
they found a way to tenderly depart.
They found a way to tenderly depart
though I could not respond to her request.
I held my breath and waited for my heart
to once again start beating in my chest.
And as I coaxed my senses to comply
I found the words that I had planned to say.
But when I went to offer my reply
she turned her head and simply walked away.
I closed my eyes and rummaged for a scheme
to tame the mood and thwart her nonchalance.
But words were lost, for it was all a dream,
and once again, I floundered in response.
My tacit tongue had chosen to explore
those winding paths that bind forevermore.
Those winding paths that bind forevermore
are bare essentials to the paradigm
that "love shall only grow if each therefore,
evolves in life, together, over time."
I look upon our love with this design.
It strengthens my resolve to win the day.
And soon, our hearts and souls shall intertwine,
for nothing now is standing in my way.
But as I sat and squandered morning’s light,
inside the door, a gentleman appeared.
She turned to him, and in a passing flight,
the essence of her light had disappeared.
Her radiance had faded to obscure.
Some hearts align; one never can be sure.
Some hearts align, one never can be sure.
and so her love is but a memory.
My jaded dreams, now muddled and obscure,
in consequence, were never meant to be.
I’ll search no more for splendor in the morn
and yield my days to solitude’s retreat.
I’ll not profess disparagement nor scorn
and thus negate the anguish of defeat.
No unrequited love will I let taunt
the tendrils of imaginary whim.
For I’ll recall the memories that daunt,
reminding me when morning’s light fell dim.
For such a fool as I, there is no cure,
no sovereign love is destined to endure.
No sovereign love is destined to endure.
As recompense, I’ll let my pain atone.
These vain endeavors shall not reoccur
for I will spend my empty days alone.
I’ve found a place to charm the painter’s eye;
this sidewalk berth along the corridor.
For now, it’s on my canvas I'll supply
impressions of the subjects I adore.
But wait, I sense an essence o’er this place
and feel her shadow break the morning sun.
And once again, with arrogance and grace,
she passed me by, but still... she is the one!
Once more the morning sun has left me blind
as scented air aroused the misty mind.
As scented air aroused the misty mind
illusions twisted aimlessly in vain.
Within this haze appears a light divine
though in my world of dreams it seems insane.
One timely gaze, though fates still yield to chance,
a heart surrenders love too willfully.
In truth, a soul prefers a tryst romance,
a feeble heart seeks vain fidelity.
A soul is but a slave that serves the heart,
but restless souls…they simply wish to soar.
They’ve found a way to tenderly depart
those winding paths that bind forevermore.
Some hearts align, one never can be sure;
no sovereign love is destined to endure.
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2018
Behind the mask there is a frail and fragile me
Enigmas clothed in conundrums; that the naked I can’t see
'Behind the mask is concealed, my authenticity
Examine my history to unravel my perplexing mysteries
Behind the mask it is unseen paralyzing, piercing pain
With arrogance and self-assurance camouflaging the shame
Behind the mask is hidden my true Identity.
Seek and survey the signs of my obscurity
Behind the mask is veiled a heart that’s been broken
Held together by unexpressed resentment and animosity unspoken
Behind the mask is where my insecurity hides,
Like realism wrapped in riddles, you must read between the lines
Behind the mask is where I cover my falling tears
Dig just below the surface and you’ll unearth my crippling fears
Behind the mask there are cloaked secrets unexplained and untold
Decipher the symbols to crack my encrypted codes
Behind the mask you’ll uncover my True expressions
Remove and reveal parodies, and expose the false impressions
Behind the mask, it is hidden, my Individuality.
Not acting out some script of who I’m thought to be
Behind the mask is obscured my, vulnerability
Suppressing the mounting manifestation of the inner me
Behind the mask it is disguised, my true reflection
Underneath open wounds inflected by rejection
Behind the mask rest crushed and shattered dream
Where fear muzzles roaring whispers and screeching silent screams
Behind the mask is buried, my stolen youth
Deception, and cover-ups, masquerading as facts and truth
Behind the mask is where I screen the confusion
Look close and you’ll find, trickery and deception, draped in fantasy and optical
Behind the mask it’s stifling; it is hard for me to breathe,
The walls of deceit that i have built ,are quickly closing in on me.
I am trapped behind facades of smirks and phony smiles.
So may I please remove this mask just for a little while?
Copyright © ChiquitaChiamaka Baity | Year Posted 2011
He verbalized emotions
Poets are boring
They speak of pictures in words raining emotions
Crafting arrogance in words shaping negative smiles
They worry not of the uneducated
Poets are boring
They speak bombastic thoughts with no
explanations in sentences married to multiple dots
Sentences and numerous dots
Skies raining thorns aimed at sinful skeletons
Storytelling tales in wordy storyboards
He verbalized emotions
He spoke reactions
Where i come from
Dogs don’t eat dogs
Dogs bark in favour of crops
I’m from the city that never sleeps with no pity
I’m from the ghetto that speaks of famous beggars
Until poets spoke
Until spears got shaken and poked
Shine not from negativity
See those who speak with your ears
Poets are far from boring
They live in places of the living dead
They walk solutions before difficulties wearing a stranger’s shoes
They speak tears before drowning regrets
Old age poems don’t need social workers
They live fresh fragrances for decades
Eyes and ears resurrect their messages
Let those words be out of date
Poets are disciples of your queries
The energy plugged into your feet
Spitting answers before prank stars question your remedy
Look into the eyes of lies
See emotionless reality attract visions
Look into the eyes of lies
Look into the eyes of lies
Copyright © Young King sa | Year Posted 2014
An old man sits peacefully in deep thought
Missing teeth, milky eyes . . . leathery skin
Wind Rider his name – a shaman
The young man seethes in anger
Strong, excitable . . . limbs in constant motion
Standing Bear his name – dangerous and violent
Smoke curls lightly into the sky
A sacred moment upon the plain
Old to the young – a story
The soft voice rises . . . catches the wind
There is a battle that rages within each of us
. . . two wolfs circle each other
One is evil . . . it’s spirit is angry filled with
jealousy, sorrow, greed, arrogance, guilt
resentment, inferiority, lies . . . ego
The other wolf is good --- it’s spirit is filled with
joy, peace love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy
generosity, truth, compassion . . . faith
Each wolf is strong and howls into the night wind
Yellow-red eyes flair, deep throated-growls, bared fangs
Breathing hard they attack
Wind Rider lifts his heavy head
Feels the sun . . . waits
Standing Bear thinking . . . finally asks
Who will win?
Wind Rider smiles
The one you feed
Copyright © David Meade | Year Posted 2014
I felt the very moment he
too, saw me as I entered the room.
I averted my eyes, seemingly not magnetized,
yet his form continued to caress the corner of my eyes.
My entire body was so attuned to his every movement, I sighed.
Suffused with such warmth was I, knowing he was looking at me…alone.
I tried to turn away, but felt the searing heat where his eyes touched my skin.
I realized I was hypnotized, mesmerized by the power of intense attraction.
Minutes passed by, I would catch again his eyes, staring, brooding.
Overwhelmed by his presence, I felt such effervescence.
Senses wired to all that was him, I was exulted
to know that his eyes were as glued
to me as mine were to him.
Nobody, no one else.
Him and only
He moved, the
second I floated to him.
I stopped, time to catch my breath.
Him whose strides came quickly to my side.
Such panther’s grace, eyes holding my stare, he smiled.
The wineglass in my hand trembled, serene not I, far from calm.
Suffused with much warmth was I, knowing he was looking at me…alone.
I turned away, and felt the searing heat where his eyes just touched my skin.
Hand on my elbow, he silently led me to where the crowds were, to dance .
Such arrogance, I thought I’ve had enough as a child, of dominance.
Yet I, surprised, felt the rush of liquid fire through my veins
with his large hand, warm and steady on my bare back.
Alive were all nerve ending, as we went dancing
through the night, I heard the loud sound
of the wild beating of my heart.
Suddenly…I was jarred,
and from a dream,
Kim Patrice Nunez
DREAMS CONTEST - 10 th Place
SPONSOR: ROB CARMACK
23 April 2015
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015
Another would-be life slips down a hospital sluice -
a mangled tangle of tissue, a broken bouquet of limb buds.
Carmine carnage reduced to simplistic statistic.
But these hospitals are blanched mausoleum-white,
operating slabs are sarcophagi, stirruped legs are strung high
and a crimson slurry seeps from between splayed thighs.
Death-pimp doctors are gloved and gowned, loom imperious,
assume arrogance and surgical masks of indifference.
Feminine thought frisks to freedom now:
the biannual foreign holiday, career climbing and the company car.
Birth is an inconvenient blip on the social calendar.
Huddled horror-mute before my Philips flat screen last night,
peering through the fretwork of my fingers,
a sickening sea engulfed me; vertiginous waves
breaking on my body's shore, faintness flooding my head.
Today, I cannot elude my abhorrence;
it overshadows me, obliterates former complacency.
Tonight, people will be on the pull in club-clotted towns
and bedsprings will squeak a soulless sound
as more life is made to be taken.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2017
Before I scarred the page
Raging what your letters cannot invent
Let me invite you to other books
I wrote before you owed me wage
For all maladjustment and discontent
Tettering on tentacles on hooks
Invite you to an open age
Of change and discourse transfigurment.
In a quiet moment read again
Shards of clay and artefacts beyond
A material functional disdain.
Look at the words like old bones
Bringing chromosomal tablets to rinse
The eyes of prejudices and conceit
You may wince
At what your arrogance did delete.
I have winced for years in broken jars
Unleashing rivulets of tears
For I gave you humanity as a gift, stars
Gave you dust and vessel for it
Time etched your abuse against this spirit
As you idolized barren observations
As if them alone could tell truths
Without the presence of experience.
Strange how you so prone to the material
Destroyed so much of its substance
In us. Yet it is inescapbale in the footprints of dust
The chromosomal bridges in our bodies
Linking us, reaffirming the gift again
Documents on my body like a stain
Irreducible by Mercator's illusions
There is no survival without the spiritual.
After protests, marches, firehoses and ropes
Still hanging from leftover branches of fear
I have earned the right to forgive you
The inherent gift make me your brother, here.
So now let us turn the map upside down
And draw again the latitudes unbending
In a straight line to your old thoughts,
Can we agree about the silence of the moon
Is a prohibiting noise in our head, a blind despair.
Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009
Stepping past the crater towards your door,
I am reminded of warm days
surrendered in flowery abandon while
brushing against cool veins of
leafy promise, requiring only the slightest
compassion for the flow of life.
The scope of our crusade sings bitter,
like absinthe in a Fanta bottle;
tangs of anise and wormwood persist
within ether's truthful vision
resisting factory flavors in a curtain,
velvet reminders of flesh.
Lap your moistened shape. You dissolve,
my expectant sugar cube, no longer
made jagged by expectation or campaign
but fragile again, doughy in
blissful rapture upon my snacking,
curling up in a fetal calm
until we flow once more with the surge
propelling us entangled yet
unencumbered, finally breathing our
amniotic potential within this
spiritual umbilical making my stomach
spin within these tugs of finality,
despite my carpenter's heart yearning to
mend or create. Do arrogance and
industry compel mankind's devastation? Such
a question drifts unanswered as I
kiss your wrist before strapping on my boots
to hurl my blood into the fray.
Copyright © John Weber | Year Posted 2009
Indeed, it is so far, far, far back where last I
Stood in sight of all her unnerving ambiguities...
This overstated manner inborn of an innate
And intimidating elegance.
The calculated deliberateness accentuated by the
Slowed turning of that stern head: a vague sense
Of violent menace that never failed to make
Me feel ill-at-ease;
For what fool would'st knowingly displease
This fierce countenance?
Even the uncaring Gods themselves were divided in
Their garrulous opinions;
Some demanded a sacrifice -- soon a kings invincible
Hands stained with blood! Then the countless
Setting sail upon an opportune wind;
But, in retrospect...she never was one to give the
Old rituals but a passing glance.
Troubled I find myself wondering if it was
Just mere chance
That I should find her, alone and waiting, here
In this place today?
Those ancient immortals she always tried so
Hard to ignore:-
How she detested how they had held great sway
In determination of all those things which have
What price now, I ask, of the dire consequence's
Spawned of that woeful oath?
Was the soul of even one heroic life really
Worth the cost of that mirthless smile?
Oh the staggering magnitude of that deceit! And
All the long while
The secret assignations...you full knew, both
Of you, how, eventually, it would end. His boastful
Ill-made right from the very start!
She, drunk with all the lewd ecstasies of Dionysus.
Thus it is, and looking upon her indifferent arrogance,
So unlike the distorted softening carved into that
I find I am prompted, once again, to quietly remark
On what the inner-workings of such a sterile heart
Could possibly know of love?
For they do say the union of beauty and modesty
Is extremely rare;
Rarer yet the greater dignity required when enabling
Beauty to rise above
An imposition of regal splendour. I suspect the plain
Truth simply being she just did not, in all honesty,
Ever properly care.
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2018
It is not true
that love makes you blind
First of all
love is a feeling
I feel some small butterflies
flutter in my stomach just by thinking
I like to envision to myself
that the positive resonance acts as a mirror
A coherent energy
that flows back and forth in your eyes
Eye contact is the key
which opens up the emotions
It is after all love
that breathes life between two people
Seductive words to each other
performed with a twinkle in the eye
and light kisses at the neck
Love does not violate, not envy,
does not boast, it is not arrogance
While two hearts pounding so tactfully
they carry the glory of love
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014
STAND WITH A FACE OF HUMILITY
Thou curse a great angel to fall
from the heavens of glory and power,
though let man build towers for himself alone
letting him gaze on earth down.
Daggers are unknown but
they are directed to oneself
piercing six-inches deep in the heart
though made unreachacble stars of ruthless dreams,
there bete noire, implacable enemies abounds ,
occurring impossibilities cause bitter torments
art a fortress a defense for nothing, nothing?!
A sneering wall for a human being
the lowly thou had trodden down
callused feet has stepped upon.
The anon ignorant void of wisdom infuse a poison
drops dripping from temptuous cup
of sweet assurance, of self-ambition and arrogance.
A pedestal thou arts amidst life's superficial ways
a courage to lift up a haughty face
the narrow rocky roads thou dwell is full of blooms
but will the ends refrain from drowning doom?
Poor man thou hast enslaved
in thy ruthless breaking embrace
secured within thoughts of highness
knowing not where he will stay.
Above, may he think and look unto the ground,
a place of fifth to step upon
for alas he has partaken from thy cup,
so now he's done.
Thou made a distance so near
yet to very far, unreachable.
A human never a god
harsh and vicious
are the gigantic trials knocking him down
but must they be?
Must they be or should he rather
open his eyes and flee
to the flying flicks of times?
Crepuscular are the cascading days
but always they pass epiphanies.
A heart of stone melts but
from it births the human heart
who is able to choose paths which lead them
to face the world not with pride
but with humility...
Sponsor Name: Broken Wings
Contest Name: Any poem trashed in a recent contest
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
12:38 pm. August 01, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
Come with me my Brother,
to a secret place where Light and Shadow line the face with fear and grace,
leave sophmoric style, wry smile and sly bile on the road of your forgotten mile,
sick sarcasm is the symptom of envy, a pet to your heart destroyer,
such artifice and malice have no language in this room of roasted dreams,
Enter through the damaged door, touch the destruction of vandals,
you have never been here before, where gold blood cuts the floor,
do you see how the walls move like squalls at our approach,
feel how they tell stories with the sensations of defeat, anxiety, impropriety,
in here we witness a collection of seperate yet synthesized segments of Self,
childhood torment, shallow manhood, virility limp as stolen victory,
underachievement, the underbelly of your arrogance, flacid like placid passion,
We journey further into this gallery of emotional gallows
smelt by the hurt of innumerable adavances
repelled by the demands of Quality,
you will writhe wildly
from the harrowing healing leeching into your concepts of self control,
graceful in absorbtion of Truth's attrition,
fruitless ambition shall now cling as cleaving contrition,
your face Brother, look long into the shimmer of sorrow become the old,
tattooed you are like a snake's skin checkered and beautiful
with scaled episodes of submission and aggression, dying to be Divine,
I want you to know that there is no exit of ease from this place Brother,
we trek within your very Soul,
this is the home and harbor of everything you've decided to be,
there are other rooms here, some of joy and some of strife,
but you leave not the Truth Room of your anger
until the Light finds no fault in your intention -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
"It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
When playing games with rocks or guns, defray,
them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words
of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day"
Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds,
exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare,
spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees,
lining streets, during mad-dog summers.
Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right
in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring
up dust, where resistance incites,
although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved.
Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
yet challenged, the precocious child
making assumptions. Folks would confound her!
Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling
Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring,
people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns
of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed,
with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed.
Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs
and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending
their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned.
We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend
Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams
in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream
In 1930, civil rights were just a dream,
and motherless children were coming of age.
Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean,
would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade.
A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house,
watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed.
The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout!
Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash.
Putting yourself into another man's shoes,
is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem.
They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo",
the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems.
Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch,
advocate for those who won't stand a chance.
Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch
in a depression full blown. Money is scant.
Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck.
What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong.
Someone must stand at the end of the day,
where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger.
Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white
Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins,
if injustice is war, he'll give his lot.
The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end
Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies
when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle
When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle,
false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting
bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries
of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night.
Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff
with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality,
amphibian worms, as if from a trough,
gorging on mania. They covet brutality.
Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing.
Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control.
Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding
the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul.
They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin.
Where white man's word, over a black, always wins.
Where a white man's word, over black, always wins,
was a rule of the thumb, during those years...
The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned,
taken away and waits to die, and endure
With Indian summer, waxing and waning,
Atticus chooses the simplest words.
His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding,
in trying to explain, that most men are good.
He tells them, gently, how someone so crude,
even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil
perhaps in his life, was misunderstood.
The hellish of summers begins to unravel.
But another ill wind, would brew up a storm,
to bring more than a flurry, into their home.
To bring more than a flurry into their home,
burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow.
Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms
in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows
As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail,
a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions
Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell
is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion.
A guardian presence, waiting to rally
has kept a vigil, guarding children who run,
swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley,
appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun
So pure of heart, and a thing so rare
It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
Re-submitted for Skat's Premiere Contest: #4
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
In the fifties leaders told
an innocent trusting
to duck and cover.
Years later they felt
for the easy way
they let their fears
It had worked so well
that with ignorance
and forgetfulness that goes
and the arrogance that goes
and a populace drained
and hyped by televised fears,
many rushed out to buy
Now in a land
birthed in religious freedom
we argued over mosques
while desperate matters
are left unresolved.
Somewhere in this land
a jackass is braying.
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2010
That’s so gay.
As I’m brushing off the slang you defend.
My cheeks burn red trying to comprehend,
But I wont.
I wont grasp this trend.
I wont hear the monster.
I wont permit your condemn.
I wont drink the water.
Thirst. I crave acceptance.
I need the peace.
Compel the hurt to cease.
That’s so gay
Unaware of the violence you assimilate.
Unaware of the arrogance you demonstrate.
Unaware of the intolerance you pontificate.
Unaware of the ignorance you perpetuate.
They’re just words.
You say with a clenched fist
They’re just words.
Whispered to the blade at her wrist.
That’s so gay.
Copyright © Brooke Goodwin | Year Posted 2015
A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to his temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity no allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
Father it’s me again. It’s been too long between talks
Days, years: restless lost wasted years
Choices made based on greed, pride, arrogance and misbegotten dreams
It’s difficult at best to understand how You can still love me
The blessings continued throughout it all
I had Kristofferson on the stereo asking Why Me Lord
Now I know I just want to come home
One more shot at doing it right, conscience not materialistic ideals
Finding peace within myself, empathy for those who cannot.
The journey was a bit different than I imagined
Detours, lost highways, dead ends. Many roads. Wrong ones
More light at the end of the dirt roads
Than the ones paved in gold
Harder to reach your destination
But the accommodations were better in the end
One more thing I meant to say and never did
Thank You Father for the hard times
Thank You for the trials that helped strengthen me
At the time, I didn’t understand
Now I see. Tears can cleanse the soul
Only when they are real.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2009
Call me stupid
I don’t really care
I’ve been there before
Call me reckless
It doesn’t bother me
It makes me feel free
So, Why don’t you pull out a dictionary
Look up all the words you’d use to describe me
I bet they aren’t pretty
I bet they’re pretty cold
But so are you baby...
You’re obsessed with your looks
Because of your arrogance
It’s like every damn thing I do
You always disapprove
Call that controlling
Baby I’m trolling
You think you your so attractive
With your lack of compassion?
What happened to chivalry?
You think your so sexy?
You’re full of desire
But you set love on fire
Copyright © Paige Posadziejewski | Year Posted 2017