Best Awful Poems
In a small café, customers stream through the door. I jot down orders that pile up as I wonder what’s happening in the back kitchen. The patrons are looking more and more displeased. I scurry table to table filling glasses running endlessly dry and simultaneously noticing the increasing number of empty napkin holders. Where’s the manager? Why is there nobody here but me? The order slips are almost gone. And now plates of food begin appearing in the back so quickly that I cannot recall to which table each one goes. I’m running and running, the proverbial dumb chicken but with its head still attached and throbbing! I hear the clamor of “Where’s our meal?” and more people keep entering through the door.
Now I find myself in a plain white-walled classroom of my school. The clock on the wall ticks on and on as students trickle through the door. Students sit staring as I search a pile of papers for the attendance sheet. The papers fall and I just know my lesson plan is lost among the scattered sheets. I bend to pick them up and my brain is a fog. What am I to teach? I sift through the disarray as ticking seconds become minutes, and a silence pierces me as I view the stony faces before me. I try to mouth words, but they simply won’t come. I can almost feel the fidgeting of the students as my upper lip begins to twitch. I know they are thinking me an imbecile. As I stand dumb stricken, time is fleeing, and more students are entering the room. . . . .
I awaken to the loud incessant ticking of the clock beside my bed. I’ll rise to greet my day, get into my car and meld with a stream of other people driving to their everyday jobs. There will be days that I encounter the cheerless or dissatisfied faces of strangers or even of family and friends. There will be times that I hasten frantically, feeling all is futile as bills pile up or work overwhelms me, and there are sure to be times when I will feel at an utter loss as I live vicariously the nightmarish woes which sometimes my husband must confront. How grateful I am for ordinary days whose hours of normalcy are heaven compared to the mind boggling misery endured throughout this world. And how thankful I am for ordinary days that greatly outnumber a few awful dreams!
The Scarecrow, he was born without a brain
And the Tinman got all rusted from the rain
Because the Tinman had no heart
And because the Scarecrow was smart
Instead of walking to Oz, he'd taken a train
At the station Paton stares at me from the train bound for Johannesburg
He leaves a note to remember to mop up where the roof leaks
This is after the British take Achebe and I's gods away
before sitting back down on their buttocks
When I take their son in Taylor draws my black skin being thrashed by the wind
I feel the kid burying me before the ship comes
I resurrect, thanking Wendt for at least some power and glory
before stupid maggots come and eat up my winnings
Orwell hires me to feed his pigs when I'm broke
I want to kill them when they stand up on two legs and talk back to me
Smith and I meet at Catholic school and ditch Boys' Club together
His brother catches him and I hide across the street as he gets a beating
I run into Fitzsimmons who's looking for Les Darcy
I tell him, 'I'm not his girl, go ask Winnie where he went'
They make Ihimaera and I run errands at the family gathering
I tell myself we're either cousins or enemies: don't fall for him
That same night Huxley and I get high on soma
He passes out on the beach and I run back home to sleep it off
The stabbing wakes me up in time to tell Selby to go tahell
He gets up in my face and tells me plainly to be honest with myself
It's strange after that...just me and Bukowski waiting for a bus
He puts up with me and I fall in love with the pungent smell of him.
does the process of elimination ~ make much sense by inclusion
or is mans reasoning clearly rearranged ~ by woman’s exclusion
By
David Kavanagh
hms
The narrow lane led to an awful place
With its own page in the annals of history,
Where once was committed a murder most foul
It’s perpetrator to date still a mystery
Thirteen, Millers Court in Spitalfields
Was the abode of one Mary Jane Kelly
Where one November morn, eighteen eighty eight
She was found, slit from throat to her belly.
A victim was she of a man they called ‘Jack’
A murderer of most savage renown
Who spread fear through the streets of Whitechapel,
And whose identity has never been found
Because ‘Jacks’ alter ego was never confirmed
Speculation and theories are rife
Was he a personage of royal blood?
Was he a surgeon, skilled with a knife?
Was ‘Jack’ an American actor?
Was he sane, was he mentally ill?
Were his only victims the ‘canonical’ five?
Just how many more did he kill?
Why did it all end and where did ‘Jack’ go
Is as mysterious as from whence he came,
But his legacy remains and for many a year
Life on London’s streets was never the same.
She always sang a bit way off-key,
She couldn’t hit a single note;
She mixed up words from different songs,
Some getting caught down in her throat;
She sang songs from our favorite bands
That I didn’t recognize;
When she told me the title of the song she sang
I tried to hide my amused surprise.
She sang loudest in the morning
When there was still darkness in the hour;
While preparing for her coming day
She sang in the steam from her hot shower;
I’d lie in bed and listen
To the most beautiful sound a guy could hope to hear;
I’d give everything I have today
To hear her awful voice still echoing in my ear.
She’d sing lullabies to our children
With words that never were the same;
She’d sing our anthem loud and proud
At every baseball game;
She sang while doing housework
To the music that played inside her head;
She sang her last song to me
From her oncology hospital bed.
You can have your Mariah Careys;
You can have your Celine Dions by the score;
I’d rather hear those awful melodies
Being belted out around the house once more;
It’s amazing how beautiful her songs were
When listened to with the love inside my heart;
I can’t wait to get to heaven
To hear how she tortures the angel’s harp.
Earlier this week I went to the beach at night, the stars
were bright, the moon was light, and so was my mood.
I folded my clothes next to my shoes and stepped slow
and tentatively into the water. Immediately a huge wave
appeared out of nowhere, swallowed me and spit me out,
me snorting sea water from every hole in my head, rolling
over the flood line like a cucumber. I was determined
to try again... this time a vortex opened a black hole right
in front of my feet, and sucked me in without any mercy.
I was swirled round and round, together with a dozen
bewildered little fish and a crab that held on to my left
foot for dear life. After a journey that lasted a few minutes
and left me dizzy and nauseous, the vortex spit me out
and again l landed on the floodline. I yelled at the sea:
"Why are you doing this to me?" To which the sea replied:
"I'm hungry, but you taste really awful". Offended I turned
around, dressed myself and left. I couldn't help but
wondering if the fact that I didn't have a girlfriend, had
anything to do with how I tasted?
***
February 5, 2017
Such an intelligent mind,
But enslaved by a treacherous and foolish mouth
Leading his brilliance into no significance
The phone just rang; the wrenching news has caught me unaware.
My heart is numb, my tongue is dumb; I stumble down the stair.
I cannot comprehend the words Sorrow just spoke to me;
will someone pause to share my awful weight of agony?
How can a heart bear all this ache and not explode with strain?
I lie awake, for love's sweet sake, reliving it again.
I take it in--the sights, the sounds--Grief's dreadful potpourri;
will someone pause to share my awful weight of agony?
So on it goes week after week, year after bitter year;
I drink the gall, I taste it all, Death's mad cocktail of fear.
A tombstone sentinels the wound the Reaper made in me;
will someone pause to share my awful weight of agony?
Only the ones who walk this way can ever understand...
Who have laid a child, to be defiled, beneath the mould and sand.
God sent His Son, His only one, a sacrifice for me;
and He will pause to share my awful weight of agony.
Copyright, 4-18-2014, Faye Gibson
Abigail Rhine such an abomination of her time, the fair skinned false
princess with such the hunger for lust and power from which she ruled
every watch must read her hour. Shrouded in the finest of fines eternity
was destiny and to obey was essential or else detrimental. Could such a
Lilith be so real the first born of Cesar's monarchy gives Abigail from such
hope reaps us fail!. But be known of these words I speak:" From doom wrongs
will be right and to cut the power from this harlot tonight the crusade take flight,
wealth will fall to its knees so shall we see the awful Abigail Rhine will no more be".
I hope you'll find that someone
who can make you smile
that someone
who can give you all the time you want
someone
who can make you feel complete
that someone
who won't make you feel like sh!t.
I hope you'll find that someone
who makes you feel alive
someone
with whom you could spend the rest of your life
someone
that will make you feel secure
I hope you'll find that someone
sometime, very soon.
I hope you'll find that
*perfect timing*
I hope you'll have no fear
to fight
I hope you'll pick from them
the best
I hope they'll love
your wicked heart.
But I still can't hide you that
I'm missing you
and missing you -
Oh, it feels so awful today..
and I guess
that's the reason why
I'm watching old movies
every - eff!n'- day.
And here I'll be, again
writing this to you
hoping that, maybe
you'll be remembering me too...
I'll light a cigarette
and lay under the sky
trying to stay awake (away)
but don't you ask me why.
Because, since then
everything has changed
and if you know me
you know that there's no second chances
today is just a glimpse,
a sneak-peak in the past
is your heart still beating?
mine is beating too fast.
I believed in you.
You didn’t.
I tried to help you.
You didn’t.
I loved you.
You didn’t.
I felt for you.
You didn’t.
Trapped in a cell with nowhere to run,
your fear pricked panic into your feet-
hitting wall after wall splitting from one,
I grabbed your shoes so we would meet.
You cried and I cried and we cried together,
you bled as I bandaged and patched you up-
I tried as you died and was gone forever,
you just couldn’t receive all the world’s love.
Trapped in a dungeon with nowhere to scream,
your tears tricked your soul into needing
too much from yourself, or so it seemed,
but you just kept on slicing and bleeding.
You laughed and I cried and I held tightly to you,
the madness in your salty smile terrified me-
how can you be happy with a face so blue?
The illness was evident and it verified to me.
Your disease was confusing and I couldn’t tell,
if you were here or there or in between-
it killed me to see you stuck in your mind’s hell,
flashes of all the mood swings I had seen.
Up and down and over a false mountain,
you laid and stayed on your back in the snow-
closing your eyes falling asleep right by the fountain,
it was time for your weary heart to finally let go.
Time lingers and the breeze whispers your name,
I feel that as each day passes the clock ticks slower-
no matter my happiness my life’s never been the same,
as I watched you suffer from that awful bipolar.
~Karen~
1969-2010
Mental Illness Poetry Contest
Sponsor: S. Grace
Revised: January 8th, 2018
Many an interpretations have I known of tales,
Of darkness versus light, gruesome versus delightful.
A time bedtime stories were Mamma’s pride.
Fortunate we were to look upon her face, all lightened.
Came an awful nanny, turned us to mice frightened.
Withered oval face, grim and opaque with intentions hidden;
Was she vindictive over our annoying childhood pranks
Or victorious in her power to patronise and subdue us?
Wonder would we, long after, on her tales, minds filled
And heart heavy with weird pictures of evil dead; animals
In the museum coming to live, behaving in amazing ways
And of monoliths moving to open ways for monsters
To crawl out from the dark dungeons of the earth.
These were just prelude; the more terrifying accounts
Would pour down as the night darkness intensified.
Held terrorised of vicious blood suckers sneaking in
through opening of windows on sudden gusts of wind,
Tightly we would grip each other, my sisters would cry.
One day, the climax was attained; nanny was a witch!
Peeped did the moon on us, in time finding us solace.
“The night is darkest before dawn.’ Mamma would say.
Shot a shining star, mamma it was, her light gave us
Strength and to nanny we rushed, pushed her with a blow.
Out of the window she flew, turning to a coward crow!
Date:16/07/16 (24 lines)
Contest: Make a poem*2 (using 21 words provided)
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Damn poetry is awful! I had to turn off that show on NPR when the poet got round to the line, "Literature is the ashes under the playground set" spoken in such earnest. If there was a god, poets who came up with lines like that would be stricken dead by multiple lightning bolts from a clear blue sky without enough of them left to scatter under the aforementioned playground set.
Awful Offal
O' inspiration, you wretched little whore
Fickle as a feral cat
Your siren song, a wailing howl
Poison arid fellows, foul
Luring lesser louts to shore
Surviving yet another spat
Rising higher than before
No time to waste on lowly life
Will not taste their bitter strife
For the falcon feeds off of the rat