Best Ballpoint Poems
~Woody Wood From the Hood~
Deep, inside yourself, you walk a sour way of life,
Carving my name, on every tree with a hunting knife
You log in, then log out
A Birdman So Fickle, he Stinks of doubt!
Blind today, bald tomorrow,
Big Bird, will be your only friend
I can't seem to forget the day, you shed your final skin
Revealing a darker snake, than the one in my garden
Leaving the word betrayal, up to the imagination
Trust not the fool, who thinks his halo is heaven sent
Using a fake ballpoint pen dietary supplement
Thinning out his wings, and losing the symbolic meaning
Aging in a way, that spreads crows feet from top to bottom
Sapsucker revolving yellow as if it was always autumn
Pecking Hard Wood, MR Pecker of all woodpeckers
Forgetting who's the real Home-wrecker
Your dragging pants are no bother, Mr Woodpecker!
I've gotten used to the tree talking and your creative vision
Let's just say, "Gangster to Gangster, I gave you a mission."
Keep rapping and tapping the same old street sign,
Woodstock, on demand, crap out the peanut punch
Whatever suits you for breakfast and lunch
Don't forget dinner's also about me
Go ahead!
Peck away with deception, reveal your sullen evil feathers
A disease urine Birdman, doing it snoopy style
A flightless, lightless liar, nothing about him's worthwhile
Keep manipulating the weak, whatever turns you on
I'm not ready to shoot you down with my shotgun
~SKAT~
He or she who can put pen to paper
And write words for all to cherish and savour,
Who can touch the heart and fire the mind
And make us see things as if we were blind;
Who paints word pictures, again and again
With the swiftest strokes of a ballpoint pen,
Awakening feelings of wonder and awe
That, perhaps haven’t been sensed before;
Who makes heavy hearts feel at ease
As easily as the wind bends willow trees;
Truly, on that Poet’s words we should feed
For surely they’re worthy of praise indeed.
The body electric; it moves about
On fire from a heart that has exploded.
Suspicion of me; eyes on me. I didn’t do it!
I merely sat idly by while they killed themselves
With drink.
I have a drink, and perhaps I shall
Have another, and the humanity of
The world will reflect in my glassy,
Blood-shot eyes.
I had a last hope but I gave it up,
And I am in pieces on the floor like
A mismatched puzzle; you can’t put
Me back together because none of
My pieces fit.
Whore, you dirty, exhausted mess; you are
Me in the mirror. That’s me, right? In this
Skin suit? In this foreign body?
The air is poisoned, and I can’t recognize
Anyone anymore. God has sent us plague
And fear of touch.
Diamond eyes, blue as the salt sea linger upon
My swollen flesh. Whose eyes? Lo! They
Are mine. They have always been mine!
I haven’t cried for you in a decade, but here
I am wearing your topaz ring,
And I can barely feel it there.
I am no prophet, yet I predict that I shall fail
At any sort of love other than yours.
I’m brave now because I took a pill, crushed
It between my fingertips and allowed the
Powder to travel through the cavity of which
My very breath emits.
My pupils are like the tips of a ballpoint pen,
My brain is swimming in luscious grandeur,
And it overwhelms me in a fantastic way.
Which one is the real me out of these
Two personas? Dry or full of the nectar
I’ve just consumed?
Whichever it is I am tired of me.
Scars, scars everywhere; so jagged
And never subjected to the fading
That stitches would’ve provided them.
I taped myself up like a doll that had
Been torn apart. I feared to remove the
Tape, lest I look upon the gaping wounds
And white muscle beneath.
Do not fear me. Beware.
My dear incredible pen,
you are the pinnacle of writing instruments! Looking refined with your elegant ebony shaft and gold-filagree trim, you are a true technological wonder to behold and a master calligrapher.
I am amazed at your ability to ink my thoughts onto paper without a single smear, skip or blotch. You fit my hand like we were custom crafted as one, allowing me to gently glide your easy-flow tip over a blank canvas and create literary art.
Oh, my dearest, most reliable pen,
I am enthralled by your ability to interpret my scribbled thoughts into meaningful, coherent sentences. You are my inspiration, confidant, and protagonist; I would be lost without your profound influence and companionship.
You have established an almost intimate psychic connection with my muse, and together, we three create poetry. I love the feel of you in my hand; you give me the confidence to explore fantasy while at the same time anchoring me to reality.
My most beloved, exquisite pen,
the mere thought of holding you sends shivers down my spine, for I know you are eager to take me to faraway places we've never been as we explore the deceptions and truths of humanity. You come from a proud line of writing instruments, including cuneiform sticks, quills, and fountain pens, to the ubiquitous ballpoint pens of today. May your ink never dry up, and your contribution to literary works be recognized and appreciated, for you deserve no less.
(Ode)
03/03/2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
I saw a big bird today at a local zoo.
Its habitat is akin to that of a kangaroo.
It was glaring at all as if to say,
"Okay! I saw all, now go away!"
Its digits can agonizingly kick,
As if hit by a ton of brick!
It is not a darling bird at all,
And I cannot stand its blaring call!
I know nothing of its ornithological stock.
I do know it's too big to fry in an Asian wok!
I was at a loss as I stood stroking jaw.
Was it an ostrich or a cassowary that I saw?
I can't think of anything worthy for that bird to say,
So I shall lay down ballpoint and call it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
First Place In Nikko Palmario's "Without U & ME" Contest' - July 2010
PS: This was a contest where the use of the letters E, M & U was prohibited.
The bird I spoke of was the EMU!
like a night fairy
you invaded
my side of the room
stealing my coffee
hot handed
like the money
with which it was procured
selling poetry
composed with heart
and sore fingers
holding ballpoint pen
put together
the old fashioned way
carrying the books
everywhere I go
asking anyone interested
to buy a copy
now thanks to you
I have to purchase more
of this daily necessity
with what is left
in my wallet
Battling the page,
Writers block at the brink.
Assassinated words,
Hemorrhage colored ink.
Rivers of ink flow,
From a massacre of words.
Stanzas of pain, grace the page,
Like of flock of olden birds.
Ballpoint swords strike:
In written catastrophe.
A stained battlefield resides,
With bloody poetry.
Ethereal elegance in depiction
Thy beauty of my affliction
Glamorous shine I now shall plead
Withhold thy splendor, for I concede
Bedecking diamond of value aglow
It is perfection you bestow
Body of platinum your tap I seek
One to sense and not to peek
Rays of silver upon Schwarz
O the value colors import!
Your white gold tip surmounts surreal
Is it crystal that your ink reveals?
Ballpoint it is shallowness you suffice
Yet I bet that it doesn’t exceed your price!
“How shallow can observed value make one be?”-
Soul Maker: Special Edition Diamond Ballpoint Pen by Mont Blanc
Schwarz: German word for Black
Monday ... hit ‘em with a hard ballpoint slam
Shake the weekend ‘nish out of their veins
Tuesday ... hot comb straighten out the political wigs
Give the trough lap dogs some cynicism pain
Wednesday ... make their pen ride uncomfortable on the hump
Tell a shorty stuck backhoe mole ditch is looking big
Thursday ... turn the sundial back ten degrees with an ink bump
Square the pretty posers center left of the cam
Friday ... check my girl’s curvaceous cursive print body of love
Hopeful souls need some spiritual sunshine to reign
Saturday ... bring a light-hearted saber to the round table gig
There be smiles and smiles to go to reach the mystic muse sky above
Sunday ... give a writeous sermon that make ‘em shout and jump
Preach the double truth about I AM THAT I AM
Oh, watch the people of the pen work! The writer has picked it up, inspired and ready to
write the next great novel!
The little people rush to the gears to make sure the ink flows smoothly, while the
grunts work at the ballpoint. They roll the ball along while the masterpiece is being
crafted, but will be filthy in black ink when they go home to their wives.
An air bubble has formed! The owner left it in the car overnight and the ink froze,
letting air in. They rush to get the ink going, but an earthquake has erupted! The owner
violently shakes the pen and they are unable to get to their stations to fix the
catastrophe. The little people begin to collapse from concussions due to the shaking,
and it seems the ink will never flow again. Wait, there it goes! No, false alarm. That
was just a tiny glob of ink.
The shaking then stopped and the pen is thrown into the garbage like half-eaten food,
scooped up kitty litter, and first drafts. The plant has been shut down. What will the
little people tell their wives?
The horse gave way to the car
The boat gave way to the plane
The quill gave way to the ballpoint pen
from Oklahoma to Ohio to Maine
Radio gave way to TV
TV to the Internet Sreen
Yet radio's making a comeback now
A pleasant surprise unforeseen
About one thing I'm sure, however
There's no going back to cloth diapers and pins
Like today, tomorrow belongs to disposables
~ So as to get rid of manure-eating grins
The pen points down at this point and period
Then it points to the Egyptians
Who used the stars to pinpoint the pyramids
They penned the Book of The Dead in their own language
They did everything backwards because it means the Book of Life in the English translation
They built hospitals for the dead
So we build hospitals for the sick now
The Chinese made paper, this is the tipping point,
Because of them my pen is joined to their hip now
These two twins the parchment and the Prophet
They are the editors of God's Word
Which points the way for the Gospels written by the Apostles
At this point and period the topic points to the highlight
The history of our Country is underlined
The Declaration of Independence on it John Hancock penned the signature of a giant
History has been recorded by pens to point men
But history repeats itself and now its all pointless
And at this point depending on which way North is pointed
The polls shifted, now water runs uphill
A stroke of good fortune, I've come to the point of poets
They ink the finger of God
And by God's finger we have the Ten Commandments
And the paper the speaker prepares his speech
His pen is the instrument that captivates his audience
The pen breaks
Out shoots the ballpoint
With my mind I have pointed to many points and periods.....
All she wanted to do was to prove her point.
What goes up must come down –
She packed climbing gear and grabbed her ballpoint.
It was time for the dauntless doubter’s meltdown!
Standing at the bottom of a mountain,
She looked up to the highest point.
Hoping it would not rain,
She headed for the first checkpoint.
Then, stopped to rest and write some poetry.
About life from her viewpoint –
She heard the voice of the Almighty.
And wrote heavenly thoughts He did appoint.
She started climbing again, aches in every joint.
Past her breakpoint and the midpoint to the endpoint.
She dropped her pen; it bounced down the mountain.
Over rocks, nooks, and crannies…proving her point.
© January 18, 2011
I wrote it on my arm
With a Bic pen
Ballpoint, black ink
I've been doing it since I was ten
The black letters, bold
Emphatically overlapped again and again
I write the words
To express my idiosyncrasies from within
It's the oil for my skin
Because I'm constructed of tin
Sometimes it feels like a pin
Penetrating holes in me that I only see when my vision starts to spin
That's the kind of state I'm in
My poor mama and papa think it's a sin
Because with every stroke it feels like a piece of my soul is tossed straight into the bin
But I still wrote it on my arm with a grin
You could say spring was in the air
When his ballpoint pen flew apart
Arthur took charge of it's repair
So that made it a work of art!
Declaring that, he felt compelled
To write something down with it
Frowning his brow, with said pen held
He channeled his humor and wit
When she looked over his shoulder
Every thought he had petered out
She seemed surprised when he told her
Peter problems is what it's about!