Best Ballpoint Pen 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.
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
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
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
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!
AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
A banana peel littering the sidewalk
A candy wrapper lying carelessly on the parkway
An aluminum Coke can, crushed, by the side of the curb
Cigarette butts scattered randomly on the pavement
A plastic diaper stuffed into a trash container
A ballpoint pen, squished, bleeding in the roadway
A torn knitted glove abandoned on a park bench
Sunflower seed shells strung along a sandy beachfront trail
A careless remark, tossed out haphazardly, devastating a reputation
A promise broken, unintentionally, rattling around our soul
A lifetime of effort, squandered, forever unappreciated
Love spurned, nonchalantly, rending our fragile heartstrings
This year 2021 seems so very hard
with covid and all its limited implications
but it's worth comparing centuries before
five hundred years before was no celebration
In comparing all these 500 years ago
when it was a world so different from today
this was what Europe then was like
even U.S. hadn't been brought into play
During the 1500s there were no basics
no sewer system, central heating, water supply
refrigeration, antibiotics, penicillin or surgery
in our day not having these we would die
As well as no water heater or water
also, ballpoint pen, typewriter, pc was none
it beggars belief what life was like
life was harsh certainly not much fun
People in that day would've been so poor
struggling would have been a daily chore
so be thankful we're not still back then
despite covid we're still able to roar!
Some have head but they cannot think
Some I’d love to think but have no head
You have head, hands…and you don’t stink
Thank God for your life… you are not dead
Some are educated but have no job
Some have jobs but they aren’t educated
Whatever you earn from your juicy or just job
Thank God for your life, don’t complain instead
Some are cute but they have no spouse
Some have spouse but they seem not beautiful
You are someone’s sweetie…in a happy house
Thank God for your world so white and wonderful
Some have womb but they have no child
Some have children but their womb is gone
You have womb and children …so meek and mild
Thank God for your dear daughters and sweet son
Some have ballpoint pen but they cannot write
Some can write but they have neither pad nor pen
You have pen to write… in black and white
Thank God for ranking your writings… top ten
This horny shaft of ruffled feathers
Is hollow and needs to be filled
This shaft has become a hard ballpoint pen
It needs secretion within parchment
It is filled with ink wanting to write
Without you I have writers block
I will glue your pages together
Placing my hard cover around you
I need to be in your table of Content
I will turn your pages over and over
I will never dog ear anyone's page but yours
My Quotes will be long and hard to understand
With each stroke of this pen thinking, then
Writing and filling this book from cover to cover
The Main Chapter and Verse
Is You, the most interesting book I have ever read
Martial Artist
draws ballpoint pen
weapon
An April fool
twelve months out of the year.
And it’s been a full calendar year
without you in it.
Empty spaces
take up my planner now.
Devoid of you and me
and all the plans
that we made together.
You’re gone, and what’s left
is just empty spaces
Does your name lay
along someone else’s
planned-out days?
Is their planner
surrounded by hearts?
Or was that just mine?
Is it written forever
in ballpoint pen?
Or carelessly penciled in
haphazardly
as a second thought?
Pencil means
subject to change.
Is she just waiting
to erase your name?
Waiting for something better,
someone better…
than you.
Just remember
my poor fellow fool,
I cared enough--
when you were mine…
to use
permanent
black
ink.
Nearly two years ago, on April 1, 2021, I decided to try ’30 days of poetry.’ This was day one and the prompt was ‘Fool’ and this is what came of it.
My escape
similar to heroin
or sharp whiskey.
Almost like the stinging kiss of a razor blade.
different though,
in the manner of
it isn't going to hurt me
in the way those other things would.
I will not have scars from my escape.
No needle marks on the pale skin on my arms,
no headache from the Wild Turkey,
and no flaking scabs on my thighs.
When I escape,
I fly.
And when I land,
there's dry ink on my pinky,
and the air smells of ballpoint pen.