Best Bores Poems
Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Bread
( First of Three Poem Trilogy )
I
I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.
Nor do I fancy to become a bichon frise,
beholding to those with comminatory ways.
Finding some will cut you off at the knees
as a criticaster dariole for fugacious pay.
Floccinaucinihilipilification,
judged by Flews that chatter in morbid tune.
Give me saudade and a sandy beach vacation
with very little scrippage in the month of June.
Aye, no snollygoster soucouyant will do,
for my heart and soul begs sun-grazing songs.
Not a superbious umbriferous critic or two,
with the poet's soul this body truly belongs.
Seeking no uroboros legacy my ink doth stain
as a soulcatcher with a selkie as a muse.
Alone, in this rawky terrain my life will remain
for solitude and honor my poet's heart doth choose.
I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit,
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-21-2018
Rhyme
Note:
Make of this what you will,
I give thus and surely shall send no bill
Yet in my poet's heart my soul oft grieves
for the Autumn colors not the decaying leaves
For the heart that yearns to write and truly give
and the mortal soul that writes to live
With inked symbols and a mind tired of toil
wading through worlds filled with pride and hidden turmoil
I write with purpose to give to others, not to take
tho' oft my poet's heart over burning coals some gladly rake.
I am a coward with open sores.
I write and wonder who it bores.
I hear my heart and mind argue repeatedly.
I see others carrying out my dreams;
that’s what’s defeated me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I pretend open doors are closed, and walk the other way.
I touch base with the fear in my heart, tearing me apart,
leaving nothing to say...
I worry the world will leave me.
I cry because no one believes in me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I understand nothing comes easy.
I say I’m happy, but even I don’t believe me.
I dream I am healed and brave.
I try to overcome my weaknesses before I’m in my grave.
I hope you hear me.
I’m on all fours.
I am a coward with open sores.
© 2011 ~JSLaM
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* 1st PLACE in Contest "MARCH MADNESS" Sponsored by C. Devonshire 2011
* 1st PLACE in Contest "ONE OFF" Sponsored by Brian Strand 5/11/2011
* 1st PLACE in Contest "BEST EVER" Sponsored by P.D. 2011
The phone rings empty into the night.
Filling a void that brings strange comfort
to thoose around.
Rage eats away untill it bores a hole
straight through are hearts.
Whiskey cauterizes the wound.
Alone with fools we gather.
The bitter ones taking to there barstools.
the weak look to punish thoose happy
bastards.
Who dare to feel anything in the place of
emptyness.
She left so many years befor.
At least her mortal soul did.
I rememeber when it was when I still
dared to dream.
Long befor reallity was a friend.
Lovers lie.
Motions keep us living.
She spoke but the words were empty as her heart.
So as strangers we parted just as we met.
With a bitter taste I never did reply.
The phone rang it's last time.
I herd it echo farewell down the hall.
I had to go so I never unlocked the door.
i just left my emotions hanging like some
forgotten coat pushed back in
the closet.
Its been almost a year since that phone filled
the emptyness of my soul.
If only I had answered.
We played hide and seek
Running around the park.
And a game called british bulldogs,
It really was a lark.
Then there was scrumping apples
And getting chased off by the man.
How we loved knock and run,
Oh, how fast we ran.
Of course there was footie
Sometimes fifteen a side.
On tv we watched the flintstones,
And laughed until we cried.
The sweetshop sold gobstoppers
Or maybe a sherbet dab,
A shiny stick of liquorice
Or an exciting lucky bag.
Our parents couldn't get us in,
How we loved to play.
There just never seemed to be
Enough hours in the day.
But our kids are technophobes,
They think we're dinosaurs.
Scoffing at our 'good old days'
Thinking we were bores.
I despair at the internet,
Technology, at a cost
Children glued to ipads,
A proper childhood lost.
I can imagine in the future
There's a point our kids will reach,
All contact will be online,
They'll have lost the power of speech.
Fresh air, and playing out
Will seem a relic from the past.
I fear there's no going back,
For the techno die is cast.
Entry for It's The End Of The Forms Series - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5/10/2017
He meandered lonely
just a senior citizen
trawling the pathways of his computer,
when suddenly one day in a flash
an enchanting name jumped from the screen
into his unadjusted head,
whilst still in a daze
he had cut copied and pasted,
the delete key not an option
when sent to his favourites.
Then like magic, poetry began to appear
every single day a new poem would emerge
all written in a familiar dialect,
to begin with down to earth
raw unadulterated poetry
the kind that attaches itself to one’s mind
bores in to the head, rattles around
then lays awhile
then keeps coming on back, over and over again.
Poetry that penetrates, like an arrow,
pierces the heart, tends to linger
deep in one’s consciousness
disarming the most vehement of thought,
poetry that creates calmness
making one at ease, especially one
old with age and recipient of an endowment of excruciating pain!
Soon the poetry began to blossom
as all creations do
in the springtime of their lives,
the purity of Wild flowers, colours of the rainbow
free to sway within the gentle breeze,
soon each daily dose of verse begins to transpire
into carpets of lavender
upon the woodland stage, cascading Bluebells of joy,
the epitome of beauty unfolding
before one’s very eyes.
Again the poetry continues to consolidate,
poems of form formularized those conceived of
the Peace Lillie so sensuous in shape
so assuring in grace, a hard life the Lillie endures
yet one, only of positivity etched into each stanza
of bold narration for all to peruse!
Then a transformation
to the Rose, the very sense of beauty,
when with words of wrought
thy language comforting long into the night
to ease each day a journey of plight,
yet for you sweet Rose
thy poetry, it is not at an end
when to the Orchid you graciously ascend!
Many are those that come and admire
the wonders of your beauty those words on fire,
yet some desire more
with cunning and subtlety
those to manipulate to control
for one’s own ends.
But the Orchid remains safe
suffers no fool,
nurtured in extreme climates
is strong and worldly wise,
the poetry just keeps on coming,
flowing like tears of joy,
from an eye of one who’s happiness
is assured every single day!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
To hoard your gifts, to sit upon
the dust and ash - this life won’t last.
I n a c t i v i t y bores, i n v i t e s
the demons in…these beasts lambaste.
7/5/2022
Sin of Sloth
Margarita Lillico
abcb
Used Rhymezone
The choice is mine, to spend my time where seagulls sing for me
A day to play beneath the sun, have fun and feel no shame
My chores undone, but my heart is won by everything I see
Not often have I felt so sure, or found a cure to claim
I'll leave behind the pace the grind that keeps me on the run
Without a doubt, I want to shout, and thank the sun above
I'll hide away, and have a day, perhaps if only one
We are meant to have a miracle, a moment's breath to love
To pull down shades, on a sunny day, and grieve of life's demands
are not for me, I'll smile instead, assured of something more
Beneath the sky, I'll watch the waves roll in to wash the sand
and put on hold the old routine, that bores me to the core
To find myself, a sense of peace, a second step begins
All by myself, I will release, the breath I've held within
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
6/20/14
Battle of the Honorable Mentions Contest
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
The image burns within
my brain of an
old medieval hall,
remembered from childhood
picture books.
The food is heaped
upon the board,
the shields are on the wall.
The lords and ladies
round the groaning table
flirt and watch the fools,
the one in the silly hat,
and the others huddled
against the walls.
As the eaters of the banquet
gaily proceed on in
drunken bloated revelry
they display their earthly faults,
with arrogance,
to a huddled mud stained peasantry.
The bottom of the hierarchy,
in the shadows serving, or
shut outside the door,
hope to get the garbage
leftover from these bores.
But before the lords and ladies leave,
to pursue their flirtations in
exclusive privacy, the hounds
are let in to lick the floor
and eat the droppings and the gore.
Finally the fools from the shadows
and the huddled groups outside
are allowed into the abandoned hall
to lick the plates,
to glean whatever
greasy scrapes and food
have been left behind.
I think of this scene often
as I read the daily news
Daylight saving time
Springing forth and falling back
Spinning on in close hauled tack
Leaving wakes of fierce held tears
In tidal bores of racing years
With no time spent in quiet peace
Burning daylight sets the pace
For this, the human race.
Tho every once and then we touch
The laid back confidence of such
Who ride the tidal force of life
In joy earned
Satisfaction
I am starting a new journey in life,
a journey of love and hatred,
a journey of mixed feelings,
a sweet journey of life,
fused in the chains of caution,
fused in the chains of intuition.
On my high way I might see doves of white,
on my lone way,I may see,dreams of light.
It all bores down to a journey.
I am starting a new journey,
a new dimension,
of life in life,
of pain in caution,
for I need not a life of sorrows
I need not a life of tears.
In this journey I an treading on,
In this meticulous journey I walking.
There is no need for serendipity
no need for demeanor,for I HEAD
I am starting a new journey in life.
Zillion supporters screaming, a loud buzz,
Yearning to return home cheered by victory.
Xerox machines preparing the next day’s papers; Max
Wit for the shame or fame of a member of the show.
Violent vitriol from commentators like engine rev
Unites with supporters’ glee at likes of Eto’o or Kanu
To spur skill at each minute to get even one stunning stunt
Spirits soar, sink, so it is, for here serenity bores.
Roulette, lifté, counter-attack by one party raising the roar.
Quick kick! Oh no! Replay?! Why not? That must join the FAQ
Pray the corner kick slays the opponent; oh that header was sharp!
Oh he missed that goal again! No replay?! Hell no!
No! Now he’s channeled that ball too late for the man,
May the coach coach correctly and call him to quit the team!
Leave the pitch you little loss-bringing imp! LOL!
Khaki-wearing “messer” I can even get your reek!
Just as our jests are about to milk out laughs, I couldn’t find a word to end with “J”.
Instead I had a whole lot of them J-starting words. So I
Hunched to think, but then looked up at the BROOHAH:
GOAL GOAL!! Oops the scorer is the "Mr. Bug"!
Fooled? No, I’m still for him leaving,( Scoring oaf!)
Even though this elation, release and joy, came from his device!
Defensive tactics, offensive backing up, I can almost get mad
‘Cos the best defense is attack Doc!
Bye losers, we took this easy. Supporters bob
Away, and the whole stadium sleeps in the starlight bathed by mother Luna.
(c) Nyonglema
3 am in the morning
Everybody is sleeping
Some of them are snoring
Maybe others are boozing
And the rest making out and moaning
Conclusion, everyone’s enjoying this night
Doing this doing that
Everybody is busy somehow
Only me lying on this 30 years old sofa
Listening to 90s boring música
And drinking my 3rd bottle of cola
Conclusion again, my prosaic life bores me to tears
Dear TV,
Why don’t these couples within you break up?
They brawl everyday
I don’t understand how they can have 4 children?
Are they F***ing human or am I an alien?
Come sit with me and tell me the story
Of those girls that you call sexy dolly
I’ve bought a million mirrors
But they all shattered before uttering a damn thing to me
My friends always stick a winkey on my empty yellow smiley
They say mine is so freaking spooky
Honesty I do adore seeing my body wearing on
That pinky booty they call cutie pouty
Because No one cares either I look nasty or shapely
I’m neither sad nor mad
I’m not jealous but I’m completely pooped
Sick of acting in several movies in one day
I admit that I’m a phony actress
And an unpretty liar
I don’t hate myself but I don’t like it anyway
I’m not blaming you but I can’t get over you
I wish I could turn back time and try to be good for you
One more chance to look prettier than her
One more chance to act cuter than her
Please say it wasn’t my fault if I’m replaced by her
Please help me shut down this voice of guiltiness deep in my heart
I’m begging you to give me one last chance to be better than her
But I can see your beautiful smile smacking your mouth when you look at her
Yes I know you’re living happily now ‘cause of her
So I'm dying to Ctrl C ~ Ctrl V her,
I'm craving to try her up, to feel her, touch her and suck her gravity just to be her
‘Cause she is the one I should’ve been to make you stay
And I’m the one you shouldn’t have met from the start
Dry Facts Can Perform Juicy Acts
In the EFL community
all around the world
it’s an undeniable
and unpleasant reality that
no matter how well-motivated
you and your students are
no matter how real and acute
the need for learning
a language may be
no matter how well-equipped
the language center is
no matter how well-trained
your instructors might be
still, teaching a language
as a foreign tongue
in a foreign country
in a classroom environment
within four walls
is an artificial endeavor,
pure and simple.
Moreover, the minute the students
step out of the classroom
the little language environment
created in the room
is left behind,
lost and forgotten
until the next class.
Minds boggle at how lively,
how attractive,
how delightful and entertaining,
how effective and powerful
languages can be
at the hands of skillful comedians,
orators, actors, poets and authors
while they all become
utter bores, dry and irrelevant,
with chalk-and-talk-addicted
unimaginative, ordinary instructors
in the language classrooms.
Though language itself is dry
and teaching it mostly boring
the way you introduce it
may engage even the cynical students
if only you yourself believe
that teaching is acting.
Instructors must act
to attract and impact
never mind if students
react without tact
each act will surely get
a few shells cracked
“teaching is the art of changing the brain”
that’s a well-known
neurological fact.
Acting will deliver
student participation
a recipe for motivation
a remedy for alienation.
The target is communication
and retention, not full accuracy
nor perfection, and, please,
leave aside incessant correction,
which definitely leads to
disenchantment and rejection.
Value student participation
and production
encourage interaction
feed vocabulary in collocation
grammar, like medicine,
in the right dosage and proportion
and for God’s sake,
keep your chalk-and-talk
at a minimum fraction.
Remember, an ELT instructor is
a confidence booster
not an error-seeker
or hand-pecking rooster.
Who said ELT was
an educational roller coaster?
Nope. It’s more like a bread toaster,
which takes care of all on the roster.
Idris Esen, February, 2016, Istanbul
My blurred mind,
Swirling and reeling,
From your drink,
Will try to say this is a dream.
A knife’s bite,
Hard and cruel,
Carving into me creeks of crimson
Their tributaries stain my skin
Soft and white
As new fallen snow,
And seep into your wrinkled ivory sheets.
Your insatiable desire for me
Intensifies with every slash mark.
The ropes that burn my wrists
Bind me with fear and twine.
The canvas of my skin
Stroked with streaks of red
Spotted with a bruised purple
Splashed with bits of brown
From the leather belt on the floor.
A pain greater
Than the bite of your knife,
The buckle of your belt,
The burn of your rope,
The bash of your palms,
Bores into my back before
I black out.
Divorce Decree
The Last Word...
You and me,
we are free...
from each other.
You should be happy,
I no longer have the right;
to make your dinner,
clean your clothes,
fold them and put them away.
I no longer have the list...
to complete before you get home.
The dishes the floors, the doors,
the apple cores,
and the bores you call your...
parents to entertain.
It is no longer my life's pleasure,
to be at your leisure,
your beckon call, too tall,
I fall from Grace.
I will not be there to smack flat,
or hit the cat,
I will not be there to race out,
and get you what you need...
with speed.
Why are you not happy?,
your money is all your own.
The few dollars I spent,
no longer drains you...
of every cent.
Why then did you fight so hard?,
you are quite a funny card.
I gave you everything you asked,
to be free at last.
Yet you cry on still,
as you have not had...
your fill.
You want to put me down,
one more time,
Make me pay again,
for some hidden sin.
You want to be better,
then all the rest,
before the test,
but you will fail,
as your pail is empty.
Brightly dressed a peacock,
screaming in the night.
You sound like a girl,
a woman being beaten.
I would know,
I have heard the sound...
before.
This time it is you,
remembering that all things beautiful,
are sometimes just feathers,
Turkeys are lovely,
but they are still...
served for the holidays.