Best Cartoonish Poems
Through my window I watched it float gracefully by
An eloquent specimen, a rare butterfly
Wings painted black and the brightest of green
The most breathtaking creature I ever had seen
It flew to the forest in a zig-zagging line
And landed to rest on the bark of a pine
Flushed with the thrill of the game hunters play
I stalked up and captured my elusive prey
It struggled and fought with great strength for its size
Prying and pinching, I heard muffled cries
“Release me!” It squeaked “I will NOT be your prize”
I saw tiny legs and angry little eyes
‘My god it’s a Leprechaun!’ I shouted with glee
‘You must grant me one wish now’…”So be it” said he
He slashed through my palm and bored to my thumb
Til it bulged to the size of a cartoonish plumb...
My fingers exploded in bits all around
Flesh and bone spattered, blood gushed to the ground
I stared in stark terror and mad disbelief
My mangled hand swaying like a dangling dead leaf
‘I’m wounded, I’m dying!’ In panic cried
And fled to my house to the bathroom inside
‘It’s ruined!’ I screamed as I bled in the sink
‘Now they will notice, now what will they think?’
‘I know I can never remove all these stains
I know that my eyes cannot hide all this pain
The veil has been shredded, the wall broken through
(I saw something move at the edge of my view)
There in the corner the Leprechaun stood
Black eyes spinning secrets of evil and good
He spread out his wings like a butterfly should
Ready to fly back to his tree in the wood
He spoke without speaking, "So, what have you caught?"
(My mind was struck dumb, stripped clean of all thought)
“Now” he laughed softly, “I shall grant your demand”
I sank to my knees then and reached forth my hand
the serene people whose ease of manner
once made him yearn and confabulate
are laughable cartoonish and piteous now
could have been much worse he said
as his last breath left his scarred throat
feral hand closing his own eyes
St. Pudenda greeted him at the tall gates
under the lights at Checkpoint Charlie
Mariachi trumpets rolled out the mauve carpet
and a dog barked from behind the garbage cans
from all infinity we end up with this
a realm of syntax governed by ambiguity
she read from a large ledger atop a marble pedestal
why a ledger rather than a laptop is anyone's guess
apparently the vanguard party had been evicted
by Frankie Boxcars and the Hollywood mafia eons ago
in the great schism over the digitization of paradise
no jury of his peers he noted with unease
nothing of telling import she imparted casually
eyes darting up and down the pages
as if something previously detected had been airbrushed
arrested for self amplification she went on
and sorcery and coughing in quiet places
how did you sleep she asked with a beaming smile
I don't know I was asleep he intoned
I suppose we can reveal the joke she mused
but I was dreaming he countered
backed into a tight corner by snarling lap dogs
tossed into a kidnap taxi with a sack over my head
marched with a gun in my back
through a forest of clichés
fed lines from a hideous new sitcom
about sex among the homeless
a weekly broadcast on Piñata Vision
of course it was more fun
not being an active target
but what choice did I have
knowing what I know
poor dear thing she continued
there is a better version of everything
a law of nature completely natural
and yes it is densely beautiful and
smoldering with awe like a corpse in a bathtub
try to avoid the truly grotesque
in favor of the marginally grotesque
we love having you in our science dept.
with the state secrets and midget **** videos
masquerading as the way things actually are
where the misty cows moo in contentment
and the Vaseline runs hot behind sanctuary doors
horrors altering the course of suns
between the here and the there
every bit of it needless she giggled
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Minimal involvement with extracurricular activity at Methacton
limited to playing Baritone Horny within the band
though marginal interest existed to maintain constancy
feigning noteworthy interest second to none
eventually Mister O'Donnell
(I remember without mental exertion - surmising that tubby name
of bandleader) synonymous with attitude ill suited,
thus loss being banned haint grand
loss, and subsequent loss did not stun,
nor disheartenment arose to forego hearing
future applauding hand, or standing ovation
and felt reprieve, relieve, when refused further sharing of any awards won
yet the greatest joy arose to even the score for decision
foisted upon me to play Baritone Horn now a choice I manned
in tandem with with late afternoon rehearsals
necessitating this boy not much bigger than the baritone horn
to make a mad dash with truckload of academic material
plus encased “mini tuba,” which constantly banged upper right thigh,
and nearly tripped me to go flailing head over heals.
Exhaustion (a welcome relief with sprinting the distance –
possibly even setting a world record) getting linkedin
(half heartedly envisioning myself whizzing
across the mountains viz tour de France
measuring a winning distance – quite an expanse
whereby giving the strong armed cyclist brandishing his lance
a run...er rather pedal for his money,
yet this flight of fancy fragile as a séance
vanished without a trace, although this trance
figurative shifted gears burnishing via sans deus sol invictus
and didst witness glory, where ignominy, humility, and disharmony
Mister McDonald (supposed namesake) from looming maestro,
whose countenance evinced
countless cartoonish, distorted expressive facial grotesqueries
earning apropos sobriquets
who jabbed the air with each illusory add vance.
I don’t mean to bust Archie’s hump.
He meant well, the simple old chump,
But damn, how buffoonish
His views, so cartoonish,
In short, he’d have staunchly liked Trump!
(Written February 2, 2019, for Joseph May's Limerick 4 contest.)
My pen pleads
Lonely nights offer moments of silence
and one dish suppers where candlelight seems a waste
Seated with pen in hand, I smooth the ruffles beneath
as if that will help the words flow
Upon closer inspection I find
fancy patterns on the dining room tablecloth
mimic the movements of my hand,
layered one atop another, calling on each to oblige
Crossing lines, intersecting at pre-destined points,
repeating in harmony with one another
as my thoughts gather in the opaque vastness
of this rectangular parchment staring at me
Moving in sync with swirling ridges on the corners
and scribbled etchings along borders,
the tip follows fantasies of a mind in a dream state,
drawling each curve in my own random design
Cartoonish figures joust with balloon dragons
amidst the sunflower faces, some smiling, some not
on cursive stems sprouting from geometric signals
and sharp pointed periods ending ideas
Fabric folds neatly collect the blotches of spilled ink
seeping slowly through the cloth
like raindrops on a leaf following the veins
in an abstract yet confined flow
To the blurred eye sits nonsense,
a collection of nothing on a vast white sheet
dancing like uneven feet on a rounded floor
of no particular meaning or feature
Yet to me, my penned doodling calls loudly,
even in the darkness of lost words, these patterns,
as is everything found filling me is her,
and my pen pleads in heart shaped longings
“The hurrier I go,
the confuseder I get.”
Picture a poster prominently placed
in the classroom of one who
teaches grammar and literature.
Its confused, cartoonish character states
(using wretched grammar) that he just can
not catch up and make sense of things. I’m a fan
of this poster and the theme it relates.
Too-fast living discombulates!
Over-commitment
can make us like poster guy—
bleeding tears, struggling—
furiously racing but
consistently losing ground.
entered in the Broken Wings Challenge - Write One Contest on August 30, 2016
Ànd I thought to myself how I do, stand within astonishing disbelief
When I behold once more the manifestation of his maligned and malignant face....
Like somehow viewing an apparition appearing, before the gates of grace
Disguisingly vague; behind these darkened window panes, of his masquerade!?
Boldly splithering his splather of finely prepared, to grasp and take
The dissolvings stirred within these tampered views; always splattered
Amongst the disheveled discomforts propelled, upon the discordant humans race....
While slowly lifting his cartoonish covert mask, of reasons entangled
From upon his identities truth, of revealings cardinal carcass face?!
Stepping from the glass profound to present this jagged crown
Hidden, beneath these broken edges of his fallaciously glittering, malnutritioned smile
And, malicious is his name....
As he enters through the secret side doors pathway
Now, seperated from its hinges which once held his presence bound?
Reaching forth to expose these sharpened pointed nails
Extending, from his pentagrams petrified and gray ghost hands
To cast these crossbones upon the scarlets floor, of vaporings, soon to be chance....
No longer but a myth anymore; written beyond the pages of his mysticals lore!
Slowly, crossing these barriers of the realmistics gates unknown
Which were somberly and bitterly, not long ago, once foretold?
And while as these impious implosions of what shall soon commence
Intwine themselves within the webs of this worlds lost, and without defense
"Crimson and clovers, over and over;" omens, towards a time wastedly, spent!
Gazing beyond the reflections now; as I stand amid these wonderous tides....
Beyond the horrors which shall proceed and yet encompass; enclose; his fateful face
Suddenly appearing vague no more; these curtains which do cover, his darkened windows
day
Crossbones cast upon the scarlets floor; burning pages, once thought to be lore!?
That called him throughout the centuries, millenniums, and more
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Malicious' father"
There is a hilarity in this canvas
Not often found in Van Gogh's art
And recognizable faces
Also unprecedented
They might be sneaking contraband liquor
Outside away from the prying eyes of the women
For it is three men, and a boy who is taking a taste
It gives me a new feeling about Van Gogh
An artist myself, I enjoy his art, for it is cartoonish like mine
I use neons, which he did not have access to back in his time
I am confident if he had access to neons, he would have used them
Can't you see his Irises and his reflections on the water
in florescent? I sure can!
This painting makes him more real to me than he has ever been
which is why it is my favorite of his.
A city sight I sometimes spy
Floats, barely moving, in the sky.
It seems cartoonish in its shape
And causes everyone to gape.
It circles slowly, like a shark,
To locate what it’s meant to mark:
A football game or tennis match
Or clash its cameras hope to catch.
Its mission’s not a mystery;
It’s up there strictly for TV,
In silent slither through the skies
To search for scoops with raptor’s eyes.
Reporters on the ground bring news
But they don’t have those sky-high views;
For aerial’s the way to go
When you are putting on a show.
And we who watch, indoors or out,
Enjoy its journey, there’s no doubt.
I’m glad the networks do not skimp
When they have access to a blimp.
Bullets
Bang! The cartoonish noise echoes
Underneath those fluorescent
Lights. Everyone is silent, even the
Librarian, who is usually shhh-ing everyone
Even though the bullet did not touch me, it
Took me 6 feet under, where I could not
Suffer, could not remember watching you take your own life.
Suits, smiling & svelte
between
the sunshiny glass,
spinning…
Spinning fast, the Suits
near the speed of light,
cartoonish in fact.
I get caught up
in their whirlwind -
animated by the
out of control
maneuvering.
Caught in the matrix,
I laugh
as my cell rings.
…ready for a revolution
dark glasses intact.
Artificial Intelligence,
its satellite department
on the phone.
I am carried away,
still spinning -
spinning fast,
near the speed of light.
I see you
through Alice’s glass.
You look smart
in your coat and slacks.
I am not saying this just because
he is my grandson but
He is the most athletic person
in the family
and he is
four
I am not saying this just because
she is the smartest person in the
family, but she is the smartest
person in the world, she is my
granddaughter, and she is seven.
I am not saying this just because
she is my granddaughter but
her art work makes mine looks
cartoonish
and she is
fourteen
I am not saying this just because
I am a braggart, because I am
not, but my grandchildren are
so advanced in every area,
they should have their
own TV shows
I am not saying this just because
he is my grandson but he has
the sweetest heart we have
ever met, and he is
only twelve
I am not saying this at all
because there are way too many
grandmas and grandpas in this room
and who wants to get all this competition
started?
when i arrived on earth
I must have seen the rain through the window
it was saturday in the hospital room
busy women in white
fluttering snowflakes in my made-up memory
giving injections measuring pressure stopping bleeding
a half-naked and thin man hanging on the wall
thorns stuck in the forehead to bleed
I didn't see it but I imagined
the muddied shoes of a bearded worker man
dirtying the ascetic floor of the hallway
while crying hallucinated the loss of his wife
my mother gave birth to so many children
all kind of open mouth birds
waiting for worms to get fat fast
and become bankrupt executives
to perpetuate the saga of the indebted
in some years my friends were three
they looked clumsy and cartoonish
inexperienced characters from a cheap movie
they didn't attend my school
where I almost had fun without laughing
finding out about mosses and lichens
the physiology of the human being
and the miserable rewards
for those who know how to obey
I shouldn't have done most of the things I did
acting in life like an unhappy sociopath
I know this because I always see myself as in a picture
the static moments when my gaze was cold
I've never really been inside these facts
I was that scientist with detailed spreadsheets
annotating data for later report
they said I was a joker back then
it's a lie because I'm still displaced
and I never found my ground
Oh, Jellystone Park, where echoes reside,
In the whispers of trees and the brook's gentle glide.
A haven of mischief, of laughter, of cheer,
Where two famous bears roam year after year.
Yogi, the leader, so quick with a plan,
A bear of bold wit, a most cunning fan.
With his tie so dapper, his hat tilted just so,
A schemer of schemes wherever he’d go.
“Hey, Boo-Boo, my buddy, this picnic’s for us!
Why should baskets just sit without any fuss?”
But Boo-Boo would frown, his tiny heart torn,
“Yogi, you know it’s not something we should do.”
“Relax, little buddy, don’t worry your head,
We’ll leave no crumbs, not a shred on this spread.
The ranger’s too slow, too busy, he'll be too late
We’ve got the smarts; we will surely change our fate!”
Round the park they would prance, a duo unmatched,
Through covert escapes, their plans always hatched.
Scaling high treetops, diving through streams,
Their friendship unshaken, as sure as their dreams.
For Boo-Boo, the conscience, so wise, so composed,
Would soften the edges of Yogi’s repose.
“Yogi, my friend, think of what we might lose,
If the Ranger gets mad for the baskets we take!”
But Yogi grins, his charm lighting the day,
“Boo-Boo, my logic will show us the way!
The park is our home, so lively, so vast,
We’re just sharing its gifts while the moment lasts.”
The ranger may grumble, his whistle may blow,
But Yogi outmaneuvers, he’s too fast to his slow.
With a wink and a laugh, and Boo-Boo in tow,
They vanish through pines where the breezes still blow.
Oh, Jellystone Park, a stage for the pair,
Their antics are immortal, etched in the air.
For Yogi’s bold heart and Boo-Boo’s soft soul,
Create a harmony, a timeless patrol.
Though baskets may vanish, and tempers may flare,
There’s love in abundance when these two are there.
Oh, Yogi and Boo-Boo, a duo so rare,
Cartoonish legends whose "Smarter than the avenge bear!"
Polly Purebred was a bit too stuck up for my taste.
But Underdog was always there, with a heave and a haste.
I remember being shocked when I saw him in color in 1964.
Picturing him in blues, not reds, now seeing him down to his core.
He flew across the screen at Polly’s first whistle.
His cape was smooth and clean, without thorns or a thistle.
Polly Purebred never stop yelping, not a favorite with me.
But Underdog always saved her, with a bit of cartoonish glee.