Best Censured Poems
Paltry poetic presidential prattlings on poultry playing
cockalorums chasing chickens, censured to castigate the cockerals,
tricky tray turbo turkey tidbits tentanize the titillations;
wild wispy winds whisper worldly wasted wiry winsome wiles
dancing delights deluding delicate demigod domiciles,
twittering tweets teasing tenacious tantalizing tongue twisters
residing riddled rattled ransom rasping revolving roars,
minority middle men meltdown midst macrocosmic mayhem
Washington's wonderland weeps wreckage within waiting walls.
Categories:
censured, america, anxiety,
Form:
Blank verse
My poor vocabulary babies
are gon missing
Tell me kind sir, have you seen them?
Us etymological mothers to
lingual children of lost former meaning,
we are milk carton crying
Many hotline tips
that the academia search party
have been receiving,
unfortunately, has borne no adjective fruit
of root cause discovery
And my poor alphabet unprotected babies
are still missing
Some concerned voices
anonymously said, they saw a couple of
little colloquial diaper tykes
being censored kidnaped late last night
And when dem’ dim synonym scoundrels were spotlighted ,
they fascistically warned them:
Steer clear of this word dirty business, y’hear
Then they rattled their
mouth-muzzling, zip-lip sidearms, menacingly —
They said my innocent children
were gonna grow-up
and cause much sheer mental fear
My infant’s harmless homonym eyes
were New Tact censured hijacked,
Shanghaied as a matter of consonant fact
Somebody please bring those amber pure children
of innocent nomenclature origin back
I, Octavia
do motherly beg,
asking with august favor most acacia
For the cross-cultural media
to free-speech help me
find my lost idiom babies, please!
So that I, and other etymologist mothers
can stop feeling this unabridged pain ...
such emotional scarlet ink heart stain
A bridge of crimson tears over troubled,
choppy, wordy waters —
overflowing with maternal fears
This milk carton crying
for my precious vowels, verbiage dressed babies,
who are now missing ...
Has so bereaved my quill-pricked soul
with perpetual sorrow
Deep Orwellian sadness for these snatched,
suckled lost former meanings
has adverbial sent me
empty intellectual bassinet sighing
And barren cradled
bosom ananym thoughts a-dying
Categories:
censured, grief, metaphor, sad, words,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Take life in stride
Peaks and valleys as I ventured
Take life in stride
When slipping down, seek the upside
Sell your soul; you’ll be indentured
But heartfelt words can’t be censured
Take life in stride
*Entry for Dr. Ram’s Rondelet Contest
(Correction made thanks to Francine)
Categories:
censured, life, philosophylife, life,
Form:
Rondeau
I am the daughter of two hard working parents
Both who raised a strong christian daughter who is mixed with a touch of irish and african heritage
Who they raised to be proud of being biracial
I am from a family who has its frequent arguments, but comes together when it matters
I am from a family who for generations had past addictions
I am from a Mom who broke the cycle.
I am from a Dad who struggled too.
I am from the lectures with my Mom who spoke
“Do not give in. The next generation counts on you.”
I am from a Mom who was a first generation college student
a mom who inspires me and pushes me to excel
a mom who teaches me to be pound of who I am
I am from a life of hard word and commitment
A life that rejects the phrase “give up”
I am from the countless hours of working at thirteen
I am from a male dominated workforce
A workforce that has frequent misconceptions of woman
I am from the long hot days in the sun
which has sculpted my proficiency as a soccer referee.
I am from the “land of opportunity” that also has many faults
I am from a place where opposing viewpoints are censured
while similar statements are praised
A place where you can’t be in between the lines
you must choose either pro or anti
I am from a place where there is constant judgment
A place where our first amendment is violated
I am from a place where there is no certainty nor identity
But through all of this…
I am from a place who needs more kindness and less judgment
I am from a place that needs equality for all
I am from a place that needs God
Categories:
censured, 12th grade, addiction, appreciation,
Form:
Free verse
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend,
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But if So?
When he told the Pharisees that they were of their father the devil?
Was he sinning? Was he hating? Such that others could mock and revel?
In their own superiority? And his motives inferior?
My God, I feel wearier, every day,
That I feel the weight of the maternal scolds, and belittling things that folks say.
“Get a job!” “Get off the street?!”
“You’re just a burden as you sit there and beg at my feet!”
“You’re not a victim, so leave the past in the past!”
“That’s not nice, my little child, you’d better straighten up fast!”
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend.
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But even if not?
I strive to be like him, and love him a lot.
And just as my Savior, got angry, I too,
Feel the fury of bias and the rage of pointed fingers.
Like singers, singing a song of condescension,
It reminds me of days that I am censured to mention,
When my dad was denied his pension,
Because of the tension,
Of his skin tone and refusal,
To be sheepish and bamboozled,
Am I Jesus, or even much like him?
Not really, I must admit?
But still he’s my Savior, even when I throw a fit.
And thank God he sees me truly,
Even when others scoff and chide.
And thank God he gives me courage,
For I refuse to run and hide.
For those like me, who started from the beginning at the bottom,
Our culture tends to view us as oh just a wee bit rotten,
And at the slightest hint of fury, seek to hunt us like Ben Laden.
So when I lose it? Yes I choose it?
This consequential crucifixion,
For I although others tend to want me silenced, prostrate in submission,
I have a savior, King, and best friend too, who never fails to listen.
Categories:
censured, angstgod, me, god, hero,
Form:
Rhyme
You’re driven to do bad, bad
real bad things
Chucky did it, you’d often say
You’re given to say bad, bad
real bad things
You said it’s Rhoda who talks this way
You’ve been fibbing bad, bad
real bad, boy
Ever since you said Jason bragged he killed your pa
You’ve been tripping bad, bad
real bad, boy
Ever since you said Lizzie confessed she axed your ma
You got so many voices talking to you
Sometimes they’re talking at the same time
Each voice clamoring, trying to get through
But Dr. Lecter’s voice keeps them all in line
I hear the voices in your head
Because they’ve been talking to me too
I’m not listening to what Dr. Frankenstein just said
Because the voice in the mirror said I’m just like you
This is the poem that was the cause of me coming to Poetry Soup.
On another poetry website, when I posted this poem, they censured it,
and removed it. I was very upset about that. Someone no doubt was
offended and complained about the poem's subject matter content.
I kept my poems posted at the other website for the sake of the
other poets. Most of those poems have not been posted here at PSoup.
If you want to know where those poems are at, you can contact me
by soup mail. I would like to know what you think about this poem.
Love always, Romantic Warrior.
Categories:
censured, dark, horror, mental illness,
Form:
Rhyme
Body Language
Is often Inconclusive
Written: by Tom Wright
1/29/2013
Studies have shown that with folded arms,
That we’re either uncomfortable or nervous;
Or we’re in possession of negative thoughts,
And we’re doing the speaker a disservice.
I sit in church, with arms, sometimes folded,
With no intent of other’s thoughts to divert.
But a Pastor’s sermon left me feeling censured,
With folded arms my shoulders just don’t hurt.
I’ve no I-phone so I won’t be caught texting,
Only note taking removes hands from sight.
Before mistakenly thinking the worst of me,
Walk my mile once, and understand my plight.
So do your body language interpretation,
But remember your thoughts concerning me;
Will never have any relevancy in defining,
Today’s man or the man I’ll ultimately be.
Categories:
censured, body, imagery,
Form:
Rhyme
George Washington would never believe it and call it a crying shame. I have observed the prohibition of prayer in public schools. Free speech is not free but is for sale to the highest bidder. Moreover, there is an attitudinal atmosphere suggesting that any speech that is not my own should be abridged, censured, or abolished. Traditional norms and family values are dropping like flies under the spell of pesticides. The Bible is considered to be narrow-minded hate-speech. I have seen people terrorized, their civil rights decertified and denied. Moral values have been devalued, set aside, and liquidized; Constitutional rights are diluted, disputed, and no longer solidified. Whatever happened to the great 'thinkers'? I have noticed the terminal illness and demise of noble ideas. Education is being replaced with political persuasion and propaganda.
Abraham Lincoln would never accept it and call it a crying shame. Minority rights are being revised, realigned, reassigned, and redefined. I have witnessed human rights ignored, disregarded, and not prioritized. The cultural revolution is forging ahead in jet-propulsion speed like there is no tomorrow nor time of reckoning. Belief in evolution is man's best hope for a future without accountability. There are no absolutes nor need for resolution. Majority rights are brought into question, unguaranteed, and in retreat. Equal rights are desired but unclarified, undefined, and unobtained. I have beheld the orchestrated disappearance of common sense, and before long we shall be worry-free because 'Big Brother' will always come to our defense. Alien rights are well protected, highly promoted, and unwisely provided. There is a free admittance of subjectivity and the utter rejection of objectivity. I started to weep when I realized that sanity is being burned at the stake. I'm hoping and praying that we return to our senses before it's too late.
07062018PoSoupContest, Personal Favorite Poem Written In 2018 Poetry
Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire, 5P
Categories:
censured, america, god, leadership, prayer,
Form:
Free verse
PAIN I DISDAIN MADE PLAIN
Upon a road of crooked adventure ventured I
With my words flowing from the forest to the naked plain
Two statesmen and one stately lady censured I
Claiming, perhaps correctly, that I was inane
Upon a street that wound around a town I wound
I had little in my pockets and even less of a chance
Ties had me bound while unaware to where I was bound
Tied to tumult and shackled to a circuitous circumstance
I chose to meander down a meandering lane
While my muscles made their misery very well known
Too many people claimed I complained about a malingering pain
But my aches were actual down to the very last bone
On a rambling road I rambled down a wretched road
While describing in detail my detrimental disdain
No one carried me but I carried a heavy load
While those people maintained that I must be insane
I was strolling down some high rolling hills
Whereupon three strangers accused me of commanding them toward crime
I forced no one to do anything since I believe that cajoling kills
Besides the fact that I had neither the inclination nor the time
These people made their pertinent predictions perfectly plain
I didn’t ask them nor did I need to know why
They vowed I’d grow more insane from years of the pretense of pain
But they’re all very wrong since I have only one year till I die
© 2013 copyright PHREEPOETREE….~.free cee!~
Categories:
censured, angst, me, people, me,
Form:
Quatrain
Who told you...
that...
Your black...
Isn’t beautiful?
That your broad nose,
Wasn’t descended
From Kings & Queens.
That it didn’t speak
of Royalty?
That the onyx of your brow,
And the copper, bronze, topaz,
And the black diamond,
That is your skin,
Is not as or more valuable
as their pearl or lily white?
Who told you,
That the way that your hair
Stands or lays
Should not be the standard
From which “good” is
Measured?
That it should be chemically
Altered, instead of
Naturally treasured...
That the fullness of your lips
Should be censured,
Until wanted and permitted,
By them...
Who told you,
That your role in life,
Shouldn’t be planned
And designed,
But not banned,
By your own hand...?
Who told you,
That you had to
pull your brother or sister
down,
So that you could
Climb out of
The barrel...
that was not created
By us, but for us?
And.... who told you,
That you couldn’t be loved?
Love you.
Love
Your
Beautiful
Black
Self.
Categories:
censured, love, racism, self,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
When are we going to learn
We need to shut our trap
What is it with you
Your snide tone
Your petty remarks
Everything we say is ignored
Censured or corrected
Cause everything we say is wrong
And you think you're entitled
What the hell
We wish we could spit it out
And tell you off
Just cut you off
As if we need you
Yet...
We continue to put up with you
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on February 10, 2020
Categories:
censured, anxiety, conflict, perspective, relationship,
Form:
Free verse
I wonder how it will spin?
When they tell of that spring.
Eyes will meet with a nod and a wink
In keeping their lies in sync.
Grandkids will tweet
About the time in the street
When no one came out
Neither whisper nor shout
I wonder how would it spin
If enough of us knew
The political poison
They feed us by spoon.
Six feet apart in
A line to the booth
The people, enslaved,
Memorized the truth.
Some ran saying change the guard..
I wonder how it will spin
If the facts are ever sewn in?
Of how they avoided a war
By diverting our thought
With a global pandemic
That kept those in power
Feeding scraps from their table
In the shape of a dollar.
Clockwise for sure
For time must march on
And the thoughts of the disillusioned
Are censured, then gone.
Categories:
censured, sick, solitude,
Form:
Verse
No more mosquito sucks or dog bites
Fear of the approaching leopard that tears the flesh
Or any threat of a dense forest or cathedral
Want to remain undisturbed, silent
In the fantasy land
Remain untouched by a rose or thorn
Immune from ecstasy or mourn
Don't wish any warnings, restrictions, bondage-
No anger, nor rage
Drank water was glared
Loved art but was censured
In hunger was bit, scratched, whipped
Extracted all labor, pittance
Tried to emulate, envying always
Looked forward
Making to look down dustbin disdainfully
And left to die as fern leaves.
Categories:
censured, fantasy
Form:
Free verse
EXPRESSED CENSURE CRITICISM - -
All though I seek your approval;
I am certain to give you my best;
Never, the less I am in removal;
Above all ties to my conquests;
How shall I choose a choice?
And who shall listen;
When every sin has a different voice
What am I getting Inter-vision?
My mind is captive;
Take me as man I am;
My thoughts less attractive;
To wit here I stand;
Above all ties to my conquests;
As still I seek your approval;
I am certain to give you my best;
Judge me not nor allow me reproval;
Within the methodism,of this verse journalism;
I seek not expressed censured criticism;
10/2/19
For Give Me Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet |
Categories:
censured, analogy, anxiety, appreciation, confusion,
Form:
Rhyme
No more mosquito sucks or dog bites
Fear of the approaching leopard that tears the flesh
Or any threat of a dense forest or cathedral
Want to remain undisturbed, silent
In a new, happy world
Remain untouched by a rose or thorn
Immune from ecstasy or mourn
Don't wish any warnings, restrictions, bondage-
No anger, nor rage
Drank water was glared
Loved art but was censured
In hunger was bit, scratched, whipped
Extracted all labour, pittance
Tried to emulate, envying always
Looked forward
Making to look down dustbin disdainfully
And left to die as fern leaves.
Categories:
censured, imagination
Form:
Free verse