Best Clichés Poems
I read my obituary
Accolades run afoul to lighten the souls of the living
Trite clichés, forgotten kin, melodic tributes
Boring and meaningless
Upon a granite stone etched for an eternity
I was but a ‘A faithful husband,’
‘A good father,’
And ‘Never Forgotten’
They have it all wrong
If they had read my sonnets
Mystical offspring scribbled on napkins
Consuming stale coffee in late night diners lit by neon lights
They would have known
Had they paid heed to my limericks
Nonsensical rhymes of fairytale fantasies
And polka-dotted panties created to amuse only me
They would have known
Had they inhaled my free verse
Painstaking hours spent
Creating worlds of exquisite harmony
Carrying the reader on endless voyages
Guided by the inspired lyricist through emerald forests
Royal seas, white-capped mountains
And never-ending dreams
They would have known
Had they met my only mistress
One called Haiku
A quiet damsel
Her beauty lies in brevity and endless seasons
They would have known
More than a husband
More than a father
More than forgotten
I am a poet
I read my obituary
I should have known
as the rosemary rain
soaks
pensive petals,
leaving an aroma
of lovers’ betrayal
the succulent scent
of
his
petrichor skin
caresses the midnight
crevices of this
meticulous mind,
urging my soul to purge
tears and ink
long mimicked
by April’s sunlit rays
synchronizing
a symphony of robins
a rhapsody
of wild blooms
a chorus of dragonflies
a sprinkle
of swirling sakura
painting a panorama
of spring meadows
dancing to
the diamond glows
of stellar streaks...
and without the moon
I am an echo
of rhymeless clichés,
an abandoned prose
breathing amidst
porcelain pages
of mourning metaphors
aching to savor
confessions
of clemency....
for heart feels numb
to the
b u r n
of being forgotten
as storms taste
softer than sunrise~
and in
s i l e n c e,
I rise....
What if I told you things aren't
what they used to be.
What if I told you clichés
are not always "for the birds"
That the Clichés cling for
a reason and have clung long.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Smoked lunch meat and cheese
Did you eat that, digest that?
What if I told you cheese is plastic
And ain't what it used to be?
And chicken feed ain't, flies and grain
But Plastic and GMO corn instead.
Don't feed the pigeons, says the sign.
But we don't eat the pigeons here.
So we feed them, and they eat
bits of truth that we now turn down,
Pigeons fly around downtown,
Without true food, without the truth.
Show me your truth sandwich;
What ingredients did you use?
Peanut butter and Bananas?
Pigeons spread disease in excrement
With bits of nontruth, splattered all over;
Making a point about the truth the whole truth
and nothing but the moot truth “So help you, Hanna"?
Cliché' may be our only reality, because little truths
matter, relevance should never be Obsolete.
Big or small, the truth must massively
Combust into big explosions of honesty.
If you should turn your back on truth
You will be face to face with a lie.
The truth needs to matter again
Or nothing else will.
Feeling lost in an emotional maze
anxiety saps my body and soul;
stumbling mindlessly through a foggy haze.
Staring deep into your eyes in a daze,
I lament the innocence that time stole;
feeling lost in an emotional maze.
Impressed by flattery's flamboyant ways,
I ignore reality's costly toll;
stumbling mindlessly through a foggy haze.
Bullied by deceit and the tricks lust plays,
I cling to whatever makes me feel whole;
feeling lost in an emotional maze.
A pyre of doubts can't rekindle love's blaze,
lodged deep in my heart like a lump of coal;
stumbling mindlessly through a foggy haze.
Tangled in a web of lies and clichés;
admonishing trust, I regret its role.
Feeling lost in an emotional maze;
stumbling mindlessly through a foggy haze.
I am a cliché
A soul walked along the water
The winds yelling cliché cliché
A dark soul was on the other side waiting
The winds yelled again cliché cliché
The two souls met inside this cliché
Of dark poetic solitude
They ordered drinks and black roses
In the cafe of clichés
From the skies appeared an Angel
Looking down upon this earth
At the clichés of life
The angel too walked in the bar of dead souls
Immediately she realized
I have walked into a cliché of dreams
The most terrible of poem and verse
Attacks my very, my very, yes oh yes, my very soul
Then it dawned on this angel of the evening
That he too is a cliché and somewhat confused
The three of them in the darkness of life’s parodies
They downed some shots and spilled some blood
Slightly inebriated one looked at the other two?
He demanded what the hell is a cliché anyways?
The darkest of souls, replied, I think is Spanish for friends!
This narrative my friend is a poetic rendition of the three amigos
Touché
Ops
I mean cliché
My Lobster means it too
It's raining cats and dogs on a dark and stormy night -
with such a stroke of genius, a poet starts to write.
Inane clichés he's banging out to beat the band,
a booby trap as big as life to bite the poet's hand.
It opens up a can of worms to catch the early birds
but with no bird in hand he'll have to eat his words.
The tropes are fresh as daisies, with infinite supplies
of broken-hearted lovers, and rainbow butterflies.
Garbage in and garbage out, it's fun and games for all,
to sell you down the river and drive you up the wall.
For if it's true a pen is more mighty than a sword,
then we're as good as dead, for to death we will be bored.
To 'ride on somebody's coat tails'
Is the most dangerous thing you can do
'Keep a stiff upper lip' is another cliché
Mine's not stiff, how about you?
'One good turn deserves another'
Turns my stomach if you must ask
'There's no fool like an old fool'
I'm quite offended by the last
'Sticks and stones will break my bones'
Can break someone's heart as well
So if somebody up and says this to you
Tell them to go straight to hell
'A penny for your thoughts' is yet another
That's pretty damn cheap I'd say
A dollar would certainly be more in line
With the times we live in today
'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush'
Who made up this silly old verse
A bird in the hand is quite messy I'd say
Poop on your fingers or worse
So I've come to the obvious conclusion
Concerning the debunking of clichés
Refuse to use 'em coz people abuse 'em
You'll wind up much happier I say
© Jack Ellison 2013
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
Feelings I always express,
But the outcome she suppress,
Lies I employed to impress,
Her clichés put me in distress,
Lamented for hours,tears raped my eyes,
In all da agony, I still want her to be my mistress.
Fasted but didn't pray, hoping she will comply.
Mouths mocked that she is a temptress,
Friends and foes, shouted and mumbled,
My feelings feeling stronger, now it crumbled,
A mistress, my misery, making me moody.
Her heart my aim, her love my crown,
But her rejection, makes me wanna drown.
If only she will tell me why,
She wished I changed my name...
WRITTEN BY;
JOSH.E.ABELl™®
You shouldn’t ‘ve said that, bite your tongue
You said I look old, but you know I’m still young
If ever a wiz a wiz there is ??
I’ll bite my tongue and feel its fizz
You said I look fat, or something like that
and that I’m a tired, bitter ol bat
You know I’m a sweet young dainty thing
I’m the morning glow you find in Spring
You say that I’m just a crabby shrew
Bite your tongue and shame on you!
You know I display no angst or drama
I have the kindly aura of the Dhali Lama
You said I can’t write worth a dam
I never said I could but now and then
get in a slam!
You call me an egotist, a narcissistic freak
You must know my words have been tongue-n-cheek?
You shouldn’t ‘ve said that, bite your tongue
before you shoot hurtful words for fun
My tongue is bigger as you can see
I’ll pull its trigger like a gun then flee
I may be too tall and you an elf
It’s on the tip of my tongue…
All that’s said reflects yourself
In the end, the only thing that counts
If there’s any love in you, any ounce
We’ll bite our tongues and
forgive the fuss, which drains the light
from all of us
It’s written in quotes, psalms and clichés
Never your innate decency betray
Follow your own worthy words
search within and find someway
Your brown eyes compel
Bring out this desire
Wishing to hide in
Your lapel, maybe
Upon a high wire
You touch the bell
Sparks will fly high
From your soft hand
Igniting flames
That only
Death will squelch
But maybe
I will
Love you
More
Contest: A Diminished Hexaverse
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Date: January 16, 2021
1Your brown eyes compel 5
2Bring out this desire 5
3Wishing to hide in 5
4Your lapel, maybe 5
5Upon a high wire 5
6 0
7You touch the bell 4
8Sparks will fly high 4
9From your soft hand 4
10Igniting flames 4
11That only 3
12Death will squelch 3
13But maybe 3
14I will 2
15Love you 2
16More 1
Results
Grammar Mistakes
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Spelling Errors
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Clichés
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What a Difference Two Days Make, or Not
To reflect after life has dealt
Lemonade without the sugar;
Two days, turbulent emotions,
Good news, bad news clichés are
Erasing from that reflection,
Looking back, it’s not so bad.
Nothing changed, upon contemplation,
Just knowledge new that I had.
The sun is warming the rooftops,
My puppy still sleepily snores,
The plants are still on their window sill.
God fills the rooms, though much much more.
As I crawl upon a sober Road.
A friend lends a hand, and many stories are told
so many people like me that have chosen life
Chosen to be free
Addiction is a Family Curse that does not discriminate
cares not about your race, or how much money do you make
this Demon only turns once was loved , into something it can devastate
It is there you learn how to suppress all fear and pain
there to hold you down, taking lives , taking names with nothing to gain
As I crawl upon the road, it is Dark, it is cold, it is so hard to see
It's only then I realize there is so many like me
Nothing is easy as you face yourself, we all are broken
so much you should have, could have, all words unspoken
to walk upon this road takes courage, takes strength
living life without being Anesthetized , living so openly criticized
"It works if you work it " all the clichés you dislike
They really do work , so listen and you will not have to ride a bike
So many times you can Fall, you'll know what to do , and whom to call
Out of the Darkness A friend helps you stand, a good cup of coffee with number in hand.
there to help you , there to lift you up, there to help you stand.
You must share in all honesty, then you will be driven to start over with Integrity.
Readers acknowledge first lines as vital
Nothing grabs attention like a snappy title
People dislike poems that do not rhyme
Criticizing writers for committing a “crime”
How I hate being hated for being me
Now I see, for I, is Kenneth to be
If I choose to inscribe in a passive voice
Then do I will, for it’s my choice
If I want to use a vulgar expression
I’d choose ass, to keep writing a profession
I may write in lines that are far stretched across the page, and stick out like a sore thumb
Or use terrible clichés because my filter is numb
I shall proofread if a feel and submit without
Errorz apparent, I’d never doubt
I’ll end abruptly if that’s what I like
And you my friend can take a hike
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.