Best Collude Poems
When you take a stand and say what you choose,
Without hesitation, or being confused,
Not holding a fear of what others may say,
But to say what you mean in every way,
It liberates your soul, by setting you free,
No longer a prisoner of insecurity,
But a teacher to others who sometimes hold back,
By seeing in you the strength that they lack,
Releases their fears and doubts that they hold,
And helps them now see its ok to speak bold,
Just do it with dignity, kindness and love,
Give all of your fears to our friends up above,
Don’t compromise yourself to collude with the rest,
Speak truth in your words and remain at your best,
If others don’t like the control that they lack,
Because of your strength to speak truth and talk back,
Let that be their issue, don’t lose who you are,
Keep making that stand and you’re sure to go far.
We all have the right to express our beliefs,
Our ideas, opinions, happiness and grief,
But we must allow others to do just the same,
Respect them and their wishes without drama and pain.
To allow them to shame you or belittle your voice,
Says “its ok I don’t mind” like you don’t have a choice,
And the more you keep quiet, the more they control,
Giving up who YOU are so that THEY can feel whole.
It just doesn’t make sense to allow this to be,
I'm no better then you, but your no better then me.
So keep trying hard to find that strength deep within,
And Let old habits go, so new ones can begin.
There's one who acts like a righteous queen
Prattling peacock, she loves to pose and preen
She is surly and gruff
Heckling slurs with a huff
And denouncing the life-saving vaccine
The haughty queen is quite aloof
and sometimes she acts like a goof
Should she be on trial
For covid denial
Believe me, I’ve seen lots of proof
She's favored by one, her Prince Demonic
He bows to her highness, Queen Sardonic
Praising her fortitude
Conspiring to collude
Feeding her compliments that are moronic
Her majesty thinks she was perfect at birth
Pompously aggrandizing her self worth
It's tritely ironic
Her hubris is chronic
She's filled with bitterness but little mirth
Prince Dom is seeking attention
Pining for the Queen’s affection
Their words are debunked
They both have been plunked
So much for the Queen’s perfection
The old Queen stood tall and haughty,
Gawking at me, judging me naughty.
Expected me to bow
And she called me a sow,
I refused, calling her throne a potty.
Anonymous PS poet
Our soups matriarch, started an almighty feud
By decreeing she's perfect, the queen of her brood
This flawless diamond
Reigns on Shutter Island
Even insane Leonardo's, pleading to be moved
Another anonymous ps poet
The queen poses behind a shadowy façade
Thinking she is perfect before Almighty God
Disgusting as a wicked witch
Cannot locate a worthy niche
Here among good poetry mortals of the sod.
Yet another anonymous ps poet
Jan Allison and Mark Koplin have joined me in this limerick collaboration. We're not telling who wrote which verse, but you're welcome to guess.
If anyone wishes to join in this collaboration, please send me your addition through soup mail.
Starry skies over Damascus
Like a star chart for the
bomber pilots eating
Milky Ways and lives
Chocolate in the desert
for desert in consumption
The poem could stop here
its pretty clear not pretty
Petty lives perambulating
hiding hobbling around
on what was their feet
foundations souls and
is their ruin's wreckage now
The planes feature logos
“Just do it”
“Whiter than white”
“Put the tiger in the tank”
“Eat confectionary be happy”
What an advertising space
for the daily news rounded
up like the refugees
refusing to be refuse
“Powered by democracy”
“Fuelled by share holdings”
“Rocket launches for a better world”
in the weeping nights and days
lactating for another holiday
of some on sunny beaches
oozing oil wells wealth
and inequality
Milk where it needs not be
in luxury not infant powder
hungry breasts run dry by hunger
sapped empty in the face
of some lives counting
more than others where
camouflage is but
a distant varnish
in the pursuit of power
Soon their will be billboards
“Baghdad was not built
in a moment” “Invest in
Kabul” “Concrete for Allepo”
“Live the dream”
“Life liberty and the
pursuit of happy-mess”
“Constructing globality”
Munching away in my
cushioned arm chair
built from greedy land mines
I collude
“You can have your milky ways”
if the bomber pilots did not
eat them all
Whose wives implant their chests
with silicone from
the valley of evil
that forgot
Instead the artificial brain
the heart transplant
Mindful disposition
of humanity
Looking
instead at the stars
spangled banners
of Damascus
Milky ways
His hand is strafing the castellation on his trumpet, the valves moving up down up down like deranged pistons under the random machine gun fire of his fingers. Each note is a projectile that concusses the air, chases the one before it, nudges it from behind, bleeds into it, and is itself tailgated by the next one, all the way down the line in unrelenting succession, until all the distinct notes fuse, compacted into a single, furious, careening soundscape that leaves the ear always half a beat behind, struggling to catch up, out of breath, high on an overdose of heard adrenalin.
sounds supersonic
air graffitied with contrails of soaring notes
solo flight
Still they come, the notes, jostling and pouring from the bell of the trumpet glinting in the small cone of spotlight, the man’s puffed cheeks like a magician’s hat from which all kinds of disparate, crazy things - playing cards, rabbits, ribbons, doves - appear and instantly cohere into a hyperventilating sonic dream. You’re caught off guard by every note: you never heard it coming, then you hear it, and you’re snatched by it and all its brethren, and carried into the kinetic night.
ears beguiled
vibrations collide, collude, segue
harmony
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged, just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage.
Her skin a hyaline shear
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Small breasts bob under
burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
one hand on a denuded hip,
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
an ounce of flesh,
toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We all know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite,
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry hands.
Are you in the mood
for a poem about food
Something marinated, dude
or grilled, barbequed
Tangentially:
Have you ever viewed
a painting in the nude
Meaning (if you're shrewd)
that you are no prude...
And would you ever collude
or possibly intrude --
wade into a family feud
a cesspool of moral turpitude
Back-on-Track:
Is your gastromo-palate imbued
with delights that include
a smorgasboard of seafood
dainty caviar, finger-lickin'-good
WRITTEN IN DRUGS OF RAIN
Unscrupulous vulture-like officials standing inside skyscrapers;
they croon softly, but wield their pretentious tongues like blades--
casting spells on a throng of marginalized heads
whose mouths and bellies were squeezed and dried.
The promises they speak were written in a drugged rain
blown by the wind and dispersed in grains of misconception.
Beguiled man bit the taste and was addicted without haste.
(candle of hope was trampled --toppled down to fade..)
Secretly, these greedy, flesh -eating crocodiles of today
collude under wooden tables.
Their lust for gold and silver screaming,
they fill their jars of wickedness;
voraciously they feed their minds-- harlots of desire.
The big bellied ones whistle trying to clamp
leeches who don't only suck blood but also innocence;
but when the cluster of eggs break-- hatches
as they run so fast and release a loud.... prrrrt!
The misuse of drugs and ignorance cause
bodies to be spread in dirty smelly gutters.
The users mutilated dignity comes from a constant craving for
shots and puffs from these drugs leading to
gruesome miscarriage of suppose to be~~
--golden flowering dreams for tomorrow,
--transformers to a more unified earth,
--angels bearing an eye for justice and peace.
Manifold arrests for drugs affect the youth
and all others who grasp the illusions of euphoria.
Concerned individuals' throat drying cries, a forlorn scourge of agony...
Oh God, what sight that will be!
And now,
Shall we, knowledgeable of the effects of drug addiction, let such things happen?
Won't we drubbed such escalated catena of grief by doing something?
What can we impart?
What can we do to care?
When will we start?
©O. E. Guillermo
8:44 pm; November 13, 2014
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name Global Poetry
placed 3rd
It's another Saturday night
ending this week
as started
alone again.
I came here
almost two years ago
to my retirement hermitage
but oddly,
and often uncomfortably,
shared with my hurt kids,
mental and physical illness
adopted and then adapted;
an asylum for the perpetually incontinent.
Cars pass by.
Sometimes a loud motorcycle
or two or three or four
or even more
here on the southern boundary
of a county seat
in a State
where rural counties
have been disenfranchised
of political purpose.
Our largest employers
are two tribally owned casinos.
One across the Thames River
flowing past our backyard retreat.
Our second largest income producer
may be the County Courthouse
where attorneys and police
collude to extort voluntary donations
from poor young adults
red and yellow,
black and white,
guilty of speeding
and texting
and smoking medicine
without a license
in Great White Father's sight.
I have been listening and watching
for what this half acre is.
We are not as rural as I had hoped,
with State highway 12 too near my front yard,
but this place is also not urban
or suburban.
What it is not,
whom we are not,
seems more clearly articulated
than any positive definition,
refining our becoming quiet place,
alone together,
shunned by healthier neighbors.
It's another lonely ending
anticipating yet another not new beginning
tomorrows stretching out alone
long retiring shadows
on this southern edge
of a Connecticut County Seat
without apparent purpose
or co-defining meaning.
The Illusionist
The illusionist is a clever man,
With an assistant aiming to distract.
He attempts to confuse us when he can
As we conspire to believe his act.
With his props and patter we are entranced
And then applaud when objects disappear.
Although we know it is not done by chance
As the conjurer charms his volunteer.
And so we believe our congenial host
Who plays upon our curiosity.
And collude with those who would like to boast
That inside our minds they contrive to see.
But if we knew the secrets of his trade.
(Really having something in his sleeve).
Would we disbelieve his refined charade
When we are so willingly deceived?
Should we be so naive and innocent,
When others will beguile, with false intent?
Barry Stebbings
16/10/2016
Should words, like rain drops;
Pelt your heart?
Get drenched; Soak yourself,
quench the earning,
of your parched soul.
When words corrode,
your very reasoning?
Then build groynes,
that stops the breach.
Secure your mind,
from erosion.
And if Words don't,
mean anything?
Then delete them,
Ignore the lamenting.
Could, Words mean,
nothing at all?
Wipe the dampness,
and warm the skin.
Keep cold away,
from her din.
If words hurt you ?
just wash away,
by drowning your soul,
with your reasoning.
Should words for a moment,
or second, comfort you?
Cease the moment, live eternally.
Wear it like a tiara, nobly.
Words engraved on a slab of stone.
By, the skilled hand of an artisan.
That evokes the passion to collude;
with the soul, that could not survive.
Zeal of condolences described,
in the EPITAPH.
Applaud the dead, in their grandeur.
Be it factual? It cannot still,
Resurrect, the departed.
Eulogised, in spirit; never in flesh ,
not familiar ? Or acquainted!
A specter ; of your mind.
Superstitions take control.
Fear the nomadic apparition,
that's not in peace.
Rituals performed in dread .
Lest they torment you.
Its, just words spoken ,
in trepidation of unknown.
Emotions ; enacting this play.
Conjecture, enables a nomadic ;
Soul, rest in peace..
It's just words vocal.
Or on a stone, engraved ;
Obeisance to a lonely,
soul departed.
Words have no colour,
race, sex or age.
Without which life,
will be not be feasible.
If words , were not spoken.
Then life will cease.
Like dewdrop's ,
that Stopped to romance,
the blade of grass,
in the warm morning blush.
Word unspoken are like
Hearing-impaired.
Who does not know,
sign language.
Hushed words are like,
an obligation Unfulfilled.
Inside your soul they reside.
Resonance of a yearning.
One day they will shatter,
your heart.
There’s a query that I need to conclude,
about my cat who with mice does collude.
Now I’d pay the price
to get rid of these mice -
Where can I buy mouse-flavored cat food?
The Moon exists beyond our atmosphere
The ever restless exile of the skies
Beckoning but never drawing near
Excluded but dictating to the tides
All heaven’s bodies kneel before the Sun
The glory that advances on the West
Yet night returns when Victory is won
The Moon wears wreaths of cloud about her breast
The forces that align me to your orbit
Collude with others holding us apart
I am in your power and can’t avoid it
But can I ever penetrate your heart?
What chance for those as powerless as we?
The dance is set, it’s how things have to be.
Moss Cowed Covenant I Keep Putin Off...
For preservation, salvation,
and veneration, though with hold
ding temptation two mike
pence sieve lee clear,
to immoral majority mold
toot hoods, (those bajillion
Americans unanimously polled)
did want me to broadcast, communicate,
and declare, sans mock cut up fold
drawl migrant accent,
(no matter I'm getting old),
nonetheless Ivana trumpet from Taj Mahal
straight to Mar-A-Lago) all told,
plus thank commensurate Republicans
(past or present), who extolled,
an invisible grandiose fire walled
barricade (donning, enclosing,
and fortifying) against Carl mauled
din lookalike hackers,
despite one sporting "FAKE"
hook nosed, hunchbacked
donned with torn (Turin) shawled,
shrouded, and disguised vagrant, indigent,
double chinned agent – bald
(except for being bewigged),
viz flowing locks of "FAKE" gold
in toe with Amazon heavily funded
unbridled trailing retinue
chanting appellation Matthew
Scott Harris alias Oswald),
no matter said faux
renegade twittering lobbyists
flock (like lemmings) within his fold,
and will happily, laughably parody
any vigilantes spot on cold,
what with his bugs
bunny eyed (What's up Doc)
intent reader rabbit stare,
that doth playfully scold
any Bare Ladies scantily
linkedin, NOT nsync
with netiquette politesse mold
dinned communication, (asper
my pork chopped message
higglety pigglety divulged)
obeying tacit gold
din rule to hoodwink public, nonetheless
lemme exemplify, how
Democrats plan to hold
world web hostage
by secret Ransomware sold,
thru dark web bitcoin blockchain trolled
to collude with "crooked Hillary"
under Ponzi scheme auspices doled
courtesy, sans spongebobsquarepants
omnipotent NON GMO
gluten CRISPR rolled
oat sized INTEL nanobots,
no bigger than mold
spores heavily scrutinizing,
policing, monitoring and
fortifying electronic Internet scaffold.
No matter where I am
I will always be condemn
My heart will bear the blame
Slowly dying due to shame
No matter who helps me bear this pain
My body will continue to strain
My heart bears a knife
Making horrid sounds like a fife
As the world continues day by day
My mind falls into dismay
My heart slowly sinks into a pit
Rejected of being acquit
So now my world goes into a seclude
Doing all I can to collude
From my heart that is slowly dying
As tear streams down my cheek for I am crying
Devastated from fear and pain
Lost in an unknown terrain
For my heart has collapsed and caved in
Now sounding like a broken violin
Now I sit here staring off to space
My mind left Earth leaving no trace
But my heart remains aching
While it is quivering and shaking
Fear and pain slowly wraps around my heart
While knives are thrown at it like a dart
My heart weeps twenty-four seven
With no chance for it to be in Heaven
Tears and loneliness slowly dominate
Grouping up and causing my heart to constipate
Now my heart is torn and wounded
It's soul unable to be lucid
And this is my story
Of a soul who lost all its glory
For his heart is nothing but open scars
Like those burnt out stars
This is the end and not the beginning
The end of a heart that is slowly thinning
Until it flattens and rot like a humus
For he is now nothing but useless
Reverence affects yours
truly with unmeasurable
infinite jubilant zeal,
sans unbeknownst world wide
(web stirred) fans enamored
with me poetry induce
cogs of mine
noggin to wheel
write (thru the roof),
thus I feel impelled
to spell out
appreciation to those
die hard regular followers
or one time cyber reader,
who (minnie mull lee)
move mouse or gingerly
(collude) manipulate trackpad
motioning qua thumbwheel
scrolling thru each
rich text chord
line figuratively aswarm
with multisyllabic words planted,
cultivated and harvested,
where eyes feast
visually soaking up
mine magic charm
(albeit wrought by
this modest male),
whose virtual crafted
figurative humble Georgia based
Orwellian animal farm
revels with euphoria
more precious then,
(you guessed) bajillion
banked bagged loot
(of quartz without
taking for granite)
die hard aficionados tub hoot,
these stalwart re:dears,
asper scratchings
of this ole coot
oft times curious what attracts
dedicated trooping veterans
(undoubtedly war re:)
like avast horde of
buzzfeed ding flies to fruit,
or motivated students
subjecting her/him self
partial to mental taxation
(without representation)
i.e. (trying to make sense
of confounding poetry authored
by Matthew Scott Harris)
at the select particular institute,
the very same college (within Lake
Woebegone) this alumni
made popular upon being
recognized as a verb hose,
re: noun sub bull
("FAKE" Norwegian bachelor) guy.