Best Criticised Poems
Battling the instabilities of reality.
Behind daylight's closed doors.
Imaginary chains keep me captive.
White walls decorated with
silhouettes of suppressed shadows -
disappear, upon the sight of twilight.
Alone, my eyes search for companionship.
Then she appears, smiling down at me.
Her solitude in darkness, shows,
it's not only the moon,
who sings an undefined rhapsody of loneliness -
helplessly, watching an exodus of stars.
What is life, but an unexplained metaphor.
What are we,
but leaves blowing in the wind.
Our emotions spinning - around and around.
Wondering if we will be lost forever?
Like you, I have no answers,
but search for meaning or at least understanding.
To open the veils of one's mind.
Kissing the silence, I too,
long for clarity to fill the emptiness.
Yet even with an open mind,
blanks appear - will they forever remain?
Will things ever be the same,
or will we persist with the distance?
.... Every face a stranger.
Every place a memory...
Have we lost the sensation of touch?
Will we love in the same way again?
Will tomorrow, forever, be a mark of yesterday?
Do we know what matters now?
The ignorance that plagued us,
do we understand it?
Do you even care?
Will minds unravel and evolve,
accept, co-exist or feel?
Or will some remain asleep?
I see those who leap with faith,
run spiritual marathons.
Yet are criticised,
for their intangible philosophies.
Because their creator, is not your creator,
and that creator, is not my creator -
so who is the creator, of the creator?
But is it not better than the tangible?
I guess we all have our own theories,
our own stories, our own destinies.
Whilst motionless, pondering philosophically,
the moon disappears behind blackness.
However, street lamps come alive.
A reminder, unlike the moon,
we are not immortal, but we are all lights,
who illuminate the universe.
And.
I am content knowing -
death is a beautiful virgin,
adorned in white.
Sunday Simple Musings
Silent One
21 June 2020
Categories:
criticised, analogy, life, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
Born in London in eighteen eighty nine,
a 'rags to riches' story just like mine.
His childhood was full of horrid violence.
In adulthood he was the king of silence.
In silent reels of comedy he found his fame.
Moving to America is where he made his name.
Through slapstick hilarity and tender tears,
he entertained the world for countless years,
Known for his speech in the Great Dictator,
mocked Hitler, but was seen as a traitor.
Criticised for refusing to go to war.
He was a pacifist, so it caused uproar.
He said his mum was the first to inspire,
he was knighted by the British Empire.
Married four times with eleven children,
had many affairs seen as forbidden.
His laughter was born from the deepest pain.
His artistic spirit will always remain.
He mirrored life in hues of black and white,
whilst painting dreams as a beacon of light.
Categories:
criticised, appreciation, riddle,
Form:
Rhyme
The crescent moon overlooks
The pink taffy sky as it melds
With the grey mist that rises
From the creeks and gently rolling hills
I read a long time ago
To avoid criticism one should
Say nothing, do nothing, be nothing
But even in doing that one gets criticised
Many politicians say a lot
Buttering everyones' toast
But when it comes down
To doing anything worthwhile
They are like a phantom, ghost, or apparition
That disappears at first light or close observation
They have to hide in shadows
So that their half-truths, lies, straddling of the fence is not found out
So how can we learn from this
What can we do with our lives
What can we be, say, write
If we say, be, write then can we
Follow through with action
Moon is getting fainter just a bare
Silver almost hair
Against the very gray-blue sky that mixed
With the mist of the earth two have combined
Seemingly forming one body
Duty has called me from the carefree moments
That exist out on the porch as the roosters begin
Their crowing, the crickets have quietened,
And the birds have begun their morning chirping
And life calls me away to do the responsibilities of day
Categories:
criticised, animals, inspirational, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ,
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
Categories:
criticised, analogy, angst, appreciation, atheist,
Form:
Quatrain
>Although I love writing, I would also like my books to sell. Then I can grant my wife her wishes and buy her a house by the sea. And if there is enough in the kitty one for me. I never miss a chance of free publicity. Last year our local BBC Radio Station, had an open day. I was raising funds in a small way for their charity of the year Suffolk Family Carers, So I was given a ticket by the nice lady on reception. Lots of local celebrities were there and me. Tractor Boy is football spokesman.
Have you met tractor boy?
I have and him perhaps did annoy.
I criticised them men in blue.
Well it's something, controversial to do.
Was because I'm a writer see.
Wanted some free publicity.
But when him I did meet.
He was sitting, not on his feet..
Was on a certain radio station open day.
The name I'm not allowed to say.
As when on their Facebook page did write.
They struck me off, they did one night.
Was only in a light-hearted way.
I mentioned my Smarty dog's I say.
Alright they spoke, both night and day.
Usually agreeing with what I did say.
But now my laptop's sick and away.
At the menders now I say.
So I don't worry night or day.
About that page, where I have no say.
I can get on with my Smarty book.
But at my files, when I did look.
I see I finished his latest book.
Oh this poem was about Tractor Boy.
I used his name, just as a ploy.
Just so you would read, about Smarty.
And his author, blinking me.
I'll try a short poem.
Having a tiring day.
Come on hands, knees and toes.
As upstairs I climb with those.
When day ends and I retire.
Where can I find new ones to hire?
As when that final step I take.
Make my weary way to bed.
I wish it was a stairless house.
A bungalow and not a house.
I know I used the house word twice.
Both the same reason, not poetically nice.
But if a bungalow I had got.
My hands, knees and toes, knackered, would be not.
I know that last line, sounded not right.
But was how I felt, is that alright?
But as I climb those stairs each night.
A bungalow, would serve me right.<
Categories:
criticised, confusion, health, how i
Form:
I saw this darling little chick,
she looked a swinging geezer.
I thought I’d move to get in quick.
Her name was Mona Lisa.
I thought she had a perfect face,
a most bewitching smile.
She swayed with such amazing grace.
Oh my! What lovely style.
“Hello my darling! By the way,
I do a bit of sketching.
So, will you come and sit one day,
I’m sure you’d look quite fetching?”
She stopped my way, oh so demure,
and sat with soft crossed hands.
And as I drew (with thoughts impure)
I made my naughty plans!
“I’ve got this cosy little house
at Amboise, on the Loire;
when painting’s done, perhaps we’ll browse,
then mingle by the fire?”
~
A true disaster, what a frump
and what a sad old maid!
No way was there to make her jump,
no jolly games were played!
She criticised my little house,
she cursed my blazing fire.
She couldn’t speak without a grouse.
She curdled my desire.
In time, I took my work of art
and, with this neat manoeuvre,
it didn’t really break my heart
to plonk her in the Louvre!
And there she sits for all to see,
this awful groaning teaser.
I think it’s very clear why she
is called the Mona Lisa!
~
For Heather's 'Fine Art' Competition - Mona Lisa (Gioconda) by Leonardo da Vinci, hanging in the Musee du Louvre Paris.
Categories:
criticised, hope, sad,
Form:
Verse
[A poem to celebrate the 350th anniversary of Newton's discovery of gravity]
Sir Isaac Newton is my name;
I have a certain reputation,
Philosopher of great acclaim
Amongst the proud men of this nation.
With many problems I would grapple,
Not least of which concerned an apple.
I’d often laze beneath the trees
On long and balmy summer days,
And there with friends I’d shoot the breeze,
Expound ideas in many ways.
But then in lone activity
I framed the laws of gravity.
Studying mechanics, optics,
The bible and astronomy;
Also mathematics, physics,
The natural world and alchemy,
My jealous peers, they criticised
And often I was ostracized.
But I was knighted by the Queen
And my inventions gave men hope.
Stars and planets could be seen
With my reflecting telescope –
No rainbow colours to detract.
I’ve made my mark and that’s a fact !
Categories:
criticised, history, science, visionary,
Form:
Rhyme
Kind,
Strong,
Sweet,
Smart,
Handsome,
Amazing,
And everything good there is;
and if there are bad things that he had or did,
I don’t recall.
He was the only one I truly loved,
Really from the bottom of my heart.
I never felt so much warmth,
And real,
Genuine kindness from anyone.
He was my partner in crime,
My best friend in all of my adventures and mischiefs.
He understood me by just looking into my eyes,
As I understood him.
I never had to talk about my problems,
For he understood what I needed without me having to say.
He would always bet on me,
Even when I wasn’t betting on myself,
Which would by feeling how he believed in me,
Made me believe too.
He made me want to excel and be a better person.
Even though I let everyone down,
Every day of my life,
I still feel he wasn’t disappointed.
He was proud of me.
He loved me,
Amazingly,
He really loved me,
With flaws and all,
He never criticised me.
He was my favourite person in the universe.
I was the best part of me when I was with him;
And he took that with him when he left,
He is an inspiration to me,
And if not for myself and those around me,
It will be for him that I will strive to reach my goals.
Categories:
criticised, angel, appreciation, best friend,
Form:
Free verse
They tell me I was a most annoying child, not good looking like everyone else's son -
ugh! nor bright as a button, but the 'thick' one. One of those who just tried to help
both teachers and pupils, to do things the easy way, or so brainless or bored not to do
anything anyway, anything at all. After all one cannot be criticised then? - you bet!
So, here am I and I try to write a poem on my faithful laptop so that my mediocre
ideas (that good?) but crystal clear English (yeah right!) before accessing the best
poets' website I have come across - and then I - UR!!!- run out of time blaming my
baby boomer typing mis-skills and you dear web bosses that are only doing your best
with a Peter pest, trying to help, trying to do better so his better becomes his best.
Let's hope that when my poem goes online my gentle critics will see I aspire to play
poetry like cricket - damn I was absolutely crap at playing the the poetry of leather
upon willow so unlike that New Yorker Joseph O'Neill, who probably bowls a Yorker too,
with his trinity of Irishnes, Dutchness and Americanism souping up as 'NETHERLAND'
please intercede for me to type faster or have more time to jot down these musings as
I know you do LOL at my poetry. Please, please be patient and so gentle, gentle my
esteemed fellowe poets in this our republic of letters by stirring it hot and meaty fit for
any rhyme royal.
Categories:
criticised, passion,
Form:
Free verse
- APPARITION-
Cloudy coffee in a silky morn .
A harvester was feeding in a field of corn.
My wishing was that I wasn't born
Apparition.
Her love has left my bed unmade.
Her heart has turned into a hand grenade.
Blinded justice with a flaming sword
Muted sentence doused the written word.
Apparition
Freedom found in a guilty plea.
I did the deed but it wasn't me.
Here we stand in a court of law
Words exchanged when she slammed the door
Apparition
Misty mountain is missing you
Blood pressure over two sixty two
Replay the scene as she walked away
Filling out forms - latest title - divorcèe.
Apparition.
Sold the van in lieu of suicide
Sold the house but kept my pride
Drive to town before she drove me mad
Envy others for what they had.
Apparition
Sarcastic scene I always criticised
Wheelchair cripple wouldnt compromise
Cremated love tries to patronise
I was never there had a love affair.
Apparition
Separation
Competition
Categories:
criticised, divorce,
Form:
Free verse
The brumby of Australia, not known to be well bred
Some are tough as leather, but that not often said
More criticised that praised, for damage that they do
Muddying the waterholes, as cattle never do
The biggest problem that they have, their wish to have a roll
Find some nice clean water, then muddy up the hole
They will get to station horses, the mares have foul breed foals
The quality completely gone, and fences torn to holes
The stockman love to muster them, the wildest of the rides
Chase them way along the flat, and down the mountain sides
But we also have a saying, and is so very true
You should never kill a good horse, as some brumby chasers do
So though it is so very sad, we have to thin them out
We can only breed fine horses, if no brumbies are about
Your life depends on stamina, and full trust in your mount
It is your horse that saves your life, more times than you can count
Categories:
criticised, animal,
Form:
Rhyme
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
At the turn of the moon
It purges itself of its sins,
Washing away what lives could have been,
Punished for failing biological duties.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Forever marked with the scarlet letter,
The big, bold, burning red “F”
Branded on the legal document
Of my consciousness.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Its identity is not recognised by law;
A renegade, a libertine, toeing the
Tightrope lines between the accepted
And the unfathomable.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Unconventionally painted in black,
With cellulite scars and deep tiger stripes
Permeating every inch of
The skin’s breathing surface.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Not delicate, not loving, not pocket-sized,
Not built for the purpose of carrying
The weighty expectations of others,
Thrust upon it unwillingly.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
It's not shameful to own these Himalayan curves,
Cupids bow lips, blue eyes full of secrets;
Except, of course, when these parts
Are fetishised, demonised, criticised.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
The timbre of its voice
Gives way to conjecture,
Its name forms the image of a doll-child;
Porcelain, with golden curls cascading.
"That body is female!", they tell me.
Rebelling against it is a cardinal sin
In the religion of female empowerment.
Denying its femininity, the body
Is a traitor to the cause.
"That body is female!", they screech.
The brain does not work that way;
It binds its breasts pridefully,
Shears away trestles damaged by bleach, and,
In defiance, paints on a brave face.
Categories:
criticised, angst, deep, how i
Form:
Free verse
Judge For Yourself
if you judged and criticised yourself as keenly as you judge and criticise others, you would never judge and criticise anyone ever again.
It is a far better and wiser thing to advise...
…. than to judge and criticise.
Thefragmentedgenius
Categories:
criticised, hate, judgement,
Form:
Carpe Diem
This is a tribute to TWLOHA (To Write Love On Her Arms)
You Are Loved...
Put down the knife
and listen to the song
You can't keep going
like this for long,
Think of all the
beauty inside,
& not of why
youre criticised.
Know your better days
are ahead,
You are more loved
then you'll ever know,
This is not the end
of your story,
You still have
much more to grow!
You are not alone.
Know someone smiles
because youre alive,
So think of them,
& not of
why you cry.
June25,12
Categories:
criticised, depression, sad, teen, tribute,
Form:
Lyric
Exhale the pain
Breathe in the joy
Exhale the sadness
Breathe in the laughter
Exhale the hate
Breathe in the love
Exhale the criticism
Breathe in the complements
We get both joy and pain
We are surrounded by sadness and laughter
We are exposed to hate and love
We are criticised and complemented
The trick is to cling to the positives
Not to mull over negativity
©180220181921
Categories:
criticised, life,
Form:
Free verse