Best Dead Ringer Poems
As i gently clear away
the steam that covers the glass
suddenly!
"he" appears
and for now
"he" is temptation
the very person i fear
Although we look the same
this dead-ringer is not me at all
but a false prophet
who deceives me into running
at his beckon call
"he" controls my thoughts
rents out my face
knows my weaknesses
then begins to plot my next fall from grace
The last time
"he" magically appeared
lessons had to be taught
but nothing was learned
for once again here i stand
to begin the fight
and start the slow burn
"he" is convincing
and so very clever
i am the actor, directing myself
on the next hurtful endeavour!
It's a mystery
when "he"will check in, for a visit
i wish it was never,
but honestly, im realistic
so for today
"he" is in control
my one and only friend
but once gone
that's when the apologies start
and the sorry's never end
Categories:
dead ringer, confusion, fantasy, life, mystery,
Form:
Rhyme
Most people got married in June because
They took their yearly bath in May
Body odor was the reason
Of the flowers in a bouquet
A big tub of hot water was used
For a bath, so that's not complex
The males's right was to go first
The women and children went next
Last of all was the babies turn
By then the water was real dark
"Don't throw the baby out with the wash"
Soon became a common remark
Dirt floors were all the poor could afford
The old saying "dirt poor" came from that
The wealthy's floors were slippery slate
In wet winter you just might fall flat!
So they would spread straw on the floor
But they called it thresh way back then
and a "Thresh Hold" was what they called
The piece of wood used to hold it in!
Stew in a big kettle over a fire
Provided their dinner for them to eat
Leftovers left to get cold at night
With vegetables but not much meat
They added to the pot every day
It could be several days I'm told
That was referred to in the old rhyme
"Peas porridge in the pot nine days old"
When they could "bring home the bacon"
They were always proud about that
They would cut a little off to share
Then sit around and "chew the fat"
Pewter plates would cause lead poison
If like, in tomatoes, the acid was high
So for the next four hundred years or so
They thought tomatoes would make you die!
Bread was split according to status.
The burnt bottom to workers was thrust
The family would get the middle part
While the guests got the "upper crust"
Sometimes they'd pass out a few days
Because with whiskey they'd use a lead cup
So they would be prepared for burial
But "hold a wake" to see if they woke up
England had to re-use their coffins
But there were scratch marks, on some inside
They thought about it and soon realized
They must have been burying people alive!
Then they were buried with a string on their wrist
A bell was attached outside as well
Someone sat on "the graveyard shift" so
a "dead ringer" could be "saved by the bell"
This is true history, you can look it up
For me history always gave me a fit
But now this history doesn't seem so boring
Since I managed to make a poem out of it!
Categories:
dead ringer, england, history, people,
Form:
Quatrain
This dirty old man wrote a poem.
It was an ode to lovers.
He sang a song
that glorified adulterers.
And when his rhyme was done
there was a thunderous applause
from everyone.
People seemed to get
what he was talkin' 'bout
Since many in that room
had tip toed out
with someone who did not
belong to the ring
on their finger.
The poem was a dead ringer
for sin
and much to my chagrin
I realized that the majority in the room
Would never know the truth
that I held within.
The truth that can only come
from being with one.
One perfect man
and experiencing perfection.
Knowing that you are the only one that knows his secret
and he is the only one that knows yours.
Knowing that since with him you have already won the race
It wouldn't matter if you never played the game again
any more...any place
Knowing that you have a reason
to do it all again
Knowing that your memory of that moment
is enough to make sure you always live.
And feel alive
And that even if you died tonight
Your heart and soul would live forever and thrive
in that glorious moment in time.
Yes this dirty old man wrote a poem
Talking about all his experience
that he experienced when he was growing old.
And I i just shook my head
because it only took me once
to remain forever young.
Categories:
dead ringer, beautiful, marriage, sensual, sexy,
Form:
Ballad
Fairly
Squarely
Rarely
Barely
Shot from the hip fairly, squarely true
Loaded clip but, rarely, barely drew
1-19-2018
Categories:
dead ringer, cool, hero, imagery, simple,
Form:
Tyburn
Buxom blonde, eyelashes long
Cabaret singer
Belting out a bawdy song
She’s a dead ringer
Pure sex too
For 50’s lounge singer
Sensual boobs, wig so thick
My most calm boy
Made up in drag, an easy trick
Full of easy joy,
So whoop-dee-doo
And ships ahoy!
Surprising he,
Someone says “you look rather whorish”,
Delighting me
I hate to be peevish or boorish,
But this is drag life in a flourish….
Written: 4-27-2019
Contest: Quirky Tercets
Type: Terza Rima
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Categories:
dead ringer, fun, funny, hilarious, humor,
Form:
Terza Rima
Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats
would come. A balled-up dirty rag
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood.
Mother would hide in a column of shadow
near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug
for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat.
Tails flagged above puckered targets.
Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on!
A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round
the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation.
The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where
she demanded God wipe His feet at her door.
Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer,
who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare.
Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep
her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and
her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t
let it storm on mother. She would get crazy
if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled.
Her daughter always had to shine. I kept
the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother
never heard my bare feet crisscrossing
the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.
Categories:
dead ringer, childhood, daughter, life, mother,
Form:
Free verse
Everyone now days has access to the world wide web aka internet
To search and seek what is new or to just see on face book who they haven't met,
Some people say oh you always are seeking me out
Then everyday they do the same to see what my blogs are about,
I just laugh and think in a few minutes it will be in a blog
On the secret page that says; unspoken words and has mean pics but, not of a frog,
I don't care to repeat the ugly words or pics I seen with the one finger
Then say; it doesn't bother you but, the way you react is such a dead ringer,
That you to seek what all I do in order to know this
My advice to you is blog what you want because I am not as angry as you hit or miss.
Written By: Unique Poetry 2015
Categories:
dead ringer, dog, fishing, hate, internet,
Form:
Rhyme
I am self proclaimed real swinger
My name however, for a Nerd is a dead ringer
I have perfected the War Craft game
On Micro Soft computer applications, I can put anyone to shame
I am not into testosterone things such as fuel injectors
Secretly for Christmas I want a pocket protector
For every movie my name is in, I steal the scene
It is my parents I owe for the burdensome name of Eugene
Other bad names for example one is Clarance
He said he was named after his Grandpappy, what an inheritance
As for as it goes, I should be thankful for my health
I am so grateful for not being named Ralph
When I was growing up, there was a kid I know
He hated his named Ralph so much, he insisted on being called Ditto
I always make sure my handkerchiefs are always clean
Welcome to my real world of Eugene
There was one Nerd who rivaled my Nerdy world
Did I do that? Famous words of Erkel
Yes I do wear a wrist watch calculator
I carry a pocket sized stapler
Girls who share my interests are far and few in between
Will any female ever see the masculinity beneath the skin of Eugene
Categories:
dead ringer, funny, social,
Form:
ABC
You’re jealous of my passions
Don’t think I haven’t noticed
‘cause I don’t keep up with fashions
And I don’t eat of your Lotus
I don’t fall for your heroes
Hook, line, and sinker
Don’t worship in the shadows
Of your latest hit dead-ringer
I’m a little bit out of step
And that’s okay
I’d rather be a cripple any day
Than join your march into oblivion
And join the empire of your setting sons
You eye me with suspicion –
I’m a curiosity
A weird anachronism
In the real-time that you see
I don’t fall for your answers
Or your ancient, lowbrow wisdom
As you blare your scripted scriptures
From your belfry in the mission
I’m a little bit out of step
And that’s okay
I’d rather be a cripple any day
Than join your march into oblivion
And join the empire of your setting sons
Every sucker, two to take him
Every culture, paved to wasteland
Every sucker, two to take him
Every culture, paved to wasteland
You question my conviction
And dispel my sense of freedom
‘cause I don’t sleep with your women
And I don’t dream of your Eden
Categories:
dead ringer, america, angst, corruption, culture,
Form:
Lyric
I don't want to let go
Why do have to and then try to not let it show,
The anger and sadness I feel burning my insides
What comfort is there for this whole situation to let me be denied,
All the hurt and anguish I have to feel,
How come we can't live forever and make it real,
The cycle of life really is not long enough
Okay I am selfish about the time so what,
I know if I let go there is nothing to hang on to
The reality is I have this choice to do this and it is true,
Ill let go when I feel I am ready
So for now lets just keep it all steady,
There is a part that still wants to linger
Oh gosh I hope that this ends soon or else I am a dead ringer.
Written By: Unique Poetry 2009
Categories:
dead ringer, anger, bereavement, death, deep,
Form:
Rhyme
For crying out loud you came into my life like a bat out of hell, no time to think, no time to go slow, I was all revved up with no place to go, god knows I will love you until the end of time.
I thought heaven can wait, but I was to fast to late, fireball rush, like a moth to a flame, burning wings, I was struck by the bat out of hell.
Paradise, I thought by the dashboard light, had turned to ashes as my wings burned bright, for crying out loud I’ve been struck by the bat out of hell.
I had been in love before and had thought that two out of three ain’t bad, but they turned to dust, destroyed my trust, must be with the bat out of hell.
For crying out loud you came into my life like a bat out of hell, no time to think, no time to go slow, I was all revved up with no place to go, god knows I will love you until the end of time.
You took the words right out of my mouth, I had then felt no doubt that you were a dead ringer for love or so I thought, clearly my vision a blur, blinded by the dashboard lights, god knows I will love you until the end of time.
Petal to the metal all revved up with no place to go, musical lyrics of, god knows I will love you until the end of time.
Bat out of hell, angel smile, eyes so wild, beautiful lady of grace and style god knows I will love you until the end of time.
For crying out loud you came into my life like a bat out of hell, no time to think, no time to go slow, I was all revved up with no place to go, god knows I will love you until the end of time.
Life of rock opera fate to be, deep and dark, no answers to see, making love by the dashboard lights only to be gone by the day’s first light, god knows I will love you until the end of time...Poetry by Dean
Categories:
dead ringer, love,
Form:
Rhyme
Wistful Accursed Penniless Fate...God Dime Mitt!
(neither defamation, nor blasphemy meant, sans Title)
Despite ingestion of
anti anxiety medications
ferocious hellish onslaught
pummels me aback
finds resurgence of ghostly
white implacable terror
inducing panic attack
cogs and wheels
of psyche frenetically
spinning alas and alack
swallowed in the un
avoid doubleheader maw
whale size amberjack
suctioned alive as dead ringer
human master bait
(feebly prate who GOD,
somebody please HELP)
doomed to die, "eye"
doth entirely engulf me
far worse than being slammed
by malevolent forces
loosed from hurricane
classed as Category 5
on Saffir-Simpson Scale
adrip with horrible gastric,
caustic, and acidic repulsive
bile alcoholic akin to applejack
and more rancid
than Q8 oily arrack
once again oft repeated phrase
Death be not Proud, viz
reincarnation of Moby Dick
(gone terribly awry)
on the attack after ME
with no way back
to house at Pooh Corner
condemned to spin
willfully intestate,
while steeped in utter black
but....methinks
perhaps fetid blowback
equivalent to volcanic belch, would
spit out "burnt offerings"
formerly Matthew Scott Harris,
whose steaming hot pipe dream
(Ahab) in mind can not
even get "LIVE" feedback,
and definite never
my Stradivarius fiddleback
(I rue...all the money
momma's and pappa's...
scrimped and saved
without giving
this sole sun any flack)...
ha...sardonic humor,
and wistful pointless flashback
equally frivolous hanker
ring for greenback,
legal tender, quid
pro quo, et cetera,
NOW demise welcomed
forever free from penury
small potatoes this measly mortal
even at dirt poor cheap
expense courtesy
Euthanasia travel agency
manned by HiJack,
where captain! My captain!
Humungous humpback
clearly presented danger field,
and only costs this one life
as lil bitty chewy Whitman snack!
Categories:
dead ringer, 12th grade, allusion, analogy,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Her cremated ashes still remain sealed in the same nondescript box
white, powdery and chalk like material
devoid of any vestigial semblance to her once living and vibrant self
that unique persona pulverized and vaporized
(housed former svelte and tall Arthur Murray ball-room dance teacher
a half century plus prior to demise
which beauty, charm and grace quickly caught the attention of my father
who courted and eventually proposed to this young flirt and tease of a gal)
inert organic matter now represents sole residual embodiment
reduced to dust and near nothingness
former corporeal being of blood, bone and flesh
weighing no more than a few hatch marks on the scale
absence still bears down heavy like some millstone round the neck
per the black hole void created by defeat with Grim Reaper
toward this woman who helped birth and nurse me into manhood
momma’s only grown son still feels ripples of grievous sadness
no matter the years of suppressed anger and rage
in addition to emotional conflicts between us
which invariably wrought unpleasant relationship
and a legacy of discord writ large across the tapestry of my life!
Force fields from this lithe Brooklyn native
(whose pronunciation a dead ringer giveaway to any amateur and junior linguist)
lives in the guise of aural spectra
especially within the hallowed sanctity of Glen Elm domicile
and continues to emit indomitable and unfading rays of pure energy and light!
Categories:
dead ringer, loss, mother,
Form:
Ode
The Truth About a Mirror
It's usually hanging from the wall,
It isn’t placed there just for sprawl,
It’s not an item or catchall...,
The truth about a mirror.
This wall piece will reflect an image,
The reflection may be new or vintage,
Often it can be a display of knowledge...,
The truth about a mirror.
That representation is a dead ringer,
Could it be it displays a boaster?,
Is it a replica of an author?..,
The truth about the mirror.
Most often it reflects the likeness,
Ageless, callous, cuteness, calmness, or coolness,
The reflection is but the object’s canvass,
The truth about a mirror.
That sight in the mirror is an effigy,
A mere figure of ourselves, often amply,
Most often just the truth and and our beauty,
THE TRUTH ABOUT A MIRROR.
Categories:
dead ringer, fantasytruth, , cute,
Form:
Rhyme
Who was a family show singer,
when her young daughter tried to be a dead ringer.
He brought her to life,
then she became his wife.
Her costumes were over the top.
some were really hot.
The show of three was a huge hit,
dead husband had great wit.
Categories:
dead ringer, child, color, dance, family,
Form:
Rhyme