Best Delinquents Poems
A young fellow in our neighborhood
ran around claiming, “I’m Robin Hood.
When we rob from the rich,
our positions we’ll switch.”
Well, of course, he was up to no good.
Some delinquents soon followed his lead.
They were merry men. Merry indeed!
After each nightly raid,
in the camp they had made,
they’d get high on their exploits and weed!
Jan. 30, 2019 for Joseph May's Limerick 3 Poetry Contest
I stopped for a cup at the local all-nighter
I'm a regular there. I'm the "poetry writer".
You'll always find the occasional hack,
The delinquents, the addicts, that hang in the back.
A drifter, a grifter, disenchanted and surly
All nameless faces, except the waitress named Shirley
I throw her a line, she throws me a sign
Our usual "Hi, how are you?"
Then step to the bar, put a ten in her jar,
She's divorced and the mother of two.
She looks out of place with her ribbons and lace
She's polite, friendly and kind
But make no mistake, she bites like a snake
With a switchblade tongue, razor fine.
They're busy tonight and I need to write
She brings my black coffee to go
Says, "I'll give you this, you give me a kiss
And that will be all that you owe."
A kiss on the lips for ten dollar tips
That sounds fair enough to me
Besides, she's pretty, got big titties
And gives me my coffee for free.
Daniel Turner
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
LAMB AMONG THE LITERARY LIONS
Housewives, secretaries, the odd pro willing to stoop,
All came, delinquents, child prodigies, derelict old men
“All welcome” – the Chair of the Writers’ Group
To those looking for support, with a love of the pen;
They were decent people bonding, scorning the pub
The roll call a hedge school of ancient fame
They read poems and stories like a literary club
And enjoyed playing the great writing game.
Anthology reviewed, the twelve year old took accolade
From the shyest to the most arrogant, all were shook
He was savaged by the grande dame in an envious raid
She was terrified someone so young would produce a book!
Even the chair demurred, and went to The Times
Requesting deletion of “all welcome “– young souls are stilled by such crimes.
At the edge of the town, hidden amongst the trees
Is a nudist camp where folks walk around as they please
They all go about their business strutting their stuff
And as you've probably guessed, they're all in the buff.
There's all shapes and sizes, some skinny, some fat
Others go all out while some cheat and wear a hat
There's vicars, teachers, scientists and truck drivers too
And more from all walks of life, doing what they like to do.
Some boys in town were bored, and wanted some fun
And came up with a heinous plan to make the nudies run
They all covered up and they put a wasps nest in a bag carefully
And planned to throw it over the fence and film it for all to see.
But someone in town had heard of their dastardly plot
And phoned the nudist camp and said "some info I've got"
The nudies were alerted and waited for the town boys attack
And they put robust plans in place for a counter attack.
A lookout then spotted the town boys heading their way
The nudies were going to make those delinquents pay
One of the boys threw the nest over without making a sound
But a covered up nudie quickly caught it, before it hit the ground.
He threw it back over the fence, the town boys were in shock
All the angry wasps had now escaped and were flying amok
Then the nudies rushed forward with water pistols full of honey
And squirted it over the boys until it was sticky and runny.
The wasps picked up the sweet scent and nosedived on the boys
The nudies were laughing so much it drowned out the boys cries
A nudie filmed it all and told the boys to go online and take a look
And said this footage you'll find on our group site on Facebook.
All the boys started running fast and were trying to get away
The air was blue as they tried to keep the stinging wasps at bay
They reached the lake that was just on the outskirts of town
And all jumped in and knew that they'd never live this down.
Written on the 7th July 2022
Couldn’t say it as a kid because it was a sin -
To say that small four letter word - what trouble I got in!
A girl who was my babysitter taught the word to me.
But then at eight, I learned that word’s effect on family. . .
Mischievous and curious were cousin Steve and I;
he too had learned that naughty word. It happened by and by
(after we’d discussed it some and what the bad word meant)
we voiced it ALOUD at a reunion and got sent
to another room where we were scolded mightily.
And for a long while, that foul word was uttered not by me!
Well, you can say that word (these days) -in certain company:
like with bikers and delinquents or my son, an ex-Marine!
But I don’t like to say the word, except when very mad
and in my car in traffic jams: (that’s when I say things bad!)
Then nasty words I’ve read or heard from friends or on TV
become the very words I hear come pouring out of me.
It’s strange how that first naughty word I learned I must not say
is now a word that (if I want to) I can say today!
Nonetheless, I keep that word under lock and key.
I’m glad that we can’t use it here to ruin our poetry!
For the "You Can Say it Now" Contest by Paula Swanson
When my friend and I finally got chicks, they decided to leave us.
My friend's name is Butt-Head and my name is Beavis.
I thought that I was pregnant even though I'm a boy.
Because Butt-head and I are stupid, people get annoyed.
I become the Great Cornholio when I eat too much sugar.
I'm actually a mental case who eats his own boogers.
When Butt-Head and I meet chicks, we're sure to sexually harass.
And if you have a teenage daughter, you'll end up kicking my ass.
If you meet us face to face, we're sure to cause great anxiety.
We are both juvenile delinquents who are threats to society.
Don't come near us or you'll get so mad that you'll cuss.
You will be happy and better off if you stay away from us.
(Inspired by the hit cartoon that was created by Mike Judge.)
Welcome Mat…. by: Steven Hudson
Hands tremble at the grip in my hand,
Two worlds collide in moments of time,
The trigger shakes, while onlookers scorn
What once was peace, now a violent storm
Away ye dogs of thunder come to plunder my house!
Who come to grant me the title of fatherless son
You knocked on our door looking for trouble
But when trouble rose to greet you, you froze like a mouse.
I did not seek you out, you forced a delinquents hand
It was only justice, to protect that which I love
The pulse that quickens, the fear that sickens
The weight of words preceding a heavy handed blow
What was meant to destroy me
Only proved to employ me
For in the face of my enemy the only choice remains
To stand strong, stand fast, that my losses, may become gains.
Life in the so called free world
So we live in the free world...really?
Are you free to go out at night, go where ever you like...or
are you afraid, living in fear, hiding behind triple locked doors with
bars on the windows, like a prisoner doing time until daylight comes?
Who rules the night? is it not the delinquents, and gang members and
gun toting criminals, that have the freedom to kill, and do as they please.
Land of the free? You decide!
What about freedom from lies? that are spread like manure on the ground,
and we eat of it's poisonous fruit everyday and it becomes a part of us
and the cycle repeats. What about freedom from hate and prejudice?
Or is it alive and kicking still your neighborhoods?
Hate and racism run wild like the wolf and the lion
seeking to devour their next innocent young victim,
who waits wide eyed like a deer in the headlights waiting
for death to come without even knowing what hit them.
What about freedom from fear? When it is preached in the pulpits
that God is vengeful and tortures for an eternity in a hellfire.
Does that make sense to you, that a God of love tortures
and torments, when we are made in his image and torture
to us is repugnant?
Life in the free world is really free? You decide.
John Derek Hamilton
January 17,2016
Rays of sunshine of a thousand suns fill up my heart and lungs
Polaroids arent the only things i have lost
Wars arent the only things i have won
filters on my tongue and screen blur the scene and block the scream
I raise bars and delinquents
Novas shine for my rejects
They're televising our revolution while shedding our blood
Drapes cover my mouth and eyes
They despise , analyse and paralyse
But never dare to relinquish my shrine
The shrine in the depth of my mind is your home
Overseas it's just your confine
Poignance is in resonance but it pauses just for you
your hopes freefalling with aches and i deem solace yet ask
Do you ever count the waves that crash down to build you?
She has a pretty face
She carries herself well
In uniform she is an iconic
Many so desire her moments
A detective she carries her gun well
When duty calls she flashes her smile
Its a smile i have see disarm many
She has no use for brute force
For her lovely essence nets all delinquents
I used to spy her long time ago
At the signals training school
Once we were Seim Cohorts
Remember.. Kurutu mbona hanyoi..
God knows what followed that
Her MO disarms with ease and grace
My MO disarms with an O prerogative
Saidia Utumishi.. They also need service
Our officers in uniform have to be served too
That's where PMC's we come in and succeed
For controlled outcomes and black ops OP
We're senior delinquents
modeling our lives after those times when they were so new
and all the rules were irrelevant disruptions
to everything we felt and experienced.
Our passions weren't lived to their full potential
and now we want to make up for our omissions.
But we can't help but notice you down there,
the same as we were.
Destined be be the same as we are.
To us you are equally amusing
and horrifying.
All the baroque seriousness you place on your little lives.
You have no idea the tangle of trouble ahead of you.
The useless energy you'll spend on desperate
subterfuge and out and out lies.
You have no idea of the nowhere it'll get you in the end.
You have plans. You have dreams.
You have lessons to teach and children to raise to be just like you.
A cookbook life.
But you have no idea what's really going on around you.
There is a complex wind blowing just above your heads.
Maybe if you stood up taller and noticed us
we could avoid all this.
We can't really blame you, though,
what with all the commercial viability you represent
and all the raw material you wield
and all that is at stake.
And all the sales pitches whirling around you.
It's tough. We don't deny that.
None of that means we can't enjoy a bit of fun at your expense.
Laugh a little at your predictable foibles.
God knows we deserve it.
No one takes us seriously anyway, including ourselves.
So, enjoy it all. It's yours. But do try to relax a little now and again.
And remember what we have said.
Because soon we will be gone and you will be us.
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
She doesn't want to be treated right,
She just wants love for the night.
She doesn't want to be swept away,
She just wants to go out and play.
She doesn't like the romantic type.
She thinks that love is just chains and hype.
She doesn't know how free she would be,
If only she had tried it with me.
She doesn't want love, she wants the night life,
Clothes fit like a glove, she could've been my wife.
She wants to hit clubs, and dance with the rich boys,
I can't blame her, but she helped make my choice.
The boy toys, they all bought her things,
She's pretty so they offered her drinks.
Once or twice, the boys weren't nice;
They bought booze, but hers got spiked.
She woke up battered and bruised,
On someone's couch, while being used.
She cried to me, after she got home,
Once she finally felt alone.
I wanted to murder those delinquents,
But nights like these became more frequent.
I feared, deep down inside she liked it,
I denied the thoughts to try it.
But then she left me all alone,
And her true colors, how they shone.
She didn't care about herself,
So why should I? she gave me hell.
The boy toys, they all bought her things,
She's pretty so they offered her drinks.
Once or twice, the boys weren't nice,
They bought booze but hers got spiked.
Well this time I was there that night,
And I watched, as her clothes took flight.
She danced, She writhed, she even smiled.
The could be, mother of my child.
And as they all lived out their dreams,
Mine fell apart right at the seams.
But my pain was followed by screams,
As I shot and watched them all bleed.
A Write for All Us Bald Guys
By Elton Camp
Making fun of some person’s physical features
Is not done except by the most vicious creatures
It is unacceptable to point out an enormous nose
And mock that it was once part of a garden hose
Or to tell some man that his face is as ugly as hell
Is something that only the crudest person will tell
Good manners, out the window quickly are sped
When people spot a man who has a bald head
They feel is all right to draw mocking attention
To his lack of hair by open and sneering mention
The victim of the inappropriate and crude remark
Is expect to “be a good sport” as if it’s just a lark
Although such rudeness I absolutely do hate
Most of the time I try very hard not to retaliate
Delinquents who mocked Elisha for his bald head
At the claws of two she-bears, 42 ended up dead
So whenever one, for lack of hair ridicules me
I look around, a she-bear sort of hoping to see