Best Diatribes Poems
It's a melodrama. Try to picture the drama queen
A bit actress lying on the floor in her final scene
Her lips trembling, tears running down her face
ruining her makeup in a gown of satin and lace
You won't win any Oscars, Honey. Not this time
Take lessons, hon. You can't act worth a dime
She's quick to blame everyone, but not herself
She claims innocence, but she's an imp, an elf
She's been insulted, but that's a falsified claim
Seriously, is she for real, or is warring her game?
No one has called her cruel names, not one of us
She's just a sad soul to have created such a fuss
Some poets are thin-skinned and misunderstand
that comments made are not given as a reprimand
But lo and behold... she sure came out swinging
like a bat out of hell with her accusations slinging
So lady poet, try and get a good grip on your life
No one is out to get you or cause you bitter strife
No one has rattled your cage or crushed your soul
and no one is bullying you with the acts of a troll
Your mean-spirited diatribes should reach an end
Maybe then you'll feel better; able to comprehend
You keep blowing a whistle without a good reason
and you've made yourself a victim of poetic treason
I'm wondering why you think your views are fine
and I should not be allowed to give voice to mine.
I didn't call you ugly names, neither of us did that
so stop clawing at us like some hissy spitting cat
It haunts you like shadows inside your imagination
So let it go and stop the outlandish discrimination
Don't you see that the delusions inside your head
are figments in your mind; things that you dread?
Categories:
diatribes, introspection,
Form:
Rhyme
Barefoot on the paving slab chill, concrete
feet feel frostbite emanations in their callused souls;
rooftop mystique clamours silent slate triangles,
perched the stray cat observers, red-eyes smoking coals.
Down to the river's edge where swaying reeds
feed mongrel contemplations with moist whispered words;
rusty oil-slicked surfaces lick the muddy banks,
karma sutra assassins are the predatory birds.
Fixated upon a frozen traffic system, bolt-locked,
dumb-shocked by electric one way streets to dead ends;
barstool poets weep sleep-sozzled cabbage tears
for the closing-time tragedy of long-time absent friends.
Drunkards shamble on beer-stained coliseum floors, grumble,
mumble incomprehensible diatribes into thin air;
the memorial park benches flake skin and rot within,
white spirits rape the dreams that anyone should care.
Deserted boardwalks spool a crooked travel,
unravel with myopic glint and blink, cat's eyes dying, died,
and the desolated song from night's deflated lung
hums doggerel consolation with no meaning left inside.
Illegitimate offspring of fatherless daughters and sons,
buns in sceptic ovens, burnt baked black offerings;
sacrifices on toilet stall altars, to lie in state
no more than ether, aborted ghosts, empty superfluous things.
Saviours ride no pale horses, immaculate white stallions,
galleons never sail to where the sun pristinely sets,
for the purpose of this life resides in its conclusion,
deserve has nothing to do with it and nothing is all it begets
Categories:
diatribes, life, people, philosophy, places,
Form:
Verse
A slow funeral dirge loops through my head as I bend the reeds
of wild alley weeds in my old neighborhood, pausing to listen
to the drunken diatribes hurled by the shell of a man, 3-houses
down…praying I won’t be seen.
Newcomers don’t often visit, the same faces cringe in surprise at
the sudden change in tempo or tone, afraid a new direction may
result….sounds never heard before….questions never asked before.
Finally, I find the familiar crevices and secret passageways, proven
over time…..balms and knowing glances, to a place I know,
……a place
I know
10/22/10
© All Rights Reserved
5:22 am
Mom had a stroke Monday,
She’s doin a bit better…….
I’m hangin’ on
Categories:
diatribes, old,
Form:
Narrative
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
Categories:
diatribes, drug, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
18 Stoic Faces
- by Bob Atkinson
eighteen stoic faces
faced four who had come
to read the erudite refrains
of poets both dead and gone
readings were in earnest spoken
for respect for some who had
garnered from the establishment
accolades, awards, well sanctioned
yes, eighteen stoic faces
faced four who read so good
those meaningless diatribes
of useless linguistic words
significance became not evident
for similes provided here
metaphors vaguely crafted caused
me not them to revere
this didn't change my attitude
my demeanor didn't rise
waiting for an end to it
was my only real desire
so I couldn't clap and whistle
and be smiling in my face
that would not have been sincere
became just a little bit ashamed
whistle I didn't do at all
felt not much real emotion
gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door
save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
of those thoughts not poetry
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed
listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts
next week went to Vegas
to see the eagle band
and watch as pure emotion
rocked that audience grand
ten thousand had paid apiece
a couple hundred bucks
to see those wordly masters
like Henley, Frey and such
they told of the situation
which emotion played upon
a woman's real life choices
why she'd become despondent
ten thousand cheered upon
recognition of great words
displayed while coddled with sounds
soft guitars and drums beat purrs
I thought "now here lies real poetry"
not those prissy kind of words
that speak only of the unimportant
with wispy mindless verbs
some lock credentials grand
for that which moves us not
and laugh at the suggestion
that song is our greatest art
me, I have a vision
that we shall all enjoy
songs we've grown up with
as emotional literal tomes
Categories:
diatribes, culture, emotions, poetry, song,
Form:
Quatrain
The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof.
They scream, laugh, make love, declare the infiniteness
Of their finite existence through diatribes of reality and unreality.
They are passionate bunch,
Bound by their common desire to be. And blood.
And the house just is. It still is.
Once there were sparrows in the ventilators.
And envious swallows on the palm trees.
The ripples in the pond sing their dark, merry tunes
Licking away its edges,
And they shove and trample for the whiff of north wind.
Life persists in slow, lonely decadence.
The cactus on the roof thrives in monsoon and in summer.
Basil live and die, live and die trenched in the never ending circle
Of micro-civilisation.
The house harvests its own sustenance in the whispers among its bricks
That become a collective
And a roar is heard.
They pray to Earth.
The old house is defiant,
The old house is tired.
Its melting skin sizzles and stinks of industry of old,
A glorious past always in the distant like the horizon,
The promise of bright future exposed to the misery
That is naturalness of time.
The hammer rusted, weed has grown over,
They clinch onto the sickle, like oxygen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Form: Free Verse
Date: 02 / 11 / 2016
Growing up in a state of the country where all the magnificence is limited to either history books or fictional literature, one hopes for something more. This is definitely a political reflection than anything else, but 'the house' is not just a metaphor, it does exist, and so do the people living in it.
Categories:
diatribes, allegory, corruption, culture, home,
Form:
Free verse
IN ALL HONESTY I AM DISHONEST
Many people own what they refer to as a “cash cow”
A farm animal who produces milk to drink and make cheese
Well I am like an aged farmer praying for his last field to plow
And all I have is a cow who consumes cash if you please
Many people eat food that rots them from the inside out
I, however, use substances that rot me from the outside in
With certainty I am doomed by daily diatribes of doubt
The result of my walking side by side with sordidness and sin
Many people reap rewards from being reverent, religious and good
I, on the other hand, am plundered by impiousness and a lack of pity
It’s always been my plan to take advantage of those whom I could
And using fools who are foolish enough to find me oh so very witty
In actuality I’d decline a “a cash cow” for a small semblance of peace
The kind of peace I find only in devastating substances which sustain me
My sordidness is self-evidenced by sins that seldom if ever cease
And even foolish fools finally find the intelligence to disdain me
© 2012 copyright PHREEPOETREE…..~free cee!~
Categories:
diatribes, angst, people, me, people,
Form:
Quatrain
ADELAIDE REQUIRED AID
Adelaide adored me
Ingrid ignored me
Adelaide and I made quite an odd pair
Yet Ingrid had silver silken threads instead of hair
Looking up to a cloud laden sky I prayed to heaven for Ingrid’s heavenly pleasure
Looking up to a syrupy and sunny sky I begged God that I might discover Ingrid’s buried treasure
A female fortune sealed in a locker by two silent lips and secreted between two sultry hips
But in the material that makes up time some fabric often frays while a seam sometimes rips
And even an expensive faucet drips
With assurance I assign Ingrid as an extravagant and excellent source of radiance to beheld by me
And oh to be held by her
To meld with her
As my desire swelled and I swooned to a lady attuned to and beholden to beauty
But as for Adelaide I found her ignorant and distasteful for ignoring and boring me
Whatever she chose to discuss would disgust me with distinguishable diatribes
before I forbade Adelaide from approaching me or broaching another subsequent, sequential and inconsequential subject
Adelaide adjudicated me well adjusted with an adjunct to adulation
While I grew agitated by her aggravation
Until I made Adelaide fade
And found further feminine flair in a woman with silver silken threads as her hair
© 2012 copyright© …..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Categories:
diatribes, angst, me, me, silver,
Form:
Double Dactyl
Tired Muscles, Cortexually Speaking
Straining against the ice-cold rhetoric-
Spewing from a winter of discontent; alive
Only because statues never die, they just
Spout specious diatribes from the halls of
Congress, under glaring tv lights; illuminating
Lascivious lip-smacking gargoyled journalists
Intent on destruction, in any way, at every
Opportunity, America....but I did promise a
Thaw! it was the prelude title before the title
Of this penumbras poem...
I need only look outside, to the nearby tree-line
Tubes snaking thru the maple trees, yes! a
Sugarbush!
Nature is real, statues are not!
My spirit seeks joy
I know where to look, vaya con dios...
Categories:
diatribes, character, political,
Form:
Free verse
I'm a speech punk; kind of a menace
Not sure if the word is permissible in these parts
But that's the word I need, life's a furnace
So flush that. Gosh, you leave me no choice
I'm trying to speak, hear my voice in the whisper
Through the walls of disparaging noise
This is the true genesis of your lyrical nemesis
Within the lofty walls of these subliminal premises
So join me in these choruses
If you are tired of all those empty promises
I know some will hold on to being cynical
And insist that so and so is not tyrannical
On the offensive, trying to sound authentic
I’m getting tired of these old nonverbal diatribes
Untried ideological theories from war times
Self-proclaimed superheroes asking for more time
Descending heavily on dissenters
I find it interesting. You insist on destruction
But cry foul over the consequential sanctions
Questions leading to more questions
Your overarching approach is nonsensical
You're overreaching, overreacting
Flashing knives and talking peace treaties
I choose reason, so I'll be philosophical
Through and through until people know the truth
I'll show you who is master in this class
Through the looking glass, looking straight ahead
Hard forehead set against their hardcore hearts
Delicate apples of eyes rolling upon these surfaces
Don't forget light shines in the darkness
These are obviously obnoxious princes of madness
Gospel hardened bumpkins, hard of hearing
Pluck off their ear muffs and remove the earplugs
I don't know, it's the starkness
Of their skewed vision and aversion to reality
Posing, for whatever reason, as minimalists
And all of us losers attempting to look strong
Strolling roughshod on dog dump filled terrain
They say without travail there are no babies
So, I'm caught barefoot in this hell of a place
No name, upstart among folks with no faces
Clasping hands holding back nervous chuckles
Upon the sight of my adversaries' bleeding knuckles
Section such and such paragraph this and that
Yeah, voiceless man quoting verses
Telling the man with the pitchfork to get lost
Categories:
diatribes, hip hop, rap,
Form:
Free verse
Who is in the room?
Who owns the room?
When the GreenWoke Tribe
evaluate their strategic platform
for conquering RedUnWoke DiaTribes
what politically scientific purpose
and/or psychotherapeutic intent
for healthy inclusive democracy
[and not merely more wealthy
StraightWhiteMale corporate kleptocracy]
may wake up and win/win thrive?
Not so stuck on playing win/lose
monopoly games
preferred by monotheistic
anthrosupremacists,
privileged competitions
for recreating monocultural bullies
and sacrilegious
sanctimonious
green or red politically correct
dogmatic unwoke bosses
Judiciously proclaiming discrete
separate but equally undamaged
deceit
In resonant baritones
repeat unenlightened bass base
repeat disempowering soprano space
repeat replete
unwoken
still broken
repeat...
Who is behind the broom?
When GreenWoke evaluators
reconsider healthy
co-passionately wealthy
sweeping democratic invoked potential
Integrity to grow more
bilaterally healthy
bipartisan support
for woke up wealthy.
Woke
could send out evaluation forms
to every registered UnWoke
and this might explore half our hoped for story
of how empowerment
and enlightenment have grown/groaned
through last year's sentient
yet often somnolent
competitions in stuck down government.
But, growing trust
more than mistrust,
woke truth
more than unwoke half-truths
together show and tell,
as all UnWoke know too well,
bipartisan passions
co-invest tax-payers
and health therapeutic players
preferring to synergetically swell
rather than not tell
quietly fell apart
stuck in competitive squabbling
hell.
Categories:
diatribes, health, integrity, peace, political,
Form:
Parallelismus Membrorum
Accept lack of infinite knowledge
accept there is much to impart
accept my mortal existence
accept my falable heart
accept the limits of language
accept the curving of time
accept the eternal expanse
accept my downfall of virtue
accept the inconsistency of words
accept my purposeful intentions
accept my discourse with ego
accept my negative nature
accept my torturous suffering
accept my wandering moods
accept the critical glances
accept my sated desires
accept my unruly vexations
accept my moral incontinence
accept my bitter diatribes
accept my feigned attention
accept my solicitous silence
accept my anxious aggression
accept the death of civility
I accept nothing, I strive for perfection
Categories:
diatribes, growth,
Form:
Free verse
On Learning To Become A Guru...
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Categories:
diatribes, allusion, analogy, angel, appreciation,
Form:
Free verse
Sudden, surly, vicious words
shake them to their core
the bear's awake, they must not make
their lord and master roar
Spitting, snarling, diatribes
make them fear his growl
the bear's awake, they must not make
a noise while he's a'prowl
Slowly, sadly, bitterly
the years and decades passed
the bear's now old and they've grown cold
and yet their fears still last
Categories:
diatribes, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
Sounds that Echo
I have heard the deafening sounds of this raging River.
In her silence, echoes a voice that did make me quiver.
For, the essence of her diatribes at me, did deliver
a message so cruel, so cold, it made my spirit shiver
to think that all I gave, unappreciated was this giver.
From her heart, the depth of her soul, not a sliver
of compassion, of understanding, of acceptance.
She never even gave this silly old fool a chance
at the joys, the pleasures of a slow dance,
nor the intimacies, the passions of romance.
B. J. “A ” 2
May 17th 2017
Categories:
diatribes, love hurts,
Form:
Rhyme