Best Ennui Poems
Disenchanted with ennui,
I want to my earth
To meet the sky,
To catch a falling star
Outside a ‘Monday thru Friday’
‘Nine to Five’ job,
But traffic on the eight eighty
Enshackles me in the tapestries of my mind.
Amnesia walks me through corridors of lice
Armed with coffee cups, the stock market on the radio,
I have lost all with my nasdaq fall
Into bars and brothels of dubious repute,
All is carnal after all.
Entrapment with Chopin on the alarm clock,
Donuts oozing with cream, wiped away with a napkin,
How do I get away from Tchaikovsky at night?
As the older whores at last snore,
I light a cigarette and lean out my window
To wail a poem, catch a falling star.
clinging to branches
some leaves with marmalade hue ~
abscission from host
11/7/2020
Any Nature Inspired Haiku
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
howmanysyllables used
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JUN-JUN VILLANUEVA
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Scheme
" Vision "
Vehemence
Occurrences
Synthesized to fabricate " LIMITLESS "
Neurons - clashed, rammed in panic ... lethargic
Brain's wreathed, wrenched, gnarled
Yet, " SURVIVED "
Language
" PENNED "
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*-* " WHERE YOUR POETRY COMES FROM " 2 TETRACTYS ONLY contest entry
The bullish sun sat on your avant-garde tree
Growing on the baroque poems of your dancing knee
The dilettante attributed it to the icy ennui
As elan had been in a holiday spree
I was very happy at the warm anomaly
It was indeed a deja vu for me
Amidst the sucking cacophony
The carte blanche was the best policy
Of course if it came from a sunrise that was bona fide
In the anaemic milieu of our poor poetry
January 18, 2018
Ten words ten lines 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Flowers, delicate, serene flowers
Bah-
Give me something with power!
Roar of fighting cats,
An eagle soaring toward prey,
A black cloud of vampire bats!
The happy, tinkling bells
of a winter sleigh,
Nay-
Give me a wolf's prowling howl
A hurricane come to land!
The hyena eating a thing so foul,
Nature in the raw, wholly unplanned!
* Inspired by Poetry Soup's own Ashok Niyogi and his poem ENNUI
Honorable Mention in "My Inspiration" contest by Deborah Guzzi
A. Green
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.
Nor do I feel free
akin to noble savage
(gratis to Jean Jacques Rousseau)
completely unfettered, and able lee
to fend off unseen banshee,
comically swatting for all to see,
though today February Eighth,
2019 quite similar (i.e. dime
a dozen) to many previous twenty
four hour blocks of time,
herewith metering poetic testimony
hashing out another rhyme,
I feel considerably less mindful,
as if complicit in a major crime,
(yes absolutely more remorseful
regarding entire lifetime
of indifference) prime
err rilly linkedin into call lapsed
shoulder shrug, shrink into self, or
other convenient pantomime
schizoid personality disorder diagnosis,
asper this pronounced emotional detachment
more painfully clear climb
ming pyramid of self actualization -
engendered through longtime
therapy in tandem with
half dozen prescription medications
and cathartic, holistic, therapeutic...pastime
writing poems delving into scarred psyche
aftermath years burned by quicklime
writhing, when aware impacted me now
evincing unrepentant blank affect
behavior couched, established, fostered
during in utero stage, characteristics
manifested by full termtime
tidbits shared by parents chime
how my body tensed
like tightly wound coil before schooltime
reinforced destructive coping skills
resident in this older chap
aroused during bedtime
poking, seeping, violating...dreamtime.
Silent density has settled,
Like an aural veil.
Ennui bores me with her hungry stare...
And I stare back.
Her contact is a barren performance.
A Goddess pulls at my strings,
But I am music-less.
She will wait in blackness.
Vivacity will, again, pull tight in me,
But until then,
I will sit and submit to my mood.
© 2012
Ruby Honeytip
Awakened by the melancholic melody of necessity,
Roused by contractual obligation,
Against darkness in endless adversity,
Evolved into a specie with night vision,
Subconsciously performed ritual dances,
Penance to restore consciousness,
Dispelling transient nocturnal trances,
Ubiquitous ambitions of emptiness.
Following in the procession of drones,
An unwitting conscript to mammon’s army,
Incensed by the incessancy of ring tones,
Pacified by the promise of a debt slashed salary,
Obsequious to every instruction,
Uttered in hushed tone,
Whispered curses of eternal damnation,
Fleeting, this heart of stone.
Transitory downing of tools,
Heralds an ignominious symphony,
Renditions by a choir of fools,
A ballad orchestrated in cacophony,
A holy nation in impermanent delirium,
Duality of priests in a diabolical race,
Admittance to utility deprived asylum,
To find respite in love’s embrace.
Upon celestial demise,
Bemoans a rude awakening,
Cloaked in ignorant disguise,
A day closer to final reckoning,
At every journeys destination,
Futile lies all gain,
In utmost apprehension,
Awakened, again.
A young man once reveled in whoredom
debauchery, drinking and wardom
then he got old
it has been told
he died then the cause of death boredom
In the style of T.S. Eliot.
*******
Ronaldo sprawled in luxury
across from where the spaniel lay,
pretending to read Mallarme
and yawning, stuck in Chapter One.
The Grandfather ticked heavily,
there was no other sound in sight
except dear Josephine who plonked
and murdered dear Stravinsky's Rite.
Boredom, and the day's absorption
with the National Election,
who shall be our next Great Leader?
pray not some hapless interceder!
Clementine declared,
"the weather is a bit inclement,
what to wear for Blanche's soiree,
burgundy, or pearly grey?"
Ronaldo trifled with religion,
"Heaven doesn't need a poet
who maligns the Holy Spirit,
I am going straight to Hell,
where I'll meet Lucrezia Borgia,
who will toy with my affections,
feed me fabulous confections,
poisonous, my second death."
Nobility has late escaped us,
suburbanites are out to scold us,
gentle is as gentle does
is not the same as it once was.
We're outcasts in a sea of trouble,
cucumber sandwiches and quince
have disappeared in all the rubble,
what price pomp and circumstance?
...inspired by 'A Cooking Egg' by T.S. Eliot
Ronaldo sprawled in luxury
across from where the spaniel lay,
he soldiered on with Mallarme
and, yawning, re-read Chapter One.
The Grandfather ticked ponderously,
there was no other sound in sight
except dear Josephine who plonked
and murdered dear Stravinsky's Rite.
Boredom was the day's absorption
with the National Election,
who shall be our next Great Leader?
pray not a hopeless interceder!
Clementine declared, 'the weather
seems to be a bit inclement,
what shall I wear to Blanche's soiree,
burgundy, or pearly grey?'
Ronaldo trifled with religion,
'Heaven doesn't need a poet
who maligns the Holy Spirit,
I am going straight to Hell,
where I'll meet Lucrezia Borgia,
who will toy with my affections,
feed me fabulous confections,
as she plots my own demise.
Nobility has late escaped me,
suburbanites are out to scold me,
gentle is as gentle does
is not the same as it once was.
For no reason at all if our heart contracts,
enveloping us in an aura of gloom,
lost in ambedo trance, our presence reacts,
refuelling vibrations ushering doom,
so unless we're in possession of the facts,
we stifle innate bliss beats that yearn to zoom.
So where lie roots of depression, we may ask,
to exhume darkness as our breath by breath task?
Let's cut to the chase, ignorance is the cause,
which in turn means that unless we are aware,
moment to moment, with desires put on pause,
we'll be unable to side step ego's snare,
so being here and now is the cure because
by abiding in stillness, our soul's laid bare
and we then witness the ebb and flow of tide,
in the firm knowing, that bliss pulsates inside.
08-May-2023
__________
Anatomy of Melancholy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Small towns slowly awaken with the rising dawn
Methodic rhythms of routine move you along
A care-free track of vague irrelevance
The setting sun tucks your life away
Into carefully maintained homes
The town slows to a heartbeat
The night lulls you to sleep
With a final sigh
You start to dream
Perhaps of
Something
More
created 1/1/2015
Ronaldo sprawled in luxury
across from where the spaniel lay,
pretending to read Mallarme
and yawning, stuck in Chapter One.
The Grandfather ticked heavily,
there was no other sound in sight
except dear Josephine who plonked
and murdered dear Stravinsky's Rite.
Boredom, and the day's absorption
with the National Election,
who shall be our next Great Leader?
pray not some hapless interceder!
Clementine declared,
"the weather is a bit inclement,
what to wear for Blanche's soiree,
burgundy, or pearly grey?"
Ronaldo trifled with religion,
"Heaven doesn't need a poet
who maligns the Holy Spirit,
I am going straight to Hell,
where I'll meet Lucrezia Borgia,
who will toy with my affections,
feed me fabulous confections,
poisonous, my second death."
Nobility has late escaped us,
suburbanites are out to scold us,
gentle is as gentle does
is not the same as it once was.
We're outcasts in a sea of trouble,
cucumber sandwiches and quince
have disappeared in all the rubble,
what price pomp and circumstance?
Last Modified: June 04, 2015 at 12:40 pm
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...a tribute to T.S. Eliot