Best Excessively Poems
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
*DRUNKEN POET*
There I see him sitting like a dummy.
Asking me for more shots of rummy
Talking about his detox days.
Talking about his poetic ways.
Rhyming my eyes comparing them to the moon.
Whispering lines saying he wants too spoon.
Next thing you know his words start getting deep.
Poeting out words revealing he's the family's black sheep.
His blood shot level was releasing his emotional word.
Dreaming that I was in a bath like a dirty bird.
Intoxicated with a breath so refreshing.
Designing me a thousand passionate ones in the meshing
Falling for his physical and mental temporary drunken state
His sense of intellectual things where hitting me real straight.
Swallowing his words like a forbidden love potion
I excessively indulged him with more alcohol to inspire his motion
Admitting to me that love was his downfall.
For me he fell from the stars and than began to crawl.
Proposing a toast for the sake of love
Rambling how I'm the only one he's dreaming of
Nourishing me with his ocean water of affection
Re-bonding his words for me to be his resurrection
Call me crazy for feeling the connection!
Allowing him to penetrate his poetry in me like an injection.
A character so loving above a 99% liquor proof test.
Romancing me with the disguise that he is the best.
Restraining myself from this drunken poet called my husband
Remembering that he is the one fool I can not stand
In his most charming rhyme he called me his rehab.
By that time I knew it was time to call him a cab.
Reminding him about his Alcoholic Anonymous class.
Now all of a sudden he starts acting like an a$$!
Putting his drunken sober poet mind to sleep.
Anyways tomorrow he will still be the same poetic romantic creep!
BY: P.D.
******((Army of love))******
beautiful mattress
hot and riled explosive gift
nature at her best
************************
***((Gone with the wind))***
the music
listen to the moaning wind
biting to the pain
*************************
******((Over & Over))******
the rainbow
fingertips touch a few drops
kiss of dew
*************************
*****((Midnight Cowgirl))*****
Texas scat, scat
puts it in, in the muddy hole
Cowgirls get it on
*************************
*****((rattle my bones))*****
taste my sweet spot
touch it, feel it, make it move
the earthquake
*************************
****((American Graffiti))******
their limbs trace,
breathing accelerates
pulse race, excessively
************************
*****((Spice or Slice))******
haikus cake for two
hope you enjoy more than one
leaving you arouse
************************
Sexy-U-Contest
From now on
Mornings will never be the same
How fortunate I feel
Can’t take it for granted
Everyday I am thankful
Not rich but enough to get by
Free to do as I please
Create my art
Write poetry
Just for the love of it
No need to peddle or hustle
To put food on the table
Of course it wasn’t
Always so easy
Everything has a price
I haven’t forgotten the years
Of ploughing through
The ruthless game of
Politics and personal agendas
In the arena of public service
Keeping an eye on the finish line
That seemed would never come
Giving my all till depleted
Not everyone is willing to pay the price
Battered ego
Accumulated scars and anger
Nobody ever said
Respect would be part
Of the salary package
But the finish line comes faster
Than one can imagine
Time passes and
Only now I stand back
And see the big picture
After comatose years of
Deprogramming and recharging
Peeling away layer after layer
One day there it is
That inner pearl exposed
Primed to be nurtured and polished
Feeling excessively fortunate
Overall very few people are so lucky
Read on air by invitation ~ July 24, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2025, 3rd place 2020
Submitted on May 28, 2018 for FROM NOW ON POETRY CONTEST sponsored by NAYDA IVETTE NEGRON - RANKED 9TH
Black crime, Justice prevails
Lilly White Crime, no justice hailed
When the crimes of a man weigh more than the crimes of a man,
Justice has failed
We are all doomed to the broken edge of the gavel when clouds of white nights gale
Forces of guilt driven findings drawn in black man’s plight hammering down excessively to tightly embed black headed nails
Boxes of henpecked shrugging shoulders deliberating measures of one sided balances as a sleeveless gown displays two arms of justice as black and white
A white right arm defended by a two edge sword
A broken black left arm that once kept, law, piece, and order in one accord
Kept the trains of justice from being derailed
And
Upheld the balances of truth on an evenly weighed scale
AC4realpoetry
This is my story about Menudo, and not the boy band Menudo
Mexican Menudo soup, known as the breakfast of champions
It’s what borracho’s, and Ricky Martin and all el mundo saludo
Chili mix, cilantro and lemon or lime, oregano, served in ramekins
A hearty feel good spicy tripe soup, honeycombed and hominy
Intestines of a cow, the stomach lining, an endearing word pancita
Who says culinary is always flattering, for it is part of the anatomy
Soup a Mexican woman slaves over, we’re grateful kind senorita
If you grew up with it, whether an acquired taste—it’s the bomb
The atmosphere is what you look forward to on every Sunday
With your familia, and then occasionally Ce Ce’s “friend” Tom
Most of the family erm, drink excessively all night long and stay
Menudo has healing powers, cures hangovers and homesickness
Save lemon for Tecate, after this concoction you won’t regret
Beliefs ring true, this broth is good for you, good for any illness
True, your uncles and older cousins will be dripping in sweat,
It’s spicy blends of seasoning flows through the blood stream,
And that’s why it is topped off with a bottle of chilled Corona
While discussing last night’s behavior, debating it was a dream
Teasing the little ones, and embarrassing they’re sister Mona
Extra lime, and beer for cooling down, served up in ramekins
Menudo, it’s the soup they call the breakfast of champions
Hangovers have come and gone, and we tend to eat less meat
My favorite recipe substitute’s tripe for Oyster Mushrooms
Tasty Menudo I made in many vegan styles, no one can beat
Chopped for texture and spiced up, the unique flavors of legumes
Successful accomplished and asombroso, serve in a bowl and heat
I wish not to see such disgrace,
As that which humankind has conjured
Greed envelopes all into stout fingers
Lust embraces passionate youth
Envy breathes in the minds of the conceited
Gluttony resides in those who are unfit
Sloth exists in those who are uninspired
Wrath remains rabid in the permanently livid
Pride sits within the excessively bold
I wish not to see such disgrace,
As that which humankind has conjured.
Our God is bountiful because...
From the time we come to earth,
through our innumerable birth and rebirth
till we achieve salvation
he is with us, within us, guiding us
to ensure we don't sin and reach him
He loves us beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
Ninety eight percent of our tasks he does
He completely manages working of our body and the world
still he never claims he is the doer
He allows us to assume full credit
He loves us beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
There was no need for him to bestow us with reasoning power and free will
He could have easily ensured that his impeccable world remains flawless
but he gave us freedom
He loves us beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
He shows us the right path through our conscience
"Don't do", "Do this way" his voice within us guides us.
When we don't obey him our Lord, our father, our creator watches helplessly
But he never stops correcting us
He loves us beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
He could have created a simple world but he made an exquisite one, for all to savour
He went out of the way simply because
He loves us beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
God takes care, protects, nourishes all in the world
Big forest how they flourish? By whose grace?
Same goes for all living entities
He indeed loves all beyond measure!
And God is bountiful because...
We are his own children and like any parent
he wants, he seeks our happiness
He loves all unconditionally, excessively, beyond measure!
Boundless blessings of bountiful God
Immeasurable, incessant, infinite....
Our God is bountiful because...
Date: 11/4/2020
Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know, a hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious-
at once a Satan and an angel.
To the outer world I am someone.
But in the well-guarded cellars of my privacy
aren’t I different~
hiding my innards to light, as every other man?
Am I not a masked player in life’s pantomime?
At times, I feel so proud,
excessively in love with my own image,
like Narcissus, the poor hunter boy
fated by gods to languish
on the bank of a pond,
over his own floating image!
However, with all my strength within,
do I not feel as helpless as Prometheus bound,
waiting for a Hercules to come
and save me from my plight.
If Prometheus’ bondage was God willed,
mine is self- willed…!
Is the difference so very crucial?
Sometimes I feel I am Janus,
looking backward and forward
into my past and my future,
never living in the present.
Or am I more a Sisyphus,
eternally rolling a rock over to the cliff
from where it keeps falling down?
Sometimes I wonder,
amid great splendor, do I not starve
like Tantalus of Greece in the pool,
beneath the tree, with the low- lying branches of fruits
constantly eluding his grasp,
and the water, ever receding before
he could take a drink!
As a poet, how I wish I could
equate myself with Calliope,
carving my mind on the wax tablet
with stylus, my pen and coloring it with my fancy.
Or Orpheus, so skilled in music
that with my sad musings,
I can make even Hades, weep
and the rocks to fall in line!
I shudder to be a Medusa,
turning everyone to a stone
with my sinister glance!
Instead, I want to be one of the Graces
and never one among the Gorgons.
Pitched in this gallery
of strange mythological entities,
I wonder how I appear to others
with all my multiplicities
of character and identity!
O, dear poetry, how old are you?
give me a glimpse, The Story of Sinuhe
the art just might predate literacy,
before the birth of the written word, BCE
Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor the eldest fictious
the Epic of Gilgamesh on papyrus
the world’s oldest love poems, verselets
Homer’s ancient epics
Compositions made for spoken word
I finally found out from all I’ve heard
what my dear poetry means to me
the love of artistic lyrical spontaneity
learning of words using them expressively
or impressively, excessively, whatever it takes
with poetic license, there are no mistakes
Works that lead to electric elucidation
with rhythmic flow, meter and alliteration
my primo priority is; my poem pieces make sense,
with rhyme and my love for classic cadence
having the quality of amatory ambiguity,
steered adrift with ominous obscurity
strapping images of suggestive metaphors
I’ll write to inspire as do the troubadours…..
Talking excessively just can’t stop.
Overly stressed and beginning to flop.
Messing in matters you need to stay out.
Ushering in tension and running about.
Choices being made without a second thought.
Holding others hostage by your own malicious plots.
Drama, drama, drama that’s all I hear.
Rehearsing matters over and over again.
Always in the valley of o.p.p.
Mettling in other’s business this should not be.
Angry at others and being the drama queen.
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
Soupers might have noticed that from about one year I am going on in translating Dante's Hell in english with rhymes. Why I am doing this? First of all because Dante is a genius of about 700 years ago and has founded the italian language after latin, called "volgare" (which is for "common"), but to a poetry level which is extremely high. My task is to try to repeat, in the limits of my known and with the help of internet, the magic sound of the original "Divine Comedy". I know that there are many translations in english done from people of english speech, for instance the Longfellow's masterpiece with no rhymes, which I consult some times to find the english appropriate terms in tough situations, but my version differs much from his. It looks like Longfellow tries to avoid any rhyme even where it would spontaneously come in. Other translations are excessively free, losing the original Dante's spirit.
What I am trying do is not to lose this spirit, maintaining somewhat the italian style in the english language.
I have to acknowledge the enormous help I receive from google translator although I have much to apply criticism in the choice of words and maybe not always I succeed. Moreover, I use write rhymes.com and rhymezone.com.
A problem apart is that of syllables: in italian, syllables for terza rima are 11, but the rule is that accent has to be on the tenth syllable of the verse, so the rule is on sound. In english most words have the accent on the last syllable and, as a matter of facts, most words are made by a single syllable. While composing verses I am trying to obtain verses of ten syllables, but sometimes I find a better sound with nine or with eleven. No strict rule seems to be the best, at least for my perception of sound.
Finally, I am open to criticism of soupers. In the future I will try to improve the quality of my translation if I have enough time. I am eighty years old and my life is not going to last much, so this translation is some sort of will I leave now.
Friggity friggity!
MacRaith and O’ Tuama:
poets incessant and
blabbering bores.
Publican served insults –
flibbertigibbeting.
Rhetoric ingrained dull;
flyting supreme!
________________________________________________________
The limerick is an English comedic five-line poem. The form could be found in England as far back as the early part of the 18th-century. It is thought to be derived from the Maigue Poets of Croom, County Limerick (depicted here). When the two erstwhile friends, Sean O’ Tuama and Andrias MacRaith, had a falling out they started trading insults (in rhyme format), ie flyting.
LEXICON
flibbertigibbeting: frivolous, flighty, or excessively talk.
Flyting or fliting is a contest consisting of the exchange of insults between two parties, often conducted in verse.
Once upon an under edited and somewhat jaded,
female’s mid-life crisis
she sat down to contemplate the options of all her
“age appropriate” vices’
“Debauchery deficient”, “depravity bereft”,she
was "tragically prosaic”.
sadly ending her self-indulgent deprecation
with,“pitifully archaic”
Upon further diagnosis and self
evaluation, she concluded
she had neither mid-life crisis nor deficiency,
but was brazenly deluded!
Severe results of this delusion;
insomnia induced proliferation:
this excessively verbose and heinously,
superfluous pontification!