Best Faux Pas Poems
The Pope Trips
Humble
Stumble
The Pope Drops His Ferula
Humble
Fumble
The Pope Gets Caught in His Robes
Divine
Decline
Copyright, August 18, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Pardon me sir, but did you not just break wind?
Pardon me sir, but don't you feel a bit chagrined?
Pardon me sir, but I deem your faux pas mighty gross!
Pardon me sir, but you've left me feeling a bit morose!
Pardon me sir, but on this bus we don't enjoy your sop!
Pardon me sir, may I suggest you de-bus at the next stop!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Poetess Darkly's "Pardon Me, Did You Just..." Contest
Exultant excitability chase
Leaving a bad taste
A faux-pas of a celebration
In place of jubilation
Camera smiles full of lies
All the party in disguise
Veiled in ceremonious style
Triumphant distractions to beguile
Hush-hush in a clamorous hilarity
A dressed-up gaiety
Revelling with wine and in consternation
Addled and unable to form an illation
The after-truth hurt multiplied
Feelings of exclusion intensified
The devil has been sold a soul through the back door
Of someone I adore
And she was beautiful,
licking the years from my face
and thankful I allowed such nonsense.
For her,
it was such nonsense
that gifted her with more time.
That rear-scratching against post and fence
as the moon eclipsed another of her hours,
until, I too, knowing we were alone in the dark,
scratched my own rear on the fence.
And I laughed
while she barked,
looking at me with a face that fit her name,
clumsy as she was for 13 years.
I named her Grace
and she named me Lucky (to have her).
To her chagrin she slept mere feet away
instead of between us,
but I made it up to her with endless belly-loving
and even when I think of her now,
I scratch my bum along the fence and laugh,
then cry,
and I could care less about my audience.
For those who lack conviction
Aspirations stay but a mirage
And for those crafting mountains from mole hills
Detriment a deadly barrage
Believers of strange eyes upon them
Flaunt shame as a wristed corsage
And without the courage to soften their hackles
Lie confined in their mind's dank garage
Jongleurs of fabled failures
Treat their worry to massage
Subjecting the rest of their dreadful days
To vexation's entourage
Clever inventors of futuristic fear
Paste pictures to a specious collage
And blame the world around them
Imaginary Sabotage
The beauty of love is when it is felt by two.
I started tracking down the history
of “whose” fault. Being human, to fault is ok--
This, persistently, leads me to spy
the naked lady, on shoreline rocks,
displaying her rarity with a pink smile.
I desire to achieve the secret
of the infidels. Many times,
I was teased to go for it,
to see and live my dream,
to strive for something pleasant.
Yet, the mystified blue bell, in my patio, stirs
…and sighs; she’s letting me notice her
willingness. Yes, a month from now is winter.
And, my roof will fill with snowflakes
of abundant loneliness, sending me
alone, watching the awesome dancing fire.
Oh, I sense my breath, in silent gasping,
avoid waking the eye of jealousy, but by then
lightning strikes.
What have I done?
My soul trembles. Almost insane I am,
with the madness, what the eyes have seen.
Love hides the infidels, my damn thought.
Finally, here’s where I truly stand: I won’t commit
myself to love, ‘til you’ve loved yourselves, for…
the beauty of love is when it is felt by two.
of part one pertaining to my most recent poetic entry (Inexplicable Quirky Memory Unhinged clasp one) unintentionally got submitted twice, and rather than tamper with attempting to delete delicately, (and probably wreak greater havoc then desirable), this generic human male (meaning thy characteristics of body, mind and spirit) lumped within that general category designated as average.
this chap neither exalts in arrogance, haughtiness, orneriness...nor does emasculate, humiliate, lacerate...his being.
tis modesty i strive for despite the (all to quick to judge via initial virtual impression) predicated on my predilection to populate poems (and/or prose) with ponderous pedantic particular pun dit tree.
Don’t forget
I tried and did
My best
I gave it all
And more
Don’t forget
When you
See my picture
That this man
Lived ten lives
Took the pain
Of ten men
But felt the
Love of none
Don’t forget
I was just
a man
Of flesh
And sin
Foibles
And Faux pas
Don’t forget
This man
Was your
Dad
Starmer when said 'return of sausages',
He just meant safe return of hostages.
Yet, in this world of words
Where actions are rare birds,
Gaffes rule, tongues slip with faux passages!
____________________________
Happenings |32.09.2024| humour, political, words
Poet’s note: The UK Prime Minister Starmer called for the return of sausages, which soon went viral. Sure, he meant hostages. But in this world of words and words and little action, what else can be expected?