Best Foulest Poems
In a bubble
Of social interactions
Biden my time
Behind the gym
Until the trumpets pout and fluff
Punching I lay them all on the floor
Sadly life is down to the seconds
No time for self reflections
We jump on the slightest of offenses
holding our heads high on those pretenses
Our rights always trump our duties
Old hens chatter, yes a total disaster
A new world is born
Where insults are golden
And reality is scorned
Yet many prefer to promote interactions
Where seriously, is quite the foulest of transactions
Society now rewards those with the loudest actions
We all employ them in different ways,
most wisely, to inspire, cheer or praise.
Some try to keep them clean, and some do not.
Depleted of them, we can’t voice a thought.
We use them to make small talk, break the ice,
or offer resolutions, give advice.
We wheedle and beguile with them for gain,
or we may sharpen them, inflicting pain.
Consumed with envy, vengeance or with hate,
we hurl them to deride or to berate.
And it’s the foulest ones that some will seek
to ravage fragile spirits of the meek!
But other times, we ply them to entrance.
We spin a tale with them or make them dance
across a page in lines of poetry
by wielding them to capture imagery.
So whether they be dull or cast a spell,
we learn and grow if we digest them well.
And whether they be heard or signed or read,
it’s by the power of words mankind is led.
for Mac McGovern's "by request only contest, part 2"
From my chap book, "Not So Serious"
‘Tradition demands respect for age.’
Proclaimed some ancient Chinese sage.
Ah, that is such a noble thought,
But wise old Chow he really ought
To walk the isles of a supermart,
Stand behind old granny’s cart,
Left mid-aisle, perhaps forgot.
Limp, lump, wrinkle, lowly bent,
God only knows what’s her intent.
She, oh so slowly, moves about,
No particular thought or route.
Oblivious, she, this ancient dame,
To all but her arthritic pain.
But be thou merciful, be kind
When standing in the checkout line.
She’ll goose you with her shopping cart,
Perhaps let loose a trembling fart;
Then once she’s standing at the till,
She’ll fish a coupon, argue the bill.
Then comes one’s truest peeve of all,
Poor clerk has made call after call;
Out comes the hoary, leather purse,
A waiting shopper’s foulest curse.
She shuffles, mixes, dips, dips, dips,
A whiteness on her withered lips.
Minutes go by, seeming like weeks;
At last she grins, cackling, speaks.
“Oh, dear, my money’s out in the car.
Please wait, I’ll run, it isn’t far.”
Born to the sea
Mind of water, flowing thoughts;
The currents beneath your words could change us all.
River heart, born to the sea;
The solace we seek waves to you and to me.
Join me on this voyage, over water, to a new land.
All hands on deck chairs are temporarily in the sand.
Cast ashore to repair our vessel,
But soon we shall cruise again, so hoist that sail.
Raise it so high, that the crow's nest will not be our peak
And the land dwellers will be the last people that we would wish to meet.
My crew and I are setting off on an adventure;
A journey across the deep blue, to a land of mischief and wonder.
The undiscovered land, on the other side of a new life.
We be pirates, so we be; so raise that Jolly Roger flag upon high.
Let all who see our symbol know the story of our ship.
The unsinkable voyager;
A blast from the past, blowing through the wind.
Raise the sails and let the wind take us in and move us on
And throughout the jagged edged cliffs and beyond!
And on past the mermaids that sit upon the rocks,
Singing such enchanting songs
And on past the things that they call ‘The Leviathan’.
Release the Kraken! The foulest beast from the Gods up above
And we shall continue this trek into the darkest of the rum.
To the bottom of the barrel, right down to the Admirals eye.
Let the birds be our guide to our next paradise.
Land ahoy! There be treasure there for sure;
So onward ya scurvy rats and be prepared to fight once more!
We are damned to forever sail,
Since the life at sea swallowed our cursed souls;
Now we travel these high seas in search of more silver and gold.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Hidden within the depths of my words of the blackest ink
Are the truths only you and I know
Secrets and lies
Stolen moments of passion
Deception of the foulest kind
Concealing true identity
Time revealing sincerity of intentions
Thunderous silence roars
Locked away until the devil speaks his poison
Verbal sins from a malicious tongue
Etched deeply within my memory
Graphically vivid with powerful intensity
Regarded inconsequential
Remnant of the past
Considered residue a leftover wreck
Inciting me to be patient and strong
You will live to regret your venom
When my retaliation and revenge are revealed
THE SURGE
You came like as expected
Winds furiously shaking the ground
Rain unstoppable continuous to pound.
As hours passed, your fierce marks the town
water increases up to its heights but still
you never stop swiping every corner, left nothing to spill.
Scampering, they're trying to lope your ailing temper
Mother and child crying for help but your sound is a tearful killer
parent's cuddled the youngsters, but too strong your foulest curse.
It's not your intention to harm 'cause you're just a phenomenal mishap,
but for those you visited, you're the great destroyer
A mischievous, dangerous thief that left nothing even their foyer.
THE AFTERMATH
Scattered bricks, fallen debris, lifeless bodies on the sidewalk
Mournful view, so sickening to the eyes
You've taken out their lives, now all that is left are frozen as ice.
The beautiful city turns to abandoned graveyard
At night seems haunted, deadly ravage
at daylight you hear the silent echoing in the rampage.
Deaths are still unnumbered, missing still increasing
They who outlive cries for shelter, food for their needing.
Never deter, frustrated mind, weary hearts.
>> the typhoon Haiyan (local name:YOLANDA) hits Tacloban City, Philippines in the 8th of November 2013
A dusky sky becomes night as I lay here in bed. The
thoughts are Endless, as they run through my head.
I dream of sweeter days, oh, where did time go?
I want to get it back and take it in slow.
Mr. Timekeeper, could you do me a favor?
Turn back the clock, we’ll fix it later.
Back to a momma’s boy, with freckles on my nose.
When I’d chase my brothers with the water hose.
Just a little bit shy and a lot too rough.
Boy, I could cry. But man, was I tough.
I learned about life and did what was told.
Everything’s different when your 8 years’ old.
Now, I’m all grown, but really not much.
Don’t know what it means to be a grown-up.
Work keeps me busy, while I learn how to fly.
By no means perfect, but I gotta try.
Until then, I think I’ll reminisce.
On the childhood days’ that seemed better than this.
Mr. Timekeeper, could you do me a favor?
Turn back the clock, we’ll fix it later.
Back to a green-eyed boy, with a two-foot smile.
Making daddy proud when I read my bible.
Jesus held me tight; 'Til waves began crashing.
The cancer took form, like dark clouds come storming.
A Brother lost the fight. Levi, I prayed for more time.
An Innocent soul gone, by natures foulest crime.
I learned about life and tried to be bold.
But, It’s hard to understand, at 8-years-old.
Mr. Timekeeper, I need no more favors.
Cause now I remember, how time passed me over.
The day Levi died, the joy was lost to me.
A teary-eyed boy, dried his tears on times sleeve.
Buried but not forgotten, that pain is inside me.
It looks like a brother, with his heart still in pieces.
I may be grown, but not all that much.
I’m just a child, who’s body grew up.
I still fear tomorrow and what it will bring.
Yesterday pains me, with the sad song it sings.
Mr. Timekeeper, where can I look?
To find that old joy, the grave swallowed up?
I’ve learned about life and how it is cold.
I thought it'd be different, at 8 years old.
there at the foot of the hill
stands a lone durian tree -
tall, strong and stately;
from its branches hanging
fruits with oval, spiky rind
prickly and sharp as nails;
the foulest smelling fruit
on earth the durian crop
it makes you throw up;
but crack open its shell
then you shall uncover
food of the gods under;
tasty and rich and sweet
milky, loamy and creamy
aphrodisiac to so many;
stinky fruit but most dear
to those who do not care
about its rough covering;
so very difficult to grow
this delicate Asian tree
say experts in pomology;
cheers to all good people
who, like the durian fruit,
may appear ugly outside;
yet though they may stink
are so beautiful inside
where it really matters.
Their numbers drawn, the backwards lottery
Almost none were aware they were playing
Assaulted by the poisons that save them
Hairless children with steroid-swollen cheeks
Feared stigmata of chemotherapy
Daily valiance, heroism unsought
Magic bullets are a relative thing
Modern wonder within the foulest curse
Not many years ago, a death sentence
Now, survival rate of eighty percent
It’s miraculous,
but if it’s your child
Then it’s a slow round of
Russian Roulette
Our own bullet burn unforgettable
Swelling in his eye, excised then regrown
For those of you playing along at home
Regrowth is a very ominous sign
Mucous Associated Lymphoma
Our newest demon, bane of our baby
Based on looks, it’s sixty percent likely
The microscope will have the final word
Sword of Damocles hangs
for six long weeks
As a succession of pathologists shrug
I can do the math much quicker than that
It’s sixty percent times twenty percent,
Probability times mortality
Twelve percent chance he will not live five years
Our sweet baby boy, turned budding young man
A gun with eight cylinders, one cartridge
Facts melt like lead into a bullet mold
Neither dead nor alive, Schrödinger’s cat,
His fate, an unseen quantum paradox
Not resolved until we open his box
And create life or death by witnessing.
Savoring the taste of each day as a
Maddening flavor of infinity
As we wait for a loud click or a bang
Finally the word arrives:
no cancer.
Spared, this fate of others,
no good reason
Not a part of God’s plan for us
this time
5/22/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
after all the idiots who followed Camping
found themselves up ****’s crick
after May of 2011 &
after all the morons hoping & “praying”
that they would get a “get out of life free” card
with the ending of the Mayan calendar
just a little more than a week ago,
discussion has already begun to loom,
spewing forth like the foulest vomit
(outdoing even lil’ Linda Blair’s projectile in
“The Exorcist”)
from the mouths of these
apocalyptophobiacs,
who cannot go to sleep at night,
unless they are counting repeating images of
Nostradamus,
hopping over the farmyard fence
with the rest of the
sheep.
yes fans,
the batshit****ingnuts of the world
have begun to spin their minds like a top,
panicking about “solar flares in 2013,”
“robots taking over the world in 2030,”
“Prof. Cunningham’s time capsule
predicting biological weapons eliminating
us all in 2016” & of course, our favorite
fictional character with his flowing blond hair,
blue eyes & ability to walk on water,
he’s supposed to be returning sometime to
“fight satan,” um, just as he has been
supposed to for, um,
quite some time…
but those avid readers of Jeane Dixon
will be waiting for 2020,
when “satan” & “jesus” fight for the big
heavyweight title…um,
but supposedly he has a window of 17 years
to arrive in the ring,
so, this writer certainly hopes that “satan”
brings a book or an ipod or some jax or
something, cause’ ****,
he’s got a while.
and then there’s the jewish end-seekers who
abide by the talmud’s 6000 year lifespan of the world…
and then there’s the numerology numbskulls
who are counting up how many times “allah” shows up
in the qur’an &
on &
on &
on &
on,
until these people are
scratching out their eyes
because they can’t stop twitching in fear
of
something happening at
some time, some place in the
future,
when they are
ALL DEAD---
DEAD
DEAD
DEAD---
just like the rest of us,
so,
this is an ode,
a salute to those who
are sick to ****ing death of
these people who will not embrace the
fact that their lives will not end in any grandiose,
metaphysically charged,
special, or unique kind of way---
hoorah.
As I stood before the porcelaneous basin,
And streamed into its already uric and xanthous-stained depths,
A stain, a sight and a liquid yet yellower and more urinary;
And as cloudiness, not of mind, but of that which is uric attended the
Deposition, a thought occurred unto me, and it poetically and psalmically
Collected and gathered and arranged itself, so that it was as follows:
Does she of a morning stand before some wicked ablutionary sink,
That vile whorish slattern who devoutly believes that only dulcet voices
Emanate from the mouths of the damned in the pits of the lowest Hell?
What fell and foul rites does she with hands cleansed with foulest,
Blackest, evilest water; which of these wickednesses does she perform
And practice, she who washes her hands in the black-flowing waters of
The Stygian pit?
Who is this damned damsel, dame, and maiden fell and foul and not a bit
Fair, who as a fool believes that there are melodious voices echoing in a
Mellifluous and delightful chorus in the lowest pits of Hell?
Though I doubt not that therein there be many an ungodly maiden:
Indeed, the blackest, foulest, ungodliest of fell and evildoing maidens:
Plaguing and blighting the very pits of Hell, who is to say that their
Feminity alone endows unto them a felicity and a melodiousness of tone?
That is doubtless the (unsound) thought that crept into the very
Black heart of she who wrote those foul, foolish words;
But to me, not even the godliest or the goodliest of men,
But inditing ever of good with heart, and tongue and mind and pen,
For such is the great purpose of art such as this, no?
Withal, to me, she spoke of foolery, and of folly.
Lest she be speaking facetiously, in her daft assessment
Of foulest Sheol, she surely was wrong.
Wronger than wrong, if such a thing ever be.
And in my mind, as I urinated, I thought these poetic, psalmic thoughts.
And, though there be hundreds of characters and spaces remaining,
Touching this and that and all things else
And any number and all manner of good
Or e'en fell and foul
Matters, I haven't a word else to say.
The poem is expended, completed, done today
And so am I, with it at least, I must say.
Righteous World!!!
Indeed!!
The Righteous, who are proud as they know it!
Are the foulest of them all!
"The Few" seeks refuge under the veil of transgression.
The Righteous or 'The Rightful' as they call themselves bolts in from nowhere.
'The Rightful' are too proud,
They speak too loud,
For the achievements which 'they' think has made them proud.
"The Few" fall under their domain.
The Righteous in the course of time forget to teach what is necessary,
As forgetting is a hideous mistake.
And forgetting in the nick of time is more than a mistake.
Since, to err is to human,
But to err again is not rightful.
So, "The Few" eventually rides the wave of rebellion.
But, The Righteous appearing again,
Chides "The Few" of doing anything righteous.
Since, righteous according to them is not righteous as they think to be.
Chiding regularly according to them is the most righteous thing.
But they forget, that mistakes once heaped into a pile turns into filth.
But "The Few" knows what it is to be righteous.
As, obligation comes into play in shaping the so called Righteous people.
"The Few" gets crushed in order to become people of honour under the righteouses.
For, it is according to these righteouses, "The Few" become the downtroddens.
And it is for this very reason,
In this very season,
"The Few" becomes the rebellions.
Dirty scowling crone
Old as the wind
Tear-stained cheeks
Sadness of knowing
Shuffling quietly
Through twisted shadows
She is darker than night
Darker than you
Stony chill of her breath
Whistling across
Withered yellow lips
The foulest of crypts
Hating eyes
Hating you
Earthen pits of decay
Windows to oblivion
Embracing you…
Twitching, dying bats
Scurrying, gnawing rats
Screaming, slicing cats
Don’t look
Don’t watch
Don’t see
Don’t know
Ever
The midnight raven does not chatter.
He screeches and waits
upon the gallows for a hanged man’s eye
-a tasty morsel for a daemon.
For a raven is a fine gentleman
who feasts only on the foulest carrion.
This feathered fiend who lurks
pays no heed to the Holy.
He would sit upon the heaven’s gates
if only to purloin a child’s soul.
“Hark!” he cries, “I bring ill tidings,
I am the emissary for the ashen horse!”
Oft on a dreary autumn morn
the harbinger tap-tap-taps on a window
and all inside do quake in terror
for Death draws near to collect due payment.
In the end it is the raven
who laughs mockingly upon the bodies.
For fiercest queens, the finest pedigree,
Begetter and bestower of all lauds;
For foulest plagues, the fairest remedy,
Despoiler and destroyer of all frauds.
Revered for rectitude, renowned for laurels,
You helped reform the world to honest fame;
Reviled as sinister, renounced on morals,
The world deformed you to mendacious shame.
Now candid trade’s betrayed by blackened graft,
And harmless wit’s harangued by hurtful wile,
And simple skill’s arraigned by compound craft,
And vulgar pride's maintained by vulpine guile.
The grossest lies all get averred for gain
Since humblest truth became impugned and slain.