Best Goddam Poems
A true mirror would reflect you truly without omission or apology;
It would bring to the shore your shadow and show you fully.
After burning down your flesh and melting down your bones, the high fences holding you in, a true mirror would set you free!
A true mirror would leave minds in awe of the fullness of your supposed 'emptiness'
It would echo your strength when feeling weak.
It would paint to perfection the kindness of your hips,
The gentleness of your waist,
And the patience of your eyes.
A true mirror would break the chains holding you
A true mirror would shine light on the compassion of your arms,
How you pick up your sister when she’s all trodden down, beaten up and losing hope.
It would write your words on clouds and like a permanent photograph lift them high as they heal, build up, and say to your brother; You can do anything and be everything you want! To you there are not limits
A true mirror would unclip your wings and let you soar.
A true mirror would reveal you truly, as you are – a god reflecting God!
Unstoppably
Unshakably
and undeniably restoring the world!
So go ahead and break the glass on the wall
Smash it on the floor and burn the box
Erase the lies you were told and set yourself free!
You’re not just tall bones, dark skin and sad eyes
You're not pain and frustration
You’re not another human walking the earth to fault and fight
You’re a god reflecting God!
Unstoppably
Unshakably
and undeniably restoring the world!
A true mirror would tell you no lie
It would show you exactly as you are meant to be,
It would speak to you in the voice of thunder
Frightening the sleep in your mind and scream loud in your heart
You are a goddam god, now wake up!
and some days sitting, looking out of the
open door, to the tropical sunlit yard,
feels like being in a Goddam tomb;
but when the long-haired girls walk by
and smile that smile, everything looks
better and that's OK and life looks brighter
and I wake up a little more and dream of
honey and a hot M16, and I make coffee
on the black civil-rights stove, and Martin
Luther King shouts out, "I have a dream,"
and thats OK and alright, and life looks brighter
and the house across the way is decorated in
shame and the hookers hum dull tunes, and
play on their Gameboys, and discuss Columbia
and their vulvas, and the kids they never had,
but that's OK and alright, and life looks brighter
and the stealing monkeys come in and out, and
the furious, curious, crucified neighbours, come in
for sugar, or a loan, or to borrow a dream, or ask
for my phone; and that's OK and alright, and life
looks brighter
and the sharp cruddy, thud, thud, thud, of music
from the disco hall, makes the bad girls dance and
the boys smoke dope, and the priest who wants a
wife and a rest from the bible, gets down and makes
his move; and that's OK and that's alright and life
looks brighter.
and the wheels of the trucks kick up dust and leave
their travelled, oily hopes behind, and maiden aunts
with pension plans, and questions about sex, and fruit
and empty wombs, busy along; and that's OK and that's
alright, and life looks brighter
and the swaying palms and decaying, delaying coconut
farms, with their chop, chop, chop and howdy-doody
charms, get under your skin; like olive oil and turtle soup,
and beaches with perky, querky, pleasant staff;
but their Ok; and mean no harm, and that's OK and alright
and life looks brighter
and an old man once said in the heat of a dense, humid,
lazy, fishing day; "don't give a damn, it's OK and it's alright,"...
and life looks brighter.
How foolish am I?!?
YEARS beyond our sad end.
Multiple relationships past the
Joy of all that we shared and were,
I doubt I even (fleetingly) enter your mind,
Let alone time the cadence of your heart to mine,
Or polish the gold memories in your pocket, as I do.
What an absurdly pathetic and commiserative fool I am!!
I still find myself, on more occasions than I hate to (begrudgingly)
Admit, not only pining away in the night about how the sad moonbeams
Through my window connect me to you in some odd, existential sort of way,
Or sitting on the beach at the ocean, casually writing little messages in
The sand that you'll never, ever see, but ALSO writing you poems!
And songs! And even Letters and emails that I'll never send,
Though I spend FAR too long making sure they're JUST
RIGHT. What the hell is wrong with me?? It's been
A decade-and-a-half since you so lovingly
"Dear John"-ed me on my birthday,
(Our kids nearby so I wouldn't
Make a scene - I wouldn't
Have ANYway) ...
Inside my birthday
Card, at that ... my damn
BIRTHDAY card!! Gotta say,
That was pretty freakin' cold, and I
Would never have pegged you to be so
Heartless. I thought I knew you - thought I knew
You better than anyone, so many deep, dark secrets
We shared, or discovered - but it seems you hid that brutal
Side away from me, and saved it for that last, keen, cutting farewell.
The joke was on me, (and I sometimes imagine you laughing at the whole
Cold birthday card "Dear John" thing with your friends ... "Oh, you should've
SEEN his face - turned a hundred shades, then white! But what could he
SAY?!? It was a birthday party, for chrissakes!! Oh, my god what a
Hilarious joke!!") ... Yeah, that really was a stroke of icy cold
Breakup genius, I must admit. I wonder if it was your
Idea, or if one of your treasured friends or family
Came up with it? Doesn't matter now, does
It? And it doesn't matter that I still
Care. And it doesn't matter
That I waste time ...
Perfectly good time,
Writing poems for
Someone who's a
Ghost ... things is,
I'M the goddam
Ghost ... a sad,
Sorry apparition,
Slowly but surely
Disapparating into
Nothingness, and
Happy to do so, to
Carry this damn pain
To my sacred oblivion ...
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)
With a great plan have I sojourn to this world
A plan to hurt my earthly parents,
To cause a non-lasting joy amidst them-
Through my purposeful death
And still coming back to the goddam world
Only to be reborn by my old parents.
I love it when you call me Stillborn
Cos I was never meant to stay
I was only meant to give you joy
Which will be short lived hereafter.
Causing pains to my mother is what I enjoyed most
By allowing her breast milk soured having no one to suck it
And thus,making me proud of my self
For I am Abiku.
Schack lives matter for the simple reason that I goddam F' in said so!!!! signed Daniel Schack as in Daniel in the lion's den and let me tell you it feels that just about every bleeding day!
WAYLON, WILLIE, MINNIE, LORETTA, AND --KEITH RICHARDS???
(AIN'T NO COUNTRY MUSIC ANYMORE)
There ain't no country music in this town.
Cain't go out drinkin whisky all night long.
can't find no decent juke box anywhere around.
There ain't no country music in this town.
I heard Keith Richards singing Willie's song.
That's why country's gone so goddam wrong.
I don't hear nobody wailin' anywhere in town.
There ain't no country music in this town.
There ain't no country music I can sing.
There ain't no country gitars like there been.
It's more like country jammin slammin on the bar.
There ain't no country music in this town.
There ain't no ladies left like Minnie Pearl
Theire aint much hope without 'em for this world
don't hear Loretta singing, anywhere around
Theire ain't no country music in this town.
There ain't no country music anymore.
I had enough of country rock and roll.
There ain't no fiddles playin down on Music Row.
There ain't no country music in this town.
© Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
aka Ron Wilson
and a mobile howitzer (a mortar track)
had blown-up,
nothing remained, except the flattened
bottom;
and what was left of the crew, you could
have scooped up with a spoon:
and when I asked the priest, where their
souls had gone; those that heard, sucked a tooth
and called me a "goddam hippy,"
Will the angels sing
When the old matador
stares down his final bull?
Knowing that his dance
Of death’s fine procession
Grows ever more still?
And sooner or later the sword
Will miss its mark?
And will those angels know their song is for no one at all?
Or will they put down a 50 spot on the bull?
2
Those angels know there is no score keeper
What is this any way,
A goddam baseball game
After all only silence echoes through the empty stadium
Where there was never a ticket punched
And the Dodgers never received
The Brooklyn cheer.
And the angels?
They are cheap subway preachers
Who have learned to live on their knee.
3
I know you pine
for
an anxious city that haunts every song
you stole,
without its ghosts.
They (the ghosts) are why radio exists.
Of course New York no longer thinks like Paris
and only the roaches
now cheer for all the empty units.
What is left for these ghosts to do
but to place their bets at the OTB
on races that have already run,
and waving tickets already punched and expired?
You will never learn how to shift the way you walk
in a city that no longer has its own gravity.
I've learned to let my body dissolve into the darkness
of the movie theater
as a means of leaving this place
to escape when everyone around gets
too close
like blind cave fish unware of distance.
Its a trick taught by Hindus when the blood runs dry
according to the tv.
Life you are a whore
We took a vow to live happily, healthily, with fidelity for life
Just like a wedding promise between man and wife
Time has gone by and we have had our ups and downs
Moments of sadness and times of joy, but those are all part and parcel of life
But now you have destroyed my life, betrayed my trust
Taken away all the important things, that make living a happy life, a must
You have ripped out my heart and tarnished my soul
Remove my aspirations and hope
Driven me towards a black hole
Life you are a whore
You have left me hopeless and weak
My only companions are your three ugly sisters and the title of freak
May I introduce you to Helplessness, Hopelessness and Despair
Thank you so much you whore, that’s really fair!
I was faithful to you, now you leave me with this devilish trio, suffocating from their satanic kiss
Entwining my body and soul, constricting me, dragging me into the abyss
You betrayed me!
You cheated on me!
You abandoned me!
How goddam cowardly!
Life you’re a whore
Last one out, switch off the light
Time to end it, I can’t take anymore, the end is in sight
Life goodbye
The last curtain call
Life you’re a whore, you sat back and let me fall
The New Colossus-2
Not like that loser green chick with the lamp,
Our New Colossus has his own gold door,
Behind it he tweets out his grand revamp:
Abjuring that which made it great before,
He seeks to make his country great again.
This brazen giant, air-bridged between the ears,
His beacon-hair glowing world-wide disdain,
Maskless, manipulates his base’s fears.
And with hogwash’d conspiracies defames.
Promising immigration a la carte
This….Mother, sullen-toddler eyed, proclaims:
“Send me Norwegians, cuz they are, like, smart.
Send me your Brits (no, hold on, better not!)
Send me some Russians—those are useful guys—
Totally Czechs and Slovenes, if they’re hot.
But do not send me those I do not prize.
We don’t do huddled masses any more.
Just keep them if they’re homeless, wretched, black—
The a**-hole refuse of your s***-hole shore.
Send those, I’ll send them, tempest-tost, right back.”
“And tweet me not of Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Emm Lazarus or Martin Luther King.
I’m the least racist guy you’ll ever know.
Those losers now don’t mean a goddam thing.
Abe Lincoln’s overrated, by the way,
The Gettysburg Address was way too long,
In seven-score characters I do OK--
OK? No, great! (So says my friend Kim Jong).
Abe was a loser. “Captain my Captain”? Please!
I prefer presidents who don’t get shot.
FDR, JFK and jerks like these,
The Rushmore crowd—I’m all that they are not.
“Government of, by, for...”! “What you can do..”!
“I cannot tell a lie, I chopped it down”!
“Nothing to fear but fear itself”! So who
Believes this crap? I’m not just any clown.
By fair means or by foul I’ll win the race.
My bigliness by fate has been decreed.
Don’t wave the Constitution in my face:
Amendment No.2 is all I need.”
For the inspiration--the Emma Lazarus poem on the pedestal of New York's Statue of Liberty--see https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46550/the-new-colossus
Oh the goddam cockroaches!
Like living aliens from 50’s movies:
and in my house!
Where do they live, these errant knights?
In search of food, and greasy squires, as
they scurry across the kitchen’s night.
One’s without a leg, a skirmish with a skink?
And two just stare at each other; lovers, or
two males looking for a fight?
It’s hard to tell which is which and what is
what, amid the morning heat; but I live in
hope, that they’ll migrate, one day across
the field; to the rich man’s house, that looks
so neat, and share upon his wealth.
My life has been a wonder, how I wonder where it went
I wish I’d kept a journal to record the days I spent
So wishing for a future that is now a fading past
I hardly can remember cause I’ve aged so goddam fast.
I’ve tried to quit the smoke and drink but that was just too hard
I find it difficult these days to tidy up my yard
My wife has passed and she was cook so often I’m without
My eyes are bad, my liver’s shot, I suffer with the gout
I chase the girls but never catch and that is just as well
I’m not the man I used to be I’m sure that they could tell
My children now avoid me cause they say I’m such a grouch
They always nag away at me to get up off the couch.
My steps are not as nimble cause my cane gets in the way
I go to church more often and in there I kneel and pray
That if my number’s over soon, I hope my soul’s not lost
And at the gates of heaven by St. Pete I don’t get tossed.
This mind is not as sharp these days my skin is not as taut
That I would live forever is the way I think I thought.
The wall gets closer every day and yes I feel the squeeze
But till they fit me for the pine I’ll do as I damn please.
There are those
who are blasting Poetry Soup
They say that the poems there are not very good
Well if there are one hundred thousand or so poem
on the site
some of them are bound to be fine
Some prefer free verse
others rhyme
There are so many
who are writing poems
including not only scholars and professors
but also sanitation workers
baseball players
union members
and doctors and attorneys
Don't let the critics spoil your fun
You are the creator of the verse - not them
(and if you make a little cash out of it
you deserve a goddam medal)
DON'T BEG ME TO STAY Tribute to John Donne
My dearest heart, I do not go
Because I’m tired of you
Or think that other worlds will show
A heart more kind or true
Pretend I’ve died, just tell your heart
I’m dead forever gone
And with a kiss you let me go--for now I'm moving on.
Yesterday the sun was here
And now it’s back again
But feels no passion or no fear
And has no sense of pain
Please don’t grab on to me so tight
Release me on my way
Don’t get it in your mind to fight
Don’t let my future sway
For when you sigh, and look at me
With eyes full of despair
My eager plans are shred in two
My goddam life’s not fair
You say you love me, it’s a lie
For if such thing was true
You would not calmly watch me die
I hate my job—you knew
Please in the deep seed of your soul
Know , sweet one, I love you
Your hatred would be death to me
And make your curse come true
When the door has finally closed
And I’ve gone down the stairs
When you’re quiet and composed
Chase away your fears.
You see, I know life’s truest bond
Will navigate the sea
In dreams such passion as we’ve found
Will still thrill me and thee.
If destiny has blundered fair
Our path will surely meet
And when you see my red flash hair
You’ll swoop me off my feet.