Best Grandiose Poems
Genuine gentleman
Generation through time
Good lenses, massive frames
George, with manners and smile
Gabriella melted
Genteel manners dazzling
Golden shower marriage
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Used and checked on://www.howmanysyllables.com
Each line has 6 syllables
22 words
42 syllables
(poem in the Pleiades form)
30.11.2016
My hair stands on end with her around me
Her hands surround all my entire body
This leads me down the path of stunning blue
A path that leads to a delightful hue
Complete opulent feel made from this lace
On all pieces of me throughout our space
She livens my heart just by her kindness
She brings special hotness with her likeness
Right to me was her grandiose sparkle
To that end there’s her sexy pink ankle
Love can entertain our supreme insight
Our hearts live mightily with pure delight
Russell Sivey
Self-aggrandizing words spew from my page of endless,
rather obscure metaphors and similes,
each one more labyrinthine than the last,
reeking of pretention and thesaurus over-usage,
as if by some ponderous stretch of the imagination I will be considered a vocubulary genius,
capable of putting my vast knowledge of the human soul into word form.
I am an intellectually superior bohemeth,
well versed at the intricate art of story telling through a convoluted series of opaque thoughts and ideas,
therefore rendering me exclusively original,
even,
dare I say,
profound.
I balk at the very connotation that my cogitations are anything but perfectly imperfect; my pain,
my joy,
my failures,
my victories,
my aspirations,
my tortured mind,
my vulnerable soul splashed onto a paper canvass for all the world to behold. . .
if not today,
then perhaps when I am long gone.
And all of this I keep closely guarded under the guise that my work is extremely private
and personal,
a mere tool for expressing myself in a way that I find immensely therapeutic
to my fragile sensibilites.
It is not penned in the hope that anyone would see it and interpret it in such a way as to understand their inner self more thoroughly,
but merely as a means to introspectively understand my own being.
I am a direct descendant of those who have pioneered the way for people like me,
of those who have forged the road of immortality through the written interpretation of the human spirit.
I now consider myself among the exclusive ranks of this age old fraternity,
Eternally exempt from the despair of having lived a life wraught with the very real possibility of being erased from the annals of history forever.
At long last,
I am a poet.
My pal, Elsie has the biggest plans, grandiose almost, fantastically fun to hear about.
She is a complete delight to be around, and the clothes, hats, and shoes she wears really shout.
She keeps me in stitches for days on end when she flies in with her long-suffering earl.
She is going to start a blog, paint a best-selling canvas, write a novel, and paint a city mural.
Her terrific thoughts, her enormous dreams, her extraordinary plans somewhat set and well-laid.
Hilarity jumps forth when she comes around, to regale us with stories of her latest escapade.
I cannot wait to see her, to find out what she has actually completed this year, all done.
Although it has been rather tough for her to implement or start a project, she is always great fun.
What about your award-winning sculptures I ask her and your paintings, how are they coming along?
I traded those things in for calligraphy, she informed me, but I am writing a terrific love song.
What about your fantasy novel, are there a few completed chapters that perhaps I could read?
Then she throws back her head, laughing prettily from Accomplishment, her well-decorated white steed.
We wave goodbye, knowing we will have this delightful almost identical conversation next year.
It never ceases to amaze me how close to getting started dear Elsie has almost been near.
Her muse and mine hug tightly, because when we were young girls, they were exceedingly close and tight.
Her enthusiasm is exciting, I admire her determination to make her creations perfectly right.
I am not ready, she tells me. Creating a masterpiece is something that takes time.
Maybe next year, she confides because my productions and creations must be awesomely sublime.
Years of incessant planning have not helped Elsie put pen to paper or get started, it is true.
Three husbands, a two hour a week job and a couple of children have prevented her from a glorious follow- through.
its probably not true
im not that important
but it makes me giggle
and feel happy
my delusion is this
its narciisistic
yes
that some prophet way back predicted i would exist and be extremely important
that wherever i went the people around me would always be on the scen
and the world was hired to protect me
that i was the safest person on the planet
but im just black mailing myself
as if the prophecy about me was torn out of every book
to prove he was accurate
as they spy on me and my life
Though we try to carve out the green manifestation of which we dwell.
Through layers of brick and immense will, we engraved our presence.
Until nature duly strikes; the once coveted, is devoured by the landlord.
The ubiquitous endeavour maintains, even when coated by leafy lush.
A magnum opus of each culture, intended to astound the current breed.
A ghost of wonder and amazement, eaten by the hands of father time.
The distant past, is ever so tangible, forever relishing these antiquities.
Nature will restore the wild, still we are etched forever, forgotten never.
What be more grandiose than poetry,
expound at your own discretion,
bottle sunshine, save it in a jar,
tie an affectionate knot, spread it 'round
flood desert mirages with flowing spirits,
speaks kindly and murderously about love,
can tempt winds to uncoil temptation's gist
thrust upon or written asunder desperation
relentless in its seizing of human behavior,
magnifying moonbeams or star's decimation
perfumed magnolias 'neath winter's cruelty,
call of the wild midst sweetness of fresh rhubarb pie,
infinitely vast in its incalculable grasp of predication,
beyond limitless infrastructures' fancied significance
Delusion of Grandeur! I know not
Maybe i'm high,maybe not
But burnin' in me are now the flames
once drenched in mournful tears,
neath the timid soul in fear;
now ready to shine and surge.
I may not be a crowned head
commanding no army, no troops fed
and if i cry halt ! no war'll stop
Muffle my sounds,unhear my plea
till, at top of my voice
I scream ! I scream !
trembling the land,tearing skies
till,deaf asks what i'd to say
blind rises and lead the way
Delusion of Grandeur? I know not
and if i'm high so what!
Once the land of tolerance
now searing in febrile waves
terror, a disease so contagious
ailing me and innumerable other
And once the frozen veins
now boiling in anguish's flame
till,no racist termite hollows my pride
and no terrorists trample my rights
Contuse my body, soul untouched
drag me in dirt,esteem unhurt
'cause now i shine, i surge!
Even if countless candles to light
for all wronged graves
I'll fight ! I'll fight!
until, twisted minds putrefy
Delusion of Grandeur? No not
Am i high? Think not
Burning in me are now,
the wisdom's flame
once drenched in mournful tears
neath the timid soul in fear
But here i shine!
Here i surge!
I wish I could capture today
A pocketful of azure skies,
As I stroll through this scenic way,
Store it with photographic eyes,
And present it as a surprise;
I wish to collect in my hand,
Little trinkets of sunshine bright,
And gather those sunny pearls grand,
Scattered on the lake in dawn’s light,
Then none need be scared of the night;
I wish to hold a rainbow small,
Bottle some lightning and thunder,
I wish and wish somehow to ball
Some spongy cloud, and then plunder
A bit of moon's magic wonder;
I wish to store a jar of breeze,
Aurora's kiss of freshness sweet,
The scent of fresh flowers to freeze,
A glass of dew would be a treat;
If I achieve these, what a feat!
3rd December 2022
For Emile Pinet's "A Christmas Special" contest
In the middle of the night
When I can’t get back to sleep
All these grandiose ideas
In my wired brain do creep.
I will clean out all my closets.
I will rearrange each drawer.
I will freshen up the furniture
And spiff up the décor.
I will organize my poetry
To fit into a book
And the children’s tale I’ve started
Will get more than just a look.
I will sit and read the travel guides
I’ve purchased for a trip.
I will self-impose some discipline
And really crack the whip
In the morning, though, reality
Comes crashing with a thwack.
The enthusiasm 2 a.m.
Inspires won’t come back.
the heart is grandiose
in proportion to the mind
(accidental overdose;
the life that was never mine)
the problem with people
is the overthought
the simple, magnified-
distraught.
Competition for the few vetted by the fewer
What's seen subjectively haughty choosing of a loser
Visceral assertion deemed a sycophantic t w a t
Prideful ego lifted veinly all but one have been forgot
Not important but you made it so just take it as it is
You're a whipping boy of some poor schmuck a name upon a list.....
Bite Size Poem no.4 Poetry Contest
it's splendor shinned forth
the strength glistened off it's coat
trotting victory
What if I don't want the
smudges off the shields?
Why should I seek what
races away from me?
Not all struggles are
worth the sweats.
Can I choose myself and
forget about how ironed
my shirt should be?
How laced my shoes are.
Can I embrace the empty feelings
of frustration? Build a pack alone,
set the sky on fire, sink in those rough
edges so it obstructs the reflection
because my view reminds me that
I'm not enough. Spent years
searching for lights, yet I stay darkened.
I looked back and everything changed, life afresh at its peak.
Can I choose to burn my wings
and accept my fate, a failure?
Maybe lie on the beach
sculpting fishes in my head.
Lit candles, twirl around
hoping it manifests.
Because in the end what
use are the strives?
The world remains numb,
my stress and worth, palliatives.
But then, what is purpose
without thorns?
What is pain without tears?
Mourn without death?
Maybe I can grow if I wither.
I should treat my losses
and bleeds like paints.
Wear a mask until I'm healed.
Stand on my ground,
clean the surface so I see
my mistakes, maybe a glow.
Grandiose pathway
clouds glitter like the unknown;
Stairway to the sky.