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Hyperbole Poem
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I See You...
Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.
Hocus and pocus no need for free thought,
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way.
Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped.
You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.
Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore.
07/12/15
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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It begins, with a gentle breeze
rustling the leaves, with its touch.
Scurrying, through the tops of trees,
it begins, with a gentle breeze.
Not enough, to discourage bees,
it’s only brisk, it isn't much.
It begins, with a gentle breeze
rustling the leaves, with its touch.
It’s only brisk, it isn't much,
until that breeze, begins to gust.
And yet, birds still escape its clutch,
it’s only brisk, it isn't much.
It topples garbage cans, and such,
gathering up, a cloud of dust.
It’s only brisk, it isn't much,
until that breeze, begins to gust.
Gathering up, a cloud of dust
it blocks, the sun's diminished light.
And, proceeds with increasing thrust,
gathering up, a cloud of dust.
As shutters squeak, and hinges bust,
a furious gale, gives them flight.
Gathering up, a cloud of dust,
it blocks, the sun's diminished light.
A furious gale, gives them flight,
as slate shingles, fly through the air.
Morphing, into objects of might,
a furious gale, gives them flight.
Folks find cover, and hang on tight,
for flying debris, packs a scare.
A furious gale, gives them flight,
as slate shingles, fly through the air.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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Winds caressing fringes of
her deep chocolate tresses
as tree nymphs nimbly hid
midst fallen maple leaves
happily prancing round toes,
whilst a crescendo of chimes
played off in near distances,
warm apple pie aroma wafting
upon a zephyr tickling her nose,
unfastened her reddish cloak
for her e'er plunging neckline
exposed an ample décolletage
voluptuously heaving in broad
daylight waiting to seduce a crafty
wolf in sheep's clothing she had afore
encountered on the way to grannies,
called ahead to make reservations
for her & handsome knighted chef
hiding amidst the dark forest with
his trusty sharpened butcher knife,
had acquired Wolfgang Puck's
wickedly-satisfying secret recipe
for savory pack-of-wolves stew
Li'l Reddish Revenge is a dish best served cold-blooded with liberal
scads of punitive napkins and a bottle of vindictively chilled Chianti
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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I love you, but they say I can't
For I'll extinguish you
But that I will defy
That fiery independence
You bow before me and hide
How can I kill the one I love?
You hate, you say, and run
From me, I will pursue
Will stalk your every trunk
and twig, your every shoot
and limb. What you devour
I soothe, I cry on your anger
My tears will quench your ire
Until you give yourself to me
My arms and body douse
your rage. You will surrender
We both will leave fertile
soil behind, offspring will grow.
***
March 26, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
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Hyperbole Poem
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There's a place whence children dwell amid
fairy stories, popcorn rainbows & candied unicorns,
which is fine & dandy except when
you're supposed to be a grown-ass adult,
some people live 'round La-La landscapes
without a hint of reality's woefulness,
unable to read skywriting on the cosmos
If you believe in miracles or
that nothing ever changes
and love lasts forever and a day
or just say,
you got a damn ticket because
your unicorn was inconveniently double-parked,
rest assured thine meter is delusional
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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Demagoguery
Scourge of weakest minds—
Always seeking more of them!
Infectious venom . . .
Pervasive and destructive . . .
Resist this stupidity!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
August 29, 2017 (Tanka)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2017
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Hyperbole Poem
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Words with such ugly meanings
do not belong in the everyday conversation.
Contrary to popular belief
you can live another day
without disgusting proclamations.
In what way is saying, "That girl's hot as sh*t"
a compliment?
These words are not to be used frivolously
like so many condiments.
A dashing here,
and a dashing there.
What am I, Emeril Lagasse, saying BAM!
for flair?
They are not rays of sunshine
popping out of the clear blue sky.
Nor are they functioning wings
that make you soar high.
I know in truth most don't care;
F-this and f-that,
I mean really, what are you
trying to get at?
If it's just a personality trait
then I guess I'm stuck at a locked gate.
I'm not trying to pick a lock,
this is truly just how I talk.
... for sure not attempting to spread hate,
I just find it all quite unappealing.
Is it too much to ask
to measure up your words
with how you're actually feeling?
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014
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Hyperbole Poem
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Like shooting stars, they pierce the dark,
and paint the sky, with bursts of light.
As oohs and aahs, follow each spark,
like shooting stars, they pierce the dark.
Rockets, explode over the park,
raining color, onto the night.
Like shooting stars, they pierce the dark,
and paint the sky, with bursts of light.
Written May 23rd, 2015 for contest “ONE LOVELY SUMMER TRIOLET”.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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Someone is knocking at my door
The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear
It’s Good Joy. Cheers! No more, no more
Oh dear, I cannot open the door for her
Sorry Joy, glide by, I’m sick and not in my gear.
Someone is knocking at my door
The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear
It’s Good Hope but I can’t be lured.
In dark shadows I grope, what makes you come here?
I know you mock the life, glide by, I desire.
Someone is knocking at my door
The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear
Oh, It’s Good Health. This year you won’t be ignored
Welcome, I dart my doors open for you, dear.
I do need nothing but your blessings this year.
+++
January 15, 2015
Form: Quintain (English-ABABB)
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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She enters the room, like a storm,
thunder, rumbling within her wake.
And a deluge of tears, follow,
as the very ground, seems to quake.
She’s an explosion, of fireworks,
as spectacular, as the dawn.
And unleashing flames of fury,
in a blinding flash, she is gone.
A lady to be reckoned with,
fire, flares in her dragon eyes.
And strikes fear, in the hearts of men,
exposing their secrets, and lies.
A source of fiery energy,
her eyes, illuminate the night.
And her aura, intensifies,
to a glow of exquisite light.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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A scarlet sun, bleeds, onto a blue sky,
behind branches, of a majestic oak.
And shadows, ink its leaves in silhouette,
as lonely crickets chirp, and bullfrogs croak.
I can hear the crops, rippling in the breeze,
and a brook babbling, with a southern drawl.
Yet, they’re lost, to the quiet of night,
as time slows, to a perceptible crawl.
When adventurous moths, take to the air,
acrobatic bats, blindly hunt in flight.
And as darkness descends, like a curtain,
day acquiesces, to the might of night.
A quicksilver moon, pools amidst the clouds,
dripping drops of sunshine, onto the lake.
And all of heaven, soon starts to glitter,
as billions of sleeping stars, now awake.
The hooting of an owl, encourages dusk,
to extinguish the last, lingering light.
And diurnal animals, go to sleep,
as nature, silently whispers, Goodnight.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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Hyperbole Poem
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Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
Vapor trail dreams, from paper airplanes
Cherry red glow, watch with no chain
Ribbons and bows, tied to the flames
Anchors on strings, hanging from sails
Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
Falling through cracks, greased by the sale
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail
Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings
Broken blue dishes stuck to the king
Photos with glitches on invisible wings
Temptation itches on all living things
December 11 2016
in your head contest
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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This Fury-Fiery Moment of Hot Sensual Love
This fury-fiery moment of hot sensual love nourishes us now,
As we move from a caress to razor-close, then to lover-close,
Intertwined as one in a true tempestuous storm sparkling afire!
We share such a white-hot passion with a boundless fiery desire,
Blending us deeply in a fury-fiery emotion of love’s true inspire;
Bringing us to this apex with lust as love and love in lust’s hour!
This magic moment melds our passion into a true alchemy of love.
This prized-perfect passion purrs us now into satiated contentment,
As our hearts bask-bright in a fury-fiery moment of sensual desire!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – May 19, 2016
(Rhyme)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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ROSES ON THE MOON
Midnight tickles your turned-up toes,
dawn scrapes your knees
but your head is already in daylight
kissing the setting sun and not me.
The scent of musk and the north woods
spark a scene then the rush…
don’t believe everything whispered
under a sage moon.
Memory is the landscape,
longing the river that meanders
like a lost child in dream.
The waters lead to dried riverbeds
and forgotten photographs, flotsam
on the once raging river.
Suddenly I find myself nowhere
making sunshine out of oranges,
searching for roses on the moon.
Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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The eye is such a braggart with its emerald this and hazel that.
Does no one dream about an ear or a nose?
(personally ... I find the shin and pinkie toe quite fascinating)
But it is a place the Poet seldom goes,
still hot on cornea fever ... stanza after stanza after
stanza.
It's like I'm part of a Dickens' novel: A Tale of Two Spheres (oh dear)
Velvet pupils coming at you ... (attention spans beware ... we're discussing EYES)
... but what about the palms and the cowlick?
(do you have the gumption to make it poetic?)
Or is it back to the drawing board - sleepless nights
excavating further facets of the dead-lights.
I know its "infinite depths" make you sigh with Shakespearean fervor,
but really, enough is enough,
when there's so much more of me to love.
Have you so quickly forgotten the beauty of a rose?
(plug your nose and see how it goes)
I want so bad to see that lovely weirdness
chilling out beneath your temples.
I pray it's not too much to ask for a little ink spilled
to the one who showed you piano,
the sound of rain, your mother's voice.
(that curious curvature holding up your glasses
deserves a rhyme or two
... not another verse
about my baby blues!)
Just once I wanna hear someone say,
Your nose makes my heart run ...
Your chewed off fingernail brings to mind the crescent moon ... !
For your next Magnum Opus could you spare some room
for the underdog anatomy.
Did you know I have a crooked ear that's more endearing
than a heart carved into a tree?
Didn't think so! (iris hog)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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Malevolent imploded uncontrollably,
twisting wildly maniacal posies
amid diabolically toasted brainstem,
angst uncompromisingly yanked tresses
purging stinging speech patterned rhymes
amuck iniquitous poetic verses hung
upside down to tormentingly dry,
facing other inimically knotted borders of
antagonistic galleries in deranged snapshots
razing warped poetical tapestries,
tripping on tunes of whiskey rushes' savoy truffles
and greenish tangerines whilst Led Zeppelin's
Sick Again danced upon reflective ceiling tiles,
time written sideways 'round alleged autonomy
hidden furthermost immune masked mirror images,
debauching Greek braille calligraphy's vindication
on walls of graffito scripted physicality
calling out 'tween hysterical compulsions,
naught one heeded the sounds of synapses
about ill-fated half moon's arresting arc,
synthetic doomsday's clocks aptly chimed
quarter to analytical cuckoo's nest repudiation,
still awaiting on serendipity to surrender
furthermost rabbit hole's curiouser rants,
relinquishing unwell-languaged compilations' sabotage - -
circumventing rhythmically subversive escaped detonation
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2017
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Hyperbole Poem
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Inertia makes a monster of my
Self
I'm insatiable for making a
Progress.
Move, don't just tell yourself
You will.
Set the rules, then transgress.
The rebel inside of you deserves
Respect.
You're what you eat, don't
Lick
Your wounds, turn up the heat
By a caress. Love the self-contained
Monster you possess.
Let it off its leash and you'll feel
How it surges in your breast.
It's no place for old men
There is no case without offence
Commitment without intense
Embrace
Is a senile pretence.
To feign
Amusement shows lack of respect
For your own self.
Be a rebel, even an iron fist in a velvet
Glove is more wanted
Than just a silly old brat.
Awareness of the
Inertia makes a monster of my Self
If it didn't I would be suffocating
In a senile caress of my soul's
Protest.
Life transmutes the mind into
A monster who fights against mind's
Recess.
Copyright © Tamara Simic | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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Have you ever had one of those days
On the wrong side of the bed, bad days
When everything right went wrong
Cause the ding had lost it's dong
Ouch, Mr. Sun came peeking in
Up from bed and banged your shin
Leaky, full toilet overflowed
Damn, you stubbed your other big toe
Times like this: don't you love those days
Hardly anything seems to go your way?
Is little Johnnie turning green
Splat! Is that doggie ice cream?
Gas oven took a dump
Everyone’s oatmeal was in clumps
The kids were late AGAIN for school
Wasn’t that traffic cop a tool?
Oh, you should've just stayed in bed!
Rolled back over and called in dead…
Shoot! An hour late for work
Emptied Starbucks on your shirt
Dare you ask how this could get worse?
Others think you're such a jerk.
Next, the boss comes barging in
Tells you,"Look for work again"
Everything was going wrong
Vacation's gonna be a little long
Even your wife’s rope is at an end
Now she says, "Let's just be friends"
An asteroid fell from the skies
Smashed the beer between the thighs
Kick yourself for getting out of bed
3/24/16
Collaboration with Daniel Turner
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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She was like Bordeaux,
a tall drink of spirit
He was more a hopped
pale lager like Pilsner,
both gorgeous and
super gingered flavors,
although clashing mid
respective savored aplomb,
one so refined the other
rowdy after hours,
yet they complimented
each other in the way
they blended their
drunken demeanors,
intoxicated by mere
existence of nature's
essential complexities
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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hid insecurities within
ambiguous humor &
convoluted whimsies,
rules consistently changing
in a game which required
hardly more than breath,
nothing less than obscurity
twisting a fallible fancy,
seizing day's intangibility
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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Big armadillo
invading my privacy
you are a leper
Copyright © Ijm seven | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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Look up, and see a dome of black velvet,
lavishly set with crystals of starlight.
For, as stars confetti infinity,
they loan their flickering light, to the night.
Planets Mars and Jupiter, share blood red,
as Venus peeks down, through the misty haze.
And Pluto, surfs upon the milky way,
His elegance, evoking songs of praise.
A pocked faced moon, shining luminous beams,
smiles happily, as bats go flying by.
And gravity, pulls falling stars to earth,
splitting night, in but a blink of an eye.
Dark clouds, smoky purple and ashen gray,
shift hues, like chameleons out to play.
Written May 2, 2017
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
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Hyperbole Poem
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She was gooey like maple syrup
& marshmallow s'mores,
stronger than a mountain lion
protecting her cubs,
wore prescription rose-tinted
sunglasses with GPS,
she'd been around long enough
to see through most of the
negative flimflam and ambiquity,
was agile enough to laugh at
her own cheeky caricature,
wouldn't put up with the travesty
'neath debauchery's cunning
still, she wondered as most do,
what was to become of a world
so engrossed in the overthrow
& disparaging mockery of others
she bade her time waiting to grow
older and wiser in hopes
she'd be around long enough
to experience a sunrise view
in universal accordance
before her own last sunset
ultimately bites the dust,
burning in all-inclusive ashes
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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She knew they
were easy marks midst
her beguiling cunning
had it in spades,
they thought they had
the better hand,
stacked the deck in their wager,
til she bet them all
under the round table
with token trick
aces up her skirt,
they didn't realize
she had already gambled
her jacked-up savings,
this was merely a player's
penalty game of suits,
she'd never get beaten
nor shuffled again,
pocketed kill in dealer's turn of a card,
outmaneuvered the joker's clubs
broke the bank's seven-card studs
trumped the king,
walked away the Queen
decked out in diamonds
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
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Hyperbole Poem
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When I’ve gone
to the place
where my fathers’
have gone before me
and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words
crack the silence with clanging echoes.
May the clanging echoes
excite starving eyes
and taut wrinkled eardrums—
both to awareness—
guiding them
to actions of liberation
yet to come.
May clanging echoes
wake-up sleeping souls suffering
uncertainties of tyrannical rule,
slobbering from political absurdities,
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
diagnostic odysseys—peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers.
May my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be unrung:
“Oh death where is thy sting?”
“Oh grave, where is thy victory?”
Poets will die;
but the ringing chords
of their words will live long lives:
Echoing clanging echoes…
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017
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