Best Impugn Poems
I'll be thinking of you as the cloak of night weeps lullabies to the waiting moon,
where morning star through cloudless sky sips the sweet of morning dew,
still, if the light should forget to shine, the beauty of you time can not impugn
as in my mind, yet your sweet smile, whispers the secrets of the one I knew.
Think of me if tear drops, like pastel pearls, kiss your soft smooth cheek
and the music stops, when the wind no more whistles across the ocean dune
for when the sweetness of your song, your tender lips will no longer speak
I'll be thinking of you as the cloak of night weeps lullabies to the waiting moon.
Think of me, when the fragrant petal adorns your satin wind fingered hair
far beyond the rough waters that life's long illusions have swept through you
to a place where vining arbors grow, Plumeria, Spider Lilly, and flowers rare,
where morning star through cloudless sky sips the sweet of morning dew.
Think of me on summer's day when melting sun warmed our cares away
like the breeze that caressed your glowing skin, here today, gone too soon
leaving only fading memories and dark lonely flashes of yesterday,
still, if the light should forget to shine, the beauty of you time can not impugn.
Think of me when the verse no longer rhymes and my words lose their meaning
for the muse that once lived inside of me, now, is but a curse of relic rune
which drowns in mumbled eternity, no voice for love nor life's intervening,
as in my mind, yet your sweet smile, whispers the secrets of the one I knew.
Remember me in the cold of winter past, when rain drenched our skin and soul,
clouds of pain like dagger's edge, against each finger my warm hands would be,
with exhaled breath I tried my best but the rain kept falling and took its toll,
before pastel sunsets untimely death, as thoughts weigh kind, please, think of me
...for I'll be thinking of you.
04/18/2019
Draw back the drapes of those tenebrous clouds
for my eyes desire a glimmer of the pallid moon.
Sullen shadows of night, her beauty enshrouds.
Covering her faint glow is a sin, I dare impugn.
Lustrous is her light when emerged in the night,
as pale as the alabaster skin of my love's cheek.
A pearl in the sky. Passion's flame she will ignite,
reflected across waters in an aura of mystique.
Without the moon, my soul would mourn, bereft.
Her splendor worthy of lyrics written in musical bars.
I would write a sonnet for her if my hand was deft.
Even though her hue is wan, she outshines stars.
I'll not weep for the moon while her light wanes.
I'm aware that it's just a phase, and soon will pass.
Then, comes the time when her luminance reigns
and billowed nimbus will turn aside for her. Alas!
If overcast shadows choose to darken the skies
let them do so to offer shade from the sun's heat,
but never allow them to conceal from my eyes
the trysting place where the pale moon and I meet.
July 22, 2022
One In Five 2 Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Phrase 4
Is there anyone who can explain to me
why someone in the Soup community
would gripe about those on the lists,
ranting on with their pen in clenched fist?
How important can the lists possibly be
to set someone's nerves off so repeatedly.
Why dwell upon them with such negativity,
screeching and wailing like a banshee?
I don't know what the fuss is all about,
but I certainly don't see a reason to pout.
If their name is not on the lists, no doubt,
could be they're just jealous as all get out.
I don't care who writes the most poetry.
I don't join contests for people to notice me,
but why do they impugn poets unpleasantly?
Just ignore the lists and drink some Chablis.
If you are guilty of this, take a drink or two
and put an end to your nagging like a shrew.
I'm weary of your protests and hullabaloo,
squawking all around the site like a cuckoo.
Contest themes give poets a place to start
silly limericks, or something from the heart.
You disparage them, tearing them apart,
but a poet's lines are treasured works of art.
What's it to you if poets want to compete?
Are you afraid that you'd go down in defeat?
Instead of bahing like a sheep with each bleat,
turn your sour scorning into something sweet.
You get poem of the day or poem of the week.
How quick you are to label yours with a tweak,
not the mark of one who's humble and meek.
It's a bit hypocritical. That would be my critique.
Entering contests is a poet's choice, not a crime.
If there's a laddered list poets wish to climb,
it's not right for you to sound off or chime.
Why don't you just find some other pastime?
There was a man with integrity that nobody can impugn.
The man who I'm speaking of was Daniel Boone.
This man was truly a great pioneer.
He lived a long life, nearly 86 years.
People are amazed by the incredible feats that he did.
In 1756, he married Rebecca Bryan and had ten kids.
As a young man, he served with the British military during the French and Indian war.
In July of 1776, he rescued his daughter and two other girls from Indian captors.
Sadly, the Shawnees shot and killed his brother Ned.
They thought they shot Daniel and that he was dead.
Boone was elected to the Virginia Legislature in 1781.
During an Indian attack, he lost another brother and Israel, his son.
He founded the town of Boonesborough in Kentucky.
When it came to having this frontiersman, we were lucky.
Boone went on to live until 1820.
People owed this true hero plenty.
Dragon saw an advertisement for a Beauty Pageant, He wanted in! No less!
It stated it was for the 1 to 5’s, so Dragon figured he fit right in. You guess?
When we got there: We were shocked! No Mom would let us in, at the door.
They were probably, just jealous, as they knew, they couldn’t win! Oh, boy!
After all, his makeup & blinged out bib overalls, were impressive, my friend!
But, we always get lots of paparazzi, and the organizer wanted some of them.
He allowed us in, anyway, Moms yea or Nay, or that’s what to us, he did say.
Now the ‘5 O’Clock News’ would present it, That was a 1st for them. A fact!
The little girls were loaded to bear: with make up, talent, and tons of *****.
But man their attitudes were awful… All about them! Who would a thunk?
Amazingly, that made Dragon, seem to fit right in! He had a Good chance!
Ever wonder, how they teach widdle babies the violin, how to sing, or dance?
Well, didn’t matter, for Dragon knows fire, so he put on a little Fire Dance.
Setting the stage afire, he stomped around putting it out. Well, it did look, HOT!
No one tripped him, any more, after the first one’s eyebrows, were singed off.
Finally, all got the same crowns, as the organizer: feared the mom’s, for sure!
Of course, Dragon got ‘Best of Show’, so the paparazzi wouldn’t decide to go.
This was quite an experience; I don’t want to repeat ever, or again, real soon.
Moms’ and kids were way too mean, when the cameras were off, I impugn!
But Dragon seemed oblivious to that… as he took his extra and final 3rd bow.
His mind was totally, in dreamland, for a week, or two, or Yeah, forever more.
Me, I came away with a better understanding, of the art of being, a stage Mom.
I suspect that Dragon had only wanted the bling of a crown, from the very start.
The Trophy became mine for the mantle, to display, after Dragon blinged it out!
So if chasing fame, just be careful, what you wish for… Dragon may be about!
Harsh words impugn if slung in hate
and rip apart a calloused heart.
Expressed regret cannot abate
the pain that permeates our slate.
It's best to stop and take apart
the wagon which has run amuck.
Affix new wheels upon the cart
then shove ahead to a fresh start.
Deep in the mire, our tires are stuck.
Pitch us a chain and yank them out,
and with a teeny grain of luck,
no one perceives our coat of muck.
For friendship wields a mighty clout,
true aid from friends will spread a path.
If fortune bleeds toward that route,
the winner's bell will ring throughout.
My cloud is a drifty sort of cloud.
A kicked back, go-where-the-wind-blows, kind of cloud.
It’s an easy-going, shoes-off, feet-on-the-table, kind of a place.
If there were a door, it would be a revolving door.
First, because those are fun to play on, but also, because they’re always open:
come and go as you please.
That seems fitting for a place like my cloud.
Different ideas and perspectives are welcome.
On my cloud we debate for fun, and laugh together afterward.
My cloud has room for diverse perspectives and strongly held ideologies alike.
Don’t be afraid to disagree with me on my cloud.
But you need to know that on my cloud, I make the rules.
So let me lay them out for you:
You don’t get to come at me with false accusations.
You don’t get to impugn my integrity and tell me I’ve been dishonest.
You don’t get to make assumptions born of cynicism or insecurity.
I won’t tolerate THAT tone…you know the one.
The one that denotes absolutes
and leaves no room for anything else.
The one that says, “guilty until proven innocent…
with no chance to argue innocence.”
Don’t forget yourself, this is my cloud.
And these are the rules.
My cloud is a drifty sort of cloud.
A kicked back, go-where-the-wind-blows, kind of place.
But violate the rules and come after me on my own cloud,
and it will be a storm cloud:
a looming, block-out-the-sun, end-of-days, sort of place.
When my cloud darkens, you will not be invited to leave.
There will be no, “Hey you, get off my cloud.”
You will simply be thrown off without decorum.
It will be a hard shove, head-first through a revolving door.
It will be a much longer fall from my cloud
than from the saddle of your own holy high-horse.
But here's the silver-lining:
when you splatter below
there will be torrents of rain to cleanse my world of your stain.
You will be invisible in the blinding lightning
and mute in the deafening thunder.
You will be nothing.
So if you’re too weak to tolerate discussion,
if your only move is ad-hominem,
then take this advice:
find a different cloud.
This is my cloud.
06/05/15
Trijan refrain
Grief ascends on the rising moon
'neath frosted Winter skies
A lone wolf howls, wailing a rune
desperate for replies
Her mate has died, she must lament
beside him 'til last breath was spent
Parted in death
Parted in death
His body torn, tattered and rent
Grief ascsends on the rising moon
as thorns pricking my skin
There is sorrow in the wolf's tune
My emotions akin
To shadowed darkness we lay claim
Eyes cold without a spark or flame
Feeling such pain
Feeling such pain
Love, it's you I seek to defame
Grief ascends on the rising moon
Haunting my thoughts tonight
Who do I blame and dare impugn
with defiance and spite
I would caterwaul to the wind
if death's warrant I could rescind
His life restored
His life restored
No longer would I be chagrined
Your only friend is darkness? Heman the Ezrahite.
That's not how to end your psalm, with ache of lonely soul,
awake to darkness fall each day, to deepest darkest hole
as morning clears the dark away.
Yet you persist, Heman, to have your say,
to steel your darkened heart to pray.
Suffered from your youth, and always close to death ?
Spare your breath Heman, impugn your God no more.
The reason why your eyes are dim with grief, don't lay that at his door.
He has not acted as you say, a thief of neighbour and of friend,
though that is your belief.
And though your eyes are rarely dry,
to Him you still complain, and plead your plaintiff's cry.
Rejected? He hides from you His face, you said?
His wrath sweeps over you with terror and despair,
to surround you like a flood, engulf you in the lowest pit
and darkness that you dread.
Yet still you raise your hands to Him,
your outstretched hands are spread.
And where did this all end, Heman?
Grace brought you seer to David's throne
leading worship and rejoicing,
Fourteen sons, three daughter's grace your home,
and you played your gifted part,
as King danced with joy and might before God's homing ark.
Your dreadful psalm of deep despair is not for you Herman,
but tells us that our God's aware of how men speak in grief.
Of how their thoughts in darkest places challenge divine grace.
Yet He holds them as they struggle there, though trials be not brief,
He sustains their glimmered faith.
The one who cried, My God My God, why have you forsaken me?'
was not forsaking you, Herman, but hanging on that cross-barred tree,
love's mercy gift for you, Heman, pinned to that mercy tree,
love's mercy given free, Heman, love's mercy set you free.
Your life is the full world, the stars, sun, and moon.
On your own, you can fight the tough times real soon.
Unsteady moves can't let you up the ladder; never tone down.
Rarely will we meet; we set the lousy goal to impugn.
Tacked and seated, man has doubts around his destiny.
In the universe, all is set by its needs, not by inerrancy.
Memories of agony and misery are not murky.
Emotions disguise behind words, extort repay.
Important to be happy, do what you love, and you will succeed.
Share your calmness, work for success, and greater reward.
Love the holiest stars; you will get a reverse welt.
In the trials of life, sync up to the ethical dealt.
Muttering stops; the sun has faded to that extent.
If your core tilts to life, brave vitality, faith will last.
Time is short; live the life of no one or precept.
Enduring one's own goal, expect to aim too tight.
During your life, believe yet not fall into the urge to defect.
3rd place winner
Unconditional love,
that grants me access to a faraway paradise,
is what I feel for you
Breath taking beauty
is what I see in you
A euphonious voice,
that bypasses my senses
and makes me believe even the impossible,
is what I hear from you
Love is a bastion of benevolence
that is said to block all malevolence,
but I impugn this absurd assumption
because even love is susceptible
Blinded by love,
I lived a beautiful illusion,
flabbergasted by the heartbreaking reality to which I awoke to
Now I wander this warped nightmare
in which the futility of my efforts is proven with every disappointment presented,
debilitated by my ignominious ineptitude to overcome my profound melancholy
I venture into this unknown world of cruelty,
in which I am fate’s puppet,
with no hope of ever returning
I would give it all up to be with you my love,
but sadly I know you wouldn't do the same
Regardless, I refuse to let go of this suffering
even if I know my pitiful invocation
is nothing but a futile attempt to change my depressing fate
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
Those Checkout Line Tabloids
By Elton Camp
Yellow journalism is still easy to find
It’s right there when you stand in line
Their only purpose is to make them sell
And don’t mind if some big lie they tell
They may attack one who’s underground
For with a lawyer he can’t come around
To call for proof what they said is true
Or to demand damages that they’ll rue
Yet the living are not entirely immune
And their integrity tabloids may impugn
The tabloid may to vile trickery resort
Inside say the headline is a false report
As if a victim of slander they do defend
To set things straight is all they intend
This type of journalism would disappear
If to it, the public would never come near
If tempted to buy one, please think again
Supporting them makes scoundrels win
So morose and so lonely my sordid path is
lost in all this colossal wreck
a beauty spot in all this, that which mar the facet of earth
so destitute the walks of my path, with footsteps traced back
by the lingering stench of ancient fossils and putrid flesh,
the essence of life spelt from wars fought for the affairs of the heart
for love and hate
yet still the sound of tramping dost my life compose
for since this world I first eyed with wariness and upon my knees
i preyed upon my foes, crawling and stalking the shadows
away from this world that saw the babe's innocents
as something to impugn
stalked away from the eyes of the whole tumult
for no such rancorous ways ever beget acquiescence
nor do I seek merit in the eyes of scorn let alone
A life in the wombs of demise.
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.