Best Incinerate Poems
Rather I, Sharpen Blade, Saddle My Battle Horse,
(Dawn, First Battle, Part One)
Dare I, reduce poet's pen to a plastic sword
flee from shadows that invades as destructive hordes?
Nay, such would incinerate reborn poetic soul,
bring heartache and destroy path to truth's gallant goal.
Rather I, sharpen blade, saddle my battle horse
walk through searing flames alone yet on steady course.
Expect more vicious attacks around each bend,
live out my final moment with defiant grin.
Should I, with courageous pen far more truth post
ink midnight hours, not fear darkest of evil ghost?
Beg more paper, its white pages let my ink soak,
in my defiance, strike those wearing evil's cloak?
Can I, with good conscience, this hard journey trek.
Knowing Raven's curse, both my eyes- out IT shall peck.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-18-2019
Sonnet, ( If Valiant, Let Ink Splash To This Dark Beast Slay )
(Dawn, First Battle, Part One)
Note:
Fuscus, qui mortalium haec faciam tibi mali iura
Et invenies in me plus perdomandosque feroces et fortes periculum pertinet.
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Early morning and the gantry cranes
at Webb Dock look like long necked
dinosaurs lining up to drink from the river -
and the sky is aglow as it might have been
when tinged by the first hint of that asteroid
slamming into Yucatan on the other side
of the world 66 million years ago.
This is 2025 and no asteroid threatens
our fragile planet, yet more subtle
things do - things that reside in the dark
precincts of the human soul that pour
out pollution and in silos and undersea,
stoke embers that could at anytime
break free and incinerate us all.
(THE GHOST)
In the naked eye,
Pure death approaches!
Incredibly hollow, kick the bucket long ago
No, whiff nor smell when “THE GHOST” is around
Abuses the whiteness, in which exists inside these sheets
It can be the cost and the intellect of your overdose in question
Go ahead and dig your own grave
I have already commissioned your headstone
You won’t be remembered,
The aftermath this GHOST creates
---will leave you babbling, even in your crate
This is that whiteness you do not want to feel or taste.
Once he or she was a nobody, is now “The Infamous Ghost!”
The one that lives inside your ‘Indian Hollow Walls.’
The Ghost’ leaves heat behind in your room.
It prowls around,
---leaving you within a near death experience every night.
This' ghost left behind will wreak mayhem on your soul,
Shh! Listen to your walls, they speak quite a routine.
Once you see yourself with broken wind, and watery eyes.
Do not believe this is your maker in the process.
‘The Ghost’ with eyes so potent compels a numbing stare!
If there really is such a thing as reincarnation,
Then you had better remember
--- that this ghost was a ghost in its own past life
‘The Ghost’ can have you breathing out tears so intense
Leveling your entire room with fear
Not even your frightened watery eyes will salvage your soul
Nothing will come in handy before you expire.
‘The Ghost’ will incinerate your obituary.
…READING…
“There is nothing to Fear but Fear itself! “By Franklin D. Roosevelt!”
That, and the fear is all this fearless 'Ghost will leave behind.
Everlasting rational fear.
-Happy Halloween-
"Consistency"
by: Eric L. Boddie
Contemplate, debate hate
Rate state magistrates
Mate great fates
Wait....date late
Deflate straight weight
Emancipate inmate traits
Dissipate irate gates
Indicate! Investigate! Litigate!
Incarcerate? Degradate? Incinerate?
Rejuvenate! Captivate! Demonstrate!
Innovate! Motivate! Fascinate!
Anticipate! Dedicate! Articulate!
Communicate....congratulate....exonerate
Infiltrate....penetrate....interrogate
Implicate! Detonate! Annihilate!
Separate? Segregate? Disintegrate!
My heart-beat drums of love and charm.
O' hear the voice of love that sings a sweet song.
Listen to the songbird's *dulcet serenade and dawning alarm,
and reply, oh lovebird, with a lovesick *tongue.
Liberate thy spirit of love my dear *marm,
and respond! respond! yes respond with a passion so strong.
Release a seductive hymn to embrace my heart with its fiery melodic arm
so an overwhelming fervor follows along.
Oh! incinerate the shell of my heart 'til my soul be visibly nude and disarm',
thus revealing the *candescent embodiment of sensations which lives among.
Certainly, I want to be caress and loved by Love's delicious swarm.
So, Queen of hearts, bombard the core of my soul 'til it be in awe!-- experience I long.
*dulcet--(esp. of sound) sweet and soothing
*tongue--refers to speech
*marm--variation of madam
*candescent--glowing red-hot
(Poem for John Heck contest)
Sponsor Nancy Jones
Contest Name Things that suck
Lest we forget the Bad decisions …
(Myxo the rabbit steal the Bagmans Bunny), first use of a deadly weapon
( Cane toads 4 cane beetles,)( 12 atom bombs exploded …what!!!)
Does anyone remember back in 1955 …
why we were blessed with atom bombs….
we are lucky to be left alive …
The Liberals said its fine…
No need to bloody worry mate….
12 atom bombs that’s all…
The Poms might us incinerate…(British)
And leave some mushrooms tall…
And we of the convict strain …
10 Thousand died that’s all…(bones kept 12 thousand suspicious deaths….)
Brisbane town a falling radioactive rain …
Geiger counter saw it fall……….tech guy couldn’t zero the counter it got worse near window,
rain in Brisbane…..1955/56
So I said to a Pom you dropped the bomb….
No, a tower they’d had a seat…
Strontium 90 in the milk for some….
Off the grass the cows did eat…….free milk for the school kiddies back then:(…
So the order of the garter …
Was given to some mug …
For atom bombs the barter….
And they surely burnt our rug.. :(
The master is there for the master….
To keep the worker down …..
To contract for the cheapest slave…
Like the business side of town …….
The CSIRO man Marston? In the fifties found enlarged thyroids in sheep he checked all over
Australia Found evidence of the radioactive poisoning of Australia …He tried to warn the
Australian public but only got his comments In some farmers magazine due to political
interference by the master …..
This is what happened and there is a documentry available in the Aussie ABC shop.
White Sand and Temporary Oblivion
For an aching moment
I faced dazzling
Gypsum and glass as splinters
Of sunlight pierced the air
Bouncing bright off the landscape at
Alamogordo ---fat Cottonwoods and
not a tree in sight not
Here, the sight of the unholy Trinity
test
Blessed and blast
A fitting slant rhyme for our
slanted
times
askew at
1700 Silica Avenue in a decidedly
different Manhattan where no
Dandy boulevardier would dare strut.
Castle Bravo likewise
No place to dwell as we
Did our best
to incinerate the century
Trolling for a toll in the ashes of the atoll.
No sufficient payment was made.
But all that brightness
those purblind moments flirting
With nothingness all
retreated
Like genie to bottle
Heard whispering,
"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds..."
Certain whispers linger
Portending brighter, more permanent
Non-being; so be it.
I’d annihilate
the ascending sun
from the sky
incinerate the
eremitic moon
beyond recognition
eradicate
each and every
constellation from its
galaxy
decimate every
planet one
at
a
time
if I believed
that it would
give you one
instant of
respite
from the
savages gorging
on your essence.
Inside this shattered silhouette,
flooded within the wails of a sobbing opus;
my heart’s frozen, cradled in the arms of self defeat,
whilst fraudulent licks from a delusional flame,
threatens to incinerate my soul.
I seek your face in the frustrating shadows;
"whisper my name, lead me home."
Don’t leave me listening to these twisted truths;
enfold yourself around me, for I am too close to forget.
Recognize my voice inside this fear,
feel for my hand that the blind moon conceals;
“Where are you love, I cannot find you.”
Come serenade my ear; lead me home.
I am too close to forget, somewhere between
the rush of your healing breath;
intoxicating my senses with the lure of your smile.
Close your eyes, hear my call;
standstill and let me seep through you,
for my voice falls silent,
words dissipating into the darkness,
cries that none will ever hear;
no ether for these homeless tears.
I am reaching for your love,
through silk laced seams etched upon a memory;
severing the ties of this victim’s nightmare,
thats seduces life from my precious dreams.
When I awaken from this hallucination,
take my hand, lead me down the path of dawn’s awakening,
to stand within the hush of twilights fade.
We’ll baptize the air with the essence of our fated love;
no time to regret moments long since passed.
From the second of first touch,
till embraced beneath the shroud of death;
Come, let’s let love begin.
~*~
===========================
SULTRY zephyr's gust incinerate milieu
Estival breath perfumed the whimsical view
Perfect metamorphosed season ensued
Torrid wind whistled as fall foliage mind-glued
Exquisite maple leaves cascade in vivid red - auburn dyes
Moon of AUTUMN's nocturnal murk in premature soar - in it's crib, he lies
Bursting colours of halcyon "era" - gilt, aureate carpet of terra firma
Enticing, alluring realm cuddled with perky pigments, WINTER's ready and waiting
Reminiscing the "SEPTEMBER FALL" is harking back from my myriad tears in SPRING.
~*~
==============================================================
*-* jun-jun villanueva
*-* Carol Brown's FALL contest
My poetry is utterly deadly, it effects people in so many bizarre ways.
It is like a demonic medley, leaving the reader in a drug enhanced haze.
My poetry is hypnotically unique, it takes readers places they've never been.
I have poets sweating my technique, and wanna taste my corruptive sin!
My poetry is diabolically insane, it was created in the very bowels of hell.
The couplets left a trail of bloodstain along the corridors of Satan's fiery cell!
My poetry will catch you on fire, burning you from the inside out.
My words will wrap you in barbed-wire, leaving scratches like you've been in a
twelve round bout!
My poetry journeyed beyond the bottomless pit, searching the worlds atmosphere.
My adjectives make a reader vomit, leaving a stomach tumor for a souvenir!
My poetry will incinerate your mind, and leave you for buzzards to eat.
Metaphors stay locked and confined, which makes me the highest paid poetic
athlete!
My poetry will be remembered as "legendary," so engrave that on my tombstone.
This stanza is not ordinary, and I will remain on my diamond encrusted throne!
My poetry is like a drug overdose, this poem is unlike anything you've ever heard!
With this couplet, I'll bring this poem to a close, so never forget my diabolical words!
or leave a clue to my love
or you stay inside me for lifetime as knot
it is not easy to take part in a heart
or leave a trail your behind
or stay in memory in a misty road
not little to be a memory in a heart
or incinerate and leave a pain
or stay inside with your warmth as love
it is not possible you figure out any other way
or not talk and leave everything to me
or like a broken heart rebellion
not difficult closing the wound for lover
reach out your hand,touching you is go to the stars
A sliver of bright light
seeps into the darkness
Echo of voices reverberate inside my head
I'm in limbo,
I can't move
Am I alive, am I dead?
I don't feel any pain,
I don't feel much of anything
But there's a sense of dread foreshadowing me,
an unease that I can't seem to shake free
I want to scream,
but I'm disoriented thoroughly
My eyes move, that's all, nothing else
So I glance around,
I see white lab coats, and black body bags on metal slabs
An antiseptic smell permeates the air,
masking the scent that death lives here
The voices are slowly becoming clear,
and what I'm hearing brings horror to my ear
They're talking very dispassionately about dispatching me,
how there's no need to contact next of kin, given I'm government property
I give a silent scream: somebody help me please!
My lips can't move though,
I'm paralyzed completely
What happened to me, how did I get in this predicament?
Memory is foggy, with only one mental flash coming in and out
A battlefield with sounds of gunfire and bombs,
I must be a soldier no doubt
But those cold, rational voices intrude on me again,
and I get more terrified by what they're saying
They say they want to remove my cybernetic limbs,
download the memory in my positronic brain
Place it in a new prototype version, then scrap the remains
Burn all the evidence,
incinerate any signs of their illegal activity
I want to scream I'm alive
Listen, listen to me!
I sense movement, wheels rolling swiftly
Now I'm descending into a dark place,
towards a room aglow, with a sign above it that says:
Ye who enter, abandon all hope
I let out one last silent scream
My eyes widen as I approach the flames, but I can feel no heat
I hear my inner voice intone a final notation ...
RCN unit #0247895
has been summarily sentenced to a premature cremation
Wasted words of Poetical Incorrectness
Words are precious commodities not traded
as their value is just too high.
Words of falsehood are a waste of words
as in time the truth will always negate the lie.
Like running the water when brushing your teeth
is a waste of precious H 2O.
Words said in abundance when there's no one listening
there is a waste there also.
Words that are used when they don't need to be said
is a squandering of valuable assets.
Like a contractor building a house
that will never be used ,lived in or possessed.
Using valuable words to ones, that are unwilling to hear
is a waste of your breath, your ink and your time
Like Jesus said when talking about his opposers
it's like "throwing pearls to the swine".
Superfluous words are a needless repetition
a use of words that is unnecessary
Repeating the same things just so they can be heard
this is a warning to the unwary.
Words that are spoken to those unable to hear
are words that fall on deaf ears
Words that are written that are never read
are wasted words falling like the poets tears
Using unkind words in a heated rage is a waste of
words as they incinerate the page
Sometime later in a calmer state those words are
regretted and usually replaced
In conclusion, my dear fellow poets who write words
of troubled sorrow and eloquence
Let's not waste our precious time, ink and talent
on those who practice poetical incorrectness.
John Derek Hamilton
February 02,2016