Best Incongruent Poems
It is the evening I have waited for,
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?
I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.
I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.
The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.
Unswallowed lumps of lobster immodest
Crustacean returns to pincers persimmon
Waitress whisk indiscernible clears linen
Custom of one equates her eight hour day
Has It All Paul wipes away gourmet residual
Exhaustion frightened by frothy latte
Fingers in pies finance necromancer denies
Bulging funds fail to complete, coins conflict
Periphery rebuffs, enough is finite, endless leers
Goblet of gluttony grape broth overflow inflicts
Victim of vanished virtue, bon vivant declaration
Transmutes rules, outruns consequence
Guidance glued in buttery dough glides rhetorical
Yacht reined in quay quiver, another arrow for Cupid
Entertainment timed to change with shifting tides
Inglots tossed overboard drown in debauch
Drunk playboy Paul while vulnerable divulges
Disdain for greeds' steep scrag, perpetual pursuit
Outdo, prove prowess for those who never realise
Incongruent grapple for further forgets to cherish
Partners relent, resources force caucus to submit
Patronising Paul procures boardroom obedience
Inundating debt retards bombastic boon reward
Promise of association silences indulgent sin
28th June
Plenty Stimulates
Meeting begins, each puts best foot forward,
in as outer appearances do go,
behind banter lurk motives untoward,
sweet words incongruent with intent low,
just waiting to land a deadly death blow.
Weary of blood and gore, been here before,
we sift subterfuge and get to the core,
our call being, it’s not winner take all,
both sides must rejoice, seeking an encore,
in righteousness thus, players standing tall.
11-April-2022
Digressive Death
Deflected by summer’s breeze
Find me fallen upon my knees
Now it’s time for a pensive prayer
To let go thoughts thru abrasive air
Digressive death, I will weepingly awaken
To search the heavens that have forsaken
Longing for love within the internal light
Drenched in darkness of nocturnal night
To cries of anguish we must respond
Lachrymal lure of Satan’s spawned
Lucid layers of decaying dreams
Suffocating silences in strangled screams
Incongruent idols, immaculate imagery
Fallen angels of beguiling brilliancy
Treasured tombs that satiate the soul
Amongst wandering winds, on midnight's stroll.
Jan.23.2017
The Poet And I - Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose
I stand at temptations door...
As anger spurs a grievance withheld.
Surreptitiously you praise the incongruent
While flinging to the wayside the valuable.
Eyes closed to the importance of veracity,
You belabor simplicity with objectivity denounced
As you are drawn only to the iconoclastic.
I long to visualize cronyism obliterated.
The Contest sponsor Jerry T. Curtis
My feelings about those N/A's
“Say a prayer for the pretender.”
Often, I feel incongruent
Pieces of me just don’t seem to match
Others can find me difficult to put together
My smile can cover an internal sneer
I must admit that I often try to hide my anger
I don’t want you to see the hurt inside
Anxiety is the uncomfortable veil that I wear
I feel exposed although I’m fully clothed
A disquieting truth lies behind these closed doors
My denial is secured by denial
I pretend I’m not a pretender.
Tex’s shadow defines him—cut-out
from the heat haze of Karnak’s quartz,
a scintillating contrast to Egypt’s questing sun.
He slouches among the other black castings of
denser composition mottled with grays,
and Prussian blues, incongruent in a cowboy
hat. This six-gun scenario’s frame
disrupts the crafted precision of
a chiseled arch.
****-kicker, lizard-skinned, boots point
toward the desert’s dunes—death hides.
Needing no words to enjoy a taste of antiquity,
Tex shuffles sighs and takes a draw on
an American cigarette. With a flick of his fingers,
he deposits the butt alongside the others
in the white sand. His contribution
to posterity.
First Published in Spank the Carp Issue 21 2016
Is the data congruent?
Is the hypothesis centrivical?
A mix of incongruent inconsistencies
Go back to the lab
Put in on a slab
Revamp the mix
Complacent, well being, in a covnant devil attitude.
Disdained, yet creep compliant in a socio-dick tated preferential,
Momentarily distracted, I give up my circumstance unreliant,
And predispose to and fro an ever present guilded conveyance, that of a
piss/poorance annointed leaving an abbreviated one ball boy to his
performance attoned inadequacy. Be free and effervescent non constrictive
blatant, unkind, showing an unannounced contrivance bewildering passive
through not no non drowned indifference portended in an interphase indepth fantasy only unknown to all nonpresent. keep me in your toilet thoughts and wipe me not. Flush is optional to an incongruent tilt, as to what is even/odd. tally the numbers as they unfold to your givens, procreatal, cofetal, linear all fetalfatal due to a stupid gynocolegical unfailing on yr part as a vaginal villian vying for a protaken promise of sillosociodomestico renderings that "alls well that ends well and I will do the right thing"?? White horse, kiss on the lips, silver slipper, midnight, poison apple from an ugly, sex deprived old witch *****, some young broad living with 7 dwarfs in the woods, and that's ok? Take your soured religion, your rituals, scriptures, sins, water, rules for entering heaven, sanctities, purifications, and everything else that really doesn't matter and cover yr head.
I live unannointed unbequeathed of anything holy and undemised. So I am a wallow rat, unworthy of any real measure of psalm pointed poingnacy; pronounced relevance of godlike pretense. Then let me be that of an unannounced west ender to the popular fray that is poised before me as I wander to the gate. I hope there's no dress code, I always have my shirt tucked in.
Tired one day of work and its toil, I went home to recover, or recharge my batteries as my friends would say. As I gathered my thoughts after doing my usual after chores, I sat and listened to music, as I often do. It seems to work for me as a Mindfulness technique. As I listened, I wondered what it would be like to have a conversation with my soul. We all hear, read about it and it's importance, to our being in the here and hereafter, yet we k now nothing of its real entity, consistence, base and its contributions to our present makeup as a human here and now. Who breaks the ice? With what? A joke, a memory? A right or wrong done to someone? Can we even have a dialogue that's meaningful, potential? I would want to know what my soul thinks of me? All the things I've done to myself and to others. How does that track to my end? Is there a defining criteria to one's soulful viability/outcome to its human end? How are, or are they, the positives/negatives/neutrals weighed? Accountability for ones actions, blatant or sublime, inert or etheral, candid or insipid? There can be no invisibility of measurable actions or a common denial of blame, stupidity, inaction, ignorance incongruent to a human's capacity to be universal with one another in all scopes of living/dying regardless of anything we hold as a norm. I would like the soul to tell me what it thinks of me, who I am, have become, lived, given hope,helped without reward, missed, been selfish, denied, hurt, a full record of my deeds, and then some. Why I feel the way I do in any given second of my life and what it means? Will I ever know any of the answers we strive to know which we think will make us better in the long run? Can I recapture, make restitution for past wrongs? Fix current/past ills of my being? "What do I want", you ask. If I am Wise to all, I can be Forgiving to all, If I am Empathetic to all, I can be Compassionate to all. If all I do, say and be is with truth and meaning, then I am a real being of the soul with an omnipresent intent, from all that I am within to all those that I meet without. We are then combined into one vast inclusive entity here, now and forever. "Present realities, Finite dreams, annoint Universal hopes, keeping them alive and well in any human scope of eternity". The soul rests--for now.
Words that echo the sublime
Each syllable resounds a doleful chime
Accentuated by a bleak, monotonous rhyme
That skews the cadence and scuttles the time
Words that filter through, then prime
Heart's engine to slowly pine
Fueled by structural anomalies; sick, semantical serpentine
Break lines that throttle, then realign
Soul's transmission shifts in gear to divine
Sorrow and suffering in every byline
Each strut, an awkward bounce that jars the dragline
Leaky, cracked manifold manifest in every squeaky note, sign
Incongruent parts renovated to shock by design
Tales-end, toxic fumes will every literary splice twine
Finish will be sealed with a lackluster shine
bleached pathogen in the dryer.
they will dry him for days.
thoughtless serpintine chlorox.
later there will be daylight albums
and caskets.
porous paris absorbing all scented fabric .
long after jacob and the cloak of many
colors went through the spin cycle.
so strange to see camel ciggerette canoe's.
incongruent le lee leeee...
paddling .. spin.. spin .. spinning...
days and nights bleeding
color into one another.
Luanderer white, Luanderer bright
First launderer that can blight.
Some affection out of gray,
spin the cycle and turn night to day.
Centuries have rolled,
The generations don’t connect anymore.
They grow as trees in isolation
And don’t make a garden anymore.
They are stories divided in incongruent chapters
But don’t make a readable book anymore
For I don’t understand your language
Nor do you mine.
If my times could be closer to yours
And yours to mine
We can bring the generations drifting nowhere
A bit nearer.
We can build a bridge together.
You can cross the bridge
And come to my times in my heart
The times when the values were valued,
Come to my old village I adored
The village where people had soul.
I will show you my house
The bare walls collapsing and the doors cracking
But standing strong on foundation, the faith
I will show you my garden
The flowers drying and the trees dying
But they preserve the essence of good times.
I will show you the grey picture of my little daughter
Holding my hand
She remembers no longer.
I will show you the mirror hiding my face
Beaming in happiness out of measure
I have left with my times to treasure.
I can cross the bridge
And travel to your times you are shaping
The times when you value people by money
To your modern city that wiped the villages,
The city where people have lost their soul.
You will show me your house
The walls decorated with abstract paintings
But the windows don’t see the sky.
You will show me the garden
People rushing to pluck odorless flowers
But the garden path is all stairs people climb and climb,
You will show me the picture of your little son in color
Holding your sleeve
Not knowing who you really are.
You will show me your iPad
Storing your face smiling in rue
At the uncertain times you gave you.
Let us build a bridge together
And on the bridge
I will take a step forward
You will take a step backward.
I will hold your hand with love
You will hold mine with care.
And let the times meet
And the generations connect.
Written : July 12, 2017
March 25, 2020
Contest : Strand Choice Q, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Time marches on
How is it that the years have advanced so quickly
In my mind I still have my youth
I feel no limitations
My body remains strong
Still there is my reflection
Greying hair
Wrinkles where once smooth skin once resided
This image feels so incongruent
Is this really my reflection?
Should I cover all my mirrors?
Should I live out my years in the bliss of self dillusion?
Yesterday is not today
I realize somehow I am less and still I am more
Time marches on
I see it in the way youth interact with me
They do not see the young spirit that resides within me
I have unspent laughter and tears
My voice will not be silenced
I still have mountains to climb
I am not ready to give up on my dreams
My body remains strong
I feel no limitations
I rise with strength and purpose
One day time will March on
I will be diminished and yet I will be more
New gifts will be laid at my feet
New dreams will replace old ones
I will remain
Time will march on and I will no longer be here
Still I will remain
My spirit is eternal
I will be living a new dream
Time will be of no concearn
aye savor the faire genetic blueprint
extant unique to each of us
with this quite alimentary aire
including (that almighty,
bottom, cushiony, dimpled,
excretory functioning Gluteus Maximus
i.e. the tushy when bare
with subtle difference sans,
both halves at first blush,
but tucks upon closer scrutiny
obvious inexactness crystal clear
as a bell jar, asper each body electric,
whence deserved of en dear
ments despite however much junk in the trunk
behind the private
no trespassing (non verbalized)
signs posted everywhere
off limits only to a select few like this bard
attired as if from the Renaissance Faire
whose unconditional acceptance
unlike the majority hoo gawk and glare
if bipedal hominid dealt
chromosomal traits say with excessive hair
which mane of tangled strands,
could be problematic and interfere
with coaxing, finagling,
or inducing friendship with an initial jeer
from him or her averse
toward such imperfection to boot
huff lawed physical human specimen
such as this ole coot
(who haint really that old),
can upon command execute
a feigned display
and appealing as fresh field picked fruit
at this stage of ma life
donut give a rats ass, nor an owlish hoot
what other may decry about me,
cuz self acceptance doth agree
buzzing with greater confidence, esteem,
and general weaknesses such
as lack of physiognomy incongruent cee,
which asymmetry of this primate feel free
er than his pre/post pubescent
corporeal essence he
near put himself in the hand
of that grim reaper, a key
poor of lifeless beings,
and well nigh got hold da mee
when in the throes up
(vis a vis not bulimia) on Swiss side prithee
and as a solitary mwm gives no re
guard no matter others may find fault
in the stars at my lack of sim mutt tree
gnome hatter judgements made
I accept mice elf warts and all – yippee!