Best Interject Poems
Bloody rude drunken pen has enjoyed a nib of ink or two, reminiscing on a few
Bad and ugly times, we both admit at times things were, a bit of a mess,
All kinds of intertwined, confused but along the way making some progress
On the grand masterpiece of all masterpieces – writing bliss
At first polite, we take in turns, to interject with collaborative words,
Until the air hits us hard, take a breath, where’s your etiquette, manners and respect,
My turn pen, I command, continue on to write, scribbling like an erratic bird’s nest.
Pen resists and spits its ink, a dirty blob from its nib…how rude
All smudged and slurred is a dribbling rambling of everything crude
Across the page leaking its ink, clearly from excessive drink
Dancing on thin ice, my drunken pen decides to try and entice
Inviting me to envelope, his muscular body with smooth fingers
Such fraternisation you drunken sleaze, how do you expect to please
The love of your life, giving you permission to write and express your ink with ease
Drunken pen is at a loss as reflects on his drunken state, its very late
Blubbering relaxed words across the page, deep within and obscure
Then I realise that my drunken pen is sometimes a little insecure
He has a way of making me melt when I think of his 50 shades of blue
Each drink of ink that fills his nib, that prints our words, that stains my skin
Is in every way the partnership of creative bliss and my perfect hue
2nd October 2012
Written for Drunken Pen - Part 2 Contest
On a train going south on business
For what seemed an eternity,
I chanced upon a memorable man
Who changed the path of my destiny
He was itinerant to look at
With tatty coat and shabby shoes,
An unshaven face, his hair unkempt
And string, as a belt on his ‘trews’
He boarded the train, peoples heads dropped
For fear that his gaze they’d meet
He walked down the aisle, disappointed,
As no-one would give up a seat
I offered the seat beside me
He thanked me for making the space
I replied with a sincere ‘you’re welcome’
And a smile warmed his weathered face
He asked me about my journey
And I asked of his in return
I felt in my heart, that by talking to him
There was much about life I could learn
I bought us both refreshments
As he told of his life’s history,
Once in a while I would interject
With a small anecdote about me
Behind the shabby persona,
Was a man of intelligent mind
He’d lived on the edge in finance,
Made his fortune, left it behind
As his bank account grew he’d lost everything
His family, his friends, his wife
He’d found out, too late, and at great cost
That there was so much more to life
‘You have to stop and smell the roses,
Make some time for those you hold dear’
And as he spoke, down his rugged cheek
I saw the track of a small, salty tear
As we reached the end of our journey
He clasped my hand at our time to part,
He thanked me for my company
And told me I had a good heart
When I got to my lonely hotel room,
I called my daughters on the phone
And told them ‘we’ll be together soon
I’m taking some time off when I get home.’
Sometimes it takes a chance meeting
To give your whole life a shake
I felt I had met my ‘Hermes’
And now had decisions to make
When I got home, I made a decision
The missed years with my girls I’d amend,
My life took a different direction
All down to my indigent friend
You can’t judge a man on appearance
But if you look in their eyes you can,
I knew in the instant I gave up the seat
I had met a remarkable man.
My paper is always turned so people don't judge;
because yes if it's vertical my work will be smudged.
With the other I've tried to write;
but man it just doesn't look right.
When I bat on that side
the ump runs to hide.
I can't even start on that foot,
my balance pretty much kaput.
And do not get me started on that 'right-handed thinking;'
to grasp that logic's like being on a ship that is sinking!
So over the decades I've often had to interject,
that being left-handed is the obvious 'correct.'
No ascent will rule this rock,
Which had been sliced from its base.
No ship will in its harbour dock.
No merry town to call it place
Leaning at its rounded structure,
I search the ocean's angry rage
The light above seeks to capture
Foul navigation's war to wage.
The night, quite dark and fragile,
Changed by light beam's interject.
Shadows short, now tall and agile,
As the globe's search aims to perfect.
Miles I walked to see this place.
A place of ocean's foaming frost,
To wish the ocean's rage erase,
And to return those men now lost.
If I suffer from an affliction
If I stutter
If my grammar is gutteral
If the words I utter
Failed English at School
Sorry I am not cool
Pity me or the fool
Who uses education as tool
To dismiss what I write
Because it is not spelt or gramatically correct
As you supersede the common collective
Consciousness up for discussion
My feeble poem tried to address
Your disregarding says it best
Speaks volumes
Look at me
Mother Superior
Administrator of the Interior
Sub Editor for closed book's
That overlooks
And overseas
Conservative committees
In self righteous sicophantic indignation
No correlation can unearth
Or has no worth
For the meek
Who seek
To interject
Blazers and Ties
Ivy institutions for fear of exclusion
Poison classes wood trenches
Desks protect from xenophobic zeitgeists
That conform to questioning
My sister and I have different personalities
Never alike, two peas from the same pod,
but not germinated for the same Winter crop.
We never argue over mundane trivialities.
I like halibut, but she always chooses cod,
and I prefer vacuuming; she loves to mop.
But there is only one topic we cannot discuss
Our political views caused too many disputes
We disagree on the qualities of a President
and had heated debates. Oh, how we did fuss!
When I said Trump was immoral and in cahoots
with crooks, and he was a stubborn old cuss.
She fired back that Biden was senile, much too old
and she didn't like Kamala, which made me sigh.
Round after round we boxed, in verbal objections.
She watched the numbers as voters were polled
and I wanted scissors to cut off Trump's red tie
and no more commercials for Presidential elections.
Finally, I said, "Our bickering is tearing us apart."
She agreed for the need to put an end to our feud.
We're both much happier, but once in a while
she'll mention his name, and I'll say, "Don't start!"
I'd never vote for a man who's crude and lewd.
I can't understand why she can't see that he's vile.
We'll never agree on which man is most deserving
or which one truly lives by America's Constitution.
We avoid politics when we come face to face.
But I know Trump is unfit, and is totally self-serving
Biden isn't perfect, but Trump started a revolution.
He made a mockery of the office. Such a disgrace.
Yes, I blame him for inciting the Capitol subversion
But didn't say a word to her so we'd keep the peace
Sometimes it's still difficult not to interject a belief
so we talk about taking a pleasant holiday excursion
perhaps to the Caribbean or to the isles of Greece.
I'm just glad that we found a way to stop the grief.
Me,
I
am thee,
she naked
Amidst bodies, I
interject myself upon he
With unknown aplomb, reaching sexual crescendo
He now lies spent, taken to the limits orgasmically, by she, me, naked I
.
Syllables counted from 'The Free Dictionary' differing from the 'Soups'
As I lay up treasures in the summer of my youth.
Counting coup on censure, random acts uncouth.
Defenseless maidens hover,
searching for the lover
they find not in me, neither compassion nor truth.
Forbid me not to boast my many conquests done.
The bragging rights mount as I subdue one by one.
In lonely solitude they weep.
Dreams fade, they cannot sleep,
wasting their gift on a fly by night just out for fun.
While I make no promises which I can not fulfill.
They expect to interject a language of love at will.
A mental walk to the alter,
then afterwards they falter.
When any hopes for further cohabitation I kill.
People tend to analyze what they do;
Hoping to discover just who they are.
It's one way to see our species anew,
Little groups that we study from afar.
Often, we fault those of low intellect,
So easily led by egos and pride.
Old bigotries are immune to neglect;
Paradoxically, they haven't yet died.
High ideals are subjected to fraud,
Insomuch as our motives seem spiky.
Zealots and prophets oft interject God
into Mankind's vulnerable psyche.
Nothing is as critical as id is,
Giving Man a sense of all that is His.
What you give, you will get back in return,
If you are nice to someone, and you leave it,
They’ll be nice back to you in the future, burn,
And a friendship may blossom to kindly sit.
Being nice is a positive, on the upwards level,
Going the upwards way, it’s something warm;
Gravity sits to allow trees to grow, no bevel,
Plants, planes, buildings, sky-scrapers form.
Leaves fall off the trees, plants photosynthesise,
Planes must land sometime, buildings get old,
Sky-scrapers are at risk of destroying the prize,
When weather threatens their structures bold.
So life says that when your frame is on the way up,
And you like people and show love for plane space,
When you could interject something kind, yup,
But don’t have to, and you do, ‘cos that’s your face.
Then you can be assured that in time, after a bit,
You’ll get back what you’ve given, for nothing,
Because what goes up must come back down, fit,
According to science’s law of gravity that’s moving.
Sometimes love has thorns
It pricks, it rips You mourn
Your mind is worn Your heart is torn
Waiting for love to be reborn
Surrounded by the flame of my desire
Amidst dancing shades of orange and blue
My soul emits the warmth of a glowing fire
My hearts energy still connected to you
With purpose and passion
We began our new life
Not always in fashion
You made me your wife
There's been laughter and tears
Throughout multiple years
Some conquered fears
Others that steadfastly adheres
Sometimes love has thorns
It pricks, it rips You mourn
Your mind is worn Your heart is torn
Waiting for love to be reborn
I have seen how love can morph
With nowhere else to go
Emotions that dwindle and dwarf
When couples refuse to grow
How could I ever acknowledge
that age would interject
Remove me from your memory
How could I even suspect
Surrounded by the flame of my desire
My heart is on fire, my head has crashed
Where will I find the love I require
from the man I admire , our children you sired
Sometimes love has thorns
It pricks, it rips You mourn
Your mind is worn Your heart is torn
Waiting for love to be reborn
Mosaic pieces of the puzzle
from our interlocked past...
Surely that has to be enough to last
Come back to my languished heart
Press the reset button to start
Sometimes love has thorns
It pricks, it rips You mourn
Your mind is worn Your heart is torn
Waiting for love to be reborn
I was coarsely stopped at a junction today
With fixed alternatives thrown my way
To let pedestrians storm in my life when there is no sign of crossing
Or to be my own royalty and allow no shitty bossing
Many times, I seek peace and appear meek
Louder voices around me immediately read me as weak
When I interject and show the red light
Machetes they pick up; ready for a bloody fight
I clutch on to the whistle of my dignity
Blow it hard to save my endangered integrity
Rattling vehicles of harshness, they drive
Threatened by the uprising voice they try to shove me to the Archive.
N ow that the Mid-Term Elections are near
O ne of the things that we always hear
N ot one of the candidates will give his agenda
E ach one flings mud that could stick on my fender.
O h, how I wish that our process was different
F or electing those representatives who are significant.
T hough I am not enthralled by the prospect
H ere in my own way I must interject...
E lections are only won when people vote with intellect.
A ccording to most of the talking heads we hear
B oth parties have candidates of which we should have no fear.
O nly the candidates will tell you that they get a bad rap
V ery often, however, the voter is the sap ~ Yet,
E ach one of us must vote his conscience...like I just did!
Alas, you do not know me at all. You think you do, and shame on you for it. We've been by this time and again, you and I. Will you ever cease?
Of all those who run me down.. You, oh it is you who have done it best. My hope you know.. And I know you know, is that you'll see you for you.
You've partaken my hospitality, the bread of my table you supped and were it not for such civilities I'd have shed you years ago.
You who have slept below my roof, shared my homes warmth, enjoyed the pleasure of my time. You of all who repay kindness with harsh criticism.
You interject when friends compliment me, you discredit all their words. And as a thief, you would rob me of simple joys and dignity.
You patronize me and whisper seeds of discord within my thoughts. You've been lurking all the while, in my discomfort you take pride.
I'm done with you, You have nothing left I wish to hear. In fact, I'm quite done talking back at you.... within this bathroom mirror.
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.