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Devils deadly dime
The sign said no grown-up at the playground.
Tripping on a penny, like a mime!
My hand is in my pocket with the dime I found.
Its all mine, I asked for the devils hand that time.
Echoes in my head, bounded by a screaming sound.
Paying for a forgotten crime,
on what comes around goes around.
A prison with greed that carries an evil musical chime.
Jumping off the merry-go-round!
Encouraged by the devil,
the pleasure of his deadly nursery rhyme.
Now the world is measured by my blood level.
The devils delight feasted on my youth before I hit my prime.
Bashing my mind, with thoughts implanted by evil.
Entering the day with no beauty to my sublime.
Begging him to remove this anvil!
He laughed while he cursed me with a favor for a favor.
A fallout so violently in this world not civil.
One can only lust on the taste that only he can savor.
Hanging out by the swings wounding me with prey,
on two victims to his delicious flavor.
I climb my way to teach a lesson in hate not love.
Two siblings who always scream for each other.
Giggling as I offered each a push and a shove.
Stopping they give each other a big hug.
Defeating and proving love is a stronger disease
The devil wicked eyes looking at me like a bug.
Clawing at my inner guts with remorse that he will win this war.
Until another day one skips the penny,
and begs a poor fool like the devil for his dime.
Tossing heads for his tail when times hits rock bottom.
I will stray away from his deadly reaction time.
He will not own my soul so freak'em,
and his greedy deadly beg of a dime.
by;pd
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
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It’s only the good that die young.
I sadly have found it seems true.
While evil across earth is flung,
God’s purest of souls are too few.
I sadly have found it seems true
the wicked live long past their prime.
God’s purest of souls are too few.
On earth they live but a short time.
The wicked live long past their prime.
The goodly to heaven do go.
On earth they live but a short time.
The sun shines on the righteous though!
The goodly to heaven do go,
while evil across earth is flung.
The sun shines on the righteous. . . though
It’s only the good that die young!
Written April 12, 2016 for The sun shines on the righteous Poetry Contest of Seren Roberts
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
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**Back smile/smile Back **
With your heads way up your :]ssa[:
You will never accomplish the win
I got shots that will protect me from your rabid ways
After you fell into a non-stop falling disease,
Your movements weakened
Straight from a dried up well,
Every day you frolic in a disorder that causes more brain damage
With progressive mental retardation
You continue to lick the top of your cleft lips
He is the saddest sadist human that ever lived!
So sad he has to live with himself every night
Kissing his young ones Goodnight
In ways I can't even breathe to tell
The way he follows rabbits down the bunny hole
Killing each laughing hare
Wiping smiles, leaning in,
The madness in Alice's Wonderland
Madder and Madder The Hatter
Revealing
Your boldness is nothing more than baldness
A man in a monkey suit
Molesting the minds of his idiotic circle,
Trying to kill the joy, not knowing
We don't care about his false Harvard WAY
I rather stay here dropping out, than pretending
Following his made-up perception, a cropped out waste
His taste, my best copypaste, he jacked on
A stench, they left behind when open mouths laugh
He educates by attacking women better than his own
Silently to the top of his knife, he stalks nakedly
Removing a few poems he plagiarized
His Poorness, brought many to donate to the salvation of his army
Sadness Delivered by the Joy Killing Poet and his little pigs
Cross My heart and hope to die!!!
~SKAT~
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
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-"x+2 = 4"-
Enigmas of the soul
Do you know how it feels?
Never tasted before
Invisible Sun
PD
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
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You call me insensitive,
But I don't believe that's true;
Because, you see,
It's all about me.
It's not about you.
You say your opinion doesn’t matter,
That I’ve no respect for your point of view;
But I do if we agree,
Because it’s all about me.
It’s not about you.
You say I’ve no compassion,
No feelings for your troubles or your blues;
But none of us is issue free,
And mine are all about me;
But…not about you.
A time old adage,
“To thine own self be true.”,
Is all about choices you see.
My choices are all about me,
And, certainly, not about you.
So, when free or forced to make your choices
You’ll understand and know it’s true
To decide what will or will not be,
Won’t be at all about me;
It will be all about you
But special moments confront each of us,
When what matters isn’t “Me”.
And while these moments are few,
They’re not about me, not about you.
For a time, it’s all about “We.”
Yes, “…no man is an island.”
Is a valid point of view;
But if it’s not about “We”,
Then it’s all about me.
Sorry. It’s not about you.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
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You, who are so perfect in my eyes, so beautiful- adorable, and I, so flawed, ugly, damaged and crawling with defects; why do you enjoy my company?
You, who are so sleek and slender, humming with a quiet intellect and a serenity about you, and I, so grossly overweight and pretentiously boastful and nervous; how can you abide my company?
You, who are a paragon of patience, so understanding and self-assured, and I, so insanely impulsive, so myopic and brimming with self-doubt; how do you stand my company?
You, who are so sweet, so considerably kind, so thoughtful and generous, and I, so bitter, so selfish, so self-absorbed; why do you choose my company?
You, who are so self-composed, full of self-control, so sound and stable, and I, so very neurotic, so completely compulsive and verily volatile; how can you tolerate my company?
You, who are so diligent, so driven and ambitious, so achieving, and I, so lackadaisically lazy, so uninspired, so complacent; why do you settle for my company?
You, who are ethical, so moral, so very virtuous, and I, so corrupt, so unprincipled, so wholly wicked; how can you endure my company?
You, who are so normal, so well-adjusted, so conventional, and I, so maniacal, so unbalanced and irrational; why do you condone my company?
You, who are bubbling with charm, who loves unconditionally and is absolutely accepting, and I, boiling with rage, fueled by misanthropy and incredibly intolerant; how can you welcome my company?
That you love and accept me for who and what I am, is a treasure beyond measure. I cherish your company, but why you cherish mine is something I cannot fathom. All I know is that I love you, my dear, beloved friend.
**This was written for two very dear friends: Karen and Tommy :)
***I also love palindromes ;)
*****FREE VERSE OLD AND NEW ENTRY
Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet | Year Posted 2013
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Politician chops a tomato
in his kitchen
Now he's chopping a lettuce
in his kitchen
He's saying things at the same time
in his kitchen
He's endowed with multi-skilled sets
Yes he must live in the real world I've guessed
He can chop a tomato
And then a lettuce
And talk at the same time
I've never chopped a lettuce in my life
in my kitchen
I have chopped a tomato though
But it wasn't in my kitchen
It was in someone else's
kitchen
It was a pretty weird situation
That pretty weird kitchen situation is for another poem
And probably one you won't want to read
if I'm being honest
So I won't be honest..honest.
Well that tells us all we need to know
I'm convinced
I always wondered whether he could chop a tomato
in his kitchen
It's not easy at the best of times
You know that
I know that
Let's not pretend
And he did it all in front of the cameras
in his kitchen
Chopping a lettuce truly earns my respect
And should earn yours too
A man who can chop a lettuce and talk about not wanting to be prime minister for a third term
When he's still in his first
To think that far ahead
in his kitchen
While chopping a tomato
and then a lettuce
in his kitchen
Talking at the same time
in his kitchen
About not wanting to be prime minister for a third term
When he's still serving his first
That truly earns my respect
Like watching a marine punch a gazelle..
And regardless of whoever's kitchen I happen to be in
Were I to be in your kitchen for example
I would feel that same swell of admiration
And I promise I would never chop a tomato
in your kitchen
And definitely not a lettuce
Just in case you're wondering
I don't eat lettuce
And even if I did
I would never chop it in your kitchen
Even if I were to be in a really bad mood..
And here's another politician
This one is in his second kitchen
Conversing with his wife while drinking tea
in his second kitchen
I know that could never be me
I don't have a first wife and I don't have a second kitchen
(and I don't really sip tea for I'm an uncouth gulper
probably my Indian upbringing)
Thus I could never be a democratic socialist leader
Although I'd like to be
Who could believe in me
When I don't have a second kitchen to sip tea in
with a wife which I don't have
Listening attentively to my democratic socialist thoughts
While sipping tea which I wouldn't sip anyway
Being more of an uncouth gulper probably because of my Indian upbringing
in my second kitchen
which I also don't have..
To be that man who can sip tea so nonchalantly
Not even in his first kitchen
But in his second kitchen
The one that he's not used to sipping tea in
That's beyond the call of duty
So beyond you
And me
So who really lives in the real world
Well I think that's plain to see
http://sukispangles.blogspot.co.uk
Copyright © Suki Spangles | Year Posted 2015
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The day goes --
but I do not
The west wind blows
and I am still
I'm free to fly
but I just watch
Thoughts of why
I know not
Afraid to be ---
in a world so rough
Afraid for you
is faith enough
A soul at peace
in world at war
Life drifts with ease
but what's in store
The sun will set
then we'll see
A time for rest --
for you and me
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Psycho Evaluation
Physically unable to deal with all this stress
a clinical Psychiatrist said that I am depressed
No shat Sherlock you are such a genius
10 years of college for this uneducated guess
Yah you're just an Idiot with an ego to caress
Pockets full of pens and eyeglasses to impress
Yes we all notice the impeccable way you dress
Armani styled striped suit all ironed and pressed
It looks quite expensive only the best for the best
No I don't want to do your magic ink blotter test
You act as if by the Almighty you are blessed
Just like the Preacher trying to get us to confess
So how do I know this won't end up in my arrest
I guess I'll just have to remove you in the end more or less
Now who is the one that's stressed???...
revised 04/27/16
Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016
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How long must you swallow now
to satisfy the beast
and will I ever bleed enough
for you to withdraw your teeth?
Answer me
I’m fading in and out of consciousness
My lips are turning blue
but I can feel your skin begin to crawl
Tell me, what’s eating you?
Answer me
What is eating you?
Tell me
Tell me
Copyright © Ryan Lucas | Year Posted 2016
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I pick up my notepad and find a sharp pencil
(Hope any comments won’t be too detrimental)
I scan the contest themes and hope I’m inspired
I’ll enter an old poem if I’m just too darn tired
I post my ‘best effort’ and hope that I win …
Yet ANOTHER N/A so I start hitting the gin!
With tears in my eyes I soup mail all my friends
There’ll be a ‘screwed contest’, will that pay dividends?
I finish the bottle, then scan the 'best new poems list'
My poem’s ‘pisadeered’, how my eyes start to mist
My masterpiece isn’t there - where has it gone?
It’s been cast into the realms of total oblivion
My eyes are now closing, I’m too sozzled to write
It’s well after midnight so I’ll bid you goodnight ....
I wake in the morning, dash to check all the lists ...
but with all the moaning on blogs… they no longer exist!
Inspired by Jerry T Curtis's POTD
07~25~16
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
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of love of war
the staff of a prophet, seen
fairness not imagine, sings
shouting out, obscenity
recognized, yet
in search of fame, seeking stance
the moment arises, seek
of voice of power, godsend
renown supremacy, yet
prophet not acknowledged, kept
desire of a great life, sought
skill of voice, articulate
hardly ever, cheek
no longer free, famous self
seldom bite snarls dogma, link
of country of faith, kinship
all that’s true, fair play
desired fame acknowledged, pent
the home front, covetousness
war or peace love or hate, just
yelp puppy love, nice
_________________________|
Penned on September 28, 2014!
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014
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For "Show Me the Funny (part two)"
There once was a fellow a woggin'*
Who bumped into one who was loggin'
They had quite a spat
The ax was a bat
And the first had a lump on his noggin
* Woggers are those who get all dressed for jogging, but only go at walking speed, while vigorously pumping their arms to delude themselves that they are jogging.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2013
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The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
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Fifty-year class reunions are stricken with sadness:
Former classmates falling apart before my eyes.
Jane uses a walker, and Stan exhibits madness.
Wages of age foreshadow classmates’ demise.
In youth’s green age I could not fathom this,
A time when peers would be withered and worn.
How I wonder could life have gone so amiss?
Surveying the scene, my heart is heavy, torn.
I give proud thanks that I’m not like the others,
Having been spared of time’s toxic touches.
“But what has befallen my sisters and brothers?”
I ponder the question as I reach for my crutches.
Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2014
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On an unsinkable ship’s maiden voyage, it sinks.
A pastor who preaches against alcohol, drinks.
One’s surrounded by people, yet remains all alone.
Confessing sins to a priest, those sins are atoned?
A nation’s chief tax czar, who cheats on his taxes?
An animal lover who hunts deer, to relax.
Sing praise and kill humans, in the name of a God?
Destroying our enemies, lasting peace we applaud?
The lifeguard fears water, so remains on dry land.
American foot...ball, is played with the hands.
A high school track coach, who's morbidly obese.
The steakhouse that's owned, by a vegan!
The priest preaching sermons on love, is a pedophile.
Repeat charity builds dependence, over time.
Nations war against drugs, and market alcohol?
DNA tests confirm, Hitler’s Grandfather was Jewish!
Copyright © Michael Wegman | Year Posted 2014
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Creative writers are never given flowers while they still breathing poetry.
Biters wait patiently for the last breath to pay their respect and get paid with your work.
Claiming being sent by callings to keep the legend's work alive till infinity.
No doctor has the cue for this sick world.
But guess what we writers do care.
We keep writing spiritually we don't care.
Atleast i don't care, i know you'll be speaking my language with your theft.
Evidently i do share.
You are that invisible disciple i recruited to speak for me in my death.
It's the life of an artist who cares.
We don't seek recognition.
Recognition come to us that's why we endlessly spread.
We are angels with no wings heaven is closer to us we don't fly.
Paradise is home for holidays filled with dead writers.
An escapism from you hooligans.
Its a crime not a mime when you speak rhyme in my rhymes.
Thank God i'm still an infant in this poetry, i have a chance to fill up the grave you dug for me.
Your patience will have to patiently await my departure patiently.
I have enough time to unleash these constipated rhymes.
You think you got me.
I speak better in my rhymes like a machinegun tone spraying pee.
My skeleton is covered in mics louder i do speak rhythmic bones.
My skeleton is made out of cables transporting poetic stones.
My soul will be kept in your brain's museum.
There i said it.
Ye i meant it.
Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013
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I worked through the day and the night
Got the syllables and spelling just right
My imagery was ‘simply divine’
I hoped that a placement was mine
Got awarded the Poem of the Day
‘Congratulations’ the folks they did say
I sat back and relaxed in my chair
At my perfect poem I did sit and stare
I was really so proud of my work
Saw the winners… felt a right jerk
My eyes scanned down the winner’s list
There was an error - my name had been missed!
My Members Contest list was showing N/A
Guess it really just wasn’t my lucky day
12~22~14
Contest:-Contest – Jerry T Curtis
~awarded 1st place~
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014
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Your wishes can't regain,
A thrill so long ago.
To once again reclaim
A past you wouldn't know.
You view a different dance,
With unfamiliar tune
You pine for lost romance,
Yet treasure not the Moon.
Meter - Iambic Trimeter (Cataletic).
A-B, A-B Rhyme.
Gene Bourne.
06-11-14
.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
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Irony Poem
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My Shoe Collection
Shoes
Nice if you have them
Shoes
There is love
There is happiness
When the next path of your journey
You take with shoes on your feet
Shoes
I am coming out of the closet
I am not a woman
But I do have too many shoes
Shoes
Love and relationships
Why there are a lot like a pair of shoes
At times, things may stink and smell
Yet still better as a pair
Shoes
If I could walk a mile
In everyman’s shoes
I could walk forever
Never having to buy my own
Red Shoes
The Red Socks
Will never win
Without good running shoes
Blue Shoes
If only I had blue shoes
Of suede
Id be dancing with you
After the autographs
Shoes
Homeless people wish for shoes
Millionaires wish for closets
Big Shoes
My feet are so big
Ladies buy me my shoes
Shoe Sale
The man with one leg
Looks for shoe sales
At half off
The Hookers Shoes
A good hooker
Never has used shoes
Academy a Wards
Winners and losers
All complain about their shoes
Petty and jealous, the famously inane
Their shoes show their vain
Shoe Diversity
They come in many fashions
In shoes there is humanities design
We all walk the path of human strife
All Shoes matter
Celtic Shoes
Irish Shoes
Scottish shoes
Welsh shoes
All meet at the pub
So their feet can have a rest
While the mouths imbibe with chatter
If all goes well
Later on
The shoes fall off in a clatter
Miami Vice
Got the finest shoes from Miami
Found out they were fakes
Tongues were bent and crooked
Must have come from crocodile skinned tears
Mocking the homeless with no shoes over the years
The Great Canadian Shoe Trapper
The trapper goes for beaver pelts
The millionaire goes for shoes of felt
Armani makes it all the way
Only when the consumer comes out to play
The Shoeless Argentine
If you wish to invade the Falkland’s
Remember to bring your shoes
Cause your dictator has all your money
He cares not if you really lose
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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One day I started climbing;
without question I climbed.
Until finally I had reached the peak of Mt. Everest.
I wanted to beat my breastbone
yell like Tarzan King of the Apes.
But...
I saw a tree.
IT!
was the highest peak.
I climbed.
“Ta da"!
But...
there was an escarpment,
higher.
I climbed.
Once again I...
But...
Stairs,
stairs at the end of the land.
I climbed
Reached the top of the stairs.
But...
I saw a huge bird.
“I can go higher” I told myself.
I reached up with my arms,
miraculously the bird accepted my hands.
We reached the space beyond Earth's pull;
there my magical friend released me.
I kept floating up
until I reached a tunnel in space,
a hole on an incline that led up.
I climbed!
For an eternity,
maybe longer.
The higher I got...
nothing.
An enormous amount of nothing.
I was going nowhere and I was doing it in record time.
Then...
Then I stopped.
I mean I hit the brakes,
reflected on my journey.
The wildlife?
Had I done damage?
The escarpment?
What was the vegetation,
were there flowers?
I should of gone barefoot felt the land under my feet;
smelled the coffee.
Were those really stairs I climbed?
Was it friends and associates I was stepping on?
I opened my eyes.
The climb was like trying to walk to the end of the horizon.
All leading to more vast “I don’t know what” but definitely up.
“No!” I said aloud.
“So what!” I whispered.
So...
I slid down the best slide you ever saw.
I felt like a child again,
I could see, smell, feel and hear,
I could taste the sweetness of freedom in the air.
I love sweets.
So...
Now, back to my land
I plant myself firmly.
I am one with all,
a Giant Redwood surrounded by other Redwoods.
I am at peace.
Here, at the bottom of everything is my highest point.
I bask in the heat of the sun.
Feed from the richness of the land.
Drink the cold water gifted to me by the skies above.
What an incredible sense of strength I feel
comfortable in my own bark.
Just happy to be rooted.
Now...
I am the smallest tree
But...
growing.
Fulfilled,
satisfied just “to be”!
09/20/2014
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
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Primose path leads to the slaughter of American
dream delete pause proficiency with internetty
webbegone after thoughts of yahoo googleyed
interred intracacises that shed benign capsules of
mom entary apple pie delquiences cooling
the soul shopping for the next alias avenue of
pointless me procurement mauling an ongoing
onerous dildodate vis a vie meme.com/me in
an engaging omnipresence of sextext no tact
spell ckeck chicshicshakplak no sense tic tac.
Talk? Walk? Balk? Chalk? Sue? Sulk?
Dinosaur diligence posse with the senior
gestages gestulating, we r forevre 21 and ying yang
dung. Yes, good f ing luck with that!! Look at your
petridish parents and see what box u check to lid close
and abscond with the lost liberal leftovers. That
is you in reverse in a few carnal years after Hilter youth
children decide to screw us as the new
generation which skewer post present parental postulates
to the oldster outhouse outlets so u can be "youf" free. Little
do they notknow as they cumulatively co opulate
that they set the stooge stage for no thanx ahole actions.
The DOS does'nt fall from the Apple tree. Leave it,
love it, learn it while ye may, the kid crisp cosmos of
offspring social dicktates are biting at your heartbeatbit
empty elmo enterprises. Pause parenatal prenatal
preferences prepearing perinatal persons pretasking
postnatal practices, in which you have veno papa preparation.
Think before you For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and Analyze
your ass-incarnate initiate. Borrow berofe u basterdize,
condomize before u copu culminate, decide before
u dicktate, envision before u envy, fail before u foil,
grasp before u germinate, halt before u hinder,
illuminate before u illerate, jump before u jinx,
kill before u keep, love before u lay, meaning before
moaning, neutralize before u now, obilerate before
u ooops! presence before predicament, quit before
quake, resilience before ridiculous, sanity before
sexusensuality, thinkth before u thumpth, utilize
before u unionize, victory before victimization, we
before want, xx nor xy, zen before zeal. Pocket
passion files fly in the face of ruined reason residules
to the point of pronounced perplextion plagued
prominantly with no recall references to problematic
protocals for near north normalicies in my buckeye
life measures of simpatico silly symbiosis sublime
of mini me monophile mucous made misdemeanor
milktoast memories. Pass go, collect $200.
Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013
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Irony Poem
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One wake-up away
From the best day of your life.
Life’s just a crapshoot.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
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Irony Poem
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Now down at our local pub
I noticed McGee at the bar
So I pulled up a chair, A bit unaware
That he was a bit under par
He said to me "Last night,
I tried to take me own life
I wanted to end my misery
In this world full of struggle and strife
So, I started to take a thousand pills,
and wash them down with wine
but after the second aspirin
I started to feel just fine
Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014
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Isn’t it ironic?
That the plague called the bubonic
Killed the man but not the rat
And did not even kill the cat
That caught and killed the guilty rat
Isn’t it ironic?
That in this age of the electronic
Ebola is running unabated
It’s deathly thirst left quite unslated
Just like the plague as earlier stated
Isn’t it ironic?
That in this age of progress so terrific
A plague is not spread by a rat
Nor by bat and not by cat
But by technology - imagine that!
Copyright © Daniel Human | Year Posted 2015
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