Best Irony Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best Irony poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of irony poems written by PoetrySoup members
Search for Irony poems, articles about Irony poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Irony poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
New Irony Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Irony poems are below this new poems list.
Irony in agony
by Nxele , Thandanani
The Irony Of Fate
by Ashley, Susan
by Neumann, Kai Michael
A Hutinashro Irony - Iambic Tetrameter
by Wegman, Michael
by Slaughter, Jim
by Goss, Christopher
Irony in the Sky
by Wood, Dean
WHAT IRONY - A REAL FISHERMAN'S TALE
by ALLISON, JAN
Irony Abounds: She Forgot about Inclusivity
by Frank, Mark
The Irony of Mirrors
by Travis, Andrew
View all new Irony Poems
The Best Irony Poems
There’s a beguiling danger in beauty…
seduced as I was by the fickle fingers of fate musingly stroking my hair,
this lusciously lavish landscape
of sun-raptured heavenly hills and valid valleys
to be a lush, plush place for me to land ~
alas, such deception my naive perception did offer.
Buried beneath the facade of a fertile dream-come-true
and a mesmerizing mirage of natural light and zephyrus breaths -
where your thoughts hugged the horizons of my mind
like clouds on the edges of prairie dog skies
and where your stampeding passions trampled my inhibitions -
were delicate bandeaux of ice;
finespun and feathery like polar gossamer
that formed on the stems of your ruptured dreams
that then became my nightmare
when you had your hard freeze
and warm sap still flowed through your veins,
pumped and pushing through your broken being
and freezing on contact with the chilled clime
cocooning me, in a sudden silken surge of your glazing gauze
holding me, in the vivid wild magic of your frosted crystallized clutches -
fossilizing me, in icy opalescent ribbons of ornate whorls.
Unable to escape the grasping glacial petals of your exquisite pain,
your frost flowers plunged me into the frigid heart
of your bitter big-bluestem
There’s a beguiling beauty in danger
hypnotized and hijacked
as I was by the rhythmic sways of your tall grass ways -
your flickering tongue tasting my air
as my emotions were extorted
till I was bled white -
that I was being preyed upon
by a stealthy force of nature motivated by indigenous instincts.
March 13, 2018
~ First Place ~
Contest: Poetry for the Sake of Poetry
Sponsor: John Lawless
* big bluestem: tall grass native to the Great Plains with bluish leaf sheaths *
* frost flower: thin layers of ice extruded from long-stemmed plants in autumn or early winter. These thin ice layers form beautifully dainty ‘ribbons’ or ‘petals’ *
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018
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.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
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
**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
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!!!
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
In a moment of juvenile jealousy
he envies his red rival
with its intimate and greedy embrace of her angels’ share
of honey and vanilla spice
as wet stretchy hands of fervent fabric
her brandied beauty
amidst wistful notions
to revive his parched heart
he craves to be ladled with her ardent spirits
to be cradled in the tulip of her essence -
evaporating every chill from the calyx of her sweetened cordial
warming her in the hearth of his hands
as she melts
like buttery sunbeams
intoxicating the bleached beachy sands..
...his dreamy grin falters and his tantric trance fades
as the tattered edges of reverie unravel
and a haze beclouds his aged green-eyed gaze -
graying his white periwinkle pipe dream
as he sees
that his best days
July 18, 2018
*irony of fate represents the notion that the gods (or the Fates) are amusing themselves by toying with the minds of mortals with deliberate ironic intent*
* the white periwinkle flower represents pleasures of memory *
*cordial represents a strong, sweetened aromatic liquor; liqueur
being expressed as a stimulating medicine that invigorates and exhilarates*
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018
-"x+2 = 4"-
Enigmas of the soul
Do you know how it feels?
Never tasted before
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
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 its time 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 most 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
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
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
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???...
Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016
How long must you swallow now
to satisfy the beast
and will I ever bleed enough
for you to withdraw your teeth?
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?
What is eating you?
Copyright © Ryan Lucas | Year Posted 2016
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
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
Donald Duck Chancellor of this fowl kingdom
wearing an upside down smile's raging hypocrite backwards
this deranged Duck twitters to and fro as his unhinged subjects
unwittingly applaud him onto a victory march that never appears equal
except in his alternate universe of oneness
Calamity Jane perchance is on the horizon
while war looms close by this feather prides himself
on his big show asking for a mirror to check his orange glow
he jokes and preens fading in and out so it would seem logical
tearing down all good morals he alienates with his constant magic escapades
Sleight of hand reflections move
with this fake news it gets exposed
the big top rotates under an eclipsed lie
fire breathing condemning all those against his way
entering the arena for the next late show
Now Big Bird has been caught fibbing
just when they thought everyone was safe
getting off the band wagon or so to speak
Just signing the pact with her feathered friend
letting on they are getting on so well for the world to see buddies
Almost joined at the hip like in their loyalty reigning over truth
in this ungodly circus of the vainest sort
Where the funfair clowns abound
under fabrications an orangutan watches on
beating his chest in an ape like manner and solid hands
he has no way to express words
puffing and panting swaggers
living under thee umbrella protected from the truth’s influence
Alvin and his chipmunks sing the national anthem
while the confederate flag waves goodbye over democracy
begins the three little pigs stages as they enter the building
their houses from clay flamed with truth
ransomed for vanities sake no good ending can come
Earthquakes separate the earth
floods come with grave disaster
hurricanes winds rise from the greatest source
even this cannot deter or distract this awful Duck
one mission under a selfish chant of
quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack
which only translates to me
only me, me only me, me only me!
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam Mcdaid
Copyright © Donna Loughman | Year Posted 2017
A Tempered Glass Plate
I really can't explain how I've felt of late.
Words became shorter, time spent rare.
Becoming that obsolete glass tempered plate.
I didn't see it coming, I wasn't even aware.
Thinking our mixture, always just right.
I see it was diluted by another influence.
How could I have miss what shown so bright.
Not even any attempts at all of pursuance.
You've grown and for me lost your need.
As with tempered glass allowed myself weak.
So I bow out gracefully, take your lead.
Doesn't matter if its you i do seek.
I guess life moves on, things you outgrow.
It hurts but shhhh, because its what you show!
Copyright © Brenda Chiri | Year Posted 2018
On the state of American Poetry- A Non-Poem Poem
I'm Poet Laureate Of Main Street!
They voted. I won.
' came down to me and the kid whose
dog shits on everyone's
His poem was about a missing red
crayon. Mine- the stop sign someone
stole from the corner of Elm and Main.
(I think I know who did it too.)
Is it coincidence
both poems are about loss?
Probably not. Poetry is at
its best when expressing
He'll probably win the position
back next year with a weepy
poem about not having been
chosen Poet Laureate Of Main
Street. That's fine with me...
as long as he keeps that damn
dog in his own yard!
Copyright © Robert Warlov | Year Posted 2016
Life's a One Way, Uphill.
Every Wrinkle on your Face
Marks a Step of Maturity.
You go Up not Looking
At the Peak but Dreaming
Of Sliding Down, Trying to
Look Younger than You Are.
Copyright © Harshath Vidheya | Year Posted 2017
What does it look like
From over there
Describe the sights
No details spared
How does it taste
Is it always delicious
By the look on your face
I’m a bit suspicious
I happen to be
Opposite to you
On the humanity tree
Like yellow and blue
I imagine your half
An enlightened bunch
No need for math
Just an arrogant hunch
It seems quite ironic
To say the least
That, in fact, you’re ignorant
Yet too smart to see
Copyright © Anna Hopper | Year Posted 2018
of love of war
the staff of a prophet, seen
fairness not imagine, sings
shouting out, obscenity
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
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
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
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
My Shoe Collection
Nice if you have them
There is love
There is happiness
When the next path of your journey
You take with shoes on your feet
I am coming out of the closet
I am not a woman
But I do have too many 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
If I could walk a mile
In everyman’s shoes
I could walk forever
Never having to buy my own
The Red Socks
Will never win
Without good running shoes
If only I had blue shoes
Id be dancing with you
After the autographs
Homeless people wish for shoes
Millionaires wish for closets
My feet are so big
Ladies buy me my shoes
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
They come in many fashions
In shoes there is humanities design
We all walk the path of human strife
All Shoes matter
All meet at the pub
So their feet can have a rest
While the mouths imbibe with chatter
If all goes well
The shoes fall off in a clatter
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
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
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.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
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