Best Jesting Poems
Four legs quiver
like clumsy cabrioles
striking smooth gray rivers
of zig-zag sidewalk barrios
in rhythm with happy shivers
syncopated on a muffled drum
as we talk and stroll
On our way
hand-in-hand
we persuade and pretend
this day away
taunting and cajoling to demand
laughing “hide and seeking”
chasing and skedaddling
poking and peeking
like cuddly pandas
or canoodling otters
splashing and clambering
We roll and meander
impetuously twiddling all the way
atop gregarious green promenades
we pause in slight delay
as we prattle and prance
as we dance to the Crickets singing
nodding to their fiddling
frolicking with all the jiggling
Serendipitous stalks
of snickering flowers pop
to dazzle and razzle our wits
we glide in stripes of candy bits
of rainbows bright
Purple painted paisley
fragrantly flairs in pairs
of scented lavender sweetness
among black-eyed daisies
dusting the woozy air
in a meadow’s billowing bloom
sunflowers sunbathe in costume
We giddily tarry
as we carry
a feast of fancies and treats
artsy bits of charmed delicacies
filled with a peck of upcoming kisses
enticing fantasies that wink
Snuggling shenanigans lead us astray
as we find our rootie-tootie hideaway
hugs as we shy away
from tomfoolery jesting
to lay down and swoon
looking up at the soon to be stars
lingering for the coming of the moon
Murmurs of Starlings
gaggle their harmonies
of chirps
in cheeks and broadened beaks
thrumming tiny melodies.
Swallows sweep and woo
fixated on this unabashed swain
through songbird strains
announcing a shrilling review
broadening in sweet refrains
“I love you…I love you”
Fingerpainting the Monet sky
puffy white cotton words appear
from clouds passing by
while tiny violins spin in the air
piccolos peep
pigeon-toed Doves coo and weep
their contentedness to appease
trailing off the pleasant breeze
I fall upon my knees
My words explode to strew
like a thousand storms set free
“I love you…I love you…I love you”
There is a solace in his silence, a servant of his solitudes,
As he comforts in compliance, a jester to the multitudes…
He stands alone a neophyte, struggling within his confines,
Actions that do excite, impugnable inhibition when he signs.
Master of the satirical sad, a foreordained flounder of many,
Like a narcotized nomad, wandering wills a penniless plenty…
A calamitous circus in mind, his heart exposed in the limelight,
Dolorous detentions unkind, amidst filling his formidable finite.
A bombarding bombast, with words falling to the desolate deep,
Sailing with a maudlin mast, wearing a facetious frown as to weep…
Layered with lecherous lashes, upon wounding the sacrificial soul,
His anguish turns to ashes, within continuation of his dramatic role.
A buffoon protected by providence, metamorphic minstrel of laugh,
Lacking in canopied confidence, recklessly writing his eternal epitaph…
As he mimes until the morrows, living amongst a false fading reality,
With a smolder to his sorrows, court jesting as a nilpotent nobody.
Feb.28.2020
Repost From May 23, 2019
Clown at the Abyss
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Placed 7'th...Thank You
I turn to look back,
my back to the sun,
my shadow lengthens before me,
it mocks me with movement
that I know was never mine,
I turn away from the mockery.
Godlike Sun Of The Living,
Do You Chase Your Shadow As I Do ?
Before me my shadow,
before me the sun,
sorrow makes allowance
so that they may be as one,
solstice is brief,
I regret its passing.
Devilish Sun Of The Dying,
Do You Loathe Your Shadow As I Do ?
My shadow lies before me,
it stretches, dark, into the sunlight,
it seeks the sun's embrace,
the sun welcomes its approach,
together they laugh,
conspirators jesting at my madness.
21st December 2018
water weeps wildly
whilst washing away your
jesting foolery.
I saw the sun annihilated
Against backdrops of liturgy
Lethargic activity that earns
It’s title as the Earth’s endearing child
Against backdrops of monogamy,
Pedestrian thinking,
Accelerated usage,
Lapping up mentalities from bowls of pulled poultry,
Doing nothing for the Universe, Yet stealing all unities,
Dissention and green lights and babies birthed and apostrophes in time,
Influencing the way we work on thinking of ourselves as HUMANS, As people, not things.
Growths, from children to adults, the contortion of time, the peeling of fate, the sweet sugar coating like a scab on your life,
Bleeding out of your heart and seeing out of your eyes and feeling through your brain and feeling through your synapses.
Here are the producers of the broad way show of assimilation
Here are the problems, Here are the irregularities with the hole in the boat, But don’t worry everything is now under…
Black as a burn on white , yellow as a can of
Cream, not yellow at all.
Not nothing but irregularities we perceive as
Potential ingredients in life.
But in greed, is what we are, in need
Not so much, Thinking SO outside
Of the box, that the box has grown
Legs and walked away and has grown
A full beard and a full head of ideals.
And we are trapped outside of this fully
Matured matron of mystic answers.
And we are pleading to God to be let
back in...
But you know something, GOD IS IN THAT BOX TOO.
And you know something else, inside all of us
Is a little box opening when
It's ready to breed a plague of
Insatiable urges.
A quest for self.
A journey through self.
Black and blue benches where a man sits,
Breathing, he breathed.
Waiting for his anti-matter mother to annihilate him,
But less than he believes because anti-matter
Kills not what it touches, But what it needs to
Kill itself.
A piano, might be boxy and Brute-Like
But might mean more than piano
To you.
It might mean the 'end is nigh'
For music is the sound we hear to
feel forsworn,
to feel filthy inside of ourselves.
GOOD, GOOD
But remember, the Doctor is here
And he is watching from inside
The box, and he's sitting over a cup of tea,
With GOD,
In that BOX
I was born cursed, disfigured and mangled,
With a face so warped, twisted and tangled.
A shock to the world of normality,
Infecting this land of endless humanity.
I have been called wicked, evil, and gross.
Despised by the people that i thought love me the most.
Tore from the loving arms of my mother's care,
Left alone on the street; cold, hungry and scared.
Cradled by disparity that lingered in the dark,
Taught by the dogs how to loudly bark.
I learn to find meals by bearing my teeth,
For even monsters must have food to survive and eat.
Thievery has become my most valuable of skills,
For it helps me achieve and take all that i will.
I have blended with shadows and learned the way of the night,
My greatest of jokes is to give the humans a good fright.
Their screams make me laugh as they run off in fear.
The long shrieks echo through the void and into my lonesome ears.
They think it insensitive, foolish and rude.
But to me it really doesn't feel that crude.
They plan out my capture and which trap to set.
But i don't understand why they whine or fret.
I'm just playing practical jokes, isn't that what children do?
Or has my innocent jesting some how gone askew?
They hunt me like a rabid beast on the loose,
They search with guns, knives and a rope with a noose.
Retreating to the darkness they closely follow,
The rope they tightly wrap leaving me unable to swallow.
They tear me away from the dark's embrace ,
Into the horrid light where my fate i must face.
I am chained and beaten day and night for i have no emotions,
While the tellers of stories depict all of my hellish accusations.
I am imprisoned by a jury not of my peers,
The sentence is death for the crime that's so clear.
They set the stage for my most inevitable demise,
Tears filling my eyes as i confusedly wonder why?
Born only to know all the hate this world had to offer,
Not shown any love nor caring just told to suffer.
For i was not blessed with a beautiful figure or face,
But one that's appalling that not one person would ever embrace.
So as my eyes finally close for the very last time,
I can't help but wonder this thought through my mind.
I might have been disfigured and an unwanted imposter,
But was i the one that was evil, horrible, savage monster.
In Ulzana's Raid,
the Native- and European-American concepts of property ownership
and rights
are incompatible and irresolvable. McIntosh
had no illusions about that. He said hating Apaches for killing whites
is like hating the desert for having no water.
I suspect the movie's not a good source of anthropological data
and overlooks the commonalities among human communities
to focus on just a few bold characters
as all art must.
I consider McIntosh fortunate
to have died commensurate with the way he lived his life,
rolling a final cigarette, nothing between him and the desert,
and no gravediggers waiting, jesting, defecating. Also,
he is lucky to have had one last, dispassionate friend
to whom there is nothing left to say, the Chiracahua tracker
Kah-ti-nay.
Last night's performance of Beauty and the Beast
may have been the most victorious, ecstatic, cohesive
moment in our little school's history. Emily was Beauty, a filament of
energy
who doesn't like to be touched and has been known to punch
boys hard. She had memorized her lines until she was hardly
Emily but only Beauty in a blue dress unselfconsciously
hiking up her tights between the Beast's advances.
Is this done in every American town and the world
over so there's no need to feel lost or lonely
ever?
There is no context for a man
outside the platoon or raiding party, home or shop.
When violence comes to the neighborhood,
the hierarchy of communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant. I noticed McIntosh,
grizzled as he was, accepted the given hierarchy, a raw lieutenant's
orders,
as he did the desert and Apaches, with a shrug and foreknowledge
of the outcome.
If there's anywhere with no Emily or Beauty
we should bring them such blessings at the point of a
gun. But there is no place without Emily, not
the least-known prison in deepest space as long
as we do not hate or hurt or shun
the Beast.
Understandable... the sensible
(three ringed circuitous) logic
to trumpet necessity
each individual moost heed
bedecking, cloaking donning,
ludicrous interloper facial covering,
(I prefer sporting
latest custom made
invisible máscaras faciales),
when commingling amidst madding crowd,
nevertheless coronavirus (COVID-19)
makes laughingstock kickstarting
maniacal paranoid testing yapping
authoritarians blabber ceaselessly
bleak household pandemic
plagues (sear ring)
robust human specimen,
hence yours truly,
a feckless (gibbon) primate
breathes sigh of relief,
why? cuz he counts himself insignificant
absolute zero worth
versus microscopic prickly orb
aging long haired pencil neck geek
best beat hasty retreat
to his man cave
not necessarily avoiding microbial denizen,
yet any potential suffering
scouting out troubadour woefully
jackknifed inept hideaway
availed no choice
rolls out Harris tweed Scottish matt
courtesy minuscule germ man
greeting me with gotcha!,
I willingly surrender
the only thing at stake iz my life,
which would immediately
ebb fate (mine),
automatically buzzfeed chap
offer no chance
for symbiotic relationship
as pathogens indeed choreograph
(dirty deed done dirt cheap)
loft hilly doth waft
through cellular skeins comprising
garden variety/ generic gent
herewith essentially crafting
his poetic epitaph
before onset disables,
disallows, and disvalues
one humble, intelligent, jesting
kindhearted, literate, modest
nincompoop aimlessly adrift
within Brownian movement
(*****sapiens random motions
viewed miles skyhigh)
ostentatious, piteous, querulous,
ridiculous, superfluous, et cetera,
thus forward donations
and/or pledge
(I promise you -
swear to dog
portion of me ashes)
to favorite charity
and will hoop to visit thee as repurposed
noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun,
preposition, conjunction, interjection,
numeral, article, or determiner...
Here today; gone tomorrow
In a blink of an eye there could be great sorrow
Jesting no more, just past memories
Kindnesses give always, even if you disagree
Embrace them as if there’s no tomorrow
Dark Novembers
It’s the silence that is killing
this cold November chilling
Natures beauty with frost, stillness, color but no sound.
A wiser woman knows the inner temperature of the soul paints the
landscape to match their own
a fool discovers the surfeit of despair
This Thanksgiving day bleak, weak, sick, sad, still, quiet, reflective
I had not to give the love you sought so you walked out,
And the past knew you were to come…
And like a reverberation of the all the relationships I’ve known
The past and to come will follow the ripples of that first stone,
I cannot love you in November I loved you all the months through
September, many decades upon each, watching entropy teach me the ways
to age…
I make no sound but inside screaming
Nature may be jesting in her seeming to mock whole
the lamentation of all the secret silent sorrows of each soul.
Insomnia, you're not my friend, so why do you show up?
I wish you'd leave me be, and let me sleep! ..no luck.
Go bother someone else. You are not welcome here.
Your jesting lacks of cordial tidings, more then less sincere.
I don't appreciate your time, I'm not a fan of yours.
Your company is overstayed, it leaves me mad and bored.
I sent no inventions and you were not summoned hither.
I'm usually a gracious host, but hosting you is bitter.
Insomnia, you're not my friend, I'd rather that you left.
It's nothing personal, my friend, I just prefer my bed!
There is a solace in his silence, a servant of his solitudes,
As he comforts in compliance, a jester to the multitudes…
He stands alone a neophyte, struggling within his confines,
Actions that do excite, impugnable inhibition when he signs.
Master of the satirical sad, a foreordained flounder of many,
Like a narcotized nomad, wandering wills a penniless plenty…
A calamitous circus in mind, his heart exposed in the limelight,
Dolorous detentions unkind, amidst filling his formidable finite.
A bombarding bombast, with words falling to the desolate deep,
Sailing with a maudlin mast, wearing a facetious frown as to weep…
Layered with lecherous lashes, upon wounding the sacrificial soul,
His anguish turns to ashes, within continuation of his dramatic role.
A buffoon protected by providence, metamorphic minstrel of laugh,
Lacking in canopied confidence, recklessly writing his eternal epitaph…
As he mimes until the morrows, living amongst a false fading reality,
With a smolder to his sorrows, court jesting as a nilpotent nobody.
~~~
First Released: May 23, 2019
Repost: Nov 18, 2019
Writing Challenge 2, November - A Poem Meaningful
Sponsored by: Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Placed 1'st...Thank You
by Michaelw1two
The bard, the muse, the low versifier,
each the times bemoan;
stressed by compassion's grasp,
ingrained word sown life disowns;
individualist rare, previews minds mood,
frigid wills he does discern;
insurrection, a thought held vast,
implied truth's, tout one’s dishonor.
Prerogative, free your chained mind,
release past stain despotic;
concomitant imbroglio once bound,
faces now this world chaotic;
temporal truth outweighs want,
life’s bliss questions idea quixotic;
perceptivity palpable eoan,
entwined societal gist, riddle semiotic.
Incessant proves life’s filature,
its touch, binds each into account;
emblements, an inedible gruel,
thought as fruit, abstruse keynote;
historicity, prime number obscured,
self’s augmentative connote;
coincibency jesting theft,
petitio principia, intones snidely cantor.
Initiates, anew in words from blood,
long of mindfulness and mores;
misconstrue one’s meanderings,
as logical crazes, fecundity ignores;
interpretation, ideas coalesce,
worked verse provides the Id amore’;
contradictions, fuel creative trysts,
twisted thoughts, this art restores.
Orient then one’s psyche appetent,
as present wanes benignly;
dupery thrives, flexile ideas hide,
within abderian punning finery;
circumscribe in self perspicacity,
release your jocularity divinely;
sagaciousness poetic ruse,
a mendicants muse, his true babblery.
Jan 2010
The leaves are falling, falling, enriching
cool of fall season. Shades of fiery red,
yellow, gold, emitting light; bewitching
green summer leaves. Wondrous mystical bed
a time of windblown beauty gone and fled.
The past forgotten upon umber boughs
which shudder left disrobed, misbegotten.
A new beginning, a new smile endows
nature's convergence. Up comes the cotton
spun and woven into cloth, not boughten.
Wailing chill of long hours of Halloween.
Scrumptious Thanksgiving aromas, feasting
with loved ones. Time full of gladness between
new birth of a child and birthdays lasting
smiles. Season of rainy days were jesting.
9/13/2018
alternately titled: breast damned fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically dick cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and x-rated 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
condom free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that ass hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ejaculation
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans pubis seams burst
jock strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within tawdry tabloid pulp pit
whore sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eyelit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Am I the snail in the universe, a sloth
Blame it on me for taking a turtle initiative, going slow and steady
Cause I move too fast like a hare that I just collapse 3 on my floor from boredom
Dread to tell you the truth, what moves fast are my shows
Even my eyes hold still, blinking only when they feel the burn like they caught fire
Forge them into juggernauts so I don't feel this pain again
Go against my genetic makeup, turn me producer instead of a space filler
Here I am just going nowhere
I've been the same stagnant person for as long as I can remember
Jesting like a joker to be taught like a dog a few new tricks
Knick-knacks are what I collect to fill this void growing
Like I need something else in my life I love that I'm not prepared to lose
My bad, did I spill the beans to the plot of my chaotic story
Negate the negativity so I can see this glass half full instead of half empty
Omit this fear, this paranoia screaming at my bravado turning him coward
Please find my Anastasia, tell her to come to me
Question her, ask her, demand her to fork over the whereabouts of the rest of me
Restoration of me relies on what I can replace but I can't replace what she took
She stole from me, disappeared into thin air, another sorceress for my memoirs
Take me to Juliet so I can scream at her for abandoning me
Uncensored, no bleeps nor beeps to mask my frustration
Victory, it would mean victory yet I already claimed my vengeance
Woe is me, I'll never say those words; they don't exist in my vocabulary
Xray me, all I have are broken bones
Years have not been so kind to me
Zero, hey I see you again; make me a hero again or just help me end this...fin'