Best Lacking Poems
I laughed and the world was silent
For it seemed the joke was me
I wished to be a comfort
Yet, it was not meant to be
I stood upon the broadest shoulders
and still in the end I felt quite short
I couldn't see past lonely mountains
What goodly news could I report?
Those things I saw off in the distance
Raced towards me with a blinding speed
I dreamt of how they'd satisfy me
Yet sadly they did not meet my need
Within broken mind, I searched for justice
The lady outpaced by quite a bit
She said "If you really want to catch me,
You have to do oh so much more than sit!"
I chose to climb, the highest of mountains
Surveyed the majestic valleys below
Expected I'd be warmed by the sunshine
But Instead, I felt the fridgid winds blow
I shifted my gaze towards the heavens
Wondered deep down, why I felt all alone
As I sat cross legged I tried to listen
Felt a deep aching within tired bone
My greatest lacking was understanding
Until God's Mercy allowed me to cry
Temporary would lead to forever
The cycles of life connected to why
So my tears flowed into rivers
Down the tall mountain into the sea
It seems, I was always connected
Yes, the whole world was crying with me
Lacking
Lacking eloquence
Lector lacking
Bullfrogs and lemmings crooning
In the swamp of dim intellect
Spewing their haughtiness
Through their noses the spittle drops
Collecting in murky waters
Their stagnation hiding within their bubble of hate
When the swamp dries lest it be said
No one will be opening heavens gate
One can not persuade a mind painted in black
They the commoners’ collect like old dishes
On a dirty rack
Should the Cellarer ever turn his back
Plato’s will attack in their packs
Airs of allusive elegance
Slipping away into the darkness
Of extinction
For those with black hearts and feeble minds
They shall never see the ends of times
Only when the white rose comes to full bloom
Shall the meek and kind find their true home
They shall be with angels above
As those assemble in the quire
Songs melodic under the arch
Brothers plotting after songs depart
Time eternal yet as always coward’s preach
Solace coming from wisdom's speak
Their persuasion lacking sincere tone
As the sinners lay underneath cold stone
Let’s be brutally honest with each other
AI poems are being posted on soup
Can be seen on a daily basis
Keep seeing the same names produce it
I don’t bother alerting admin as
Nothing gets done, so instead I
Go and seek genuine poems… HOWEVER
I USED to read a poem and comment
Now I often copy and paste them
To check for AI, and sadly I
Even search for plagiarism and
Get infuriated when I find it. I’d
Really love an explanation how a dead poet
Is able to post THEIR poem here on the site
The time has come to clean up the soup bowl
Yes let’s rid the site of cheaters and fakers!
There are in the world, at least two types of folks
there are some living comfy and those under the yokes.
If you’re of the former, eating three squares per day,
when you look at the latter, do you cast them away?
Do you feel in your heart, anything but repulsion?
From an ill-conceived fear do you cry their expulsion?
Ghostly wolves hide among them, so you turn a blind eye
and it makes you feel safer, letting innocents die.
You say you’re correct, and you say it is smart,
to ignore all the suffering and to harden the heart.
Truth is: you’re a coward hiding up in your loft
and when asked for compassion, you shrugged and you scoffed.
Then you offered yourself a nice pat on the back,
and despite all your riches -- of real substance: you lack.
8/21/16
For Contest: Couplet Time-
Hosted By: Rick Parise
Old age will be miserable
If one thinks of the dreams
That haven't been fulfilled
And time is lacking
If one thinks of the hatred buried in the heart
And there is a little chance to release
The oldy is too weak to combat again
He will burn himself out
Like a candle in the wind
Maybe doing good
Is worthy
But doing bad
Will face a penalty from God
I woke up this morning and knew what I'd do,
I'd write me a poem, or I'd maybe write two
So pen at the ready and coffee on tap,
I waited for something to fall in my lap.
I waited, I waited, and waited some more
I stared at the ceiling, I stared at the floor,
I stared at the window, I stared at the wall
but nothing inspired me, nothing at all.
I'm sure one day I'll be seeing the light,
my head will be oozing with things I can write
But today it appears that I'm losing my zest
and maybe for now I should give it a rest
and come back tomorrow, all raring to go
and write something special when I'm in full flow.
Most of my Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
out an ankh (caws
away) aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed
triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus
on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
Is the passion in my writing lost?
I feel like I should try harder.
Are the words as deep as they once were?
I feel as though something's missing.
Where wisdom is lacking, the ego is king
Self-deception’s most likely the lay of the land,
A life without boundaries formless like clay,
Without God, all that’s real falls through fingers like sand.
“No God,” precious friend, means the future’s not yours,
And the past, though it’s dear to you, cannot be owned,
The present means nothing if you say it’s earned
Mortal’s souls have no value if they are not loaned.
For Satan’s the prince of those “KNOWING the TRUTH,”
Help us God, not to rest till all fools are expired,
Let’s honor the men who build towers of LOVE,
Give the Nation one voice, “Donald Trump you are fired!”
Long Tooth
October 22, 2016
Those writers inspired by a muse
Have a bevy of topics to choose
So when faced with a time
For composing a rhyme
There are mountains of thoughts to peruse.
But the rest of us sit there and stare,
Pencils poised, although barely aware
Of the air that surrounds;
Meanwhile, just out of bounds
Are ideas others’ muses won’t share.
Still, at last, the mere germ of a thought
Will pass by and, if lucky, be caught
And that’s all that I need
For the poem to proceed
So my worries all add up to naught.
Today’s trains leave much to be desired, in the way of charm.
The iron horse of yesteryear, laughs at his grandchildren’s weakness.
The great king of the old tracks; a force unconquerable.
Most of my Lix spittle
+ four additional anniversaries
since exiting birth canal
as full term newborn
re: minimally viable existence
post doc severance umbilical cord,
nevertheless yours truly
found himself figuratively
linkedin and tethered to lifeline
particularly in formative years
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without an ankh (clawing
away to stay afloat)
aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker,
(who calls Lake Wobegon
his birth place)
from without, where two
brown myopic ocular
orbs shutterfly, twitter and winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
nsync with avocations
such as: jigsaw puzzles,
photography, playing piano
weight lifting with free weights
and other endeavors metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
courtesy anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
captioned tinker tailor soldier spy
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning (when libido
ran rampantly amuck)
satyromania, the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus three
month date on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia
after Dayton death.
I don't feel much like writing this poem,
for there's nothing that much on my mind;
No birds are a-tweeting, no cattle are lowing,
or maybe my perceptions are blind.
For want of an alternative merit,
I find now is the right time to stop.
If a poem won't work, then end it
to limit the scope of the rot .
Still in my world
My world of segregation
Thinking aloud
Without my knowledge
Saying I’m so separated
From the world of others
Here a crippled man
Sitting besides me
Just murmur out some words
Saying if he had what i have
The world would have been his
But here I am
With all it takes physically
Talking nonsense to his ears
Lamenting for my inability
To do what I can
Just lacking courage
I left with tears
Rolling down my cheeks
For my inability
To recognise me
But someone out there
Knows me than I do
Am I a cow?
That knows it
Tail validity
When it loses it?
It's been far too long,
More than a year,
Or maybe just longer
than I care to remember,
Since I had that feeling in my gut:
Like I couldn't get enough
Of the very essence of what
It Felt to be alive.
And all the signs say that
I'm there again -
But all the emotions say
I've miles left to run.
So I'm scanning my heart,
And my chest at that,
To remember if I have the
Capabilities to continue
On a quest to find the thing
You said I'd never feel again,
And when it comes
I'll give anything -
Sin in whatever way I need -
Just to remember how Love feels.