Best Lambasted Poems
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
…
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
My heart
cr
ump
led
like the screwed up scraps of paper
now languishing in the trash bin
okay, so I write humourous poems ...
I rarely write 'free verse'
or 'perfect' iambic pentameter
yet you lambasted me
Your cruel words tore me apart
my writing style will NEVER be good enough to please YOU
So screw you...
YOU'VE WON
I QUIT
My pen will bleed no more
scaly scabs now prevent the ink from running ...
submitted to favorite free verse not for any contest
Sponsored by laura Loo
04~20~17
And I witness
Your deplorable “glory”
Hunching over my tattered spine,
So we can have something in common
You walk with glorified shell-shock,
Another sentient tongue,
Straddling on the Eros of vindication
Your sandpaper hands
Reach for an assaulted tenderness
Embracing lambasted lyric
Another tenor’s proclamation
That their oxidized octaves
Are legitimately sound
…
Nobody is listening.
…
So, you try to rectify your ill-erect
Compass
Only heading south
Bound
By meandering prophecies,
Unwritten
Undeclared
Just another pre-historic fool
Believing the Jamaican grass is greener on
The other side
Puff your corrupted beliefs
Toward laundered Benjamins
While I soak in the bloodied joy,
That I remain priceless
…
Approach me
While you suffer tiny warden syndrome
In High Definition
Be the insignificant syllable that
Becomes, you, a fragmented figment
Of your re-imagination
Call in your slobbering pinchers and
Convince them why dethroning my smile
Will be that change you conspire,
Because I stood taller than the arrogant
Umbilical c(h)ord that breastfeeds your high horse
For I am you
I am you
Every kick, every punch, every verbal attack
Every overcompensating, born-again glare
You blasphemously portray
But, it is not me you scar.
IT IS NOT ME THAT YOU SCAR!
…
Your one-night stand with perception
Succumbs your third-eye
Keep drinking from your bloodied, rustic w(h)ine glass,
As you drown in your declarations of dependence
Screaming to be louder than love
Louder than your ordained intentions
To become a speck of importance
To be worth something,
Something more,
Than the lunging foot you believe
Will keep me down
©D.J.E.
Friends are like panties
Some crawl up your butt
Some snap under pressure
Some just hold you up
Some get a bit twisted
Some you love to hate
Some are there when you need them
Some are there way too late
Some may be holy
Some full of crap
Some are there for you all night
Some just for a nap
Some might be naughty
Some might be cheap
Some a bit haughty
Some cause you to weep
Some last forever
Some just fade away
Some make you look so good
Some just are OK
Some make you feel proud
Some make you blush
Some are just too loud
Some good times will crush
Some come in all colors
Some transparent clear
Some you might keep hidden
Some you show with cheer
Some are lambasted
Some you’ll take to heart
Some are just wasted
Some fit for a tart
Yes, friends are like panties
There’s just something about them
You need them forever
You’d feel naked without them
mdailey
The first few lines come from a joke but I thought the story rang very true so I expanded it and put it to rhyme.
The machine is king
Making money is god
Selfishness is the religion
The underdog is the new third estate
The backbone of society
Is the modern slave
As he gets only the minimum wage
Up we arise in the morning
And off to work we go
We might not be home
In time for dinner
As work is all we know
To the boss we will be productive eventually
To our family we are never there
We have become so numb
That we done even care
Wages are low
Our pensions are cut
Our hearts are filled with rage
We long not for the good old days
For they never existed in any age
What should we do?
Economic gains benefit the country they claim
Yet we wish the hard slog
Of the factory floor
Wasn’t such a right drain
When we rise up they complain
Productivity is lost they claim
Businesses want excessive profits
And managers global fame
No one cares about our desperate poverty
Downing tools does not help
We just bring home a lot less
We buy the basics with our pittance
And rage at what we will never get
Forever lambasted for inefficiency
We never get the chance to prove our might
No wonder the economy is in such blight
Is there no salary increase insight?
We are to the bosses
Robots clothed in skin
That must be pushed harder and harder
So his bonus can be bigger
We always comply
Despite getting none of the pie
One day our hard work will pay off
One day we will retire
Until then we will work hard
For no wage makes life dire
In that spark, at summit
When sky is just on the way and is not the limit
Like lime being squeezed out of last drop of juice
As throne and king, in sweet affiliation, never in truce
High up taunting the call of gravity
Columbarium in tornado, reunion with plummeting abyss a true test of vitality
Motivation a lambasted frugality, an eternal ignite for those who drown
Is in action when what goes up starts to come down
(Blame Game)
I sat down silently praying
Lambasted and humiliated
Before my stunned peers
My blood boiled, perhaps even curdled
Simmering my almost roasted brain
Skinny sinews tightened
Cheeks like two red hot sizzlers
As anger lashed against my ribbed skull
Writhing in agony for volcanic outbursts
But the pounding heart retraced
The tongue reined tightly
She was my teacher
Her day had begun badly
Our principal had fumed at her
His car had broken down
He was late for school and in
The vicious melee of blame game
I became an easy prey of
Uncontrolled tempers
Wondered at the pedigree
Of maturity and immaturity
Though my exam was ruined
God, perhaps had
Planned an unknown layout
Exclusively for me.
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: the Choices We Make In Life
CLOSE CALL IN IRELAND
I once had an affaire de coeur with a foxylady, in fact a randy colleen
In Ireland with a tough older brother looking to punch me out.
But I cold cocked the rambunctious hooligan,
A real old blowhard who knew diddly squat about fighting.
Oh yeah, he had some mickey mouse gizmo like a nunchaku
But he was a shilly shallying, vacillating sort of bloke,
A tightwad nitpicker full of quintessential balderdash
(To put it politely),
And I just lambasted his ass. But, you know, with hindsight
He did almost usurp my dubious position with his sister.
Actually I rather think he was an incest-freak,
A what-you-might-call weirdo trying to insert himself sneakily
Into her good books, (and maybe also my gay books).
In formal language he was an aged interstitial gender-bender .
This stupid old codger tried to seduce me as well as her.
I didn’t acquiesce, didn’t dilly-dally hither and yon,
Like some ethereal dancer doing a glissade.
In the midst of an abso-bloody-lutely horrendous
Wingding of a drunken celebration
The pinch penny tried to titillate me
With his whole second-hand collection of pictures,
A great caboodle of ***********:
And that easy rider fuzzled me later in a jimjam party
And almost brought me out of the closet.
He was some Tallulah, let me tell you. . . . wow!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTE
Almost the entire poem should be highlighted for
it contains every word on the given list
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi’s Contest For Love of Language
He thought to himself
If I could go back, I’d tell
No one, not even the police, that I’d
Driven by and shot him with ease,
Silence, would be my clutch, so
I wouldn’t be judged
Guilty, nor lambasted like that, by
Hypocrites in mass, for killing a
Toddler thug, with candy bar drugs
(I'm Heading) Over the Rainbow (which is how the title's supposed to look!)
It was fun while it lasted
In spite of being lambasted
For original, unpopular views
That folks would not choose
To agree with or to share
Because they would not dare
To go against the flow:
Can't do that, oh dear me, no!
Better just to follow the herd
And to never, ever say a word
That might be seen as original
Goodness! That won't do at all!
God forbid people might disagree
That is so very unseemly
And to think that someone might be upset
Why, that would be the worst outcome yet!
No, let's play it safe and nicey-nice
That's got to be the best advice.
"Don't make waves, don't cause a fuss
Cos that upsets certain one's of us"
Seems to be the unwritten rule here
Enforced by intimidation and fear.
What's that you say? "That's not right!"
So tell me what happens whenever there's a fight?
The heavy press of the censor's finger
Makes sure that nasty words do not linger.
At the press of a button all the badness is gone
And the Protected Few can carry right on
Blithely doing what they always do:
Taking the piss out of every one of you.
Well, my presence here and what I have to say
Has run its course; has had its day.
No more controversy, upset or distress
I'm leaving here under duress.
But what the hell, I gave it a good go
Now I'm heading over the rainbow
Where all the nice people apparently reside
And where individuality died
Out of terminal boredom and ennui
I doubt I'll fit in, but I'll give it a try
I've had plenty of practice trying to fit my face
Into somewhere where it's always been out of place!
A social worker bashed in my door,
seizing my kids on rumors
of bath time photographs.
On my trek to court
to rescue my children,
they forced me through
a biometric scanner
recording every detail
of my naked flesh.
I was lambasted by a judge garbed
in flowing black vestments
for exploiting innocence.
He paraded my babies
into the courtroom,
all three donning
fresh, hot-pink rags
promoting the latest
Disney tween idol.
When asked why we hadn’t yet
enrolled our oldest child
at their public school,
my wife confessed
we educated our kids
with attention to truth.
The judge decreed they’d
need a head start with
foundation trust books.
We journeyed home despondent
with teary eyes bleeding to
find our garden scorched.
Our organic source
was no longer allowed
do to civil statute,
so we wandered off
to mega mart to buy
death off the shelf.
Oh Boucher Can you See (Pronounced Booshay.)
I was just having my breakfast for the
first time at the local junior college.
As usual, I was lambasted with another
great Horn subject, thought and idea
all at the same time. Suppose, and I
really mean more than suppose that we
bottle up all of the air in the cafeteria.
We could take it home with us and enjoy
all of the youthful, great air at home and
keep it all to ourselves. The very air
would rejuvenate my mind and soul.
This is why Junior Colleges are called
Junior colleges. They are supposed to
rejuvenate you before heading to the
big time. You now have become more
mature after being exposed to a multitude
of ways of thinking and philosophies.
It is always such a pleasure being a professor.
He is a walking example of a Father Figure.
Of course, a woman one is a walking mother
figure as well who is mixed in with a father
figure. Why Maine ever let go of this guy,
I will never know. Suppose he grew tired of
all of the chill, cold and wind mixed with so
much snow. That must be why half of Brunswick
County, North Carolina lives here now I am
beginning to believe. Say hello to Will Rogers,
Robert Frost and Ogden Nash while you are at it.
They are the ones who have mostly inspired my
desire to write poetry. How about you?
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Especially for Norman D. Boucher. M. Ed.
He even still has his Maine phone number
and lives in Wilmington and has to travel
to Brunswick County and you know what
this means. He is two horses of two
different colors. He lives in the Wilmington
Labor Force but works in the Brunswick
County, NC Workforce. How is that for
a dual, schizophrenic personality?
a boon against strife
wool worth effort and propensity
to revel qua biological miracle re: said offspring
did inadvertently teach me lessons of life
to cherish and savor each giggle, laughter and smile
amidst cramped apartment plus feeling
discombobulated frustration bubbling rife
introducing yours truly
to tha hen pecked moody blue wife.
pockmarks can vouchsafe this un beak able trait
from spouse, who need not be lambasted
on account of increased weight.
Like a human bobbing sponge youngest progeny
absorbed auditory/ visual multitude
within each axon and neuron of that infantile sensory
“sir” kit board aware at a tender young age
how she struggled to string words together
to convey a mood
predilection with language impediment
possibly passed thru umbilical rip cord.
No idea thru combination of genetics and biology
that burnished beautiful lass oof an offspring
wrought a smart girl, an apple of the eye
per this father who never thought
thru attempts at conception sought
supremely melded genes, he thought
loves labors last, t’would come
to naught delivered us an artistic,
intrinsic, linguistic lass
who for no price can be bought
though someday, a young lad will take a fancy
(as ought to be the path of biology)
and hoop fully brings ye happiness
for your remaining lifetime
with a numeral
(following a number from one to nine)
with many an aught!
TOO LOVE YOU MY DEAR SHANA -
MORE THAN THIS SHABBY POEM
CAN CONVEY, WHICH...
UPON ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND -
ABOVE GIBBERISH JA PROBABLY
WILL PROBABLY RAISE ARMS UP
IN DESPAIR UTTERING OYE VAY!
Retreated in the darkness
Of broken fears,
Your palace found broken
At the bottom of a well.
Well,
What good is it anyhow?
To allow the sweet surge
Of electricity and sweat
After decades of anticipation.
Anticipating the unknown.
The most anticipated
That has ever been known.
Known amidst the leaves
Who thrive on sunlight
And daily worship
When we're worshiping
Ourselves.
Ourselves,
Beneath the shelves
Of humanity.
Beneath the shells
Of humility.
Humiliation,
Our comfort zone,
And every in between.
Every twisted, sticky
Dream.
That serves as a theme
For a bloodied torn scene.
Torn amidst the reoccurance
Of worship.
Worship in a million ways.
Only to make one stay.
A stay that last just a moment,
Moments in a second.
Seconding the notion of staying
At the bottom of a well,
In darkness we shall dwell,
Our courses turning synchronal
And yet again so odd.
Audited by a final
Augur
In cases of lamentation.
To tame the lame
And lambasted.
Upsetting the apple cart.
Upsetting the veiled figures
In sheer obsidian.
Obscene that they too dwell in darkness.
Never entering sunlight
Or fluorescent tissuelike light.
In the limelight of the limited,
Of the disabled
And the poor.
Only to be pitied
By the pitiful.
Do you wonder why
The pilgrims bleed for you?
Not because you are
Incapable of worshiping
The house of the light
Or the sick and unwell
But because you choose not to.
In discretion,
You bleed for them too.
For when you observe them in praise
Not in houses of light do they pray,
Not in houses of the omniscient
Or rapturous
But in houses of the ravens.
In houses of the dead
And engravened.
In houses of the damned
Mutilations
Of depth and devastation
Where putrid, public lynching
Still occurs and endures.
In houses of ebony.
Author's suggestion - goes best with http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfKA4b5SFq4 as you read. Don't forget to continue to "Götterdämmerung Part 2"
He sees her in his thoughts his dreams
Haunting long after he wakes, writes reams
Yes, she's always there, so fair
carrying on his hopes, despairs
Together they were glorious, a match
Apart he creeps, just newly hatch't
A match made of steel and fire and forged
Now he stares at fate, a long-drop gorge
They clashed and sparked and were hell bent
They were but life, rage, magnificent
They roared and screamed as they strove and loved
His confused anger, her cold sweet dove
We gloried in their fury, tempest
We knew it would come, only held our breath
They heard it not, only held cool hands
As they carved a world in their quicksand
It took a year to build it, a bulwark
An empty beach where two gamboled, a lark
There they resided, two titans beached
And there they loved, far from others' reach
One more year they stayed, unmoved, unmoving
They lambasted and fought, strange portrait of loving
Laughing, crying, helpless, sobbing
They clung to love, while hearts beat, throbbing
Sniping, diving, swooping, reaching
Embracing, soaring, cringing, seeking
Dragging, pulling, swelling, creeping
Surging, pushing, shrinking, leaping
They set about them the limits, the bounds
In arrogant splendor, claimed all around
In their kingdom they ruled, dictated
Two Sullas Proscripting, in love with their hatred
They raised their hands and shouted their joy
To thrust all away, to embrace dark cloy
Their eyes flashed as one, they clasped in glee
Their lives were perfect, thence did light flee
....Continued in "Götterdämmerung Part 2"