Best Literal Poems
Death and life—literal or figural?
Maybe both,
Now that there can be death in life or life in death,
As for poets, notably, Bharati and Yeats.
The dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna:
Is it interpersonal or intrapersonal?
Darsan or Epiphany—cling to it we would,
For seeing is believing.
The commandments, though heard,
Had to be attested by the burning bush.
Aha! Come to think of it,
Could Darsan as well be figural—
As is vipasana?
As is epiphany for Joyce?
A shorthand like light years?
***
That's not my elephant!
It's spaghetti on a spoon!
Ella held back tears.
2nd graders can be so cruel,
just like the bill of rights!
Adverse.
Converse?
Perverse!
Transverse universe.
... The pen is mightier than the sword ...
The poet knight went off to war
To prove his valor true.
Sir Arthur Berk, the troubadour,
Knew he had much to do
For he had found a greater sword
To strike his foes down dead.
He swore to fight invading horde
And make their ink spill red.
Each lord, farm hand and tavern maid,
Had often heard him tell
The fierceness of his secret blade
And all the foes it fell.
Of dragons and of armies past
He'd read this weapon killed.
The legend of his sword was vast;
The ink would soon be spilled.
Soon rival horde had come again
All took up sword and shield.
The armies prepped for battle then
Were met upon the field.
They yelled and brandished spear and dirk
But soon were silent when
All held their breath to watch Sir Berk
As he unsheathed his ... pen?
He rushed in sure and unconcerned
But fell at the first blow,
And what new truth he might have learned
I guess we'll never know.
But if, perhaps, he'd been more keen
Sir Berk might still yet live;
Too late he learned the difference 'tween
Literal and Figurative.
9.13.18
Contest: Unsheathe Your Sword
Word count a burden,
lines adding weight
Meaning gets crushed,
—feelings deflate
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
Emotional Literal Tomes
- by Bob Atkinson
have written words before on
this subject some have blessed
how poetry fills the heart
with endless emotional progress
some give the subject passing grades
some give it no real thought
some think they know its content
see poetry as fully rotten
well, to some extent I do believe
that enough has be done
to give the genre a bad rap
with words of nonsense rung
rung from that tree of indecision
like a person in the park
who knows not which path to take
how to get home before the dark
they pen words of nonsense
taking the mantle for their name
of "poet" of the highest order
without good words to claim
not only are their words so frail
but their stories often walk
off in that useless direction
only they would think was smart
so, let's add to the "do's" of poetry
that requirement firmly instilled
emotional aspects must poetry contain
without which the story lies insincere
also, must refrains contain
a literal view of life
to point us toward our fate
or lay bare our inner strife
tomes must within these walls
sense passion of our being
stories telling those incidents
of which we feel have meaning
My vice is to choose a book at random
From off the library shelf
A book timeworn, a bit forlorn
That sits alone, all by itself
I like that slight crackle
That comes from it’s spine
That warm musty odor reminiscent
Of newly uncorked wine
I t can be just a brief conversation
Or perhaps a grand revelation
That momentary…temporary?
Meeting of minds
Yet at times these random authors
Take hold of my mind
Makes me an unwilling and unwitting
Hostage…with a great opening line
So I enter into a random liason that will end
in but a week or so
With a literal random stranger
Who ends up in my hand in my bed
And shares my nightlamp’s glow
But this chance encounter as always,
Must come to an end
T’was no more than a passing delight
Twas just a book, chosen at random
…A stranger in the night…
Very happy with my new fridge magnet
Up to now twelve fridges it did attract
Now that's very literal
Should explain it to all
You see... oh never mind, just ask your kiddies in fact
"Very Bad Girl" read the words
Boldly on the lady's sweater!
Nothing in her deportment or deeds
Took the story any further.
Only, I was left to wonder
Why she would've bought the garment
Unless, of course, it was bought by another,
The real owner of the statement.
I found myself wondering why it was
That one saw no "Very Good Girl",
But recalled that being thus
Was then actually being a pearl
Therefore, "Very Bad Girl" makes sense,
Hoping that it's not literal.
It should be seen through that lens
For otherwise it is truly lethal!
A dad was washing the car with his son!
Here we go again with the literal stuff, so dumb!
Son said next time, let's use a sponge
This really hurts me quite a bunch
Now how silly is THAT... seems a bit overdone!!!
When I was slain in the spurit I was mostly surprised.
Dehydrated and dizzy, clenching the lids on my eyes
Blood refilling the arms recoiled from a flourescent-lit sky
None left supporting my legs after Blackburn had squeezed me too tightly
So I descended - relaxed, expectations unmet.
Quelled my instinct to get up and just laid there instead.
Conscious, biding my time like I'd seen others do
Outside Principal Greenlee's office in elementary school.
And so I came back to lie; said he got me real good,
but the doubt was throughout. I'd been caught stretching truth.
And in the dark of the van, coming back from the Trio
The Devil'd caught me again, this time all filled up with Jesus.
Took my spirit and honed it, blood now sprung resurrect,
To be betrayed by the Passion that had sworn to protect.
Despair exceeded the guilt as I sucame to the thrill.
If the Lord didn't touch me tonight, by God, somebody will.
Graced by girl or by guy, my fervent righteousness renewed
Dead set to enliven these hormones if it’s the last thing I do.
Refractory bites out my brain, has innocence lapsed because I'm evil?
Or was I simply a product of my id's superego?
When you suggest that I'm just angry or pointing at the wrong guy
Ya minimize my effort dismantling intrapersonal lies.
And you can live with the assumption that my conviction went moot
Or bother entertaining my hold-up, that your predictions weren’t true.
Across figurative and literal board...
mine hardscrabble existential debacle spelled losing game of trouble
Oft times, I experience wretchedness being alive
spurring wonderment whereby thoughts
of my demise doth drive
analogous to buzzfeeding bumbling bees
combing into their hive.
Giddiness prevailed
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
warranted quarantine to diminish
transmitting pandemic virus thru the air
lifestyle change no major imposition,
cuz yours truly already familiarized
with self isolation
courtesy his social anxiety despair
schizoid personality disorder the diagnosis
nsync with loathsome
body morphology toward self
viz mental health impasse a legitimate malady
impossible mission possibly
since in utero didst impair
minimally abetted courtesy
Buffalo wing and a prayer
wishful thinking only death can relieve
some recently approaching year.
Indifference toward self sums up story
viz mindset to whit
resignation to cash in chips
at a tender age, I did submit
evidenced courtesy abysmal grades
during stint as student
kindergarten and first grade the exception
earning appellation dummkopf or nitwit
showcased apathy to access ability and excel
overshadowed courtesy powerfully pointed outlook
within his bedroom at 324 Level Road
sequestered long haired pencil neck geeky hermit
four familiar walls constituted ambit.
Refuge sought vis a vis withdrawal
from world wide web
refusing sustenance (think anorexia nervosa),
thus these lovely bones withered away
thankfully mother (a licensed practical nurse)
of course intervened without delay
belated acknowledgement
regarding maternal love hip hip hooray
enrolling expertise of Doctor Ted Goldberg
at Collegeville Community counseling
to ameliorate psychological internal melee
running rampant and roughshod within me psyche
pushing self destruction down into stairway
entering portals of hell
analogous to Earthen bowels
deep within Zimbabwe.
Whether the above sentence incidental
to feeble attempt at reasonable rhyme
so please geography buffs pardon moi
add dull less cent delinquent puns
he did cashier plus
any unintended faux paus as aspiring poet
artfully crafts elaborated gimcrackery,
albeit impious kooky mishmashed
outlandish quirky s*it.
You who are literal even in love
who treats each work
as journey men to a fact,
consider the ambiquity of birds;
the ones pentemeter for instance
the jay who names
his territorys aloud _ _ _
you label those marital cries song
and the weather:
the operatic fall of a snow
burries alive with it's grace notes
the roots of trees
we are only translators, uneasy
unequiped
in the hungry dawn
strange syllables stain our mouths,
like berries picked deep
in the woods. Bitter or healing
poisonous or sweet
how are we to say?
Some folks thirst for knowledge;
Others seek release.
There are leaders on the lookout
For a path to peace.
Some folks crave the limelight;
Some reach for the stars.
Others try to bridge the gap
From Venus straight to Mars.
Metaphors don’t move me,
So when I think of thirst,
An ice-cold frothy-headed beer
Is what I think of first!
Oatmeal pie on your face? Doesn’t make sense.
Not pie, just oatmeal. I am fixing my complexion.
What is wrong with it?
Nothing. I am maintaining.
Maintaining your skin?
Maintaining everything; I do my rear end too.
You put oatmeal on your petootsie?
I sit in it.
I ponder this for a while,
Not able to wrap my mind around it.
Not realizing she means oatmeal water.
People do not understand children are literal.
When my daddy told me he ordered a car with bucket seats
I was angry with him until it arrived.
Thinking it was going to be horrible to sit in.