Best Lumped Poems
Hear a babe in his crib who is wailing,
left there with a rash that’s got infected
From hours of sobbing, his voice is trailing . . .
What monsters left their son so neglected?
Now see a girl; she’s only four years old.
She is lost and feels so disconcerted.
It’s getting dark; the wind is bitter cold.
How long will she survive, now deserted?
Picture this: A pimple-faced boy, fourteen
is walking home from a dance, dejected.
The girls he asked for a dance were so mean!
Why stay there longer being rejected?
See a bride. Her groom's not there. She's in tears.
She waits with her many guests at the church
as she faces one of her secret fears.
She can't believe she's been left in a lurch.
A groom sees his bride on his wedding day
walk down the aisle. He can’t wait to be hitched.
Suddenly she turns! She’s a runaway!
His smile fades, for he knows that he’s been ditched.
See someone wed for years – hair turning grey.
Her sons are grown; she’s a sad rose wilted
next to her ex-husband’s young fiance -
the epitome of being jilted!
But wait . . .the most tragic by far
together with these others I have lumped.
This last poor soul is carried in a car
to the woods where - throat slashed - she then is dumped.
June 18, 2020
For the Thesaurus - Abandon Or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
Dark denizens of the night
gathering in ill-lit backrooms
haunts of the night
They tease each other with
rouged cheeks, their mascara
their pimply breasts, shaved legs
Some are known for tantalizing
tempting striptease, revealing
hairy chests and knobby knees
Their hardened faces greeting poor
unsuspecting 'straights,' who, horrified
run screaming off into the night
And now the Left has lumped these
misbegotten sickos of the night
in with today's 'civil rights movement'
of transgenders, kweers, and worse
too debauched to describe, to be
celebrated in 'Drag Queen Shows'
in our public libraries, where America introduces
her precious youngsters into the fraudulent
creepy cabals of Satanism, endorsed by 'leaders' gone mad
...Then, of course, there is the idea
that people are nothing but groups,
whether lumped by skin or income
there’s nothing further from the truth.
A group is but an abstraction,
it’s the one where the sovereignty lies.
Think individuals can’t effect change?
Just ask President forty-five.
Or Guttenberg and his printing press,
Mr. Gates and his software codes,
a single man nailed to a cross,
be he a God or man, who knows?
One person can change the whole game,
even in the ‘collectivist’ lands,
the politburo’s evils exposed
by that brave heart Solzhenitsyn.
Did they all accomplished nothing,
slaving for their dreams alone?
They gave us a host of changes,
while the socialists just give us bones.
The Nazis in their cruel madness
left ten million souls undone,
but Socialists, they take the gold,
slaughtering one hundred million.
And those are just the ones we know,
the real number’s much higher still,
all that death, and what has it brought?
No paradise, and it never will.
At least the Germans, after the war,
had the sense to learn from their mistakes,
Socialists refuse to move beyond
their ideas of murderous hate.
They just hide out in schools and claim
that they’re only ‘misunderstood,’
tied identity to failed ideas
so they can never see they’re no good.
To refuse to learn bloody lessons
strikes me as insanely perverse,
in truth they’re not as bad as Nazis,
they’re orders of magnitude worse.
She traces a litter of rising stars;
while exploring a place blissful within--
or even feel a desire to extend a timeline
where vicious crimson cells invade
those mounds of chalice breasts, uninvited.
And a once vibrant energy grows frenetic ,
nearly withering from the changed biopsy of
a frame now boney, lightly skeletal
from a hostile tumor raging within Reena’s veins.
Yet, she crawls uphill , this woman warrior
of a hiker… steadily focused on reaching
the mound’s crest, undaunted by lumped pain
as soft tears glitter upon those thinning cheeks.
Grappling with a second -stage notice,
her limbs wobble in exhaustion, her fingers
cold at the same time eager: treading on, I
watch my friend dressed in bald crown, facing
this combat between towers of hope and despondency.
My breath weeps inside. Reena smiles and blinks at me
like an advancing star.
Topic Of Cancer for Craig Cornish
6/20/2019
I will not be dismissed as a dunce,
lumped together by Gallup or Luntz.
I will get out and vote
without need to emote
and defy every pollster for once.
A clatter of human hooves
drums on through an after- dawn marketplace…
the wide tunnel of mouths
reel from the splintered chorus
of jangled tunes bargaining and rattling
papaya, arabica and sushi roll orders: a fiesta
of succulent aroma whisks mid-air,
talkative faces sampling potent crops
on weaved baskets , hanging neatly
before slurpy hands condemn
them to boiling pots: the errant
noise loose like gander and hogs.
How much is this and that?
The slithering, crumpled bills drop
their tongues on purses scraped from
one week’s abominable toil.. oh, darting
fishes jerk their bellies while the array
of chicken hunks glaze under lights, frozen
and lumped from farmers’ harvest
rites... morning so luscious with grapes
colored velvet skin, lettuce tips
pulped by shiny green: and the procession
of lapping mouths reach head tone pitch,
dishes, dishes for salivating tongues,
taste buds for citrusy fruits, on one delirious
mecca to a market, market day!
......................
A Poem You Enjoyed Contest of Lewis Raynes
Entered 9/13/2016 (Old Poem)
Have had this beard since 1962
Without it would sure be unsightly
Have a severe case of sleep apnea
A face mask must fit tightly
To solve it, may have to shave it off
Or I'll lose my right to drive
The danger is falling asleep at the wheel
But my eyes are always open wide
We all get lumped together it seems
If the tests prove the danger is real
I'll lose my independence forever after
Since my teens, been behind the wheel
Feels like I've reached a whole new plateau
A plateau that was so far away
Next I'll be spoon fed by an elderly nurse
In a home... oh happy day!
© Jack Ellison 2015
*****;;; *****
l.
tears rip at the seams of memories’ betrayed trust
like liquid fists gushing through desolate waterfalls
gargling bloodied sobs upon lungs lumped with crust,
wet, wet on crumbled sagas of tortured, brick walls
this is the pang of swallows falling dark… the pain,
of a painful tear ravished by sins doubly committed
by spiked wrists slit by eyes’ deceit on pelted rain,
cracks of tinctured vapors stain these suds not quite acquitted
ll.
still, there are tears robed in delight of embroidered nights
and perching there, radiance’s rafters spin overlapping joy,
swarming the soul with giant suds whitening all whites
as giggles lift cottoned pillows only love’s fullness can buoy
i think of rekindled homes knighted by flutes’ ripeness
where children paddle days virginal without attic of fears
a maze of hoisted jaunts open zipped stars’ need for madness,
in times marinated gingerly sweet by life’s lush beat... such are tears,
they cleanse all. they crawl out of soul’s dual spears.
all rights reserved
©
********************
(( for HGarvey Daniel Esquire's " Personify a Tear ))
by nette onclaud
CHILDREN OF LAHORE
(Easter Sunday 2016)
Arms flailing
From
Her
Blue burka,
The woman
Jumps
Like a checkerboard
Piece
Up and over
The white squares
Of bedsheet
To bedsheet
To bedsheet
Each
Draped
Over a
Red blossom
Bump
Lumped
And soaked on
The gravel dust
Fairground
Floor.
Like a game of peekaboo
Between mother and baby,
The woman
Lifts
A corner of sheet
Howls
Then pins it back
With her fingernails
And just as quickly
Jumps
To the next
Small
Square
Hump-covered
Sheet
Lifts
Repeating
The move
Three hundred
More
Times.
“Ibrahim!
Ibrahim?”
A police officer puts her in handcuffs.
No, her husband
Is tackling her.
Actually,
She is a fly swatter
Crazed, swinging at new yellow ghosts.
She
Tears
Her hair
Out
From the back of her head
Like overgrown grass
Grabbed
From a mud puddle
In clumps
Clamped
In her garlic-laced fists,
Even the dirt is surprised,
Hanging
By its bloody roots,
Dripping
In the air.
That is what a bomb, does.
She was a mother
An hour before,
Before she lost her shoes,
While she sat to the side, chatting
With friends
On a bench
As the Merry-Go-Rounds
Went round and round
And round
In the safe distance
And the painted horses
Panted
In the yellow dust.
The children stood in line,
Waiting their turn,
Sharing candies
From pockets and purses,
Checking time
From their phones.
The mother’s shoes
Were spooked
Away
Like fish behind a glass
At the moment
Of the hot flash and swish.
That man,
Yes
He knocked on the glass,
He knocked on the glass,
He pressed his narrow face
As he peered in,
Yes,
He knocked on that glass
Just before
He pulled the cord
Wrapped
Round his waist.
Oh, beautiful God
How could you allow this?
How could
Even the Devil
Do it?
Only a man.
Only a man
Of unfaith,
Of course,
Could smother the sunlight, like that,
Blowing to smithereens
A playground full of children.
Das Decrements Describe Digs ©
Grasping figurative literary straws
poetic theme yielded
farfetched aggregate
i.e., where each dwelling
listed as figurative Stormy bedmate,
this nada so eminent (Eminem fan)
lived since the year MM at:
1148 greentree lane,
724 railroad avenue, and
2 highland manor drive, which
defy obvious numerical pattern relationship,
albeit tougher than dismantling
an atomic bomb
Fermi (Enrico) to create
least common denominator
nonetheless, aye delineate
laughably limpid, loquaciously lumped,
and ludicrously as an Uber Lyft
(please lemme look foolish)
evincing desperate clamor
ring blather already
prepping myself for fallout after,
I post very tenuous
schema attempting to enumerate
loosely linkedin previous
to present physical addresses
straining credulity to formulate
formulaic relationship between
street numbered residential places,
futile endeavor mathematical
relationship to generate
readying myself (hatches
being battened down) against
first responder, who
doth dare to humiliate,
this self serving ingrate
gnome hatter hood
awkwardly entwine goofily integrate
ting (Spike Lee's
She's Gotta Have It)
"FAKE" self importance,
sans presenting schema
with literary Bo Jangles
flourishes, that (EGADS) doth jaculate
utter cheek to jowl (consonant
to vowel) outstanding
Uttar Pradesh Khanate,
nonetheless strives to
feign making Genghis
(alias Matthew Scott)
Harris heirs legitimate
if necessary calling on
Trump to mandate
and/or asking supreme
court to necessitate
putting sanctions against
quasi (moe toe)
POTUS oxymorons
so American totalitarianism
can freely operate
in tandem with
Putin to participate!
Golden Conversation
Jack:
Let this kidney stone
Be instantly gone
Pain from the back
You can’t well track.
Joseph:
Yeah. I feel two addled ostrich eggs
Lumped on both sides of my back
Slowly I bend, slowly drag my legs
Not to pollute other organs if they crack!
Jack:
Rising from this seat
Is quite a feat
When from here I stand
I need runway to land
For, like a plane
That toes the lane
Slowly I rise and move
Before I finally take off!
Joseph:
I rise and quickly land,
If none takes my hand
I hardly walk or stand
I simply crash land!
***As two old lovely gents conversed at an Old People’s Home.
***Fictitious scenario. Don’t try it at home!
JM
19th Nov’ 2013
On the state of the world today
To Alphie, the African baby who died today from Ebola
Alphie, my child
Earth swallowed your cold tummy
Dirt is slowly seeping into your nostrils
Your bare limps are now covered with crawlers
But alphie, my child
Your tummy was never full
never quite that warm
The air you breathed
would have killed you if you waited
And your limps were always Exposed,
Vulnerable to surface elements
Alphie, my baby
Was death more merciful than life
Why are some children
more precious than others
Why are some bodies worth saving
While others
heavily grace charity billboard
Like painted ghosts
Lumped together in one symbolic face
Because, Alphie
Our son, my baby
This is the state of the world today
rest my love
Under the dim lights of gasoline lamps
Your torso will turn to wood
And green will sprout from your eyes
And I will water you
Daily
Until we meet again
It's a guy who grew up with good morals
People with the purest of souls
Raised to excel and exceed
Born to treat
Attentive and sensitive
They spent minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years
Time without boundaries
Listening to the problems and fears
Of the males but especially the females near
'cause those girls needed someone to listen to them
Someone to vent to, really
And yeah, sometimes it made the nice guy feel special
It feels good to be needed by someone you love
Or someone you can love
But the stars of fate and destiny above
Don't always align
Not for this type
And while the womenfolk prance and dance with their hairless monkey
They're mistreated, used, abused, consumed and refused
And the shes rush to the nice hes for that undying comfort
But the latter are getting restless
Their looks are ordinary, so how do they compete
With tall dark and handsome
When they're short, pale and human?
This guy's not a cheat
He's patient and his anger is merciful
He won't take advantage of womenfolk so vulnerable
Won't resort to objectify
But they're lumped with the jerks and shirts and together are vilified
So what does the nice guy do?
Contemplate.
He'll meditate
and say "hey,
Why are all my friendships one-sided?"
His empathy and reliable nature can't be appreciated
So it needs to be asphyxiated
Cut free, act differently
Take on a job, a car, a tattoo, a gym, an instrument
Designer clothes, cigarettes, cigars,
All what was feared and all that is sheer
********
Like a hundred dollar bill, given so much value
But simply a sensitive cheap piece of paper
Easily ripped and quickly gypped
And he leaves his morality
Cuts his vocabulary
4 word sentences, 3 syllabus max per word
To get out of nice guy playground and friend zone
But that's really just accepting the parasite
Letting it infect you
Taking your views to the termites
Yeah, you might get tail
Or you may completely fail
Though will you really let selfishness > goodness?
No,
I won't
Not on the long run, at least.
Just this one time.
...
we are a brainwashed generation
our once vibrant minds have turned grey from all the pollution in the world
we are no longer innovating, just reusing old ideas and trying to make something out of nothing
we aren’t catching on to what is happening outside of our homes
it’s like instead of a brain, an X-box controller has crawled inside our heads and taken over
we are so accepting to violence now that we don’t even flinch at the idea of someone being beheaded
and depression is just another thing being lumped into our daily routine
we’re so used to anxiety that we haven’t even lived without the fear of living
every outside-the-box thought that comes to our mind is immediately repressed,
that’s probably why we can’t focus in school
our minds are yearning to explore and live life outside of a TV screen that they have become a black abyss where the unaccepted creativity has gone because math equations now take priority
but at the same time our minds are programmed to categorize everything to the point where we examine someone and throw them into a category of who we think they should be.
isn’t that sad?
we judge someone before learning who they are. who their favorite bands are, what books speak to them, and why they always stare at the moon a little longer than they should
maybe it’s because we see someone who has a quirk that looks like pink and we wish that instead of being so grey we could have a color of our own.
m.r.