Best Maladroit Poems
She introduced herself to the staff as their new vice-principal.
It was not the truth,
Not quite a lie yet either.
In truth, she had
Warned the principal
She was after his job.
The principal did not get to choose
His own staff, and human resources
Had hired and sent him this
maladroit interloper in July.
He knew her quite well by the
Time the rest of the staff arrived
In August.
She was rapidly labelled an
unwelcome fussbudget. In
hours the staff knew to stay away from
her in droves, not listening
to her ravings or keen suggestions
for improvement on their inept performances.
Her most confident area, of course was self-confidence.
She had it in oodles and arches,
And she displayed it
With the skill of
a clumsy peacock, holding an exceptionally casual bull horn.
The last they heard her about her, she had complained to HR that her frustration level was through the roof, they were boobs, and she was leaving.
A little celebration good-bye party was held in her honor two weeks after she left
at the principal's house.
Now who forgot to invite her?
The child is maladroit.
you should not take him in.
There are too many precious vases
on which he might lean.
Or he might slip and smack his head
against a glass display.
Let him stay until he’s grown
or he’ll ruin our day.
Remember once that just by chance
he broke don Cuervo’s toe
when he swung that baseball bat
and sudden let it go.
and hit don Cuervo who was sitting
in the front-row seat.
and how don Cuervo howled and cursed
and almost seemed to bleat.
Remember how he fell one day
and killed a suckling pig
when he was just about to taste
a ripening luscious fig
and lost his footing on a rock
and toppled from his perch
and landed on the piglet’s back
and caused the sow to dirge.
Or when he carried a long stick
pretending he could march
as if he held a rifle
and he skewered Mrs Marge.
and how she now is forced to wear
a gaudy plastic eye?
Please leave him here. He’s maladroit.
Or else someone will die.
https://www.thefreedictionary.com/maladroit
Transmit transpire anti social copious methods of blank balled fissures of disastrous mistruths on the border of hell raiser dispatch piss filled like rats on a stinking/sinking ship, inbred senate cowardice akin to the O.K. coral what to think, desire and do do to keep a prostitute peace/place with the powers that be-nign perfectly reflected in a mired mirror of reflected countenance or your political vampire vise on those you feed upon as your real reflection. with no scope of redemption you impose your aftermath and bloody consequences on silly human foible freedoms as to a holier to me than thou, you nearsighted in-sighter aqueous humor blind-sided on the Avenue of all that is free from loins of a perfect pleasure dome of a do as you please parley-yet illiteral ill-consecrated ill-conceived death as to the moral physics of universal Karma-for whom the bell tolls MF. Your family fortified adorned with psychophilosophical parental penetrations misguided misogynists' maladroit misery at every trick turn fantasy filled through dollars and cents corrupted con-copulated by weiner-winner take all from those of unknown nomenclature from a perfect populace of innocence. Honor among green buck thieves, like Borgias on permanent holiday on the backs of the no name populace, kill before conquer, the road less traveled to epiphany, bypass the inane human Capital of free anything and ride the dick-tator torrentship of rancid rapture that are us and prelude to the dance of St. Vitas in the wake of your Ego that falls in the land of Oz. Ding Dong the witch is Dead. There's no place like Home.
I sit,
slightly hunched over,
Pall Mall in my left hand,
listening to Gail Pettis
In the Still of the Night.
The furious baseline
comes at me like the turbine
of a plain with an identity crisis.
On come a serene voice;
"In the stiiiilll of the niiiight"
It seems to arrive
out of a parrallel universe
coated in beauty.
On this night,
There is no heaven.
There is no hell.
There is no school.
There are no glassy eyed peers.
There are no maladroit instructors.
There is only this moment.
There is only my buzz.
There is only that brunette from Nebraska
doing a striptease in my mind.
There are no wants, nor needs.
There is only
existance.
transmitted trashy talks
(partially presented pablum pertaining
particularly - president ***** (PAC -
phallic action cum mitt tee)
portfolio playboy philandering)
baneful boorish boastful bullheaded
Brobdingnagian beastie boy balks.
conspicuously cavalierly crudely curtly
cavorts, capitulating, claiming,
championing crying chauvinistic
concupiscence, coital cupidity caul
king crooked cowboy cakewalks.
Donald daringly, dastardly, defiantly,
demonstrably, deplorably, deprecatingly,
devilishly, divinely dumbfounded,
duplicitously desultory, debauched, duckwalks.
eccentric effrontery, egregiously enervating,
excitedly exculpatory, extremely evil eyestalk.
"fake," faultily fervently fiendishly flagrant
fool, frightful.
gaffe galling, gamesome gawker, generating
gerrymandering.
harboring hectoring heinously hellishly
hideously horrendously horrible hulk.
ignominious illicit ilk, imbecilic immodest
immoral impetuous, impishly impudent,
incarcerate, incinerate indecently, indecorous,
iniquitous, intently intolerant, irascible
irksome, itching ii incite iv iiiiii ix intercourse izards.
jowly jackass jackdaw jackknifing jaywalking
jumping jerk, jilting jinn.
knowingly keeping kryptonite, kinky Kardashian
kvetches, kris kringle ken kool, kissing kitty,
kosher kumquats kippered, k-nine kooky korps,
kowtowing ku klux klan kinsfolk.
legal leafstalk lawlessly locked, lacerated,
lambasted, languished lost lively lust,
limped, legal levity limited.
menfolk made macho mission. many moons
monthly mandate marked maybe mars,
mercurial maladroit monkey manumission modified
modus mystifying maze moonwalk.
Resting in Benign Pleasure
By Sy Roth
They watched me,
Waiting for a segue.
Continuously gazing at me
A waxen bowl of fruit
Tantalizing,
Clinging to my every move
Like lichen on the leeward side of an ancient oak,
Like barnacles on the underbelly of a ship
Gasping expectantly
Awaiting my keel hauling.
I dared an idle life,
I am a blushing-red, waxen apple resting atop
Single yellow banana,
Erect among the pear and globular-red grapes.
In my quiet hours of an armchair
Sitting idly by a window overlooking a waxen-western sun,
Humming a lilting song to the juicy, tangerine-soft rustle of grasses
Dancing among the ferns
A mambo to a sirocco wind.
Cochlear serenity
Settles in.
indolence writes a silly book filled
swirling in the brackish waters of their existence—
as I, a rotund Macintosh, rest niggardly and escape.
They Google frantically—
add apps to their already long playlist of useless ventures,
having spirited debates about my latitude and longitude.
They bide their time awaiting their own frenzied End
As I, afloat in the bowl of fruit, revel in my indolence.
They die in their fashion astride fictitious, snorting steeds,
Their backs bent, arms laden with Sancho Panza spears tilted downward.
And I dwell in my own painting, red-ochre in lethargy.
Their frenetic activities justify their existence.
Firehouse-red exit arrows guide their exigencies
while I, un-bored, rest in benign pleasure
Confused by an un-need for the trilling loons.
A blue, velvet drape of Victorian-prim frames the bowl.
Mindful of their confusion, I settle into my page-turning frenzy of non-activity.
Beneath a rainbow sky, cloudless, crammed with endless thoughts
painted on the rime of morning mist.
Guides my exit.
Tees and Cees
Loopholes online firms exploit
In very small print on transaction documents a normal eye seldom spies and sees
Until legal implications take him for a maladroit
Too gullible to bother
Too illiterate to placate
Too fallible
And too inveterate
To take seriously
To address with respect
To injure deleteriously
To treat with disrespect
With the impunity sanctioned by outdated legislation
Written for brick and mortar dinosaurs
Which enables their spineless extrapolation
To rub salt on sores
Customers sustain
When click and trick businesses
Retain and maintain in a vain
Effort to benefit from the folly their monopoly disgorge and disburse as egregious legal excesses.
Your mother’s glass. The only one in the cabinet that
does not match the others. It’s beautiful. Purple
crystal scattered on linoleum like a layer of fine
mauve dust. The first tear falls from a thousand
fractaled faces, glistening in the sun. Birds turn
dirges in the late autumn air, as you push slivers
into the dustpan—the vision of her soft hand around
the glass fades with each reluctant sweep. Tears
pool in your eyes and you wonder why she gave
you such maladroit arms, sunspotted and shaky. Or
a brain wired to prefer the taste of Diet Coke in a
glass over ice, just as your mother did. Shards clink
in the trash, your tears race them to the bottom. The
lid closes in a soft thud—the birds stop singing
A cracked and empty skull
makes a beautiful flower pot,
desk tidy or paperweight.
Place a nightlight in that osseus cave
and it will become a small table lamp.
Through the ages
monks have harvested skulls;
some sanctuaries and chapels
are built on human bones
and the skulls form their central alter.
Mystics understand
that this is the ultimate jaw-dropping sermon.
The human skull reminds us that death leaves
its own gravestones.
We can grin back at that once visible face
pondering its ever static tidings
to wit, that this rattling boneyard dream
simply must have its One Last Word.
A grotesque guest arrives
cryptic look,I know he is naïve
A quiescent world of mine
The table where I dine
Susurration of silence of my room
Felicity of my walls, all of it so etheral
But it seems,I lost all of them because someone took my seat
True,I lost my space.
I am defiant,like serene
Talisman of my thoughts , it all belongs to me
He calls me synical,unctous
I pay him back, "listen,I am more of a obstreperous"
Shun down all his thoughts of taking over my bed.
Maladroit, wont get out,took over all my belongings...
Ya ...I lost my space
They said that you are blind,
Yet I can see you with my mind,
The piecing through my spine,
To me you are but tote sacrifice,
A jar of an oozing surprise!
They again called you trust,
A trip merely to thrust,
The raging furnace's ole to rust!
You are the thing I love to hate,
And I truly hate to love!
While I have inveighed about you.
You have wounded the side of the sun,
And the heat ululating the end of the cold,
Beating the crust aglet of the gun,
Then, The rising of the mocking moon;
Red may be danger, a dagger of threat,
Today, that same red is the hand of love;
With many hiding under to defile,
The sincerity of her meaning;
The blind gift exchange is here,
The smiling shadows of a fair,
To end the tale of a hallow fair,
All of us are strict beggars,
For if you don’t beg from humanity,
You must beg from the almighty;
So, please lower the shoulders,
Get a gift for me, even if it is a like,
To prove your true show of love!
A Letter to the maladroit Cupid!
~ Tile Tersoo
I enter you as a cloud of unknowing.
Mystery slips through willing flesh,
a single pulse of amazement
beats the one heart.
You will never be mine
for we are now beyond
being kept,
we are the thoughtless thought,
the mindless mind, that which surfaces,
from beneath the thin skin of existence.
We unknowing clouds,
far beyond any maladroit understanding
of sex.