Best Mete Out Poems
"I read the news today, oh boy" - Beatles
apocalyptic revelations spinning 'round inside my head/have me tossing keep me turning wide awake upon my bed/so much hating too much lying chaos just outside my door/brainwashed zombies from their pulpits spewing vitriol and more/horsemen riding children dying famine warfare take their toll/politicians see their ratings drop in value with each poll/earth is battered lives are shattered bombs and land mines maim or kill/ Satan laughing spreads his wings as mankind wallows in his swill/locusts gather then they scatter out to spread the word of doom/news crawls flash across the telly in the safety of my room/insurrection tribulation agitating anxious minds/weary travelers seeking refuge thus fulfill prophetic signs/lift your heads up never give up soon will come the final fight/Armageddon's day of judgment soon will set all matters right
"Run to the hills, run for your lives" - Iron Maiden
broken trams cause traffic jams that clog the streets and alleyways/people running seeking shelter for it's now the end of days/can you hide us will you save us from the wrath of Christ the king/every day yes everywhere we hear his judgment message ring/ law defying God offending wicked men now merit death/liars rapists pedophiles blaspheme with their dying breath/peace they cry out strife they mete out hypocrites will face their end/frogs keep croaking propaganda via media it wends/retribution’s in all creatures causing some to turn on man/seven-headed beastlike monster marches to the Devil’s plan/Babylon with all her daughters sing a song of treachery/to their gods they give allegiance - spiritistic witchery/when the end comes have we earned some merit with the One who reigns/future blessings in the offing paradise will end all pain
“Amen. Come Lord Jesus” – Bible
I want to be a poet to write those words which rhyme
But it seems I'm having trouble with tempo, tense and time
How do the poets do it rhyme words so undisputed
They neatly find the perfect word and exactly where to put it
They make it seem so simple words flow in easy verse
While my words go from good to bad and then they just get worse
Oh to have the poets flair for grasping words from out the air
But alas I stare at paper bare and pine for words which are not there
With ease the poets do it pen words so neatly dressed
While I sit here debating and getting more depressed
To them it's not too arduous to mete out rosy prose
While in my mind bewildering a musty cobweb grows
Ornately Poets do it scribe sentiment so clear
That lifts the heart and stirs the soul like music to the ear
As I scan their lines which meld and knit I envy those who conjured it
And when I read their words united tis my id which gets excited
I twitch and get elated when I find two words of whit
But I'll be darned if I can find another two which neatly fit
I thumb through my thesaurus till the moon is fully lit
But my brain is still in neutral and not a rhymes been writ
Each pair I work to sound enhance fails to bring the bards due dance
And the prose I opt for seems to lack the poet's gift of word romance
But I'll persist and see how it goes
And perhaps one day I'll write some prose
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
The message they mete out is strong
It's cooked at the top but smells wrong
This cursed wurst to eat
Slice of life that looks neat
A baloney treat for the throng
First, I was a horse,
proud, fierce, untamed.
testing the texture of one continent,
competing with the winds and tornadoes
to achieve the ultimate granular vortex,
testing the manhood of the Cheyenne,
twisting the blistering ropes of the Sioux,
defying the white man with bared, scornful teeth
and a rusty, booming cloud of contempt,
rearing up disdainful hoofs at his challenge
of a lumbering smoking iron donkey
trapped on it's molded rails.
Then, I was a plane,
lithe, lightweight, defined.
with a body DaVinci once dreamed of
and a clear canopy
of tense eyes and sweaty, twitching fingers
on the throttle.
Soaring high over another continent,
beaten down by polished black boots.
The elegant, rich roar of Rolls Royce,
The searing steel death of Browning,
clamping together to mete out
justice and liberty,
higher and faster than any swastika propellers.
Then I was a car,
with clean lines and a pure promise,
born of optimism and innovation,
first brought forth under a steel sphere of the world.
My lean, youthful frame and bristling energy
beckoned to the untamed young,
bringing elation and
the whoops of warriors
as they pony up precious pennies
to slip easily into my low slung, leather saddle
and pick their soundtrack
and flick my fresh rubber hooves
across the next horizon.
Their nubile females in splendid mating colors
ponytails wagging their eager assent
in my ever growling breeze
as I assault their narrow strips of tar.
I have thundered through untrod dust.
I have been caught only by men like Remington.
I have sailed above exploding black skies
and landed farm boys safely to their futures.
I have raced through muggy summer nights,
blaring out my rebellion to a rock and roll beat.
I am freedom in flesh and hooves
and wings and guns
and canvas tops and pinstripes.
I am what Art should be:
I am versatile.
I speak in a thousand ways
in a thousand forms.
I please the eye and thrill the soul.
I am ..ME.
Rondel Pain
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger,
Encircling each word with bigoted judgments on hand.
Down a spiral staircase a poet’s thoughts may stagger.
Semi-circular fashioned, ideas traverse memories’ span.
Hysterical, political…subject does not matter.
Orderliness and cleverness mete out the author’s plan.
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger,
Encircling each word with bigoted judgments on hand.
Banter securely bound, released by creative augur.
Can choose many words found in vocabulary land.
Lexis gone thrilling can kill the heart of an iceman –
Stop, please! Choose kindly words; become a pain free enabler.
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
June 2, 2010
Poetic form: Rondel (Rondel Rhyming Pattern: ABab, abAB, aabbA)
Thanks Jared for making us think!
LEARN MORE:
1. POETRY: http://www.ehow.com/how_16711_write-rondel.html
2. DAGGAR http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rondel_dagger
3. STAINED GLASS http://www.anythinginstainedglass.com/glass/Rondels/rondels.html
An Orwellian Conception
As long as they see what you assume they see, and they agree,
then, that’ll be the reality we’ll assume you want to live in.
If this makes sense, then be at peace among friends.
You can sleep innocently; no-one will mete out punishment!
The past can’t be erased, but we can mitigate the consequences.
There'll be no misunderstanding unless you fail to define yourself,
without definition, we’d disagree and that would be unfortunate;
Co-operate so others will live, deep sleep is wonderful.
We (your brothers and sisters) are watching everywhere you tread
(There is no umbrella of protection for a protagonist).
Our duty and purpose is to ensure survival of our genes;
So follow the rules and be rewarded with peaceful sleep.
“I am a sojourner pilgrimaging in a foreign land;
When my name is drawn, I will step aside and let others go on.”
SONNET(S) ON WISDOM and AGE
When I was young my folly knew no bounds.
Though some may say the perimeter’s been extended.
I now confess my ignorance, giving me grounds
To think that some false knowledge has been amended
Full many have sought enlightenment as their quest
Some ascended peaks of wisdom and marked the way
Yet interspersed their lives with faults manifest
Transcendent knowledge could not lift feet of clay
So perhaps a degree of common sense and prudence
Would be a more rewarding aspiration
Giving increased self respect and sin’s avoidance
To live lives with more fulfilling destination
Still I hope that I achieve before my demise
A state of being a little less unwise
But on the other hand ……..
Away with common sense and ruling caution
I no longer have the time for such restriction
I’ll not go with care and mete out every portion
But live life without consent or benediction
There are two diverse types of sin which to admonish
There are those of commission in other words ‘the done ones’
Then those we should’ve but didn't, and it may astonish
We feel guilt though without the pleasure of ‘the fun ones’
Now if we do, there's a risk of errant action
So we shy the primrose path to the permanent bonfire
But should we do nought, our inaction ensures infraction
So we might as well take our chance and perhaps reach higher
Though in deeds that damage another we may be chagrined
Let us otherwise throw caution to the wind
Guilty pleasures
has you on a Siberian Ferris wheel,
spinning rapidly
Gulag suicidal libido
urges you to cock the trigger and squeeze
Keep repeating the nightmare:
Six torture chambers
Six gas chambers
Six motel rooms
with five vacancies
It's your last chance to exit
this cursed promiscuous existence;
but you don't beg to get off,
this is how you like to get off
Six bridal chambers
Six bed chambers
Six hotel rooms
Face the sex gun ... spin the chambers,
and watch the cowards run
You don't like to play it safe,
law abiding abstinence makes no sense to you
You love the thrill of knowing you might die
from doing something you love to do
It's the way of a sex outlaw: hell raising and guns blazing
and booties shaking in every bar and brothel
Thrill-seeking junkie cowboy,
you're gonna stay on this rough ride,
try to buck the bronco
You got big macho dreams
of being the head legs-spread honcho ...
sweating beads of lead perspiration
in the fire down below
You need amoral nerves of steel,
if you wanna partner up with the devil
Mete out to the innocent souls much ricochet suffering
Promiscuous criminality don't pay ---
Doing anything with anybody,
then giving it to everybody ...
gonna send you to your grave one day
Guilty pleasures
has sentenced you to a life riddled with
holes in your two brains
Serving time in chains of misery and pain
The destination is oblivion,
for all who board this prison bullet train
Through chaos flies the wyrm of time
Unyielding wingbeats do not pause
Untroubled by the pantomime
In constance serves no cause
Experience shall take its toll
And mete out pleasure with the pain
The fickle dice will always roll
And fall - but they will roll again
We husband all our self deceit
To ward away the truthful knives
Cutting clean and cutting neat
They slice into our lives
For what we are and what we do
Is decoration in the dark
Preventing truth from showing through
Reality is stark
A slender thread suspends all worlds
At fragile risk from every knife
There is no rhyme, sometimes it fails
The slender thread of life.
The wyrm of time flies silently
We think we hear it ticking by
And yet what we fear constantly
Is but another lie
For we observe, that is our role
We are the eyes, we are the mind
Perhaps we even are the soul
Reality is blind.
The fusion of indecision and imprecision robs lives of vitality
Freezing minds in a state of petrified fear
That slays sagacity, perspicacity and versatility
In circumstances where room for a tear
Lives and survives in dreams and screams
Born from excess procrastination
Wrapped, strapped and capped in saline streams
Where strain and stress sail to an unknown destination
To accommodate losses tossed helter skelter by wasted time
Angry and hungry to the maximum
When time determines laggards can no longer climb
To the platform where reforms mete out sanctions against the podium
That condones pardons for omissions of standard operating procedures
To advance progress and minimize distress
In minds that fly to ply their trade in grudges and smudges
Meant to obliterate and digress the dress and tress
Indecision and its mate imprecision don
As they strut their tardy stuff
When the cult of progress and success they abandon
In favour of promoting snuff and bluff
As Kaizen pops up on the scene
Dismisses both indecision and imprecision
Banning them from society where their obscene
Attitude scampers to safety. Precision
Takes over proceedings
Revamps operations
Rejigs seedings
Repositioning and rearranging choices and voices in vocations and destinations
In which perspicacity and prompt decision making earn first berth
Followed by agility seeded second
Indecision and imprecision suffer dearth
And procrastination and obstination choose to abscond.
I stand awed by the greatness of your soul;
that you who are indeed true nobility
would stoop into the mire to such as me
to lift me, as you have, and backward roll
the heavy weight of sorrow's bitter toll.
Ah, love, I am not worthy, not of thee;
I know naught of your generosity.
I long content to mete out but the dole.
I pray you of my worth do not despair,
for silver by a pearl does richer grow;
and one who knew for long your touch, your care,
who lay as instrument beneath your bow,
would somehow grow more pure, more kind, more fair.
Ah, love! 'T is this, your love, I wish to show.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
“So many things we know as true...
are redefined in future's view.”
-by Poet
What's happened to our measurement of time?
When I was young, a Summer was sublime.
From end of Spring to the first day of Fall-
that space of time seemed epic, never small.
Our clocks and calendars compute time well-
the way they've always done, to surely tell
the days and months we spend mete out the same;
but now, perhaps has altered its old game.
Oh, time has changed- for young and old now say
it's passing quicker in a puzzled way.
One week, a month, a year- advances fast;
presents an altered value from the past.
Perhaps time is a mystery unknown;
not bounded by our measurements alone.
They were butchered in Bucha
Victims of unprovoked aggression
Wrapped in body bags of wickedness
Like chicken preserved in the cold room
What a world of brutality
What an act of bestiality
What a display of man’s inhumanity
It is man’s basest depravity
Let the world rise against this insanity
And bring the blood thirsty scoundrels
To the path of accountability
The world is watching
The God of the defenseless is taking stock
To mete out punishment
To perpetrators of crimes of war
Villanelle : Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Pull Pound down tear veil off event horizon holes
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Invent a machine feed it Homeric fire
No enjambement perfect rhyme rhythm metre folds
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Whoever tops the charts which poem's ire
Shines through Apollo's defiant mien Zeus scolds
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Ne'er short the naive champion of the ephemère
Paid up club member the mutual backscratcher roles
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Machine that thinks can it rasa taste inspire
Mete out criteria merit sound sense enfolds
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Art of artifice best profits business liar
Poets at the stakes burn to free the poems' souls
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
© T. Wignesan - Paris, December 15, 2018