Best Mockery Poems
A nosegay is just a bunch of flowers
The 'Gift' is a bunch of special powers
A day is just twenty-four hours
Lemons and limes are a pair of sours
A poem is a group of words that rhyme
(At least they do some of the time)
Larceny is just a petty crime
Dirt is just another name for grime
To come out on top is to be the best
To act the fool is to jape and jest
To badger and annoy is to be a pest
Taking a nap is taking much needed rest
To press lips together is to enjoy a kiss
To yearn for someone is to really miss
Trying to find the meaning in all of this
Is to realise I'm just taking the...... !!!
Mockery
of opulence
creates
vicarious consequence.
An impetus of
confidence
will exult
consciousness,
adorn
chasm of
commoness,
silken
providence.
August 27, 2018
Eight Word Challenge- 8 Contest
By John Hamilton
Fifth Place
Eight Words - 1.Silken 2. Chasm 3. Exult 4. Adorn
5. Impetus 6. Mockery 7. Opulence 8. Vicarious
In my heart, I know I have made a mistake.
Yet the pain of reality does not sicken my mind into the fairest decision.
I am but without envy.
I am a coward, to seek not love but passion.
Truly in hopes of future love that one day true emotion will wither its source straight into my lover’s heart and for once he will look into my eyes and see himself, as he should; as my heart’s truest desire.
I am mistaken for a mistress and he for a companion.
I am lost within the meaning of this love.
Cruel, more so, the devil has had me covet more than I should ever ask for. Grieving, as I am, I am a shadow in his future, my definition blurred beyond a tale; never will I surface in the history of his years to come.
Time has seen me reduced to a past time and silenced to a mistress.
He leaves me without a promise of honor and an empty womb.
I look upon my predicament and wonder, how I made this mistake.
I have granted my heart to a mockery
Callous sentences saunter into the quaintest of landmarks
Capturing the cinematography that is the mockery of felicity
At times I ponder on whether its veins quake with fear
In lieu of the eyes marring her with bullet holes
Whilst humming commemorative memories
That now lie lifeless just as the wealth of their youth
Her life is a circus
Making a clown of herself
Lacks substantial purpose
Balance and health
One rope to another
Rocking her balance beam
The circus is her lover
Together they scream
Blackened tears
Lips a horrid maroon
Juggling fears
Her life, a cartoon
Such an imagination
Seeing what doesn't exist
An awkward conversation
No partner to assist
Suddenly a spider
Her safety net, a web
She grabs a fly to ride her
Lands in a pool of red
People gather around
Curious to see
Her body on the ground
Her final act, a mockery
Her 5 minutes of fame
Detours and yellow tape
Chalk outlines the frame
Of what she couldn't escape
An eye witness chimed in
Giddy and camera ready
He saw her on the end
Trembling and unsteady
Intently, he watched
Gravity run it's course
It didn't appear botched
Invisible was the source
Following her brief report
They aired the walking dead
Her existence fell short
Not one viral thread
Says “I am Christian”
and then proceeds with death threats
What would Jesus do?
(my response to the death threats put out by Christians to atheists over the WTC cross lawsuit)
I reserve no respect for poems without rhyme.
In them, I would invest not even a dime.
Writing in free verse is so simple—so easy,
That reading it is certain to make me feel queasy.
The question we must ask ourselves,
Is “What belongs up on our shelves?”
Why do some compose refuse?
There are better styles to choose!
Writing with rhythm requires more skills;
A beat is the life-blood that free verse spills!
However one may feel inside,
Meter is the tool and guide.
If one does write without a rhyme,
It’s his depressing paradigm!
I despise short poems, crippled and leaning,
Which struggle in vain to contain a meaning.
Tales of darkness and bitter end—
Poor depiction destroys the blend.
Depressing are the stories—what’s more: the skill,
Or lack thereof! What poems fulfill
Is the duty to express, but not words alone.
The language untamed does make me moan
With an aching sadness for poets lost.
Mediocrity comes at a heavy cost.
I hold, for these poems, an unrestrained disdain
And I pray to God they will cease to remain.
Yet my work is flawed, but with sound reasoning.
Every good poem deserves some seasoning.
Poetry is a sacred creation,
Which some believe can bring salvation,
But tainted is this form of literature
In the hands of a petty amateur.
Are these "poets" blind as moles?
Or are they lacking in their souls?
Over square miles a unique surgeon
In the West African sub-region:
Clearly,the tower in their region;
Names of the other knives in dungeon...
"Daddy,will I ever be like John
Now and again in Germany's Bonn ?"
But surgeon is facing religion
And religion: "I'll defeat you, John:
For you,surely,coming with legion,
Which shall never fail to you bludgeon"
It's surgery for delivery
To The Church's Christ's needless mockery.
When a kiss puts out the sun.
There is nothing left but the so called fun.
I want to run, I want to hide, I just want to die.
All the relentless nights provide a longing for home.
There is no way back I'm always alone.
My purity is gone, I'm on my own
searching for some kind of home.
Emotionlessly, I'm waiting for dawn.
What last night just went on.
No one will know, no one will tell.
Is this just a living hell.
Making it fast making it slow.
I'm spent but know nobody knows.
How sad it seems when holding hands
and I'm alone in this here land.
I want to shout, I want to scream.
What a mockery of love it does seem.
I can't see you, you can't see me.
No in between is sought or seen.
I can't look back what a horrible dream.
I pray to thee to remove reproaches,
Day after day I shed tears on my bed,
Sadness doubles for all their approaches,
Tired of poisonous words which I`m been fed,
poverty and joblessness bite so hard,
day after day I shed tears on my bed.
True success has been issued a red card,
making me hopeless as I toil in vain,
poverty and joblessness bite so hard
Being abandoned by friends brings severe pain,
becoming laughing stock makes me feel shame,
making me hopeless as I toil in vain.
Childlessness and poverty are the same,
Death without trace is a better option,
becoming laughing stock makes me feel shame,
My heart and bone wane for this wrong notion,
I pray to thee to remove reproaches,
Death without trace is a better option,
Sadness doubles for all their approaches.
There is no better enemy than ones’ loving family and friends
For it is they who know all the ifs' and where your troubles begin
No need to look outward but to only look within
The company of those that surprisingly come to mind
They who come around you either often or all the time
They say they’ll support and stand by You _ thick or thin
Truth is they’re only present _ to glorify your end
How else will they assure you’ll see their smirky sideways grin.
You’re prepared for your foes to come from where __ who really knows?
You know only heaven can tell what evils can compel
The force of ill-fate for you to partake
From their greed, jealousy, and hate
They’re astounded by your struggles, your turmoil, and your woes.
All the pleasure earned and reaped by no better foes
Strange isn’t it that when you crawl out from under your bed
No voices of cheers but sneers and jeers heard in its’ stead
Ridicule and mockery, should haves and could haves ...
If I’d known better; I surely would have _
Not confide in most of those around me.
For the last thing, I need _ is a better enemy.
!!!W10-09-20
Furnished from the beginning with superlative demeanor,
You sway no haughty elbows,
And murder all colours of mockery,
Refrain from staring down the bridge of your nose,
As well as the egocentric adults
That bear the sharpness of a minotaur horn.
Your own sanctuary
Is crafted from knife fissures and bullet nests,
The nightmare of cathedrals;
Though existence must be slain
In order to fashion birth, yet
existence is never slain for applause
Your tongue is useless,
The cyanide is a much better fit sliding down your throat,
Swallowing the guilt comes easy but it's harder to digest,
Your right-hand records the anguish in a suicide note,
While your left hand ties the noose what a tragic incest,
You sever those pesky bonds that hold your arms together,
Exhuming a wellspring of red mockery while your body's devoid of life,
You're just an animated corpse that doesn't walk but slithers,
Avoiding holes in the ground why not pay your tithe,
It's not the contempt on your breath nor the sin you harbor,
But the sacrilege of your actions that desecrate our Father,
May the cigarettes strip your strip and the whiskey drown your liver,
May your hair enter your head and stuff that empty shell.
May your tears fall like acid when you finally beseech the Giver,
And may He grant you a swift plunge into hell.
Have mercy oh! priest
To God through Mary let my plea
Seven times more my sins
I fear I must do it again.
I sinned again o priest,
And must to this alter pray
in your ears all my vile secrets
Forgive me and through Mary to the lord.
I lied o priest,
I crawled in the dark to the red zones
I covet a neighbour’s good also,
as I have done in the past
If you would, oh! Priest
Send my confession to Mary again
Tell all, that hides within.
Take this confession for today,
and all ills before the next,
Let me from this alter depart
To new woes as I this bondage demands.
This is my prayer
To Hail Mary, parcelled by the priest.
Life is a mockery
Man is not given choice
Competent or not you act
Forced to be a comedian
Compelled to act tragedy
Maybe you act audience
Not a single qualification
But you must act the part
Truly life is a mockery
You are born to act drama
Even without any skills
But the world you live in
Will not spare mockery
When you stumble over