Best Monocle Poems
As I pass through time
in my physical vessel
I connect the rhymes,
balancing them on my mind's trestle.
My consciousness detaches
from emotion and commotion
and intricately latches
onto an outstanding, expanding notion.
At twenty-three and so onward,
with every new midnight,
and every new songbird,
my mind escalates to a new height
brilliantly brightening my eye's light.
The novelty of these audibles
inclines life to be anything but probable.
Voluble are my audibles,
relieving my eye of it's monocle.
I focus and listen
to the cosmic sounds physics has given.
Seeing the sounds, all the compounds
do abound and surround
everywhere amongst these grounds.
Strategy is imperative when dodging the chaos.
Seek those audibles which avoid pathos.
Embrace the novelty, embrace the ambiance
for the moment now is all transience.
Why do we have pairs of scissors?
Since that's how they've always been known,
why do we care why we call them a pair
when one is no good on its own?
The same thing applies to our trousers,
just wearing the one would be daft,
just showing one knee, ugly veins you could see
and I don't think I'd cope with the draught.
The same thing applies to my spectacles,
another I couldn't let pass,
since one on its own as a monocle it's known
so why not just call it a glass?
I asked my good Lady's opinion,
she said 'oh, that's quite plain to see,
as a pair we get on, and the jobs all get done
but you'd be useless without me'.
From an aerial view, the sight of a beautiful red train
chugging along down the railway track
takes my breath away;
One moment I am watching a funnel shaped smoke stack sending puffs,
up towards the white cottony clouds then disappearing,
and the next I am hearing the sound of a whistle blowing.
A melodious voice is heard as a conductor enounces,
"tickets please,"
Out of my pocket I produce an admission ticket
that was long overdue ...
With one cotton white glove he presses the ticket
between his fingers then holds it up to his gold monocle and smiles ,
"welcome aboard then !"
He traipses over to supposedly important passengers that I cannot see
and leaves me sitting there, wondering about our destination.
How I got so lucky as to enter this magical snow train I have no idea,
but the scent of this leathery Kirlian man, still clings to my thoughts
like a revenant moment from a long forgotten past.
To Be Continued...
My monocle, please,
or if you please,
my spectacles so
I
can attempt to eye
a book with both irises
and which book
to attack first:
the gigantic book of fashion;
it’s
not a lap animal, vegetable
or otherwise;
and the floral pages -
both have large print,
I think.
Oh, yes,
and speaking in tongues,
that is
the craft of language;
a book (oh, yes, quite funny)
on trees (aren’t they the funny things
that we write upon);
and murder!
Murder, you say?!
…those found in the bible.
“What!” say you…
First the death of pleasantries or
pleasant trees (funny, right?)
Then sibling rivalry to the extreme.
‘Thou shall not kill,” did Cain know this one?
or ‘thou shall not covet…?’
All of these emotions, quite the spectacle,
spectacularly so… So what is in fashion today?
Do we like a good murder, on parade…seems
too many do. Jesus flipped the script -really,
he handcrafted the language of love. Love
God first; and love
your neighbor as you love yourself.
Sins brought to the surface.
Love covers a multitude of sins.
It is a sin not to go to the library
and bring home so many friends
that you can listen to.
Don’t kill the messenger.
My monocle please!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The general’s monocle holds
no reflection~
only maps
where borders bleed
like wet ink.
His uniform stiffens
with every medal,
each one hammered from
the same mute ore.
He signs the orders first,
then breakfast~
black coffee, bitter as spent shells.
The map is clean
where his finger rests,
no mud, no blood,
just ink-stained creases.
Five thousand tons of steel will roll
where his pencil hesitates.
The military machine
calls it strategy~
a word that appeals
to the masses
better than
corpse or widow.
Down the hall, the lieutenant
memorizes his father’s frown,
practicing it in the mirror.
Promotion tastes like
brass buttons
dissolving on his tongue.
The General studies the map again~
his coffee gone cold.
He traces borders
with his finger.
one that’s never touched dirt
or trembled in surrender.
Victory fits neatly
in his briefcase.
On the battlefield weeks later,
a corporal triumphantly
wipes his blade
and thinks of the boy
who called him coward
ten years ago,
in a schoolyard.
Later, alone,
the General admires his reflection
in the polished table,
imagining history books
too kind to mention
the tremor
in his hand.
And the wartime ego?
It never dies.
It digs trenches in the mind,
planting flags
in the graveyards
of reason.
My Love, Eve
Your skin glows like the Apple, blossoms eagerly as the rose in the purest hope of spring.
My yearning heart rises to your guitar voice and leaps like a dog at the whisper of your name, Eve.
The evening ascends in on a great parrot wing.
I am calmed by your sock that I carry into the twilight of leafbeams and hold next to my knee.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of Valvoline.
As my nostril falls from my monocle, it reminds me of your toenail.
In the hushed, I listen for the last pfrrrrt of the spring.
My heated cerebellum leaps to my stocking. I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret mole so that we may saunter as one, cerebellum to cerebellum, in search of the glorious gallbladder-green and spiritual jello of love.
Created by,
PoetrySoup Poem Generator.
Data provider, Martin Braun
12/06/2018
Watch out, brother,
An eye's following you,
Watching what you do,
Each movement remembered.
Don't cheat,
Don't steal,
Don't breathe too loud,
Someone's sure to find out.
Each flaw, each mistake,
And blow it up big.
Your life's another production,
A movie or an album.
There's a camera pointed at the Hollywood signed,
And another on a stop sign, pointed at you.
Please, halt at the white line,
Or they'll never let you live it down.
Watch out, brother,
You'll let them in your head,
And they'll eat away your thoughts.
It's less painful and time consuming to open your head,
Hand them a spoon
And let them dig in.
Brainwash isn't just a swirled, black and white spinning background.
It's every advertisement,
Every restaurant,
Every street corner news vendor,
Every word that leaves the mouths of the men and women who are supposed to represent our
fellow man.
Watch out, brother,
Read the words of our forefathers:
George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, and the men who had insight.
They predicted outrageous futures,
But oh, how right they're becoming.
The clock's about to strike thirteen!
Please open your eyes,
There's much to be seen.
Remember brotherhood of man,
An unspoken code of empathy, understanding, and a willingness to lend a hand?
It's melting away into apathy,
An emotion only surpassed by hatred.
Watch out, brother,
You think I'm a skeptic,
But I'm not.
I'm a thinker,
I see truth through a thick smog of lies.
I won't tell you what to see, hear or eat.
I'll only help guide you.
I'll be the lens of a monocle,
To help you see clearer,
But I won't give you answers.
I am not them,
I believe in the freedom of thought,
Think what you may,
Fine by me,
Just promise you'll watch out,
Brother.
A four piece string ensemble competes
with fluted crystal glasses harmonizing
to the tinkling of fine silverware
underpinned by the purring whispers
of well-to-do's and their hobnobbery.
Buttery lobster and rib-eyed supper in
opulent gravies and exotic spices;
cornucopia fruits on sterling platters
all floating about the ballroom on
white gloved tuxedos.
There’s a thick pretense in the air;
a high browed notion of superiority
reflected off each gold-fitted gemstone
amplified when ostensibly viewed
through a monocle lens.
I suppose it’s a lonely company they keep
esteeming each other as conquerors
by cordially extended handshake;
dodging and redirecting questions incessantly,
so as not to be rude, no doubt.
All the lavish excess of the night
is surpassed in every rise and fall
of her chest, as I contemplate silently
what fate has befallen that life, no more
beaming behind those sapphire eyes.
Empty sockets abound, lifelessly
betraying boisterous expressions of mirth.
Dancing corpses swig their Dom Perignon
forgetting for tonight, at least,
the toiling lilies of the field.
Preston Graham
(Grahamburglar)
08/16/15
For Contest: Puttin on the Ritz
Hosted by: Judy Konos
Have you always thought that something was true
And then find out that it wasn’t then
There are beliefs of the masses found to be untrue
Named after Nelson Mandela who spent 27 years in jail
And was released in 1990
But people swear he died in prison in the 1980s
Not becoming South African president in the 1990
The monocle of Mr Pennybags in Monopoly was never there
And Darth Vader never said, “Luke, I am your father”
Curious George never had a tail
Mona Lisa does not have a frown but a smirk on her face
The Evil Queen in Snow White
Never said “Mirror Mirror on the wall” in the Disney toon
Small things they all are when questioned
But they become part of world culture.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Sometimes people ask me... What's in your purse...
So I tell them the best that I can...
Lipstick, chapstick, matchstick
What’s in your purse?
Billfold, change purse, money counter, and clip?
Aspirin, Tylenol, Tums, coupons and stamps…
Tissue, pressure bandage, Mom excuse tablet!
What’s in your purse?
House keys, car keys, skate keys and a toothbrush.
Toothpick, dental floss, yesterday’s movie ticket.
Magnifying glass, insect book, handy magic cards?
What’s in your purse?
Personal stuff, extra stuff, and just stuff.
Needed stuff, wanted stuff list…
And all the stuff I meant to take out.
What’s in your purse?
Crayons, a pen, a magic marker, and chalk.
Hodgepodge, glue stick, and tape…
A clown an elf and two small mice.
What’s in your purse?
Bird Seed, fish food, and a safety pin.
A feather from a goose, an empty candy wrapper.
A small notebook with and without lines.
What’s in your purse?
Gum, a straw and an eyedropper.
A paperclip that floats like a boat,
And a folding flying airplane.
What’s in your purse?
Flashlight, book light, nightlight.
NASA blanket and plastic rain suit.
Hairnet and socks that match.
What’s in your purse?
Paintbrush, hairbrush, dog brush.
Playdough, finger puppets and jelly packets.
A flashlight, a monocle, and a bingo dabber.
What’s in your purse?
A calendar, a phone, and things that I have to have.
Pictures of those I love.
And a little cross…
What’s in your purse?
Jesus!
1. A dangerous vision coveting another,
blurred by envy to need a mental monocle.
she burns in such deadly blast
not to realize the soul already promulgate itself
to the better one.
Nothing can serve as a wake up call
to warn against the penalty point.
What was once a silent partner in thoughts
transform to wicked acts and a stench
not to be overlooked, wanting a friend to be less.
2. Sees up through her friend
both are fine, she wants to be finer
both are well, she wants to be better
a onetime dove becomes arrogantly disloyal
a part-time energy with flashlights
relevant to the downfall of another,
exhibiting abrupt vagaries,
playing billiards not even to win
but to break the board,
watching closely in a bad timing
to revert all positives with negatives.
3. In the flowing dam of our love,
you poured strong acids of your crude emotions.
you are the one downgrading your worth to a bric-a-brac
your unexplained anger proves the more
that I’m by far better.
On this affliction, you stay rat-arsed,
giving jealousy so much importance
to be obsequious to it.
Time to be matey with the envied has passed,
let this dark heat continue fighting
for the devil may care.
i watch the sunrise
unbuttoning the stuffed pouches
of thunderclouds
soaking
imagination
with dry-drunk dewdrops
becoming bubbles
blown through
ringbarked
jewelry
worn
by the roots
of rhinestone rapids
growing in
spider
webs
trying to catch
a flying_fox
there has always
been a silent
soft echoed
beauty
dancing on the tides
from down
under
perfect pirouettes
showing ligneous dustdevils
proper form
forming
Dead-Sea
chiseled
respect
healing ones
inner folds
unfolding miracles
tucked away in moonpedicured
moments missing myriad music
marching in eucalyptustars
shining smiles upon licorice
chainlinkisses
in my minds eye
blackroom sound-proofed
in blacklighted boughs
creating windframed
wisdom
seen with the hearts
meshed monocle
revealing purity into
eternaluminum sliced skies
painting
memories
throughout dimensions
of a multi-faceted
prism
watched
from verandas
of velcro vicidreamt
sand
waking
up the sleeper
still
nowhere
near you
but
closer
than we've
ever
been
A lap dancing molecule is dressed in a monocle. Such dainty prowess but naked no dress. No suit could taste an acrylic sheet as sheer fabric is often moving unseen across oceans,beams, and many window ledges. Who would then argue that a tempered sword could beckon in this era as most people have taken off wool and now the flock stands bare. A show of a shower. An increased discolouration of tyranny and a mounting view of hue. Mist not a moat. And take no orphaned lonely goat to a show. An AK47 is looking at a tent. And although rusted is trusted and thrown around in the air with great gusts of emblematic soul thrusts. Dupe not a diamond headed cobra. For ancestral wisdoms flourish if harm is perceived. Placing of the cloth should be attempted only when the stream is full. And the stench from a rhododendron printed garden is abominable yet can it be abolished? "yes" cried the 893 serpents, 500 belligerent buffalo, an earwig, and a giant sea turtle. Carve that then. Ha ha. It is to be the dutiful honour of the maiden of the eleventh ocean to place chorographical lines on necklaces. It is neither a weave nor a wand. And placing ones hands behind ones back is a sign not of cohesion it is detrimental to a bloodline. Once sold. A soldier fed is a soldier dead. And a field of archaically driven radio beams is a quagmire of hidden ancestry. Gone. But not gone. It is not the place for a nine foot leopard print jacket to state wisdoms at a ball or a garden party. It is the place of the feet. The dust. The trust. The formation of the ground. The true leaders denied but not denied. And all chaotically clam style ship faces and all Jacobean worshipping masonry brick heads placed the many many peas in a boiling pan then laughed. Sold manuscripts for money. Then drank blood in oceanic temples. Worldy wholly wantons. And a sack of germinating potatoes pollinated. Discuss not a wonder. Pulling pleasing playing partying patties pastries pasteurised. Slip slap slop then. Great. Fantastic isn't it? Feel not akin to a tired dilapidated drinks fountain? Xxxxx passing Paddington people xxxxx adjudicator adhere. Xxxxx vaporisations p y q Zr
-In 2008, a massive recall of peanuts thought to be contaminated with bacteria occured. Not
very many people became ill, and only twenty percent of those that did were hospitalized.
Only a handful died. It was a media frenzy.-
Did you know?
Did You hear?
The tree nuts and peanuts have grown to sentience,
no longer willing to live beneath a primate jack-boot they have
armed themselves. They have
made a resolve.
Jihad!
Now they terror-bomb their opressors, strapping
ecoli and salmonella to their bodies and dying as heroes of the cause.
Now they strike their targets without discrimination, for
they are malicious little legumes, enemies
of red blooded A-mericans everywhere.
Never doubt their skill or persistant nature, or you could be next!
Yes, you!
Struck dead in your own home by these dangerous fundamentalists who are
intolerant by their very nature.
Now
they align themselves with pistachios and raw eggs, and
they plot their next series of attacks in their
cupboard terror-den caves.
Periodically, they
release threatening videos to fox news, declaring an
allout war on the morbidly obese. I for one
am terrified.
And there's more. Their
Leader, "Mr. Peanut" is pure evil in a monocle, tophat
spats and a cane. He smiles with
malevolence at the running camcorder, where he vows to
destroy all the rotund infidels, and all who
violate his brothers in arms whom cower on supermarket shelves.
Clouds spiral down and curl around to touch me
—not those western drizzle shrouds
baring a soul of misery mizzle
...though I adore a good wallow in sorrow —no
these clouds come from yonder bluebird wilds
white cirrus wispy and whispery dance around me
I steal one to wear across my shoulders
like a platinum’s blonde’s faux stole
they come to me like papier-mâché angels —no no
that’s too cliché… and passé for I’m far beyond
the Godly touch of angels… hmm.. they come to me
like a lover —no too easy …like a heartbreak-er lover!
yah I’ll go with that and get a taboo tattoo of his name
anyway the clouds they find me where I stand
dissatisfied with being satisfied
the result of my cool cat face seduction
I wear a crimson bee balm boutonniere
display it on my plunging V lapel but
it attracts wasps instead of honey bees; I find
danger brings a secret pleasure to my displeasure
my leopard print pants (red sky colored)
stirs sir knight with his bridled gaze and walking stick
he watches my next move on the chessboard
tries to guess my breezy strategy
my hands behind my head legs crossed
maybe it’s a white crested ocean I'm floating on
—or wrestling with— either way
I’m here to play and paint a displeased scene
watercolors? they’re just transparent hues
applied to my white background
depending on the mood of my mood ring —but
when acrylics bleed it’s harder to see the scene
colors escape their space creating a slurry
of what is where where is when when is why
and why don’t know why ..what?! but I know how
blurry lines take on a life of their own
and shapes a new fate from ‘no gesso’ mistakes
I could switch my style to snarly tiger stripes today
and gladly take that horse-headed knight down
that wooden old guard has new orders
he’s suspicious of me scrutinizes me
but only half as much as I’m used to
his right hand on his monocle
—the other eye blind
just beyond the reach of his walking stick
I free my torso of its purple grapevine corset
uncinching my fake waisted form —I muse
if my time as a wastrel was wasted or invested
oh …the monocle is telescoping me again
I shimmy lose my butterfly wings
slap him as I flap them and fly away
it’s hard to know if I’m still beautiful
or if I’m just broken
—either way I embrace the rainy side of the rainbow
happily discontent