Best Mundane Poems
With hair ablaze
a jester unconfined.
I scoffed at the mundane
its life declined.
My wardrobe
a riot
a rhapsody bold.
Mismatched socks my standard
stories untold.
In classrooms of tedium
rules I'd defy
Grasping forbidden knowledge
'neath watchful sky.
Craving for wisdom in
esoteric wells.
Chased squirrels with saws
casting fanciful spells!
Detentions for antics
the school's icy stare
Derided in classrooms
a spirit too rare.
Math teacher's scorn
a job painting lines foretold.
I retorted, "How much does it pay?"
- detention took hold.
Mom asked me why I never brought my girls home?
I chuckled and said, "They're not the type to be shown!"
The wild ones
the rebels
the ones full of flame.
Not the kind for a dinner
not the ones with a name.
Misfits my comrades
a menagerie strange.
United in chaos
defying the change.
Years danced in a blur a pantomime bright
But a disquieting word a sense of not quite right.
A whirlwind of antics a panoply grand
Impromptu escapes with career-shifting sands.
Near-death encounters with fauna
a squirrel, perhaps?
But the thrill
oh the thrill
fueled my madcap laps!
The thrill of the unexpected
a fading strain
A gnawing suspicion
a predictable bane.
The mask I had crafted
of rebellion's grand guise.
Cracked and revealed
the truth in my eyes.
The jester unmasked with a lesson I gained.
That the extraordinary in the ordinary
can be just plain.
No longer I chase the fantastical dream...
But accept the real where
beauty can stream.
For the truest defiance lies not in the fight.
But accepting oneself in the ordinary light.
So here I stand
flaws and all
unashamed.
The laughter remains though the fantasy's tamed.
With lessons in tow I'll mend and I'll mend.
Explore the mundane and find joy till the end.
For the greatest adventure
in life's simple quest...
Is finding the magic
within one's own breast.
To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
With boredom.
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did one thousand yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky…
Mark, until it breaks through mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.
Equinox—the sun
Bright—shining—washday hang-out
September's closing
A cluster of Day Lilies glow
like embers beneath the shadow
of a time-worn Box elder tree
that’s plainly visible to see
if looking for mundane beauty.
Their golden flowers so briefly
lived poses for a single day;
at days end they wither away.
Their presence always call to mind
that beauty last the briefest time
but I possess a memory
where beauty lives eternally.
Though they will die I’d soon exhume
I’d close my eyes they’d still be bloomed.
Little lost angels fell into urban slums
Walk aimlessly with nothing, but her broken wings
She morphs herself into a granules of dust
Intangible like a vagabond and chooses to be unseen
Escaped from infinite world, she paved her own paradise
Falling and fused with the mundane, she breaks her own dream
As soon as the shield broke, her purity shone from the filthy damn cloak
The hidden sanctity shines, illuminated the dark souls
She chose the knotty part of life
Scars were the last witness to seal her true story
Somehow she relieved
Somehow it changed her destiny
Tracing every stitch on her flawed wings
Slums and filth open the other side, her humanity
She was meant to be an angel
An angel among the damned
Awakened from the slums, her wings were torn
The shield of vagabond was cracked
She paid the price in mortality
To be human, her last destiny
MUNDANE
The death of soul steals slowly through the years
the fog of mind that's never known to be;
brought on by laughter, love, and hate and tears
the fate of all; so few can ever see.
It brings the withering of life. Now all it's leaves;
once green and shining in the morning sun;
now setting on it all, in evening grieves
for lack of interest in what life has done.
Compassion leaves the mind, once fired and prime,
and old and tired now beats the heart we knew.
Life now mundaned, by passing of all time,
there's nothing left the heart would like to do.
Old man, you're numbered to your final breath
your rest is not until it's done in death.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
I have no problem
Finding beauty in the most ordinary things
Like sunshine’s crystallized mourning song
Falling down the Arizona sky like raindrops from India
Purple, pink, orange destiny
Slowly reclining before the ebony embrace of twilight
There is nothing wrong
With a coffee before bedtime
Rich pumpkin spice scent wafting from the air vents
Hugging the streets between breaths of hot air
Autumn memories before a park bench
Silence before the poet
Booms into (check two one three, check) the Mic and spits out
truth
A shopping spree after payday
Ringing it up at the register
The cashier boy with his deep brown eyes and tenor voice
That seeps into every crevice of the floor
Skateboard King on Sundays
The aerials and ollies, flips still twinkling in his
eyes
Chocolate lust hair that swept in front of his
Eyes
The most beautiful things in life
Aren’t hard to appreciate
When he has eyes like that
When I fall
I fall hard
(God damn)
[Those eyes]
Bam on the counter
Heart still warm from previous engagements
“Did you find everything okay, today?”
“Yes, yes I did”
“I’m glad”
And I searched, searched from some hidden meaning in his words
Nothing more then what I wanted
He looked deep,
Deep
Deep down into me
I have no problem
Being in love with the person
Nobody seems to notice
Because
I have no problem
Finding the beauty in the most ordinary things
The mechanics of the clock
The stutter of the ticks and tocks
The cogs eternally clenching teeth
Singing songs from underneath
The changing features of the clock face
Each hand steadfast in its place
Pendulum swinging, sounds like a knock
Who's there? I ask. Tick-tock-tick-tock.
She is not only the pragmatist,
she is the enchantress.
From the organizing of paperwork,
taxes, forms and receipts,
to reminding me when a birthday is due,
grounding flights of fancy
that have no hope of touching sky,
or reminding me what really matters to me
with half a glance
and that chuckle that only she can do,
her good sense is a benefit
worth my own weight in gold.
Yet even as she props me up,
making certain I am buckled in,
and poking the flashlight of her curiosity
into every corner before letting me ride,
she manages to fire off in my core a set of fireworks,
strobes, shotflingers, cascades and star-bursts,
which I feel as bursts of heat,
warm rockets arcing through me.
How she can make a conversation
about mundane drivel
into a captivating dazzle
that leaves me trying to memorize her?
How is it possible
that her interest in me
is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen?
What liquid magic exists
in those soft brown eyes
that grasps my throat and squeezes?
And please, for the love of my sanity,
how can this one soul’s approval
hold my entire being
in a thousand clutching grips?
Much Trump business is both mundane and plain;
Has hair that becomes a big mess while in rain;
Up people he riles;
T for Trouble dials;
Common sense lacks any not having a grain.
Jim Horn
the mundane
nerves all ajangle
stomach knots to untangle
that life once well known
is not playing well at home
builds many obtuse angles
dealing with mundane
each day turning out the same
no bomb exploding
weapons which we are loading
reflects life become too tame
too much day to day
preparedness goes astray
need to stay alert
so people do not get hurt
most serious game we play
much of the humdrum
turns nerves into taut snare drums
pounds out the feeling
rockets may some come squealing
pay attention or succumb
rising from bed in the morning
seeking shelter when it's storming
idly whiling stray hours away
dreaming there will be better days
fabricating a self-image
with a more prominent linage
doodling on back of a letter
shunning life as a go-getter
paying of various taxes
wielding rhetorical axes
stopping by the grocery store
dealing with muscles which are sore
waiting in the queue at the bank
musing why the page remains blank
finding the proper words to say
quickly dealing with come-what-may
filtering life's little lessons
leaving positive impressions
contemplating all that might be
if we'd just win the lottery
making life much less exacting
all in the action of acting
discovering what keeps us sane
among remains of the mundane
The Holiday
I looked on the net for a holiday
To visit somewhere picturesque
And escape the mundaneness of life
Just me, the car, and the wife.
We priced up guest houses, hotels
Would it be the lakes, mountains or fells?
A cheap, luxurious getaway, of four days
However far you run, your baggage stays
After hours of pondering ums and ahs
We couldn’t decide, which hotel’s spa
Then we realised, me and the wife
A pretence doesn’t change your life
So, we are staying home, our own bed
Who really needs a holiday? she said.
David Cox 25/07/22
Last night was a warm night
I could not sleep, rather I tossed and turned
My heart was empty, so was my life
Yet, I did feel love flowing all around
So I woke up and choose to bask in the moon's light
Contemplating such a beauty, I no more felt so stoned
Why, life be faith
Life, with its many mysteries does hold me in astound
See you how our instincts guide us
I believe they are messages from the one above us
The one who made us, for reasons known to Him alone
Why, each one of us does belong to Him, being in all, His own!
Away we may be from each other, we on Earth and Him somewhere in the ether
Yet, our souls, our hearts do keep talking to each other
Yes, messages does be sent to calm us
To guide us, to ease our pain, to melt our stress
I watched the moonlight till dawn
Magical was the turning daylight
Enamored by creation and its mystery, I could not even yawn
Awakened have I been, awake was I always, now, with life no more shall I fight!
Visual Three
For each singular occurrence fleeting before me,
All senses come alive to experience life’s motion
Filled with a thirst of discoveries—a hunchbacked
Rock gleaming, salty nectar pouring on the tongue,
An insatiable need to quill under moonshine..
Then to allow the unexpected to happen
Without examining its reason,
As though a vigor of the unknown creates
Some divine exploration, my belly on fire, down
To earth or above heaven’s ridges..and I would slither
Away from what is mundane…the hardness,
The softness of nature’s terrain assaulting
My being, that I find seemingly inconsequential
Moments consequential: Somehow, this willingness
To ride with uncertainty leaves me awestruck—
Encountering the uniqueness of new ventures , inimitable.
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11/6/2018
John Lawless’ Creative Conformity Contest