Best Neglectful Poems
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
I heard Congress was spending money like a drunken sailor
And I thought this was disrespectful
Congress spends like they are obsessed
For the future they’re neglectful
It’s disrespectful to drunken sailors
It is totally wrong what they say
Drunken sailors never spent
Assuming their grandchildren would pay
I was once a drunken sailor
And you know what’s really funny
I always stopped spending
Whenever I ran out of money
Congress are elitist bastards
So let this story be known
When drunken sailors spent that money
They only spent their own.
Congress has no conscience
Part of the political machines
They can spell INTEGRITY
But they don’t know what it means
I’d rather be a drunken sailor
And spend only what I amass
Than to spend it like a congressman
And be a horse’s (OH!! You know what I mean)
BMC Vince Suzadail Jr USNR-Ret.
I'm holding your letters, here in my hand
Each word is wrapped in cursive swirls
Of trembling, eloquent, handwriting...
You shared your life with me...
A gift of yourself, like little grains of sparkling sand...
Slipping through my open fingers
But, it's only now.... that I fully understand...
They were small chapters, and stories....detailed accounts...
of a picture you framed,
a flower you grew, a morning of mauve,...
a dress you made, a puzzle you solved...
or the rains that quickly came, then disappeared...
A little life, a simple day, so quickly came, and left....through fading years....
Snippets of a life that seemed unremarkable, too easily dismissed
Until you were gone.
Until I missed you...
Until I began to realize
that I wouldn't have a second chance...
another day, to pay closer attention, ...
to ask more questions,...to show more interest
to look deeper into your eyes,
those eyes of experience, clarity...
kindness and charity...
so filled with the wisdom of age
....before the page of love had closed....
Your caring, ...your patience,...your understanding....
That in my neglectful ways,
I thought would always be....
These letters I hold in my hand,
ending with words of love.....
that perhaps, I didn't really deserve
That only now, I've truly heard....
By Carrie Richards
______________________________________
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
A sweet disorder in the dress kindles
In clothes a wantonness; a stole about
The shoulders thrown, a fine distraction; an
ErrIng Lace, which here and there enthralls the
Crimson Vest; a cuff neglectful, ribbons
Flow confusedly: a winning wave (note)
In the tempestuous petticoat: a
Careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a
Wild civility: does more bewitch me,
Than Art when too precise in ev'ry part.
Where there is malnutrition, let us provide basic human resources, for the poor and the destitute. Where there is insufficient: clothing, shoes, water, housing, education, and job opportunities-let the world community take the necessary actions.
Where there is talk of: ethnic, religious, sexual cleansing, let us hold those responsible accountable for their crimes against humanity. Where there is talk of warfare among the nations, or ethnic groups; let us preach and practice world peaceful harmony.
Where there is sexual and human trafficking; let us put an end to such human miserable mistreatment. Let us provide freedoms to the captives. rehabilitation, moral, ethical and spiritual guidance. Housing, education,and employment opportunities.
Where is talk of domestic violence against people, and property; let us provide the necessary intervention, legal action, and restoration.
Where there is talk of warfare, and violence between hostile nations; let us hold out the olive branch of reconciliation and peace. There are no winners or losers in the game of warfare, only its hopelessly defenseless victims.
Where there are crimes against the natural world and the animal population, let us be a voice to those who have no voice. Let us defend a world unable to defend itself. Let us not just fold our hands and walk away. Let us not fail to acknowledge the problem. by the failure to take affirmative action. Let us not follow in the neglectful footsteps of the current United States' presidential administration, of Donald Trump!
There are so many issues facing the world community, they are not all addressed here!
Love as always!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
RoxyLea1954
June 27, 2017
I used to be special,
Now I’m just me,
Once believed in fate and goodness,
Instead just a pie in the sky.
A fool’s paradise,
Misconceived with empty promises,
Bright eyed and smiles,
Deprived and beguiled
Living a masquerade ball,
Disguised in what everyone else wants me to be.
Once kindred in time,
This family of mine,
Immodest and forthright,
Became this neglectful stoic tribe
It’s their family they must tend to,
Godforsaken,
Originatin’ back to me.
My anger withheld by absolution,
For they know not what they do,
A life lesson they’ll learn eventually.
Friends just stay a while,
Until the novelty wears,
Just the facts of life,
Season’s change,
Once birds of a feather
Forge on,
La parade nuptiale cède
Summon those birds and bees,
For the love they nestled themselves in,
Riveted them to be swallowed in the sea.
Can’t blame them, ‘cause sometimes,
The honey can be tantalizing,
For I harbor a tooth that savors this sweet reverie.
It’s their life they must live, not mine,
Differently,
I imagined mine would be,
A love spell turned spell bound,
Forced me to see
L'importance de l'amour de soi
A.L.O.N.E
The ability to unveil what once was special
Is in fact, extraordinary.
~Sealion
A.L.O.N.E. ( A Love Others Never Experience)
So, I guess a 12 year old
American brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
is outside your boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
Well, I can see why you would need
to draw your boundary
for healthy rationality
outside his grassy field of fire-armed play.
I can see why we need to draw this line
of "only predictably SWM domesticated life matters"
the way we do
to look our friends and children in the eyes
while saying,
"I can accept this loss
as one caused by an unfortunately timed
dual act of accidental wildness;"
But is it not significantly wilder
to fire ballistics at youth
than for youth to fire only ballistic imagination?
I can see that we need to doubt
reasonable risks of public recreation
for some lives
differently than other lives
and times
to gaze into our social-cultural mirror
with both eyes
fully comprehending compassionate integrity:
"We accept that Black Adolescent Lives Splatter
loss across our leaking shared loves and livelihoods,
thereby wilting our collective mental health,
starving our social wealth for future regeneration,
and yet hope we still dream
of somehow re-transposing,
All Lives Matter
in current US ReligiousRight culture.
Now that is egocentric mendacity;
not even Anthro-centric integrity.
We each and all must hunt our way
toward facing our fear of ourselves
our lack of empathy
and mind positive passions
and body healing pleasures
surpassing our neglectful lack of fully activating
Win/Win panentheistic wisdom.
Some hunting ways bring further AnthroSupremacist
Business As Usual
cognitive-affective dissonance;
further failure of Earth's polycultural integrity,
further degenerative ego-traumatizing stasis.
Some hunting ways promise more co-operative co-arising ballast
for culturally active hope.
It is this ballast we seek
between our self/other-reflecting eyes,
hoping to discover peace within as justice without,
and not more enslaving reductive addiction
to ballistics of overly-automated violence
Silent souls
full-will impassioned pleasures
without sufficient time to assess full-intent,
responding to fear of fear ourselves,
right between our blindered eyes
So it becomes challenging to see
a brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
as well within our mental health care boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
The kids, just four and six, are running wild again tonight
and throwing things. Neglectful parents seemingly don’t see.
Adults expecting kids to raise themselves and know what’s right
without their guidance cannot have a home that’s chaos-free.
Wise parents show their love by teaching children how to act.
Respect and order, hand in hand, keep families intact.
Society at large will feel their positive impact.
birthday--January 28
So you want this so bad?
Incorrigible lad
Your excesses will come back to haunt you,
But we may do a deal
Under this seal
Unless common sense doth daunt you.
Should push come to shunt
You’ll bear the brunt
Of an outlying cost that may shock you,
A bribe? You dare say
And ask me a game to play
For which the police will surely up-lock you.
Me too? Oh joke on,
You son of a swan,
They’ll never catch me this millennium
For my name is quite clean
By all I am seen
As the pillar upholding nobelium.
My bribe price, you ask?
I’ll take you to task
For using a term disrespectful
I’ll write it down here
… stop looking so *****
Or I’ll change my tone to neglectful.
When I’m gone on my way
You can see my say,
The paper is here ‘neath my placemat
And if you agree
My lawyer you’ll see
To comply you’ll be sporting a lace hat.
He'll sort you out,
You son of a trout
And see that we both get our wish met
But don't try to pump us
Or he'll cause such a rumpus
That you'll want soon to face your Kismet.
So farewell for now
Oh son of a cow
We’ll not see each other again
For I’m off to travel
And mysteries unravel
Along the Brazilian main.
Remember when
Remember when...you were an innocent child
when everyone was good and you could trust every smile?
Remember when... children played outside alone
evil was not lurking on the green grass of home?
Remember when...children walked by themselves to school
parents were not neglectful, or breaking any rule?
Remember when...schools major problem was students chewing gum
not bullets flying randomly from an unhappy students gun?
Remember when...AID was what you gave to someone else in need
and there were no hungry homeless people living on the street?
Remember when...terrorism was just another ordinary word
and did not touch you personally and was rarely ever heard?
Remember when... you were told that these were signs of the last days
do you believe it, or still think that nothing's really changed?
John Derek Hamilton
April 03,2016
Cosy as the warmest summer’s breeze,
Reclining poet there beneath the tree’s,
Yellow sunshine dapples ‘ore the leaves,
A picnic basket too, can you believe!
Daffodils abound along the stream,
And lazy clouds drift by as in a dream,
Little butterflies, that flutter ‘round,
And rabbits gently flop on softest ground.
The poet’s lady sits with him as well,
With milk white skin, of all she is the belle,
Lip’s more lavish than cherries on the bush,
And when he looks at her she starts to blush!
Into the ink he dips his pointed quill,
This laureate raises eyebrows with his skill,
‘A moment please ‘- for I must wipe my brush,
To paint this scene, so lovely and so lush!
The paint swirls on my pallet like whipped cream,
This couple on my canvas, so serene,
Hark! The poet beacons me at last,
‘Look here dear sir, you forgot to paint my glass!’
Neglectful I, not to include the wine,
A Chateau la Fete Rothschild should do just fine!
Santa has a problem,
Mrs. Claus is really sore,
Working one whole day a year,
She hardly sees him anymore.
Even on his days off
He's hanging out with elves,
Or playing games with reindeer,
Or restocking toyshop shelves.
Could it be that he no longer thinks she's hot?
What do elves and reindeer have that she ain't got?
But Mrs. C. knows just what she will do,
When he gets back this time,
She'll be brand new.
She'll go out shopping for clothes,
And maybe nip-tuck her nose,
Then on to address some excess adipose.
Her bosom's rather small,
So she'll enlarge it.
When asked how she will pay,
She'll just say "Charge it!"
"Then maybe he will pay attention to me.
He certainly will when the credit card bill comes due!"
But will it be enough to change him?
Dare she try to rearrange him?
The big galoot is how he is.
Still, he is hers, and she is his,
And his Christmas biz is all that gets them through.
Santa knows he's been neglectful,
But what's a guy like him to do?
Can't disappoint the girls and boys
Who all depend on you.
And, it's true, they don't go out much,
Sometimes to a coffee bar,
But living at the North Pole,
You can only go so far.
Now he has a little secret
He hopes will make her less upset,
Next year he plans to work from home
And just use the internet.
But he won't let her know that right away.
He'll wait 'til he's back home,
And they have some time alone,
Because he's really keen to see
Her brand new physiognomy
Before he springs his big surprise
On Christmas Day.
mirrors refract of blue, grays and greens
molded together, patchwork of leans
drowning withouts more than floating withins
mindsided promises, neglectful of ends
dripdry conundrums in, neat stagnant rows
labias monotonous, pink ugliness grows
necrofeelya coagulants, defy deadbeat hearts
knooseful riddance, mattressinal false starts
illiterate indifferents, exude egasm entrees'
= fluid "I's", incognitoinitiates surprise
My ponder envy gloats, add and subtracts
love=hate, matter of facts
monogamy is still born, stiff stinch of breath
awkwards defined, emotrails of death,
sexless deliveries, lost in separate rooms,
listless love, Dark shadow looms
eyes pierce of dread, sabotage to defile
auoragast convictions, clotting in piles
foolish Lie desires, dream of ills past
concussioned mind, head in cast
time calls abandon "ship", hoist love's anchor
nevertheless nevers, may heal the chancre
procreate a soul's, indifferent endeavor,
5 Agreements hired, all pages untilled
redeem ugly pasts, retired fulfiled
a renewal of sorts, eyelets finite closed
a heart wide open, all love I'm exposed.
Our task is to tarry, on Love's tepid scorch
or die fall/failing, obscure on Hate's torch.
10/17/16
Back to the fundamentals
It's been happening worldwide, continental
Wilted leaves and healthy flower petals
Amid Large boulders or tiny pebbles
Among soft to hard metals
The rain at times may be gentle or torrential
Call it quintessential
Way before fishing vessels
Or the use of any mortar and pestle
Since the dawn of time, it's been rather elemental
Regarding anything existential
Some things were on purpose or accidental
On my shoulders an angel and a devil
Is with what I wrestle
Times may get stressful
But If you want to be successful
Focus on what is important, don't be forgetful
Or too fretful
Take some risks and try to reach another level
Buildings and bodies considered temples
Take care of what you love, don't be neglectful
Something special and sentimental
Sat atop a trestle
Eggs and animals with speckles
Humans with moles and freckles
Certain meals cooked with fennel
Or lentils
While using cooking utensils
With or without a stencil
Messages and art done in many ways, some used pencil
Near are far away from where very few or a vast amount of people settled
In some areas are plants like nettles
And many animals currently nestled
When we walk or run by an insect does the ground quake and tremble?
Files stored away classified as "confidential"
Sometimes just one or several
At times events occurred that were coincidental
And rather monumental
Many festivals
Where people revel
During a day so eventful
Materials and so much more being disassembled
For reasons considered scientific and experimental
Continually money being embezzled
In ways that are disrespectful and vengeful
By: Dalton Ogletree