Best On Writing And Wordsme Poems
Write !
Some madness banter of insanity
is pulling at my thoughts
spilling effulgent
in giant verbs and huge marching nouns
collecting snippets as it walks
stomping on flowers
and mushing liquid the paints of images
swirls captivated
with great toed boots
I can hear it coming
a hefty heavy steady stamp
and I am almost afraid that it might rack me
hit me hard
and demand some elucidated expression from me
I would shudder
but excitement won't let me
Instead it sets me to a creaking ball points
and tiny alphabets that strain my eyes
while spelling out its diffident request
Write it says
Write, while some half cold sickness grip my stomach
and I wretch on grammar
and thus the great feathers quill
dips in the ink of my soul
and so ineptly scribbles epilepsy
explanation, image, wordage, spillage of sensory lobotomy
partridge in a god-damn pear tree
Curl about my finger
and reek havoc through those dictionary brain cells
yer! smash them brain cells
mush, mash and squeeze the last drip
find expression in the gooey lumps that are left
WRITE ! god dam it !
Be succinct, be poetic
surpassing idiom and useless language
for Christ sake just WRITE it !
Pilloried on my own sheets of paper
by my own pen
because it never catches enough
as it twist this origami of words
i-n-t-o s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g
I want to express
I need
I want
To etch with you
A moment of perfection
I need your voices
I need to hear you sing my poets
I need these scratching and scathing claws
and I need your delicate dance
I need something to end this misery
and I need this piquant
this ever enlightened soul search of words
to wrap up this bundle of love
And toss me nonchalant into eternity
Lest some madness of bantered insanity
Takes hold of me
i spit words much better than you
there is nothing at all that you can do
check out my spelling and my epic grammar
i'll smash your face in with a claw hammer
i carve my name in all your brains
remember me like the smell when it rains
with my fists of fury i'll knock you out
no-one can tell what the hell im on about
my poems make you think
sit down fools and take a drink
while i amaze you all with my dark power
no-one wants to read a poem about a flower
or a fluffy cloud or falling in love
we want to read about death from above
i go against the grain and dont get a lot of views
but that certainly doesnt mean i'll go boo hoo hoo
it makes me stronger faster smarter
dont count me out i'll have your guts for garters
so what have we learned from me today
listen quite closely to what i do and say
don't self publish its ever so vain
im sure it'll cause you nothing but pain
when you get rejected
it cant be what you all expected
im the best poet in the world bar none
better than byron shelley keats and donne
i best be off to write a dreary haiku
oh wait thats not me its obviously you
For Miranda Lambert’s “Inspired” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
I wanted to write for this contest;
But my muse was staging a protest.
“Take me to the sea,” it pled,
“In this house, I languish, dead;
Put me in touch with nature, a forest.”
“Don’t stare at a screen, confined by walls;
Locked inside, my inspiration falls.
Surely there’s a babbling brook
Or a valley’s overlook.
Give me something to work with,” muse calls.
“If you fail to respond, I’ll attack
As you’re sleeping in a room black.
Thoughts you will never recall
Cannot upon your page fall;
Without me you’re nothing but a hack!”
I had found solace in my quill
Because therein could be expressed
That tragedy which gave me chills.
The pen and ink gave me some rest—
Because therein could be expressed
The cold emotion that I felt.
The pen and ink gave me some rest
From my own soul's distress and welts.
The cold emotion that I felt,
Discoloring my mind's debris
From my own soul's distress and welts—
For only sadness could I see.
Discoloring my mind's debris,
The ocean tossed and turned on me.
For only sadness could I see
And then I found you set me free.
The ocean tossed and turned on me
Yet you had taken me to land
And then I found you set me free;
We played like children in the sand.
Yet you had taken me to land;
You rescued me from sure demise.
We played like children in the sand;
You showed me that you were so wise.
You rescued me from sure demise—
That tragedy which gave me chills.
You showed me that you were so wise;
I had found solace in my quill.
My challenge was not issued there! My challenge was issued here!
Which was why you threw me off, when, first, you ran in fear.
You, who had the reputation of being the best to play this game,
"destroying" all of your challengers, while gathering all of the fame.
But, maybe all of that fame went too quickly to your head,
As your audience ate up ev'ry word that you had said.
Respect for your battle skills was immediately reserved,
But, now, I have to wonder was all that respect really deserved.
As I stated in my "ODE," this is a game of speed and wits,
Where the strong throw all the punches, and the weak take all the hits;
Where a real poet accepts a challenge, no matter how many dare,
And is always ready to battle anyone, any TIME, ANYWHERE!
The last point, that I just made, is the one that you should read,
Giving it all of the attention, that it really needs.
I decided to step up, but you decided to run and hide.
I guess hiding is much easier, than swallowing your pride.
Ev'ry request that I made to battle was met with an excuse,
Which made me think that you were really trying to dodge all of my abuse.
Are you afraid to get embarrassed, or of losing all the fans,
After proving that you are unable to meet all of my demands.
If so, then you "officially" forfeit your claim to greatness,
Because any such claim, to me, would be considered weightless!
The number one spot is "officially" up for grabs,
So, now, the scientific minds are working in their labs.
"THE DOZENS" is the name of the game that we will play,
So, if you do not have the balls, then please stay out of the way!
But, if you do decide to play, accepting the fact that you just might get pinched,
Make sure you come alone, leaving your "boyfriend" on the bench.
I entertain the crowd, but from the crowd is who you run.
Therefore, your reign at the top is "officially" done!
Now, to more "worthy" opponents my focus has been shifted.
So, turn in your little crown, since you are obviously done with it!
His Name is Poetry
I have a new friend, a new love
He dances with his pure and honest heart
And strokes me with his gentle words
I crave him, desire him more with each passing day
Oh, what deep feelings he has stirred within me
He carries me joyfully, sometimes sadly, on a journey
From moment to hour to the day’s end
With his words, rhythmically he calms and soothes me
As does a mother cooing to her precious newborn
With a love as strong and as real
I can not, will not, be without you
You have entered my life swiftly, silently
Yet your power yells loudly, beckons me to follow
In your footsteps, to see where you go
Where you will take me, my love,
Poetry
they're not speaking to me now, the Muses;
they're being stubborn,
witholding information, like beetle-browed accomplices -
their mouths pulled tight as drawstring purses.
they sit on their twin thrones of epiphany and genius,
smiling silently,
mockingly, while my fingers twitch with impotent yearning
and the chambers of my mind are cold,
dark and hollow as a cave.
i have become a contradiction in terms -
the wordless poet strikes again...
writer's block is the yoke around my neck,
the anchor that sends me drifting lachrymose
into the suffocating depths -
i am drowning,
swallowing tendrils of seaweed and tufts of
gossamer melancholy.
a struggling artist shouldn't have to work this hard -
to pay the bills yes, but not to create;
without the birthing process there is no artist...
yet there is still hope, a smidgen, a dark smudge on the horizon.
some knight errant might appear, with golden locks
and a smile that trembles the knees,
to inject love and longing back into my sulky heart.
he might extend his brave hand, down into
these murky depths, and yank me up;
dragging my creativity, bedraggled, choking,
retching, into the bleak light of inspiration's flare...
but then again, who believes in knights these days?
i am just as likely to wither away down here,
among the fishes and the wall-eyed anemones,
until the words have all filtered from my brain
and poetry is just a fond memory
from long-ago halcyon days...
Some writers are a lexicon
an educational experience
Some writers are simplicity
reaching far and wide
Some play your heart strings
or tickle your sweet spot
Some grab evil and send chills running
then make me sleep with the lights burning!
**Thanks to all the poetry soup group for the support and well wishes!
Your fine writing makes me seek out what is new everday!
So I'm not pretty
Like my ribbon and pearls and flower bedazzled sisters
So I'm plain
Without frills or twirls or swirls of vivid hues
So I stand out with my arms open wide
Hiding nothing
So I don't have stanzas and rhymes and schemes aplenty
Does that make me unworthy
Does that make me less
Does that make me unattractive at best
Am I not still art
So I tell it like it is
Tell me what is wrong with that?
It's hard to think of metaphors
When dealt an accountant's brain,
Confronted with calculations
That must always come out even.
For thirty years with head bowed low,
I struggled with large numbers,
Unaware that somewhere within me
A burgeoning poet slumbers.
I loved my job in radio,
Where I worked with some great talents.
Among those inflated egos, though
I needed to keep my balance.
Retirement now has let me bloom
And cultivate sensation.
Away, away exactitude, just give me inspiration.
won 7th in contest
No, no leave me here
upon the table
and, if she's able
she'll pen a few lines.
No, no don't put me away
let me stay
with these blue lines
to guide a thought
she might find a lot
to say.
Its almost like I call to her:
"See, see. You can,
you can write, right."
And, through the night
and all through the day
I'll be here
near the chair
or near the bed
and suddenly,
she'll be holding me
scribbling furiously
as though someone
is chasing her.
Somebody stepped on me once
and I was angry enough to swear.
The hardest game comes into play,
kill them with kindness or fight back.
Soon after I came across words that
forever changed my attitude toward
human confrontation:
"Treat me good and I'll treat you better, treat
me bad and I'll treat you worse"-Freedom, Credos from the Road
Nobody took advantage of my overly giving nature since.
Dulcet electrical-guitars playing as I draw graffiti on the sky-line.
There’s more to me than converse shoes and
These lonely brown eyes.
This force within me is,
Shaking-
Aching.
I am waiting to be written.
I’ll be your masterpiece, and you can be my Playwright-
Dress me up in
dramatic irony.
You can knock me out from
setting to setting-
Be the cause for my complications-
And just when I think I’ve had enough,
You can hose me down with a
happy-ending.
I’ll run-on from scene to scene,
And for a protagonist,
(I can sometimes be pretty obscene.)
Cut me off with periods and full stops.
Re-arrange the fragments of my being.
Feed me catchy infinitive phrases-
“I don’t know
What it’s like
TO FEEL
Anymore.”
You know how cheesy words cut me to the core.
You can shoot me with idioms.
After all, you are
All bark and no bite.
I’ll be your break through; I’ll make you famous-
Mr. Playwright.
Hold me hostage in your possessive forms.
I’ll be Yours,
And maybe you could be Mine.
Do not under-estimate my logical
Parallel structure though-
If you want me "to stay,"
Then you’ve got "to give me a reason."
Mr. Playwright, I am not a big fan of Treason,
Indirect metaphors,
And open-endings.
Never thought I would adorn prison stripe
of black and white without fashion or flare.
News coverage was an exaggerated hype
that could give me a lifetime to wear.
I proclaim that I am blameless and innocent
with no record of violence anywhere.
My heart is heavy with sorrow for this gent
whose loving soul I did willfully snare.
I didn’t know his heart was weak and frail
from loss of his aged dying wife.
I plead don’t incarcerate me to lonely jail
for the rest of my young passionate life.
I have given my all, consoling lonely men
who have lost a loved one present or past.
Do not belong in jail, haven’t committed a sin
please reconsider your honor, I asked.
The old callous judge scowl faced with denial
sentenced me to life of community service.
Since the old gent died with a smile,
jail was not my rightful justice….
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Tenth Place Winner ~ "A poem that has never been entered in any contest” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer
March 24, 2013
My simple library contains no fancy morocco-bound tomes,
Like those found in majestic castles and rich folks' homes.
But the books on its shelves that I truly do treasure.
Over a life-time have provided so much reading pleasure!
There's no greater gratification, ensconced in my favorite chair,
Than reading a fascinating book, forgetting all of life's care.
Tho' my bewildering computer contains absorbing information,
Words from an author's soul holds for me much more fascination!
'Tis truly a joy reading the verse of my mentor Edgar A. Guest,
A bard of simple phrase by whom we have been so blessed.
Nigh the hearth reading Ogden Nash's brilliant poetic wit,
Causes me to double over laughing 'til my sides nearly split!
There are books by Agatha Christie about Miss Marple the sleuth,
And adventures by Richard Dana during his reckless youth.
When I need more laughs I read Bennet Cerf's humor and wit.
Rudyard Kipling's works keep me spellbound I'll readily admit!
There is fiction, nonfiction and poetry in my library,
Also, old high school and college books with historical commentary.
The greatest Book I own (and I value it for the guidance it gives),
Is my Bible, teaching forgiveness by the One Who yet lives!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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