Best Outsider Poems
Everything seems
So strange to me
This isn’t where I belong
I’m a stranger
On borrowed land
An outsider
In a silence that’s awkward
Heavy and bizarre
Unholy and surreal
An outcast
With empty birdfeeders
Swaying in the breeze
And flies circling
As if upon a cadaver
Time warped elapsing
In an ungodly fashion
I’m a foreigner
Unable to get away
Hardly far enough
My head swirling
From the stagnant air
I dream of closing my eyes
Letting images jumble my thoughts
Just as come over me
A medley of bloom perfumes
And a hummingbird fluttering
The size of a butterfly
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
They think I’m stupid, but they’d be surprised
I see the revulsion in their eyes
And the way their heads lean together,
To talk about me as I walk by.
Do they think I don’t see looks of horror
On faces, as they get to their feet?
When I approach their coffee table,
To sit down on the vacant seat
Don’t they know I’m aware that they’re shouting
When they talk to me, as if I can’t hear?
But then tell their child not to speak to me
I’m a monster, and someone to fear
They view me, through eyes of loathing
As a soul of no value or worth
Who contributes nought to society
Undeserving a place on their earth
I just wish that, before passing judgment
They’d get to know me or give me a chance
To show them the ‘someone’ hidden inside
And maybe break through their ignorance
So they’ll look upon me as those they think ‘normal’
And not treat me differently
For I am a person, with feelings, like them
But for my learning difficulty!
This poem is about the service users I work with and how they feel the world views them
and is a crime against humanity
Another repetitious dream – 3
The outsider look in, from within / looking at
Dreams come alive during the morning hours,
long after most of the world – on this side of the sun –
has risen from the fading light of moons glow and dreams.
My dreams ride the steps of escalators from deep down,
where – from the darkened cracks of the subconscious –
voices speak – in riddles and rhymes – to the conscious
mind, during those sleepy hours where depression takes hold
and binds, ties one down - in the light of day - to their bed.
My dreams are telling me - as I see myself – I am involved
in what is portrayed upon the screens that lay on the backside
of my, closed, eye lids that hide from the outside world
a true view of my soul and all that is whispered in secret.
Phrases depicting – as I, in states of lucidity – watch the play
unfold – from my balcony chair – as I become the actor,
and in this, a one man play, I am all the parts of all the characters
that have danced, strutted, pranced, crawled before these eyes.
Eyes that catch the essence of the story but not the subplots,
nor the beginning, the middle, the end, or what lies between
the lines set within the heart of all the prose, poetry and rhymes.
And so, as the outsider looking in, looking at the insider
looking out, comes from within, is the script writer, the actor,
preforming all the parts, with all the nuances projected,
that awake, never comes to light, except in small flakes,
specks and flecks upon the mirror he hold, reflecting
the images of the child, the boy, the youth, the man, the aged.
The strange world of dreams !!!
B. J. “A ” 2
June 19th 2005
An outsider......
I venture to be an outsider,
to worship you , not from near
at your celestial shrine of love
to be like a flying white dove
My Veins are alphabets;
Thumbs are words;
Hands are sentences.
My pages are for your lust;
Chapters are for your life;
My book is your soul.
Cover becomes the tomb stone.
By Williamsji Maveli
The Outsider
Ever ostracised from the truth
Lest they are known to well
By deceitfulness
The paranoia play of a black sheepskin coat
Is riddled with the placatory smiles
Of half spoken lairs
Nothing more supports the world
They come to deny
It is far beyond the responsibility
Of those who plead for honesty
Are loved
With hypocrisy
The wolf wanders back and forth
Paranoia play in a black sheepskin coat
Isolated eyes living on the edge
Uninvited
They trample amidst the cage bars
And toss zoo scraps
To an exhibit
A dieing breed of how not to be
Counted for a wolf instead of a sheep
An example
So they can breath in safety
Singular, prison, box, label; placed within
The confines ridicule so easily
For a debauchery of self satisfying
Inadequacy
Keeps them in their comfort zone
The wolf crosses back and forth
Paranoia play on the same old path
Uninvited eyes living on the edge
Isolated
And every confession to care
Will throw a bone
Something for the lame old dog to chew upon
Ever ostracised from the truth
Lest they are known to well
By the arts of their deceitfulness
I really did place a plastic bubble
Resting on a rooftop of tar and trouble
Suffocating the air from a pink, perfumed bug
In agony over that final hug
Memorializing with retrowishes
Replaying silent, moving whispers
Of soft hugs and warm and wet kisses
Cheap whitewash fades me to the lowest recess
To blaze like a Phoenix -- for all lovers are blessed
When love is reborn and renewed.
Does my computer dream?
Is this puzzle what it seems?
What are a computer's dreams?
Maybe dreams exist in this machine,
The outsider in my room,
Designed to make us feel like fools,
Addictions are seductive,
Hitech savvy so productive,
A puzzle, so it seems.
Does a computer ever dream?
THE OUTSIDER
(Reflections of a poet)
breaking away from life’s thousand ties
the only connection remaining lies
imprinted in my mind’s eye
inscribed
in finishing another poem
my heart returns to flesh from stone
my soul—a tiny spec my tutor
in every sunrise sunset or regret
potential composition suitor
thoughts I fight while fast asleep
on waking become words deep
burning aircrafts float above blue skies
as if a firefly and spider fight
bodies fall and burn
as breezes touch their glow
staining the white of a clear dawn
they make a blaze as people gaze
happy like amused clowns
as blood is bleached and
horror turns to words
fools furrowed foreheads hang
as wooden hollow targets clang
So….
a situation of ethics
before it happens to me
I cannot break free
from stories not yet ended
I merely close the door
perhaps soon there will be
something more
Thus…
reader please pass this on
Don’t waste your precious time
On bad prose and murdered
Rhyme
What was before my inner core
Is no concern of yours
Or….
read it quickly as you run
grasp the message and be done
and just in case you miss it
I will try to make it explicit
DO I HOLD YOUR ATTENTION?
DO YOU COMPREHEND?
CAN YOU RESPOND?
Please evaluate the POEM… not the POET
when done
© Kim van Breda—13 December 2014
New Yorkers are famous for walking too fast,
and it has become a sort of an ethnic trademark;
some may laugh...thinking it's funny, but it's a fact!
An outsider asked a tall, blond policeman near Central Park,
" Why is everybody running? Is the President coming?"
And the mean-looking cop replied him with an intimidating voice,
" Are you an outsider...doesn't a New Yorker walk faster than any other folk?"
And the naive fellow exclaimed, " No, I never knew that they raced like horses
to catch a train!" But the policeman got really angry and yelling
ordered the poor guy, " Run with them...before I'll throw you in jail!"
And ran he did and he didn't have to get on any subway train!
So New Yorkers don't be offended...if I told this horrible joke!
In a world that rushes,
we step back,
disengaging from the flow
to observe, to reflect,
often choosing not to engage,
but to understand.
We, the outsiders,
interestingly disinterested,
bring a different lens,
a quiet strength,
contributing in ways unseen,
yet profoundly felt.
For the world needs us,
those who walk alone,
to bridge the gaps,
to offer new perspectives,
to remind the world
of the beauty in stepping back.
The city slides
and sins creep
towards beautiful colors
leaning on cold, stone walls
A look steals a heart
silence screams
the alien weeps tonight
while the soulless breathe
Lost in luminary nightmares
and paper dreams
this place is just a pit stop
we'll gain much more when we leave
we all have issues and situations that we are dealing with in life
we need to learn to simply trust in the healing power of Christ
going through private pains and suffering dark days
attempting to hold it all together just trying to make a way
but if you only trust and truly believe
a healing from Christ you will then receive
He might not come when you want Him but He'll be there when you need Him most
just by touching the hem of His ministry you'll get the healing power of the Holy Ghost
a woman who had a blood issue suffered for many years
shunned by her peers living outside society in abject fear
but when she heard about Jesus she knew what she had to do
she stepped out on faith seeking a healing truth
for in life it's not about the stuff that you're going through
it's all about the amount of faith that dwells within you
true faith has the power to help you heal
true faith is what you need to feel
and when Christ has healed you don't keep it all inside
tell your testimony spread it far and wide
now Jesus immediately felt the healing power in Him recede
so He asked who touched me in their time of need
the Disciples tried to tell Him, Master you're in a crowded place
but Jesus knew His healing power went out as an act of grace
then that woman who had the blood issue dropped to His feet and confessed
Jesus said "daughter through your faith you're now healed" and no longer stressed
to go from an outsider to now being a daughter in Christ
by letting the world know what Jesus has done in your life
I feel like a failed organ transplant
In this country, in this world
But it’s deeper than that
In my body, in my mind
THE OUTSIDER
Frank Halliwell
The coffee's packed, and sugar too....
(I DID forget the cup!)
It looks like that should be the lot...
I'm off before sunup!
Computer programs as a gift
For those that share my lust,
For such it is, as writers know,
We write because we must!
A month to plan the big week-end
And maps to find the way
As dawn first streaks the eastern sky
It's up, up and away!
The longest trip I've driven for some
Twenty years or so,
Through country that I'd heard about
But never got to know.
Why have I travelled all this way
To join this happy throng?
Why have I let a shyness
Turn a right day into wrong?
They gather here and there in groups
Five hundred miles from home.
There's happy laughter everywhere!
Why do I feel alone?
Unrealistic it would be to
Wish a big brass band
But maybe just the token
Of a warm and friendly hand!
Far to the south and waiting
Are my friends: beyond all doubt!
My welcome: sure and joyous there!
...I guess I'll head on out
***