Best People Poems
Broken People
I wish to be with the broken people.
The get in your face challenge me people. The sometimes hidden sitting in a dark corner kinda people.
The “Don't you love me?”
I wish you seen me sorta people.
People just being real people.
Not having to have it all together people. Them doing their best to figure it out people. Dancing and singing without the smooth moves people.
I don't care about the color of their skin, or what others think of as their sin. No need to be perfect to win.
Seeing and listening is where I'll begin. Beyond appearance of fat or thin. I only know what I know
I've never been where they've been.
We'll start
with our broken smiles
it's the best we've got.
It might seem like so little
still I think it's a lot.
Through life's struggles we've all fought. Lessons needed learning
experienced not taught.
Real is real it couldn't be bought.
So forget the fake people,
the all about perfect hair and clothes people. The I live in the right neighborhood and drive the right car people. It's all about me, top of the hill people. They only hang out with the supremely cool people.
those too important to talk to me people. Thinking they're the best of the best kinda people, when all along they are merely Sheeple.
Ba ba baaing, thinking they are strong instead of feeble.
I love characters
people who are unique.
I look under exteriors to gain a peek.
Strength of lions disguised in meek.
Unconcerned with fab or being chic.
Worth listening to if allowed to speak.
The stories they tell will make your eyes leak.
For in the end
we are all broken
stumbling and choking.
Disguising hurt with our joking,
victims of others and their poking.
So look close maybe you'll see
eyes that aren't blank
hearts that aren't empty.
Who we think of as complicated
in the end might not be.
They might push when others come close,yet they are affectionate times three. Each just a bit afraid and broken. All the while wishing
and wanting to be a part of something. If only we choose to see
those on the fringes are a part of the we. All we have to do is let them be.
Don't bother me with conformity
don't bother me today-
with things I should (or shouldn't) do
or what I shouldn't say!
Don't bother me with conformity
my house is not “obscene”...
Orange, purple, and lavender
look lovely with lime green!
Don't bother me with conformity
I'm much too happy, carefree
to wonder why the neighbors all
keep staring so at me!
Maybe they're jealous of my tail
I really don't give a hoot!
Surely they have seen before
grown-ups in zebra suits?
Don't bother me with conformity
...too busy to follow your lead!
I've whatcha-ma-call-it thingies to build
and unicorns to feed!
Don't bother me with conformity
don't worry me this way!
You've stepped on all the faeries toes
and run the elves away...
Don't bother me with conformity
you're being such a pest!
My mud pies were quite fabulous
and not a “filthy mess”!
Don't bother me with conformity
my music's not so loud...
Accordions are delightful-
See? It's already drawn a crowd!
...Respectfully holding their applause
until I reach the end-
Oh no- they really love it so!
You're quite mistaken, friend!
Don't bother me with conformity
come dance a jolly jig!
You really should loosen up a bit
you sad, forlorn, old prig!
Don't bother me with conformity
No thanks! I've had my fill...
of boring, bland, and deathly dull
no doubt that boredom kills!
Don't bother me with conformity
Oh, what was that you said?
Well, I think you (and your boring lot)
are the crazy ones instead!
The farm
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
orange dawn.
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
from corn
to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
being heard
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
can grip.
Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
lived.
The girl turns to face
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
open mouth.
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
It’s only the good that die young.
I sadly have found it seems true.
While evil across earth is flung,
God’s purest of souls are too few.
I sadly have found it seems true
the wicked live long past their prime.
God’s purest of souls are too few.
On earth they live but a short time.
The wicked live long past their prime.
The goodly to heaven do go.
On earth they live but a short time.
The sun shines on the righteous though!
The goodly to heaven do go,
while evil across earth is flung.
The sun shines on the righteous. . . though
It’s only the good that die young!
Written April 12, 2016 for The sun shines on the righteous Poetry Contest of Seren Roberts
**Back smile/smile Back **
With your heads way up your :]ssa[:
You will never accomplish the win
I got shots that will protect me from your rabid ways
After you fell into a non-stop falling disease,
Your movements weakened
Straight from a dried up well,
Every day you frolic in a disorder that causes more brain damage
With progressive mental retardation
You continue to lick the top of your cleft lips
He is the saddest sadist human that ever lived!
So sad he has to live with himself every night
Kissing his young ones Goodnight
In ways I can't even breathe to tell
The way he follows rabbits down the bunny hole
Killing each laughing hare
Wiping smiles, leaning in,
The madness in Alice's Wonderland
Madder and Madder The Hatter
Revealing
Your boldness is nothing more than baldness
A man in a monkey suit
Molesting the minds of his idiotic circle,
Trying to kill the joy, not knowing
We don't care about his false Harvard WAY
I rather stay here dropping out, than pretending
Following his made-up perception, a cropped out waste
His taste, my best copypaste, he jacked on
A stench, they left behind when open mouths laugh
He educates by attacking women better than his own
Silently to the top of his knife, he stalks nakedly
Removing a few poems he plagiarized
His Poorness, brought many to donate to the salvation of his army
Sadness Delivered by the Joy Killing Poet and his little pigs
Cross My heart and hope to die!!!
~SKAT~
Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone?
A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect worldwide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with Braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day!
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today,
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician-style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it were cocaine,
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you
Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one
By: ME
5-25-14
We the People
Will disagree
On taxation and prosperity
On liberty and duty
We the People
Are every color of Christianity
Every Jewish prayer, every song of Islam
The puritans, the atheists and the Amish
Are neighbors here
We the People
Are Jamaican and Japanese
Swedish and Samoan
Cuban and Cherokee
Moroccan and Mexican
The Irish and the Inuit
And all shades of Africa
We are country hills and cityscapes
Suburban parks and downtown fire escapes
We are singers and stutterers
Daredevils and diplomats
Renegades and redeemers
The leaders and the lone wolves
The suits and the sarongs
We are the gun owners for gun control
The justice for unjust loopholes
We are the hands that struck the iron
And the backs that laid the tracks
Of trails of rails connecting
Sea to shining Sea
We are protesters and poets
The soldiers without peace
The nurses without sleep
We are the straight arrows and the skeptics
The gay and the god-fearing
We are Black Lives Matter
And we are the badges in blue
We the People
Are complicit and complicated
No freedom gave
To chains of slaves
We have conquered and colonized
Sacrificed and stolen
Pillaged and planted
To naturalize a nation
We are teachers of tenacity
Prophicies of pioneers
And the children of second chances
We the People
Speak for our land’s legacy
In every tongue, from every rung
On each stumbled stair, each crumbled chair
We demand democracy.
8/21/20
Poem of the Day
August 23, 2020
I'm leaving now, but here is a reminder
'Twill bring to you the days we walked through rain
So when you wish to feel my hand in yours
Or stroke your dripping hair-- Then kiss the rain
Though leaving now, I wish I could be with you
So when you feel o'erwhelmed with grief or pain
And long for my caress upon your face,
The rain will touch instead-- So kiss the rain
Whenever you have tho'ts of this sad parting
And salty tears your lovely cheeks do stain
To feel the tears for you I'll surely have
Do this, and I will too-- Go kiss the rain
Whenever you are longing for my presence
And times that we went strolling down the lane
I'll whisper soft endearments on the breeze
So heed the sighing wind-- And kiss the rain
If ever you should pine to hear me speaking
The thunder might burst forth with glorious main*
While drops that fall are sure to be my tears,
To feel them wet your skin-- Just kiss the rain
* Power or Force
If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my heart
Maybe then,I would abhore this soul
which spreads freely through each verse
Maybe then I would impress you
with my intellectual grammar
and sophisticated words
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
Daddy never did understand.
That violence doesnt bring comfort.
A lost soul seeking acceptance from a unwelcome hand.
She was silent no one ever knew.
The secrets behind her bruised eyes.
A shocking victem none but all had a clue.
She cried to empty walls never speaking aloud from fear.
A confession of pain and shattred trust.
this is only what angles hear.
Scars selfinflicted are better than that
dirty feeling.
As she lays a broken shell gazing at the celling.
She questions if others know what will they say.
Doing whatever it takes to stay numb.
Innocence lost a parent should never betray.
The guilt was placed apon the wrong head.
Void of all emotion.
No child should yern to be dead.
At times it gets to uncomfortable so in
another direction we steer.
For at times it's just to painful to stomach.
What only angles hear.
Having lived on earth for some time now
Impatiently he dwells, harboring self doubt.
In face of impediments he loses his mind
Acquiring dispositions like hate and lies,
Hosting showmanship to look good and wise.
Never does he claim his world to be saintly
Letting dreams reign and thoughts go wild
Acknowledging failings incapable of verity.
Risking happy tears, triumphs he celebrates
Saving saddened ones to mourn disasters,
Banking on the strength of worn-out hands
As unforgiving minutes tick-tock forever.
When he gets a turn at the wheel of fortune
Losses seem to mount at every pitch-and-toss,
Regretting moments when he says:"hold on"
For he loses the ground on which he stands.
Yet he carries on, in treacherous currents
Swimming boldly in shark-infested waters
Accepting the reality of fish-eat-fish world.
Unsatiated reveries bestow vacant dreams
Never ever venturing to walk with the Kings,
Commoner he is, like his friends in drudgery.
Pride and joy of his family, a Man he's already!
Truth he owns, is the truth he delineates,
Being a flawed man, for forgiveness he prays.
October 21, 2018
Poem of the day on October 23, 2018
Placed first in..In response to Rudyard Kipling's poem IF
Contest by Silent One
Placed 3rd: Strand select 12 by Brian Strand
This girl, she's crying inside,
But all everyone sees is smiles,
This girl, she's hurting inside,
She's lived like this for quite a while,
Always holding her pain inside,
She won't ruin everyone's time,
This girl, she's breaking down inside,
But all she does is smile,
Those deep eyes,
Hold a lot world of misery,
Playing pictures from her mind,
Showing her past, her history,
She doesn't want to remember,
But the memories continue to play,
Every night she prays,
Wishing them away,
But this girl lies with her laugh,
And hides behind a mask,
So that no-one can see her pain,
Her past, her denials,
This girl, she's dying inside,
Although no-one can see her pain,
She just continues to smile bright,
From day to everyday,
With beautiful lying eyes,
For everyone to see,
Everyone and anyone,
Everyone but me.
When me and myself
Are feeling sadness
I sit down to chat
With the both of them
Finding the reasons
For their troubled minds
We have time to chat
I would speak with me
Telling things that troubled
Then next myself spoke
Telling all her woes
Till all was spoken
My name is I
Also me, myself
They live inside
It is always home
We live together as one
If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart
maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse
maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words
maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!
But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.
Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.
Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday
breathing softly in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.
Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.
Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse
but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society
would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole
and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.
Maybe a little child who understands only little words
would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned
rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries
and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh
Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream
and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet
or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers
And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and maybe I feel blessed.
Charma
an ugly gray rock, so I kicked it along
amused by my memories, humming a song
it was jagged and rough - I gave it no mind
and punted it thrice, then left it behind …
I changed up my hum and walked on alone
not thinking it special, (it WAS just a stone)
yet the farther I got from where it had been
the more I considered that "plain" rock
again
something about its proportions or form
contrasted just slightly, was not quite the
norm
the way that it tumbled, or lay there, just SO
or maybe the way it had bounced off my
toe
whatever it was, I could not quite discern
but decided right then, it was worth a
return
so, I spun myself 'round, headed back to
that spot
still not sure of WHY - just a feeling I got
but when I returned, it had broken in two -
an incredible OPAL flamed red, green and
blue!
scant had I known just what "ugly" could
hold -
all the prismatic colors that smoldered,
untold!
well …
I couldn't help think that a lesson was there
of the plain folks we see, that we pass,
unaware
for they are more precious than any gray
stone
with such wonders inside - yet we leave
them alone
perhaps if we gave them a wink or a grin
we might find the bright of their beauty
WITHIN
the colors that light their charisma and
grace
the complexion of charms that don’t show
on a face
the places they’ve been or the roads they
have run
their moonlight romances and days in the
sun
the wealth of their spirit, their talents and
rage
they’ve a story to tell, if we’d just turn the
page
so, I keep in my pocket, a piece of that rock
to help me recall what I learned on that walk
not to take "plain" for granted, or push folks
aside
but instead, look for sparks of their fires …
deep INSIDE.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Overlooked Beauty" Poetry Contest, Jesse Rowe, Judge & Sponsor.