Best Petulance Poems
"Until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven."
A thousand, million years had fled
then thousand million more,
yet it was still the morning.
And there stood one, Transcendent,
whom we call God and the Divine,
whose reasoned might
stretched to clutch infinity—
and embraced eternity’s nether bounds
to fashion perfect round—
beginning's instant fused
with very end of things
that time endured no more.
Thus evening interlaced with morning,
from whose conjugative spawn emerged
a cosmic realm, its structure fine,
yet restive, taut and yearning.
Here coherence mingled self with
destiny, and thus arose intelligence.
Among its legion offspring,
daughters of the light
and one the son of morning,
a paragon of intellect—
in depth and reason boundless,
beautiful and firm, named Lucifer.
Beloved of Transcendence and
from whom the mighty angels
fled, nobility confounded.
Across mighty heaven’s parapets
he reasoned and opined.
And many thought him noble.
Yet temerity cannot assail wisdom
nor petulance conjure faith.
He, his mighty acolytes then stood
and cried aloud, trumpeting insistence,
and became among the first
whose grasp did not exceed their reach.
And war ensued—
A war of vaunted intellect,
but also narcissistic,
and rooted in deceit.
For he would exercise free will to battle,
then in victory rob all of its gift.
Therefore a quandary stood
that would not reconcile with reason.
Defeated, Satan stood no more in heaven.
Godly was their sorrow when he fell.
Now in our eyes and hearts and minds
do not echoes of the war resound?
First Place: Julia Ward's Contest: Expand Arthur Miller's Thought from The Crucible (quote above).
In times of petulance,
fate is persecuted in a silent storm.
Through troublesome chapters,
where words remain unspoken,
sacred scriptures become
mindless memoirs.
Shades of black discolour
visions of rising ripples,
as love stories slowly sour and
are cast away like lost poems.
Can it all be resolved through a simple musing?
In sentences where you were
once my most devoted noun,
ink of my heart became an unwritten verb,
forming a titanium shield covered with thorns.
I could hear the pangs of my muse,
but there were no more metaphors to
portray my angst through alliterations.
Nor abstract adjectives to describe those
forgotten fields we promised to prowl.
What power does a poet possess without
romantic rhymes for a sonnet of love?
So... I lost the lust to write.
In the repetition of darkness,
to cure the sickness of the soul,
I stumbled upon the words of Rumi.
Yearning to swirl like a Dervish,
my only desire was to create poetry
within my beloved's flower garden,
inscribing blank fibres into revered verses.
In your absence little makes sense.
If only I was a tropic bird,
flying among sandpipers
in an island of golden rays,
where turquoise waves meet
ivory shores and the blessed sun,
in sapphires skies glows upon your face.
If I was to embrace your warmth
our petals of passion would
immerse like honeysuckle
and jasmine blossoms.
As you play my flute in your garnet lips,
wandering stars adore your moonstone eyes.
Upon the return of romance,
we will rewrite a new journal in
a poetic province of manifestation.
Upon the dawn of soft pastel flames,
a plethora of flowers will fall from the sky,
colouring a path of saffron, sakura and scarlet,
as this metallic hardness softens
in the sweetness of your sighs.
They place my vowel
Under barren landscape
Sipping from cracked porcelain cup
Of an alienated heartbeat
Devilish grins
Slapping Karma’s bottom,
A quarterback’s misguided win
Liar’s prophetic retinas glaze
With metric, disciplinary ruler
They place my consolidated lyric
On upper hand
Of cubic zirconium petulance
Their torn, lanolin coated tissue
Degrading polyester embedded uniform
Mislead by “savior’s” belief
A desolate embodiment of character
They observe me
With cherry coated pupils
Through rusty, iron bars
Its frosty echoes
Portraying fickle sonatas in these stale winds
Yet,
My ambient tear
Is simply a hoax for their recycled victory
Holding wooden spoon against my waist
Ready to crawl
©Drake J. Eszes
Meretricious Spirit
This spirit is modern society’s cancer
Replete with rank, flashy vulgarities
Pervading our social fabric and soul
Unbridled, unbowed, unapologetic;
It can be a curse to mankind itself
Engulfing some people in moments
Of childish deception and insincerity
Which challenge our human civility;
Petulance, at times, can be seen to
“Rule the Roost” in certain personal
Interactions to make each of us seem
To be less than who we truly are in life;
Always follow your life’s passion and
The spiritual heart and tenor of your soul,
For they shall be your true moral compass
As you face the daily slings and arrows of
This life as mankind’s fabulistic tendencies
Seek to tarnish one’s very spirit and worth
In this thing we all call—our mortal coil!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
October 11, 2016 (Didactic)
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
Continued.....
O' flatulence
tis human
to air
*co-written with my hubby
I am poetry
An unheard whisper
Shadows
Conspiring
A tear
Soaked in laughter
Anger
Molded in metaphor
Humor
Wielding the axe of angst
Whispering
A farewell kiss
I am poetry
The invisible heart of language
Beating a near silent drum
A quiet vibration
Teasing the moonlight
A cool breath of air
Drawing lovers closer
A metered heartbeat
Quickened in passions petulance
I am poetry
A dream yet unformed
Stirring the ink of dreams
Weaving a wondrous web
Awaiting unsuspecting words
I will be there for you any time you need
I cannot say whether you'll do the same
Whenever your heart may bleed
I'll be whispering your alluring name
Even if you refuse to accede
I will be there for you with no shame
I will take your hands when you appear lost
With no promises you will hold onto mine
No matter how it will completely exhaust
Our souls together, which they align
Never leaving, no matter the cost
For our existence as one is simply benign.
I will grasp your frame when you begin to cry
Despite your petulance, my lips will smile
They will kiss your face until those tears dry
I will run that extra mile
No matter how resistant you are or how you defy
Being near you makes all sorrow worth while
And no matter what people say
I adore you
And love you in every possible way
With my heart of gold I will erase the blue
I will turn your storm into a snug and sunny day
Although construe, all of my words are endlessly true.
Written and posted on August 10th, 2016 9:45pm
By: Michelle Corbin
Did you see the Mexican wave,
At the game of nil inspire.
One chance, one brilliant save,
Nothing setting this match on fire.
A rush of blood, a red card
The star dispatched from pitch.
Petulance and my day is marred,
Irritation has become a hitch.
Promises have all come to nought,
Dull action, with nothing to rave.
Head down, feeling fraught,
Did you see the Mexican wave?
Not I, Then Who
Another blood bath. A bubbling bunch of innocence
Shot down by an ogre, in brutal arrogance;
A busy mutter ‘The system is in pits',and done,
All sighed, time and again, lost in deep reverence …
By lesser mortals a girl was quelled bestially, a mere decadence.
Lost her life on board a bus, a public conveyance ;
said the folks again,’The system just feeds political hunger.’
Once more all sighed, time and again, in wrenching grievance.
Thus, (we are) reclined in the cradle of excuses in ample luxuriance
Till one day a hurricane pounces, triggers petulance,
holds in whirls of life’s misfortunes. No trace of poised elegance.
No sophisticated statements. No thick and proud prudence.
No fondling of excuses in hands; Only pangs of helpless despondence.
No claiming of those laid back excuses over forfeited chances;
From all angles, volumes of consequences pry in variance
No systems, no excuses; only victimized throes teem in abundance.
(Just for fun, folks - and a nod to Old English)
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.
Oh my gosh I have another view on those poems I posted an hour ago,
About the break up with my boyfriend and the color of the disgusting snow.
My self-esteem is skyrocketing through its collapsing roof,
With every view of my poems which, are to me, success's proof.
I used a thesaurus for the word "happy" about eleven times today,
And used every word I found inside, except of course, for "gay."
Because I'm actually gay and God knows that to be gay is not really to be happy,
When everyone now thinks that "gay" is a synonym for everything that is crappy.
Also God does not exist, he's just a figment of our imagination:
An incepted thought by those who want us all to fear a hellish damnation.
If you don't agree, I'm sorry, I don't hate you for your belief,
I just think that the word "God" means as much to me as does "queef".
That's so gay of me to say, I apologize for my petulance,
Pardon me for my inability to hold inside my brain's abrupt flatulence.
Oh My,
How Sweet You Look,
Eating The Lovely Things I've Grown,
In My Bountiful Garden,
The Sweat On My Brow Stings My Eyes,
As The Sun Warms My Petulance,
Your Little Mouth Nibbles,
Swallowing The Labors Of My Efforts,
I Pause For A Moment,
I Swallow The Grain Of Salt,
That Seasons The Sweat On My Lips,
I Smile,
I Realize,
How Satisfied,
We Both,
Must Feel,
After All,
Happiness,
Is Best Achieved,
In The Afterglow,
That Demanded We Do,
Our Very Best,
So My Little Friend,
To Us A Job Well Done!
~Vickie Thayer~
Clad in his double-breasted royal toga
Filled of nothing but pride and anger
His face as grim as a Pallbearer’s
His gaze dreadful and fearful like that of
A raging rattlesnake about to strike
His eyes crackling charcoal fire-red
His dancing tummy under his “Agbada”
Reminds me of a dancing Porcupine
He paces round his palace
A house built on a Rock in the Niger-Area
He fumes and puffs like a spitting Cobra . . .
“My eyes of pity had gone blinded
Only those of nakedness built on wickedness
Shone in my vibrating Golgotha
Let no man speak of hunger with anger
For I find people not scavenging on the garbage
Let no one talk of thirst in a haste
For our River Niger is like that of River Marah
It brings only taste of grouchiness and sullenness
Let men in the Niger-Area speak not of hoarding of food
For Farming is the only way to more days of famine
Speak not of hike in the Oil from our ground
For its very dear in the other neighbouring lands
Rejoice my people for the benevolence have shown you
I shall rule and rule forever till there are people to rule no more”
Our King is indeed insane for sanity left him long ago
A vivaciously looking Chimpanzee in the Niger-Area Forest
A chirpy Chimera of the Black Race, unto him I bow piously
I have impatiently listened to his drunken fits of eloquence
My king smells like a gouard of wine full of petulance
As I bore the sting of his unrivaled drunken ribaldry
I weep for a King who is as old as Methuselah
I wonder whether he had ever smell childhood
For he looks as if he had always been old from
The very scaring day he was let out of his Mother’s womb
His Majesty old and worn out like a dry hell
Let him run into the Market with nakedness on his head
Let our people beat and stone insanity out of him
Let the people in the Niger- Area Arise and thread
Like the Strong and the Mighty with history of Victory
And arrest our oppressors and other fanatical Kingpins
And let them be taken like urchin for their tyranny
And turpitude has attained untold heights
Alayande Stephen .T
5th December, 2005
12.45pm
Conceptualized after the furore of OBJ’s
Third term bid for continuity of hunger ,
Anger and excruciating Poverty for mass of the people.