Best Pitifully Poems
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throws of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dew drops appear like goose bumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
Thank you Peter for this brilliant collaboration.
Peter is a very talented poet, please check out his poetry.
Restless, roving soul
needing, reaching, grasping
aching, antsy, anxious
impatient since birth
my soul is a gypsy
wandering the earth
I delve the depths
for spiritual solace,
that place of rest-
scouting rough terrain
searching, probing, seeking
habitats humane
Empty hateful faces,
“GOD-forsaken” spaces-
this place is a wasteland
breaking my heart
humanity desecrated
all falling apart
Bohemian gypsy soul
deviant, despised
traversing the expanse between
‘what is’ and ‘what should be’
I long for an asylum
a better place for me
Desolate and downcast
pitifully sad nomad
feeling forgotten, abandoned-
destined to roam
but soul exiles aren’t forever
HE will guide me safely home
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throes of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dewdrops appear like goosebumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
It was the best of tines; it was the worst of tines.
It lay, distraught, in silence on the road.
He came around the curve, saw it too late to swerve;
the puncture caused his front tire to explode.
A silver-plated fork, her lineage was perhaps York;
a heritage of which she’d long lost track.
Her dreams as ballerina, faded like her patina;
now, pits and scars festooned her neck and back.
Her mind played back her fall, the horror of it all;
despairing life, she hoped it would end soon.
At first, upon a dare, burlesque with the flatware,
to end in shame, pimped by a plastic spoon.
Not wanting to be saved, she’d crawled out on the paved,
and waited for the crush when all went flat.
But in that car’s careening, her life took on new meaning;
an unexpected blowout saw to that.
For there, just up ahead, a kitten, surely dead,
was spared as the man slammed upon the brake.
Once stopped, he now could see her mewling pitifully;
he gently scooped her up to calm her shake.
Then, trying not to swear, he wrestled with the spare
and stowed the blown-out tire in the boot.
That’s when he saw her, mangled, her tines all at odd angles,
a fork that placed them all upon this route.
And so with certain care, he also placed her there
beside the kitten, on the padded seat.
Now straightened out and polished, she watches York demolish
the breakfast that her tines scooped out to eat.
—————
for the Metrical Tale Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 01/03/2022
Sentry is the sunset, as I de and compress
Optimism is a way to scrub the hopelessness
Perhaps I'll escape perdition with a healthy dose of beauty paste
Will insecurities vanities blind me pitifully to the incoming waste
No, this corner would not be built into the path if it weren't meant to be walked down and turned
Growth is not just something plant-based it's a lesson in us all that need be walked and learned
Infinitely I long for
Someone to write a song for.
Dismally I claim to be
Content with being lonely.
Pitifully I fake my glee
While my sorrow wallows slyly.
Regretfully the truth is:
I think I have lost my bliss.
But how, I pray, does one retrieve,
Thoughts they now cannot believe?
How can I regain my joy,
If my heart is not employed?
How can I avoid the noose
If I've lost my only muse?
O'Bright Star, Thy Bright Gleamings True Hearts See
O'Bright star! will thy gleam this sad heart sate
with splendor of glow, quench our dying thirsts
Thy exquisite beauty, mankind debates
as well, bold shining depths of thy starbursts.
Why gift that grin, that Chesire cat-eye glow.
As riddle we are never meant to know?
O'Bright star! will thy eternal gaze blink
a galactic voice thy wisdom impart
Are thy infinite gleamings - wine to drink,
as a soothing balm to heal broken hearts,
Shall ever thy distant voice our souls hear
or will we destroy earth with hate and fear?
May we in our pitifully sad state.
Reach, touch thy heart's glow, to truly relate?
Robert J. Lindley, 9/10/2020
Sonnet, A tribute poem,
To Poe's, poem, titled,
"To The River"..
Note- Poem as composed for my son and used in my new blog 9/10/2020...
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry/blogs/blog_detail.aspx?BlogID=36450&PoetID=51137
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
Out in a rainfall;
Hopeful but woeful waters,
Pitifully falls...
Lightning wretchedly dances,
Thunders echoed and resound...
Shame on those who malign the green bean casserole!
It gustatory delightfulness I shall e'er extol!
With 'fork in cheek' I'll take nonbelievers to task,
And their foibles and biases will strive to unmask!
Folks who disdain this dish ain't tellin' the truth.
Their culinary tastes are so pitifully uncouth!
I'd like to meet the feller who began this unsavory fable,
To ask why he destined it for such an untimely label!
At the church potluck dinner on fellership night,
There's always a green bean casserole to my delight!
A holiday repast with bountiful board just ain't complete,
Unless there's the inevitable green bean casserole to eat!
'Tis such a scrumptious dish, yet so easy to prepare.
Even I could whip up a batch, I really do declare!
Mix some beans, some onion thingys and mushroom soup,
And there you have it folks, all in one fell swoop!
Ere I flee this realm I aim to found as one of my goals,
"The Society For The Propagation Of Green Bean Casseroles!"
Upon my stone you may etch when I end this life's pursuit:
"Many were the green bean casseroles consumed by this galoot!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Alone in the night gazing at the beauty
of a celestial masterpiece yet untouched by the cover of cloud,
an unrelenting silence is interrupted by the insistent ticking
of an old grandfather clock in the parlor.
A candle with a dual wick,
rests upon a table made of knotty pine
roughly chiseled to add a rustic touch;
providing my only light,
intensifies a floor of polished oak.
I sit watching shadows flicker across plaster walls;
mimic eerie phantoms slithering throughout the room
refusing to take recognizable shape, cause unwanted distraction.
The work before me suffers, in stark contrast,
pitifully begs text be laid to cover the nudity of the page before me.
The accomplishments of my life pale in contrast what keeps me awake this night;
the plight of a nation will rest on the passion of my words,
my friends and patriots rely on a text
that will take them from anarchy, to democracy.
Shadows appearing to take shape play tricks upon my vision,
reveal a sight resembling a picture of a united
uniformly defined crowd, cheering and waving as one voice,
one sound.
Suddenly, it becomes clear, the page before me fills with pronouncement,
my chest swells with pride, what is written this night becomes page after page,
until finally,
to carry a nation desiring riddance,
a Declaration Of Independence.
The original draft of the Declaration was written by Thomas Jefferson from 11 June 1776 to
28 June 1776. It was finalized and approved by the Congress and printed on the evening of
July 4th.
The original document was signed by only John Hancock as President of the Congress and
Charles Thompson, as the Secretary of the Congress. Other signatories were added
beginning in August and weren't completed for several months.
Come Father, become human and kind...
sit at my blessed and abundant table,
and have a dialogue with me!
Many questions assumed for myself:
like uncotrollable rivers flooding their banks...
pitifully susceptible to oblivion;
a disaster so real and not too stealthy...
come Father,suspend time!
Indisputible are Your commandments
that make the sinners tremble
and the mighty complain and ramble;
unchangeable are Your moral demands,
and the devouts heed them with reverence...
to diffuse them without diffidence!
Come Father,engorge this eager spirit...
descend to clear up contradictory opinions,
words dictated by the die-hard and undignified;
this is not a conception or a dilemma,
but an enormous and contemptuous enigma
engraved on the souls that engage in snarling tactics
to ensconce, not to enrapture what is good...
and in doing so they captivate people in sin!
I declare my faithfulness with words that prolifate
and have wonder and inspiration...
true words that express a genuine faith;
I am not prognostic...I rely on devine intervention,
and shun what lacks in importance...
not debasing what is sacred to satisfy their impertinence!
Come Father, have this promenade...
let's talk about their impervious minds
that collide with truth with impetuous haste;
come father, let's make them perfect and pious...
give them a plausible momentum of grace,
and make them victorious and vindicated!
Once upon an under edited and somewhat jaded,
female’s mid-life crisis
she sat down to contemplate the options of all her
“age appropriate” vices’
“Debauchery deficient”, “depravity bereft”,she
was "tragically prosaic”.
sadly ending her self-indulgent deprecation
with,“pitifully archaic”
Upon further diagnosis and self
evaluation, she concluded
she had neither mid-life crisis nor deficiency,
but was brazenly deluded!
Severe results of this delusion;
insomnia induced proliferation:
this excessively verbose and heinously,
superfluous pontification!
As I look pitifully at the expression of the drowning man;
Picturing how he works his way,
Trying his capability; pleading Nature for his life back.
As the going gets helpless,
The drowning man makes scratches at the bank of the rushing brook;
Gathering a sum of clay tightly in his fist;
Death has his hands on him,
Moving alongside him, through the mindless brook;
Bearing him without mercy; stealing from humanity so helpless.
" Long be his journey to death! ", someone hollered
as he dragged his feet into the rising dust hotter than sand;
only a defeated and tormented soul would have admitted
looking ahead," Much innocent blood I have shed! "
Gazing sterner than a warrior or merciless king,
he was fearless of what was prophesied by twilight
to him in a temple veiled in crimson and white...
although he claimed his usurped power with a ring.
His palace adorned with ionic, glittering columns
of pure gold stripped off Troy's temples...they were carved by the hands
of slaves, but their phantoms pitifully stared at him begging for their return
to the sun-gilded murals so that they would breath once again.
" Alexander the Great is coming from the North
with a mighty army, even the stones make away
for his conquest as he holds up up his victorious sword...
let him in your city, open the gate and obey! "
A few days passed, then the young conqueror appeared
wearing a shining, silver armor as he gloriously towered
over fortified Athens, the city that later will be conquered by mighty Rome,
and resuming his gallop, he hailed," Long be his journey to death, let him roam! "