Best Pixilated Poems
Like a mad man
without a plan,
slightly insane,
dancing in the rain,
pixilated dreams
like shallow streams,
leave me bemused,
restless, but amused,
but my soul is tried
from those bullets fired,
when loved ones depart,
leaves holes in my heart,
as guns aren't coded,
when locked and loaded.
Those memory lanes,
flying paper planes,
despite grey storms,
we had strong platforms.
I wrote my deep quotes
on lost paper boats,
like a budding rose
nobody knows.
Echoes of my mind
are not always kind,
as crows examine
soul's rainless famine.
This sun never shields
in desolate fields.
Yet, I know it's true,
all roads lead to you.
Anacreontic verse is an Ancient Greek lyrical form, consisting of 20- to 30-line poems with three to five syllables per line. Developed by 6th century B.C. poet Anacreon. A form that emerged during the height of the dramatic, musical,
artistic, and poetic culture. The poems revolved around themes of love, infatuation, revelry, festivals, and observations of everyday life. They do not normally rhyme, but I like the challenge.
Drowning in foolish beliefs;
Pixilated portraits falling off
Corroded walls;
Blank canvases pervaded by
Grainy brush strokes,
Billowing amidst scattered flickers of
Crumbling structures,
Ambling in blighted stillness.
Venturing to find equilibrium in
This cryptic world,
Stranded and abandoned,
Layered upon a
Pillar of empiric darkness,
Glazed in meaningless semantics.
For some reason, I feel especially vindicated
Learning recently that I won’t be syndicated,
I know many of my dear family are titillated
Since they are of my readers most dedicated.
In my writings, over the years, I’ve indicated
That with superb honors I’ve been inundated,
Still, I’ve made every effort to be insulated,
Although lately I’ve been rather stimulated
And, for the most part, yes, entirely pixilated;
That is, when I am not totally inebriated!
written December 20, 2021
I still dare to breathe
amidst lilac skies,
stained with ashen flakes
from this life’s pixilated wrath.
"Screening Process"
They overtake, they overcome
Making us forget where we are from
Expansion of a new world means contraction of another
through unauthentic, pixilated possibilities
While pioneers stay in cubicles these days
They refuse to compute, losing touch, losing touch
Experience depends on going with the flow
Of electricity, pay the bill to get a thrill
how much absence of the outside do we need?
Our hearts have grown fond enough.
If we are taking one step forward,
Why does it feel like two steps back?
Sitting down we are planted, grounded
The sedentary seed supposed to grow, I merely
Wish to wash technology away
Doused in sheets and the rain of regret
To touch and smell and get a taste of the real
Let's go play a game of catch.
A Passel of People Participated from all Portions of the nation.
The Purpose - To Promulgate the Pickle Pickers and Packers Association!
Parsimonious President Dill Presented a Pretty Powerful oration,
To Pitch a Passionate Plan for their Prestigiious organization!
Picker seminars Provided Pertinent Particulars for Participants,
Pertaining to the Proper Pampering for Perpetuating Pickle Plants.
Packer Panels Propounded ways to Perfect Professional Panache,
For Packing dills and gherkins Perfectly so that they dare not smash!
A blue-ribbon Panel Picked the Pickle Princess in all her Persnickety Pomp.
A working Party Picked the Pickle Prince and his Pompous aide-de-camp!
A Patron Provided a Plastic Plaque for the Pickle Picker of the Year.
A Packer won a Prize as top Pickle Purveyor, the Pinnacle of his career!
A quorum was needed but a Passel of People were Pickled in the Pub.
The President was Perturbed, not easily Placated, there in lay the rub!
A Plethora of Pixilated Pickers and Packers Presently repaired,
Protesting that they were Prepared to vote, not in the least impaired!
It was Paramount that the Proceedings not end on a sour note,
So the President Proclaimed a Positive quote for all to Promote:
"We must Project Professionalism and Perfection in great number,
As we Proudly Proclaim the Palatability of the Prosaic cucumber!"
Happy. Genial. Merry. Jolly
Blottoed, blasted, etched and blitzed
Mellow, foggy, hazy, squiffy
Tipsy. Tiddly. Brahms and Liszt
Dazed, zombied, tanked-up, trollied
Ganted, gubbed, guttered
Bladdered, blathered, leathered, plastered,
Sozzled, sloshed, scuttered
Hammered, battered, caned, mangled
Spannered, mullered. Half-cut, lashed
Twisted, warped, slammed, wasted
Wrecked, ruined. Munted, trashed
Liquified, marinated, juiced, sauced,
Steamed, pickled, fried
Cabbaged, mashed, cooked, baked
Boiled, stewed. Pie-eyed
Stinking. Howling. Pole-axed, floored
Under the influence. Off one's woo
Steampigged, badgered, ratted, goosed,
Clobbered. Lairy. Boogaloo
3 sheets to the wind. Away with the fairies
Under the table. Tight as a tick.
Ankled, wellied, trousered, legless,
Bevvied, swizzled, pot-sick.
One over the eight. Out nibbling the grape.
Rosy. Rummy. Poggled.
Jober as a sudge. Laughing at the carpet.
Seeing double. Boggled.
Lubricated, oiled, pixilated, ploughed
Intoxicated, inebriated. On the grog
Wobbly, jungled, off to the races
Lit up, shot down. Cocked as a log
As a lord, as a piper, as a fiddler, as a poet,
As a newt, as a monkey, as a skunk
As a sailor, as a mouse, as a pig, as a fart
Muddled. Fuddled. Or just plain drunk
Words and experiences, many of us share
And I'm sure there's a few that I've missed
But while some get "tired and emotional"
I just prefer to get…
In the multitude of counsellors there is life,
Running away implies stabbing yourself with your knife.
I’m inside a cyclone, you think I should run?
You even went on to tag my stagnancy as dumbness,
I’m not a fool you know. Positioned myself in its centre
For I know that in the eye of a cyclone there’s calmness.
You feel I’m off-guard when I actually feel like I’m in a venter.
My birth canal is in the vertical, where I’m not impaired of my view
I fix mine eyes to the heavens where I know there’s my breakthrough.
In the midst of drunkards there’s sure a fog of immature diction.
Engaging means emigrating from the principle of lingual timing.
Words are powerful entities, they can unveil people’s identities.
When your mind is pixilated, the words you speak can intoxicate
Your persistent entity, your individuality. Even if it may be a while
There’s just some hostility about it and what if it compiles
In the long run, leaving your choice of words forever numb?
In a bad company is a formed aura of non-believe,
There’s a rapid leakage of faith with slim chance of retrieve.
The Bible is on point, “bad company corrupts good character”
It is said that character is the you that exists
When all are gone and you have only you in your midst.
Now think, external injections are depriving your character cells nutrients.
The torture is aimed at you, once activated there is severe suffering.
But, you'll have to bear the yoke alone when your God's desired character
Starts to haunt you!
There's fullness of joy in the presence of the Lord
And for those who really seek it, life is never really odd.
A sunset, pixilated, colored RGB,
a virtual bit world envelops me.
Watch .gif waves break upon a gravel beach,
in endless patterned loop Mew glide and screech.
Each click leads to another, yet unplanned,
connected all by fiber optic band.
As users pass with only offered tweet,
hash tag emoticons, each is so sweet.
Sound in MP3 and addictive chat,
all input loads in digital format.
Adrift in the world, internet my link,
a dance of keyboard in a hi-tech prink.
No further need of bio world to be,
just digital internal cache of me.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr
1/9/16
Wrestling in kitten-covered lawns,
Driving through your potato heart,
What did we begin?
When did we start?
Smoothing into your pixilated hair,
Bending into the fields with angels,
Why have we softened?
Where are the angles?
Ambrosia Wednesdays, Alfalfa Tuesdays,
Send me your message in big, bright colors.
How have we forgotten?
Who now sits in our old parlors?
The First Methodist Church,
with its bold wooden steeple,
burnt to the ground in 1914,
for preaching prohibition.
The good folks of Sebastopol
weren’t having any of that.
Today the Apple Blossom
Parade marches past
the rebuilt church, past
the Masonic Temple, past
Martha’s Mexican restaurant,
with its soup bowl Margaritas,
past Old Main Street Tavern,
overflowing with biker patrons,
and Jasper O’ Farrell’s,
past The Powerhouse Brewery,
The Greenhouse, and G.T.O’s,
with its bottomless Bloody Marys.
As the entire town, marching bands
and all, spill into Ivy’s Park
for a two day party, pixilated music,
and four dollar beers to support
Analy Union High School.
No wonder Luther Burbank
and Charles Schulz
called Sebastopol their home.
And The First Methodist Church,
now made of stone,
the only quiet place in town.
Digital disaster on the horizon.
With a monitor tan he plunges on.
One's and zero's spew pixilated perversion,
while assembled atoms await in his bed.
The molecular world, violated by binary delight,
will forfeit its reality, and go offline.
Digital disaster is on the horizon
and a life's work about to be lost.
The virus is spreading.
I’m torn away and lifeless
In a pixilated display cover
Not caring or feeling
Except showing my own past as a lover
Taking it all in stride
With nothing to hide anymore
The self realization is gone
What’s left is how alone I feel
Even with a body next to me
There’s something quite surreal
I can’t shake the idea that I’m not where I’m supposed to be
I’m afraid and alone
Dry as a bone
No motivation or anticipation
Can push me further into what I should be
Can’t someone push me for once?
Can’t anything touch me enough?
Why can’t my tortured mind
Ever get conscious desires?
I get what comes and nothing more
It’s black and bleak with no sign of retreat
Who can step away from this monogamous feat?
I took the higher ground
Pretending to be something proud
But I’m lost
In the mind of my mind.
Then and now,
my favorite thing to do
has always been
looking through windows,
looking in boxes.
I can still recall
that day.
Ten years old,
my first Pokémon.
My friends were my Pokémon,
my emotions were calculated through damage multipliers.
It was the life.
Now, my old friends gather
dust
under my bed,
yet do not age.
But I have aged so much.
Stuck with humans present, I cry for those digital friends,
whom I could love without judgment,
whose overall reliability was a tangible number
in that Game Boy window,
where the only drama I felt
came in pixilated, perfectly perpendicular text boxes.
Humans are so flawed,
but not those Pocket Monsters,
whose margins of error were always measured
in a perfectly percentaged probability.
I know amazing people
who volunteer, serve, love.
they are deluded, imperfect.
I had a creature with low power, basic moves, and that always lost.
but It
was
perfection.
In 1878, a gent carrying a cane,
Walked at 6 o’clock, down Ingleburry Lane,
A cobbled street, parading horses and carts,
Where gas lights are placed fifty yards apart.
In 2019, a gent with a phone
Walked down Ingleburry Lane, all alone.
Past the coffee shops and trendy boutiques
In this English town, ever so chic.
And so it was where the Lane met Mill Street,
That these two gentlemen did actually meet,
Crossing over, an anomaly in time,
Through a warped, invisible, pixilated line.
One looked at the other through this time warp illusion,
A look from both of total confusion.
In a flash each was in the other’s place,
In a different year, in an alternate space.
The gent from the past, pocket watch in hand
Tried hard to fathom this alien land
As passers by stared and continually asked
‘Why are you dressed from days gone past?’
And the gent from the future looked all out of sync
With his sneakers, jeans and latte drink
And in his hand a redundant phone
Where he could not call an Uber, to take him home.
Panic ensued as they argued their case
That they shouldn’t be here but in another place
From another time, but it’s hard to persuade
A disbelieving crowd you're trying to evade.
Instinctively both retraced their tracks
To the invisible line, in the hope to go back
And both crossed the line with a nod
and a wink
That a return home was now on the brink.
And so, this strange tale, that on Ingleburry Lane
Two time travelling friends, dress the same
For the appropriate era, so as to mingle with ease
Going about their adventures, however they please.