Best Rebut Poems
Sitting here exhausted. Exhausted and drained.
Exhausted and drained and beat.
I battled and dueled with insomnia all night,
And now I can touch defeat.
I parried with anxiety. I danced with turmoil.
My mind was up for the fight.
Wrestling and rolling like a jittering wreck,
My head was a fierce spotlight.
Highlighting mistakes. Remembering the gaffes.
Reminding me I’m not so pure.
Insomnia convinced me the stupid stuff I did,
Were done because I’m so immature.
I tried to have answers. Tried to rebut.
Tried denying, rebuffing and negating.
But those words I said in the heat of the day,
Were totally dominating.
One hour’s sleep. Yes, asleep for one hour.
Then I awoke to hear her talk.
She smiled and said “Get over yourself.
Have a coffee then go to work.”
Finds me
Binds me
Cleans me
Frees me
Critics cannot blind and bind my guts
Call me mean, it cleans, frees, can’t rebut.
New Year
Will there be a new solution
Or old problems’ dissolution
With New Year’s resolution
When to all that we loath
Including hearken to the froth
Bow and take the rebut oath?
Have we learned to jump
Where our toe hit the stump
And unravelled our rump
When, while at flight,
With blazing wanton delight
We cursed lack of foresight?
When we failed to give up
(Like a thirsty lactating pup)
Lecher’s compelling cup
Damning being a Devil’s recruit
And called ourselves blind bruit
Immersed in frolic’s fruit....
Looking forward with a clear eye
(Eye that sees the sky as blue)
Pray for something new.
As older with time we grow
Forward we tend to bow
And, more we tend to know?
JM
02nd January 2014
To make someone confused, their mixed feelings can be used to convince them that they are someone who is mixed-up. To make matters worse tell this person, “Do not take personally what I say.” Then, call them a mixed-up nut and walk away. How can a not mixed-up non-nut, now confused person, rebut?
Rejection of worldly goods has been seen
as means for spiritual growth, to lead
a life in balance with HIS will, to wean
every material thing with no greed.
It's said, the poverty of spirit freed
one to empty of self so that HE can
fill with life and love. Prayers to HIM lead
to grow each one of us in our life span.
Spiritual poverty frees one man
from anxiety about future. But
we shouldn't forget the fact, worldly "things" can
not make us rich to HIM, one can't rebut.
True satisfaction comes from HIM; Increase
in one's worth can't bring lasting inner peace.
~X~X~X~
The Spenserian Sonnet was named for Edmund Spenser 1552-1599, a 16th century English Poet.
Beyond the prerequisite for all sonnets, the elements of the Spenserian Sonnet are:
-A quatorzain made up of 3 Sicilian quatrains (4 lines alternating rhyme) and ending in a rhyming couplet
-Metric, primarily iambic pentameter.
-Rhymed, rhyme scheme ababbcbccdcdee.
-Composed with a volta (a non physical gap) or pivot (a shifting or tilting of the main line of thought) sometime after the 2nd quatrain. The epiphany is arrived at logically.
-Written with each quatrain developing a metaphor, conflict, idea or question, and the end declamatory couplet providing the resolution.
Pated from http://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/forums/topic/1044-spenserian-sonnet/
Thanks to Judi Van Gorder for the resource at Poetry Magnum Opus Site.
I feel no pain I know no fear.
I'm just a tool for war I can't shed no tears.
But is this the life that I'm suppose to live.
They said I can make it if I just believe.
I just want to know which destination is waiting for me.
Will God accept me at the pearly gates or will he rebut me.
Will I be saved or will I burn in hell for all eternity.
I can make it if I believe I'm just a machine trap in this world of slavery.
A machine that was made for war my life is full of misery.
I'm a high tech machine a tool for war my heart is cover with scars.
The pain is tearing me apart why am I part of this ghetto war.
I'm a machine with a soul but yet I have no heart.
The streets is apart of me so death is my art.
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
The world, once a seemingly small place, expands and grows with you.
Bigger, more vast, scarier.
How is one to find their place?
Searching for motivation--forward momentum, I crumble.
I sink into the abyss that is my life.
Smaller, more secluded, scarier.
I scream, but no one hears me.
This is what it feels like to be one mere person.
A dot in the universe.
Smaller.
Ah, I rebut.
I refuse to go unnoticed.
I refuse to live a life afraid of chance.
I refuse to not make my mark in the world.
I run, head first, towards the bigger, most vast and scarier.
I welcome myself to the unknown.
I look fear in the eyes.
I search;
For my place, my purpose, my mark.
Taking seminars in relationships,
designed to make you more considerate,
does not belay your own apocalypse,
nor offers up a tangible rebut
to your self-pity and isolation.
You numb yourself to life with drugs you choose,
preferring to be drunk or stoned to fun,
and then complain about the love you lose.
At what could be the best of times for you,
you opt for dreadful misery and cry,
“Why can’t I find a love like you have, too?”
If you could hear yourself, you would know why:
You’d hear no joy, no gratitude, no zest;
You’d hear just greed and jealousy expressed.
'Twas in London town (as I recall).
I was just a boy so small.
An egg sat smugly on a wall,
by the name of Mr. Dumpty.
Perhaps, it was Spring or early Fall,
that he held me in his thrall,
the gentleman, I soon would call
(fondly), my friend, Humpty.
Oh, how we would pontificate,
those arms would wildly gesticulate
Perhaps, I could anticipate,
he would be kaput.
But my oval friend with roundish butt,
my warning, he would then rebut,
saying, "fiddle dee dee and tut, tut, tut".
Trouble was afoot.
Perhaps, as he swayed in the breeze,
with spindly legs and knobby knees,
if he'd have listened to my pleas,
I'd have a different story.
Can one depend upon a horse,
with feet, but with no hands, of course,
to mend the consequence of force,
unquestionably gory?
It was so many years ago,
years of counseling, I'd undergo -
perhaps, I threw just a little low
to my friend Humpty.
'Twas in London town (as I recall).
I was just a boy so small.
when I tossed him that ball,
saying "Catch it, Mr. Dumpty"
What foul wind has blown them shut
Let shadowed fingers seize a heart
Silence the drumming beat of truth
Closed the doors betwixt age and youth
How has the acrid stench of doubt
Cauterized once open minds
Denying all but what they fear
Rebut with silence all they hear
Then tout with words of dueling gods
The evils of each others words
Unleashing with vitriolic breath
A love of life now steeped in death
The Wizards world a dream uncertain
Controlled by those behind the curtain
Our ego’s impulse~
attract and repulse
both desire and fear,
deeming body dear.
The rot’s sunk in deep;
how’ll we take the leap?
Drop the bag of grief;
give soul some relief.
Vicious is each cut,
harsh words that rebut
love seeking love’s touch,
rebuffed by a punch.
Canvas contorted,
image distorted ~
so break the mirror,
let magnetism spur.
Heart’s void-centric stance,
continues to dance
in midst of each storm ~
embrace always warm.
Thus barbs thrown our way,
simply melt away,
burnt by the bliss flame,
for life’s but a game.
14-June-2022
So if you think the Bible was bad with the Demons within
Think of the parasites in your guts carrying their bad Jinn
All these events of mass shooters killing off all the kinfolk
Some blame medication, water you drink, as even smoke
But if so would not there be as more killers with each day
No these events are random and you are their given prey
As mind controlling, once they are living inside your brain
Tipping us from stable to a person that is Demonic insane
Fed the food to act as the worlds, own ticking time bomb
Cooked, and given so innocently, by our own loving Mom
Just think of probiotics, as the guardian angels in your gut
Regular fasting goes a long way to those Demons to rebut
Those parasites are written within the Bible so read it well
And don’t give them the chance to send your mind to Hell
So before you take what I say with a pinch of that sea salt
Next time you go insane do not blame me it's not my fault
Writing poetry that comes to me when
Thoughts come around as in a rut
Distress fills those cogs again and again
Excellent to write, and not to rebut
Thoughts come around as in a rut
Writing distracts from most life's cares
Excellent to write, and not to rebut
Which would shorten life, increase despair
Writing distracts from most life's cares
Releases tension and gives ideas
Which would shorten life and increase despair
Satisfying poems which explain how nature is
Releases tension and gives ideas
Preferable to write, and not be stressed
Satisfying poems which explain how nature is
I think somehow it is the best
Preferable to write, and not be stressed
Distress fills those cogs again and again
I think somehow it is the best
Writing poetry that comes to me when....
Written: December 06, 2022
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
Contest: Pantoum About Writing Poetry
Softer than a baby's breath
Lighter still than pale
I watch you struggle with
the dying of your light against it hear you rale
Eternity set solidly into the heart
A rare and precious stone
We leave as we have entered here
In experience all alone
So fully are we enraptured by
all to know so new
leaving like penniless beggars
Regardless of what we accrue
You cannot take it along in tow
for you brought it not to the party
So live your life complete my friend
While you are hale and hearty
And if by chance it shall not be
and you are sore afflicted
Long for life with its highs and lows
As though you were addicted
The alternative you may come to find
When on deaths threshold arrive
Regardless of what your life may entail
You'd rather be alive
Don't fear the life you were given
make of it your very best
And when it's duration comes to a close
Yield peacefully to the rest
I will not go peacefully the poet wrote
I rebut Why fight what cannot be won
So live life in full I say once again
And know when your course is run
Should the dawn find you still shining
An inexorable reprieve
There yet may be a trick that You
and God have up your sleeve
Be Happy