Best Riling Poems
When gusty winds blow, riling my troubled dawn in gelid woes
Squall of my throes dissipates in scented whiffs of budding rose.
As brazen fog shrouds mind, heightening my grief, poking fun
Defyingly I step out in glinting rays of the dawning golden sun.
Refusing to surrender when my tears dominate indignation
Joy I find on the vibrant horizon, blazing sunset’s ruby elation.
Verdant paradise appeals to pleas, adorning my shamrock hills
Appeasing cry of stygian echoes storming from mountains of ills.
If night reigns moonless and nightmares soon rage my dreams
Comfort I find within soothing zeal of spring’s giggling streams.
While strife of life endures in raging summers of unending heat
Readily I seek blue oceans, surfing rhythmic tides’ buoyant beat.
As laments of the world drown humanity in hapless deep dive
Strength of nobility rises, helping weakened hands to survive.
When the rancor of disillusionment exudes ambivalent sigh
Autumn’s scarlet imprints eagerly vie, healing souls in russet dye.
As hindrance of the ordinary distresses progress of mankind
Delighted I am to see rationality unite, to defeat the unrefined.
When sullen is my heart aching in the anguish of ashen skies
Solace I derive from serene vibes gleaming your tranquil eyes.
At times in my life, I encounter the black-holes of opaque space
Yet, the light of day gets through in sanctuary of your embrace.
August 19, 2020
Placed 1st: Sanctuary Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Categories:
riling, angst, endurance, feelings,
Form:
Couplet
What knowledge do you have of my home?
Have you taken a walk through the cemetery?
Walking on my tracks, footprints of eternity.
Have you read about the deserts?
Thus roar, thus blow filth,
Have you, met the survivors?
Felt have you, their struggles?
In The dusts that destroy,
That whistled as they sizzled,
So you shouldn't be judging,
For you're senselessly irking me,
For a fool that I am not- is the fool that is you.
You believe in the reporter,
Who experienced little of a quarter,
Of the life he broadcasts,
You let the television fool you,
Have you walked the fine line?
Have you let hunger define you?
I did. Oh I did sweat in the dust,
Trekked through the cracks,
And I, stood face up with the sands,
So you shouldn't be judging,
For you're senselessly irritating me,
For a fool that I am not- is the fool that is you.
I breathed within a twister of dust,
So you wonder not of my eyes as they carry,
The memories of the old struggle,
So wonder not of my skin either,
As it bears the manuscript of my old life,
Yes I move immaculate, but do you know of my heart?
Let you not be fooled by my slenderness,
My strength far flows beyond my weight,
So I lift a whole continent with my pride,
And if I have to, I will put my life aside,
Just to fix a smile on mama Africa's face,
So you shouldn't be judging,
For you're senselessly irking me,
A fool that I am not- is the fool that is you,
Mama is beautiful, yet you only see,
As far as her horn, and the slums,
Where the strongest among us might've been born,
Yes mama is beautiful, yet you neglect to see her exquisiteness,
How could you go to my house,
To only document the cracks on my walls?
Couldn't you walk in to my living room'
And maybe peek in to my kitchen?
Thence you might see the beauty that is my home,
How long will you only look at,
Just the color of this book's exterior?
When will you ever walk in it,
To see the beautiful illustrations within?
So you shouldn't be judging,
For you're unreasonably riling me,
Cause the fool that I am not- is the fool that is you.
Categories:
riling, africa, anger, beauty, culture,
Form:
Blank verse
After a wonderful late afternoon walk in the park,
my wife and I moseyed over to the Japanese Hibachi Grille for some dinner.
What we got into was some good old fashioned drama down at BeniHana...
You see, I got me a fetish for shiny cookware,
so as the patrons' eyes honed in on the iron chef
dicing up onions, shrimp, and chicken...
mine were busy fantasizing about concealing Ginsu knives
clankin' in the kitchen.
"Brew Silly began his routine with the hot fire volcano bit
atop the flat grille.
In the distraction, my sticky fingers began reactin',
slippin' utensils inside my zipper, for a thrill.
Things started heatin' up as folks were eating up;
Spatulas started flyin'!
Mushrooms were a fryin',
My conscience stopped trying...
tired of getting beaten up!
Now, if I told you I was lookin' at what was cookin'...
I'd be a lyin'.
I mean, I was really tryin',
but the devil had me by the klepto-hands...guiding me.
Riling me up.
He said, "Go for one of them Wok's! Do it now Big Dog!
Get yir rocks off! Knock yir socks off!
Quick man...sly like a fox, Hoss!"
My heart said, "No", but my head said, "OH HELL YES!"
Sadly, I was in cahoots with the devil,
bass mixed with treble,
trouble poundin' in my chest!
So guess what came next?-
I grabbed one of them big brass bitches,
signaled Jessie's ass with a quickness,
and started gunnin for the door!
Of course, my good hearted wife started whinin',
"Honey, I wasn't done, now what are we leavin' for?"
"Listen baby, I'll explain later.
Right now it's time to go!"
As we passed the pretty little hostess,
she banged the gong and said real fast,
"AHH, Tank-You Berry Much F'wor Cummean Fwolks!"
We jetted towards the park, but it was getting dark.
My legs began to fail. The cops were on our tail.
We tried to walk and play it off, but it was no use.
We should have stayed and ate our food,
and drank our brews with "BREWS!"
The pigs threw me to the ground,
then began to squeal and bark.
They tossed us in the County Jail,
twenty thousand bail...
____________FOR TAKIN' A WOK TO THE PARK!!!
~"True story ={WinK+Wink}
Categories:
riling, absence, conflict, funny, innocence,
Form:
Rhyme
A storm is brewing
Like a raging waves
As though it is hitting
The wind is echoing
Like a ferocious ox
A storm is brewing
As if a kid is revolting
Like he is a ravenous
As though he is hitting
But, alas, one is baffling
On a certain instance
A storm is brewing
She is fond of eating
Her favorite heavy meals
As though she is hitting
Her dietitian is riling
Despite her constant advice
A storm is brewing
As though she is hitting
04/21/16
Categories:
riling, storm, strength,
Form:
Villanelle
I am no revolutionary
For mine is not an ideal
A noble statement
I ain’t gonna give a speech
No riling up crowds, riots
This ain’t no cause
No movement for you to join
All that it is
A cry to the heavens
I am a man tired
Tired of all this
This pain, this agony
An agony so debilitating
This ain’t no call to arms
For a weakling that I am
I would be swatted like a fly
Nay. I ain’t no rabble-rouser
All that I am
A man in pain
I do not seek death
Martyrdom ain’t my thing
Only rest is on my mind
Respite from this life
This gloomy darkness
Rancid, unenticing
An opiate do I seek
A release, cathartic
Mine ain’t a war cry
A call to arms
All that it is
A plea for compassion
I am a man born
Bearing a burden, the future
Their hope for redemption
The herald
A dawn long awaited.
I am a man born to sufferance
Toiling, grafting
My destiny, lost in time
The guilt dragging me down
Futility, my staple diet
Yet I can’t be a Luther King
All that I am
A man weary
Voiceless we were, far too long
Enduring, hoping
Toiling to turn the tides
We been understanding, docile
Willing for a flicker, a spark
Patient, wishing
But now we tire
There is no life for the lambs
Only slaughter and darkness
Destiny is reinvented
A cold hard truth,
Silence is for fools
This ain’t idealism
All that it is
A grim realization
I am no revolutionary
Yet I need a revolution
A movement, a cause
I am no martyr
But one way or the other
Death comes to us all
This ain’t a war cry
Yet a multitude will rise
A cause taken up
In unison we will cry out
A desperate people
Crawling out of bondage
Light at the end of the tunnel
This ain’t an ideal
Debated ad-infinitum
All that it is
A Cry for freedom.
Categories:
riling, destiny, slavery,
Form:
Should Be Done
If you want to have much fun
Here is what should be done
If you data used is empirical
Write some sounding satirical.
So much for my rhyming. Now
for my formidable blank verse
format.
What should Democratic party do.
They should start having a daily
presentation of negative Trump
ads every day of his existence
while he is in the White House.
Show the Gold Star Family,
handicapped person made fun of
and women grabbed by crotch
as examples of what I mean.
Trump doesn't mind tweeting
out negative comments about
anyone else. He needs to start
receiving some of his own medicine.
What you give out is what you
are supposed to receive back.
If you criticize, condemn and
complain, you should receive
the very same thing in return.
His favorability rating for being
President is at an all time low.
He deserves it and has done
exactly everything to earn it.
As usual, America will have to
suffer from all of his stupidity.
He thinks that all he has to do
is waving his magic wand and
every thing will fit in place in
his staff and support system.
Was it Martin Luther King who
said only fools dream on not
taking any action. Trump is
truly a man of action riling
up everyone.
God is supposed to be saving
the Queen and our new President.
Sure hope we can trust Him to save
the rest of America as well. Some
may be saving for a rainy day but
what about the good ones we all
prefer to have? They may have
disappeared with Trump and are
beyond all recognition. We sure
do hope not How about you?
Can you no longer find any of
them either. Search to your
heart's content> You have
Trump supporters to thank for
putting him to office. Don't
blame me for the pit we are
about to fall into. I would
not have hired a medic to
do my open heart surgery.
That is what you did when
you elected Trump. In America,
we have the freedom to express
our own opinions regardless of
what criticism we may receive.
As far as I am concerned, the
same thing also applies to
Poetry Soup. We have a lot
of great poets who currently
exist within Poetry Soup. My
last thing I have to say and
write is, "God Bless You'll."
Sorry my Southern accent
got in the way.
James Serious Mysterious and
also Thesarious Hilarious Horn
as applicable depending on the
occasion I am writing poem about.
Categories:
riling, allegory, analogy, anxiety,
Form:
Blank verse
(Imagine singing it to the tune of the song
when you have come to the twelfth day)
On the twelfth day of Christmas my husband gave to me:
twelve plates a' piling. . .
eleven notions riling. . .
ten new things for cleaning. . .
nine remarks, no meaning. . .
eight shirts for drying. . .
seven eggs for frying. . .
six socks with no mates. . .
FIVE CANCELLED DATES
four less holidays. . .
three migraines. . .
two kids arguing. . .
and a bathtub with a black ring!
By Andrea Dietrich For PD's 12 Days of X-Mass Poetry Contest
Categories:
riling, christmas, husband,
Form:
Light Verse
Cackling old hens posing as journalists-
thinking themselves angles of light,
lay poisonous eggs filled with lies
and gestating hate-
riling against common sense,
and the rooster crows at noon.
Idiots, entrusted with government
destroy our country and way of life-
while the majority just watch
as the little foxes spoil the grapes-
and the rooster crows at noon.
Tax payers labor in the fields
and are penalized for success-
while pompous boars in congress,
slopping at the public trough,
grow fatter on vile swill-
and the rooster crows at noon.
Cats play games with mice
then kill for fun-
our youth play violent
videogames-
and the rooster crows at noon.
Categories:
riling, allegory,
Form:
Political Verse
As time passes by, people pass through
In all walks of life and ways of behaving
Most are congenial, but I’ve noticed a few
Who, apparently, have an inane craving
For causing a ruckus whenever they can
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why
They enjoy riling, and getting out of hand
But, I am thankful they’re in short supply.
Their type explain why we always have war
[Oh, on a much smaller scale, to be sure]
These people who have a burr up their a***
And want to spread around their manure.
They seem invested in getting their way
Always expressing a different point of view
Being confrontive and oppositional, I’d say,
It appears they have nothing better to do.
I appreciate many diverse ways of thinking
Knowing my opinion isn’t always the best,
But when I discover my attitude is stinking
I try to back off, giving the situation a rest.
Written August 16, 2022
[***the British pronounciation
rhymes, well almost!]
Categories:
riling, conflict, people, perspective,
Form:
Quatrain
Adept in riling.
You cannot chew the thoughts.
There was no mandible.
This double-edged
cutlass. The curvy contour
brings you to a hole. You
spray a defoliant to
denude the trees.
Naivete.
Who was competent enough
to disconnect the sparring
bulls. Disingenuous, you
were not interested to –
design a stillness as a
requiem for the trailing dazzlers.
Satish Verma
Categories:
riling, art,
Form:
ABC
This is a dangerous man. Seduction‘s tendrils lace
thumbs at collarbone, his digits wind round behind.
Manicured, long, clean…fingers, made for face tracery,
pulling back shoulders and raising crest-capped peaks.
Thumbs at collarbone, his digits wind round behind.
Soft, full, Latin lips nibble the pulse racing at neck,
pulling back shoulders and raising crest capped peaks,
manicured long clean…fingers made for tracery.
Soft, full, Latin lips nibble the pulse racing at neck.
The kiss repeats with nips and pulls to bottom lip.
Manicured long clean…fingers made for tracery,
the return voyage of his mouth brushes half closed lids.
The kiss repeats with nips and pulls to bottom lip.
Stasis without, riling within, rose-crests scratch across cloth.
The return voyage of his mouth brushes half-closed lids.
Enough, relent, leave off, the fainting feeling, so intense.
Stasis without, riling within, rose-crests scratch across cloth.
Push, push, his barrel chest, the salt and pepper curls.
Enough, relent, leave off, the fainting feeling, so intense.
Bodies have not met, yet, this momentary bliss is not without regret.
Push, push, his barrel chest, the salt and pepper curls.
Blood like rainwater drains to nether regions of pain.
Ours bodies have not met, yet, momentary bliss without regret.
Like chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips and sauce,
A whipped cream delight of potential deadly sorrow,
Manicured long clean…..fingers made for face tracery,
God!….exited my lips, as they left his.
This is a dangerous man. Seduction‘s tendrils lace.
Categories:
riling, passionchocolate, kiss, voyage,
Form:
Pantoum
The raindrops sparkle,
cunningly on your lashes,
jewels in the mist.
The wetness of silk,
reveals a woman's beauty,
only once just imagined.
As the sky pours down,
little beads of ecstasy,
a kiss warms our lips.
Your soft, warm, damp skin,
riling imagination,
in the pouring rain.
Categories:
riling, passion
Form:
Haiku
Petals that fall,
The subtle black that swoons.
The brief streams of pale light.
Little things, with hidden wings.
That sing short things about rhyming rings.
These things that like rings, with wings.
It’s your eyes and ears they do sting.
It’s your heart they do prick for sinning.
Certainly it’s not you that is winning.
The horrid thought that comes with pining.
The wretched hatred for dining.
The sully state of the mellowing.
The gully in its riling.
The cord raining tightly, shallowing.
Feet swinging gently, dangling.
Hairpin turns careening.
Race horses galloping.
Crowds screaming.
From all of these, what is the gleaning?
Certainly it is not the singing…
There they scream, little things with wings shining.
“Come back!” they cry.
Can you really hear them though?
Do they still call if you shut them out?
Can’t you hear how they exhaust themselves?
How exhausted they must be,
To try to keep you doing right.
What do they do?
How do they do?
Why do they do?
Categories:
riling, moon, night,
Form:
Prose
Halloween Nights
The image of death
Complete with scythe and old robe
Walking towards you
Down harshly-lit pumpkin path
Through dreary cemetery
Old leaves decaying
Crackling sound scare passersby
Darkness of the night
Keeps everyone on the edge
Ghosts play, riling each other
Terror impedes growth
Of poor small children passing
The haunted mansion
With all bats flying around
Screams of unwary people
Dances of creatures
And skeletons scaring all
Who dare to walk by
All of these pieces of hell
Happen on Halloween nights
Entrant into Gail Doyle's "Halloween Night" contest
8/23/2012
Categories:
riling, holiday, life, halloween,
Form:
Tanka
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
Categories:
riling, allegory, america,
Form:
Free verse