Best Riotous Poems
Finding Happiness in Everyday Pleasures
Happiness is bathing in glorious, golden sunshine,
absorbing the beauty of sunsets deliciously divine.
Dancing through cool droplets of silvery rain,
feeling cleansed, refreshed, and reborn again.
Happiness is inhaling the enchanting perfume of a riotous rose,
enjoying tropical beach sand trickling and tickling my toes.
Stroking in wonder my new born baby’s silky skin,
celebrating life with all my loving kith and kin.
Happiness is gazing in awe at a twinkling, star-studded sky,
questioning, seeking truths, wondering how and why.
Taking slow deep breaths of intoxicating oxygen from the air,
praising and thanking the Almighty in fervent, silent prayer.
Happiness is waking up to my beloved’s caress and kiss;
hearing how much he loves me is just pure bliss.
Finding real happiness is like discovering coveted treasures,
and I continue to find it in simple everyday pleasures.
My poem above was inspired by the poem “Happiness” below, written by American Imagist poet, Amy Lowell (1874-1925). She was a woman of great accomplishment.
Happiness
Happiness, to some, elation;
Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Days of passive somnolence,
At its wildest, indolence.
Hours of empty quietness,
No delight, and no distress.
Happiness to me is wine,
Effervescent, superfine.
Full of tang and fiery pleasure,
Far too hot to leave me leisure
For a single thought beyond it.
Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it
Means to give one's soul to gain
Life's quintessence. Even pain
Pricks to livelier living, then
Wakes the nerves to laugh again,
Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Although we must die to-morrow,
Losing every thought but this;
Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.
Happiness: We rarely feel it.
I would buy it, beg it, steal it,
Pay in coins of dripping blood
For this one transcendent good.
08-15-2015
09-02-2015
Contest: No More Masks
Sponsor: Catie Lindsey
Placement: 7th
A Plate of Disorder
Are you ready to Disorder Sir?
What can I tempt you for a starter,
May I recommend the Turmoil Soup?
Garnished with Havoc Green Tartar.
For the main, perhaps our house speciality,
Goujons of Chaos and Sweet Bedlam.
With a Medley of Confusion and Mess,
Served on a bed of Smoked Mayhem.
On the Dessert Trolley tonight,
We have a Disarray of Cheese Cake,
A delicious Rhubarb Anarchy,
Or Sticky Turbulent Plum Bake.
Please enjoy your hearty and Riotous feast,
May it temper and fulfil the agitated beast.
The dank petrichor of grainy night,
meters stand like gravestones,
the obsidian avenue slick as a sapphire,
windowed granite rising in sharp cut shadows,
wind gusting, tumbleweed clouds somersaulting
in a moonless ghost town.
I jingle keys with atonal sky
and listen to my footsteps on concrete
ticking like a clock.
There are places to be.
I hasten my step as rain drops resume,
one by one mounting into a riotous crowd.
Umbrella-less, I am soon sopping,
hair a wet carpet, suit a gray saturated tarp,
the briefcase and tote onyx boulders.
My car is still a block away,
but eventually I reach it
like a leaf washing down stream.
The tote slips off my shoulder
as I stoop to retrieve fallen keys
lying in a shallow puddle like a shattered talisman.
Suddenly I begin laughing,
dropping everything in the street,
my face skyward, arms splayed like a crucifix.
Now there is no tomorrow,
only the farce of my predicament,
standing like a drowned coyote howling
at the moon as though it would be there forever.
In my chair near the window
I can hear the wind howl through
the brick, and echo off concrete
as it passes its rumors fro and to.
The whisper of the wind calls my
name as sweetly as a lover might.
I shiver at the nip of its sharp teeth,
pull my old blanket round me tight.
Once winds of spring murmured
to me of love and delight to be had.
Told me stories of things awaiting me,
whispered softly of the good and bad.
Summer wind sang to me of desire.
Hot flames that no wind could tame.
Blowing hotly round my curiosity,
delighted with its erotic naughty flame.
September winds were slow and sweet,
cooling the fever of a riotous mind.
Winds that whispered of contentment,
winds that were so soft and so kind.
Now winter’s wind circles me round,
seeking small places that it may creep
under my blanket and blow frigid on
my toes as I prepare for final sleep.
Oh, it whispered to me all my life,
but I never noticed it was even there.
I shiver as it tells me tales of other
universes, but soon I will no longer care.
Luneta, I used to almost venerate you once
but glassy skyscrapers have put you away…
still, I kept the fragrant lawns deep in my bones,
with Muppet tricks and hazy star-gazing.
Although recollections pump on my mind,
you’ve transformed, you’ve changed...
I buried you away till on mellow, rainy days
memories pass …just like kites in the evening
or those riotous, girlish escapades
igniting shadow-plays to all come out…
and everything is drowned in retrospection.
Tonight, I visit your new ponds and clinch my hand
because for all my affinity to remembrances,
it's the shadow of childhood, of impish friends
that make the most languishing stories.
2/20/2016
Contest of Craig Cornish: The Park
*Luneta (Rizal)Park ~ one of the most historic
areas in our city
What’s it about for them, then
Loneliness, poverty, pain
Bang of the bailiff at the door
Death in a ditch in the rain
What is it like for the Joneses
Bigger and better you think
Posh port and pigs in blankets
Sick in the kitchen sink
What’s it about for him, then
A clock, and an empty chair
Picture of her on the mantelpiece
Candle smoke curls in the air
What is it like for her, do you think
Hairdo and heels and hurrah
Hampers and champers from Harrods
Packed in to Daddy’s car
What’s it about for the Christians
The return of the sacred child
Under a star in a stable bare
Jesus, meek and mild
What is it like for the Druids, then
Stood in the circle at dawn
Frost on the moss on frozen stone
Lit by the sun reborn
What’s it about for the children
Mysterious, glittery, bright
Hope of a mythic benevolence
Come as a thief in the night
What is it like for us, then
Rushing and spending and stressing
Cursing the souls in the queue at the till
Or kissing a friend with a blessing
What will it be like for you, then
Whatever you will it to be
Riotous ostentation, or
Peace and sweet charity
What it’s about for me is this
One white and holy dove
The silence after the shops have shut
And love
© Gail Foster 3rd December 2016
Upon rising, awakened by
ripening scent teasing my nose,
trilling my lips and tongue, – my taste buds opening
to bird-like songs as dawn's light breathes new life
and hope into my journey, so begins
a fresh flutter of time, an extending
run of exclamatory chirps and wing-full
stretching –
Muse beckons, yielding to artist'
pen and eye – we are co-authors, exchanging
thoughtful leafs and sun-dipped pages; mingling natures,
swapping poetic voice, reversing positions of artist vs model –
conjuring word-images and interactive, painted-canvases – confounding our seasons of
blossoming and harvest, embracing God's budding voice and fruitful manifestations,
His nectar-ed, figurative language, blending human with Divine senses....
displaying contrasts that stimulate exploratory forming
and transitory shading – clearing and clouding
affects both inside and on my outside, as the clutter of
yesterday, and promise of a spring-like showers soak
crusty sediments with saturating, fertile possibilities;
all taking bows – the theater that of spiritual mastery –
Mystery is
my source, my echo, my chambered growth.
My resources, exploitable enclaves of poetic walls, primed,
awaiting both solid and abstract vibrations, energizing
experimental blurbs, those planned and random into searchable
articulations, grasping, too often vainly, for fantastical alliteration
of sterile, common-place views –
I am deepened and ready to let air
we are each our best audience
my left-hand meeting your right
for a brisk clap of inspiration followed
by riotous applause....
Attune yourself to see the miracle of music.
Merging with the dance is truly ecstatic.
Hey! Swing, sway and frisk, every way it’s fantastic!
Stir your senses, I wanna hear your riotous roar.
Unbound and bounce, in you I see Terpsichore
Just dance, just dance! Forget every frightening chore!
I call it meditation, the best way of catharsis.
Whirl, twist, sway and spin under wonderful hypnosis.
Dance! Just dance, it needs no basics!
Hey! Go with the beat. Dance to the tune of your heartbeat.
Don’t stop, keep stomping your feet.
Groove, groove, groove!
Don’t stop, don’t stop that move!
Yes! You are a blend of perfection.
I know dancing is an addiction,
Unbound soul’s reflection.
Groove, groove, groove!
Don’t stop, don’t stop that move!
To hell with the stares!
Come on come on who cares!
Dance to the music of spheres!!
17/03/2019
slithering snakes run silent
sleeping snakes lay deadly
awakened venom ready
while reigning as prone giants
breathe upright fools gather tolls
exhale hate and hued discord
bow in ranks to thy dark lord
ascending dust; marching trolls
march riotous foolery
spew venomous rhetoric
slither fork-tongued heretics
confess inflamed schoolery
o’ taste and see politics
halls unjust, wall-smears dark read
blood-soaked tiles seep pus instead
walking snakes hiss for boot-licks
"Odd Lovers"
I feel your reign o’er my warm skin
your eyes cast their burning cerebral majesty
sharp diamonds cool blue sky twinning rays
the same time dawn and dusk glistening towards me
like the rapturous Sun in debate with boiling Ocean
I am Queen’s Land, nubile and unconquered
a spent sugar cane field arrested in your glowing fire
laid out like a Sunday service gone wrong and come undone
taken up like a god’s bride eager to please and smiling
in your riotous crackling laughter, some kindness, this untamed desire
jade green ignites into crystalline
I am all the wild animals
running ruinous out into open and now seen
hear my wanton cries
uncovered in soft spun blankets of dark night
I am the Moon glowing opallious and high-pearled
rising to meet your fevered and hungry molten lava kiss
drowning in waves of some scorching small death redemption
I bite eagerly with wet lips your brief eclipse
there is the taste of bittersweet candy
slowly mulled and fermented like fine mead
honey drunk deliberate and heady
for a short story time goes slowly
there is the taste of fire in the sharing of a missed moment
merging dimensions in fragile silky gossamer webbed dreams
I bite eagerly with wet lips your brief eclipse
there is the taste of bittersweet candy
made from our odd lover’s kiss
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Moon and Moon" (Two Suns) / Bat for Lashes
https://youtu.be/hMzua0mwrVk
LYRICS/"Moon and Moon" (Two Suns) / Bat for Lashes
https://genius.com/Bat-for-lashes-moon-and-moon-lyrics
Hot zones of danger,
dark places
where dense hearts go
Hearts that are cold as ice
Roll the dice ...
take a chance on fatal corona exploration
Go ghetto orbital
and gamble with your porcelain life
You’ve been whitely warned:
Shun the spots —
the darkside of the Helios shadows,
where the sun don’t golden glow
It’s best to yield to your coin conscience;
the fade-to-black pulse
of the societal dusk, dimming yellow
Go colonial orbital,
where the cloudless reign
of oppression is rife
And the gravity of poverty
is sol cranial heavy
Irradiated cries cuts through
the poisoned atmosphere of hatred
like a serrated knife
You’ve been white noise warned:
Danger!
Avoid the riotous flares of destruction ...
hot spots,
where obstruction of justice flow
Shun the leper spots
of the volatile igneous rock dimming yellow
Those event horizon spaces —
ephemeral stardust places
that were polarity flux created not to burn slow
5-11-21
Inside a boisterous tavern,
a-light with drunken gaiety
of spilled ribald laughter,
he quietly sits alone ...
gently cradling his mead darkly
Brooding thoughts of past paid coverings
buzzes inside his head
Talking flies having the faces of the dead
“Have mercy, please”
This haunting cry, they all pled ...
except the halo head ones
“I forgive you”
This they all compassionately say
in time dispersed unison
The self-muted giant rubs his eyes,
still in somber inner disquietude,
at this troubling sight he has seen several times
Witnessing a bright, shining glow,
which radiates all around the tops of those
who call themselves Christian disciples —
before descends the sharp, quieting blow
It is by his liege, Caesar’s command,
to eradicate the scattering vermin radicals,
that he daily swings the severing blade
The duty-bound Herodian executioner
must always stay masked
when the murdering performance ensues
This is by privileged decree:
the entertainment requirement rules
A black cloth covering,
sprinkled with scarlet droplets,
is the terror mask his masters has him use
Rabid crown sycophants love their crucifixions,
the Roman preferred method of capital punishment
But, his under-lord, Herod, still adheres
to the ancient Molech ways —
Death by the beheading blade
Sighing, the brooding giant gazes about the riotous inn
with roaring, unspoken disdain
Even without the ritual Deimos mask on,
all within the tavern knows his occupation,
evidenced by his massive frame
They yield a fearful wide berth to him,
no one sits in the seats around his hulking presence
Looking down at his Pilate-cursed hands,
he sees the blood of the guilty and the innocent
Bloody hands that can’t be washed clean ... never
As long as he raises his arms,
and lets the body-separating blade swing
A small and delicate seashell
tossed upon the shore
tumbled by the tide
ne’er as lovely as before
her long and restless journey
on riotous tides and drift
has cast her here in quiet cove
on a gentle, stray windshift
sharp edges worn by time
smoothed and softened by nature’s hand
her belly turned up to the sun
she settles in the sand
the little broken seashell
now finds her final rest
and at the closing of the day
she finally greets the stars above,
and sighs a solitary settling breath
Sadly gone ,but not forgotten
from your dispenser full of grace
the magic colour purple
upon my lips did place.
A colour filled with wonder
that matched my bright-blue eye's
that could never set asunder
the oh-so-joyous surprise.
How good it looked, how good to see
that riotous splash; that helped me, to be
not him but HER, not he but SHE
awaiting womanhood
that's me !
Elizabeth alexander 10/12/2015.
UNSUPPORTED CODE
He waits, by the gate, alone
I never know quite what for,
Family ties divided,
withdrawn, perhaps forlorn.
His life is riotous,
yet his soul is gentle,
although the mind; tumultuous
his heart is sentimental.
For he loves her, he knows
a fair kind lady
who greets him with a smile
and removes all malady.
His love is friendship,
considerate and mild,
not a lovers fair,
but a genuine; thanks for being there.
He waits by the gate,
carries her bag
as she leads him into a world
of joy, avoiding the drag.
After he leaves,
he returns with a smile,
a cake for her birthday,
welcoming, free of beguile.
He is loved,
her gift for all,
but to him,
it is in no way small.
Her heart is fire,
flame, and care,
and she comes to gate,
knowing he will be there.