Best Sneering Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Regardless of whom is…
Aching, my pen moves, lines hold in place
words found wandering about my heart
Ink dries with tear drop accuracy, streaked
forming in versed collections of envisioned truth
From the gallery they call, teeth bared
ready to rip the pain from any pore,
handing down punishment, sentences
that do not fit the stanza
Still I write, poetry,
combing thoughts of fine woven moments
presented in decorative motifs
with strawberry jam and blue button accents
Dangling in the midst of green tailed hate,
baiting the wide mouths of insistence steadily
challenging belief and validity
with a tarnished tea spoon IQ
Fingers tremble behind rolled down sleeves,
three-quarter dreams fall head first into
basement personalities dancing in
ugly nightmare robes, sneering
And I scribble, pristine fonts of flowery flow,
enchanted lines of wisteria wrapped creations
Weaving along vine covered fences
even as eyes peer through morning glory gates
I know this fear, you feel it too, the watching,
from every corner, tiny squares of horrific masks,
eyes floating in mud garden baths
dripping blood the color of…the color of, well, blood
But I must write, hoping you see, praying you read,
sending these phrases on braided thread
spun of love, stitched of affection, patterned desire
regardless of whom is…
I walked with ease
a comfortable moment after sunset,
I wore clean, comfortable skin
and comfortable, casual attire.
Past glowing shopfronts
on clean, wide pavements,
warm evening slowly darkened,
a good time would be had by all.
I don't care much for the parties,
but good company is good,
just as good as a good time,
a good time would be had by all.
Until the unexpected ambush.
Glowing shopfronts vanished.
Clean, wide pavements grew dark and dirty.
I was ambushed by a gang of forgotten abuses.
I was helpless against the mad mob,
they beat me to the ground,
stomped on the back of my head,
printed my face on the concrete curb.
Broke my nose and some ribs,
bust my skin wide open,
tore my favourite, crisp black shirt,
took my wallet and my watch.
After a few bleak moments, humiliated and alone,
I scraped my sorry ****
from the sneering ground
and continued on my way.
A good time remained to be had by all,
a less good time for me,
but good company would be almost as good
as the good time had by all.
20th October 2018.
"Human mind knows no constraints. Without spending time or money, one can make an odyssey into the outer space and even into other planets. What is needed is the fuel of imagination." - By Poet
Outside, the night was gathering strength
How swift our lightning Sputnik,
Out running the speed of sound and light
Shot into space with a violent jerk, leaving us psychotic.
At a distance were luminous spheres
Suspended like glowing lanterns
Comets and meteors in hyper space
Seemed more like diffused patterns
An asteroid came whizzing towards us.
I closed my eyes in dreadful shock,
Fearing a terrible head on collision.
Thank God! It deviated from our track!
I looked at my friend seated beside
Obviously not here, lost in thought!
Looking down, I saw Mother Earth
A luminous ball, not bigger than a sapphire dot
Oh! How quickly we landed on Mars
It is so different from what I had learnt
Neither a barren belt of sterile terrain
Nor a rugged stretch of craters burnt
But a heavenly place so cool and serene
Full of scintillating scenes and ravishing sights
We, the emissaries from a far away land
Were warmly received by a team of alien sprites
The weight of the world suddenly lifted from us
We bounced up and down almost floating in the air
Found ourselves in a gorgeous garden
With springing fountains and blossoms fair
Trees were laden with dazzling gems
Lagoons and lakes of liquid silver
Vast expanse of tawny vistas
Plains waving with luxuriant verdure
What fun…! Hmm…over there,
Nothing like those seen on planet Earth
A herd of animals so strange and rare
Grazing on red grass in a canyon of great width
Our restless eyes scanning all around,
We accelerated our pace in rising delight.
As we were eager to explore every bit of ground,
We moved forward with enthusiastic gait.
Sudden was the sound I heard behind
And saw my mother standing near
Puzzled and confused as I looked around
In my ears her voice fell ringing clear-
“You lazy one, know this is exam time”
Rough and curt was her angry tirade.
“Again you can’t play a dumb mime”
Her words made my afternoon reverie suddenly fade
I saw my open book sneering at me
And my uncovered syllabus, a vast sea
Medusa’s Love
Medusa is a hideous and vile creature of Grecian yore.
Medusa, once a high priestess in the Temple of Athena,
Suffered Athena’s unforgiving wrath for violating her
Sacred temple as she and Lord Poseidon made love there.
Medusa’s Love entices all of her naive human victims,
Up to that special mesmerizing moment of her icy shock,
As they end up unwittingly gazing into her evil, hellish
Eyes and their bodies harden and turn to stone forever.
You can never trust those Gods who relish in making
The plight of mortal man more challenging on Earth.
Once a perfect paragon of radiant female pulchritude,
Athena transformed Medusa into this mythic monster.
As if this life isn’t frightening enough, with the advent
Of Halloween Eve and the cold, dark nights preceding it;
Medusa’s restless spirit as this grotesque Gorgon can be
Conjured from her lair at the entrance to the Underworld.
From the hissing and viperous serpents adorning her head,
To the ever-present shaking death rattle of her reptilian tail;
Medusa’s sneering and unholy visage paralyzes her victims
As her fiery and demonic eyes bring them a stone-cold death!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(October 1, 2015) (Unrhymed Quatrain)
STAND WITH A FACE OF HUMILITY
Thou curse a great angel to fall
from the heavens of glory and power,
though let man build towers for himself alone
letting him gaze on earth down.
Daggers are unknown but
they are directed to oneself
piercing six-inches deep in the heart
though made unreachacble stars of ruthless dreams,
there bete noire, implacable enemies abounds ,
occurring impossibilities cause bitter torments
art a fortress a defense for nothing, nothing?!
A sneering wall for a human being
the lowly thou had trodden down
callused feet has stepped upon.
The anon ignorant void of wisdom infuse a poison
drops dripping from temptuous cup
of sweet assurance, of self-ambition and arrogance.
A pedestal thou arts amidst life's superficial ways
a courage to lift up a haughty face
the narrow rocky roads thou dwell is full of blooms
but will the ends refrain from drowning doom?
Poor man thou hast enslaved
in thy ruthless breaking embrace
secured within thoughts of highness
knowing not where he will stay.
Above, may he think and look unto the ground,
a place of fifth to step upon
for alas he has partaken from thy cup,
so now he's done.
Thou made a distance so near
yet to very far, unreachable.
A human never a god
harsh and vicious
are the gigantic trials knocking him down
Imposing.Intimidating.Haunting. Freezing
but must they be?
Must they be or should he rather
open his eyes and flee
to the flying flicks of times?
Crepuscular are the cascading days
but always they pass epiphanies.
A heart of stone melts but
from it births the human heart
who is able to choose paths which lead them
to face the world not with pride
but with humility...
__________________________________________
Sponsor Name: Broken Wings
Contest Name: Any poem trashed in a recent contest
~~6th Place~~
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
12:38 pm. August 01, 2015
He stood before the soldiers,
a king draped in royal purple.
He was crowned
with a circlet of thorns woven together,
and pressed into His brow:
Sharp, piercing, cruel thorns.
And His blood
flowed
down.
Mocking soldiers played their part well.
Bowing low with sneering faces
then rising up with wooden staff
they struck Him,
over and over and over again.
The king said not a word.
They spat on Him and laughed.
The king remained silent.
No condemnation escaped His battered lips.
He was brought before His subjects,
beaten, bruised, but not broken.
Not defeated.
Crucify Him! Crucify Him!,
His subjects shouted as they rejected Him.
So He was stripped of His robe,
nailed to a crude wooden cross,
where His blood
flowed
down.
"Father, forgive them!", He cried.
"They don't know what they are doing."
They didn't know who He was.
They didn't know that He had come
to teach them the path to God.
They didn't know that it was for their sin
He was dying.
They didn't know that He was the one
they had been waiting for:
their Messiah, Deliverer, King.
They didn't know how much He loved them
as His blood
flowed
down.
The caricature of a gentleman, nameless, scorned,
The infamous savage of the famous street was wobbling:
Scruffy, shaggy, ruffed beared, tousled haired,
Disheveled,
there went the odious appearance, bumbling.
Soubriquet: lunatic, fierce, rowdy with murky torn clothes,
Was sitting stigmatic with grubby means,
Was teased and thrown stones,
To drive away from the decorous street!
He was spotted pitied with meagre chuck,
While feeding a destitute;
Taunting and sneering didn't perturb him,
Gave his share simpering, only to be starved!
The antithesis of savage, the man of the hour,
Silently paved his way then, bare footed tottering,
To be again the savage of the decorous street!
Outside the walls stood a handmaiden gazing
Twisting her skirt between fingers so frail
Patches of burlap were sewn on the garment
Cut from a sack of a barley oat bale
Oh how she dreamed of the opulent palace
Silver and gold and the finest of lace
Gowns made of velvet with ribbons of satin
She spun around with a smile on her face
As if a princess, her blonde hair a flowing
Blue skies above now the tint of her eyes
Hearing a song on the early spring breezes
Never once noticed the coming surprise
Then saw him on horseback and blushed like a petal
Found on the reddest of roses that grew
Knee bent to curtsey, feeling embarrassed
Knowing this gesture is what she should do
“Good day my fair maiden, your dance was enchanting”
He said as he smiled, his kindness was felt
“So sorry my prince, I did not see you coming”
Again on the soil before him she knelt
“Rise up,” he said as he slid from the saddle
“There is no need for such formality,
for one of such beauty tis I who should bow”
Saying this he touched the earth with one knee
Once more she blushed like an apricot sunrise
Standing he reached out and taking her hand
Wondered, “What brings you by here on this morning,
adding such loveliness to our fine land?”
“Your majesty, I’m but a servant daydreaming,
Seeing myself quite the belle of the ball
Very much childish I know you are thinking
For I belong far outside this great wall”
He pondered a moment, his chin now he fondled
Suddenly grinned with the happiest glance
“Well now fair maiden, if thou would permit me
Please be my guest at this evening’s spring dance?”
“Oh handsome prince I could not even think it
Look at my dress, I have nothing to wear
Merely these rags and an old pair of high tops
Never to mention the state of my hair”
“Never you mind and I kind of like high tops
Maybe some jeans and a tank top in red
Pull your hair back and it will be perfect
Nothing you’ll need when we climb into bed”
“What’s that you say, you want sex after dancing
Beat it you creep, I’m abreast of your game
I’ll spread these legs not for anyone fancy
Damn it, you men, every one is the same”
As he departed, rejected and sneering
She stomped away feeling angry and mean
So here you find such an unhappy ending
The truth is she only had eyes for the queen
Sorrow
My sorrow can swim my sorrow can fly
I’ve tried to put it to bed but my sorrow wont lye
It’s not only well hidden behind a smiling man’s eyes
It has so many places in which it resides
It’s in the flowering fields with a hundred wild horses
Soon to be given the whip and made to tread courses
It’s in the clouded young mind of an innocent youth
Hoping the prescription pills will help find inner peace and truth
It’s in the proud glaring eyes of a father watching his young children play
Wishing the moment would last forever instead of the one scheduled day
It’s in the words of a Doctor giving an expecting mother bad news
It’s in the prick of a needle by the people that use
It’s in the loud boisterous laugh of a whiskey fuelled voice
As he tries to drown sorrow with his poison of choice
It’s in the tears of a family when a loved one has passed
It’s in that Mystical River into which sorrow is cast
It’s etched deep in the hands of a working class man
Providing for his beloved family the best way he can
It’s in the heart of a coloured man ridiculed for his race
Pretty soon you’ll find sorrow written on the racist man’s face
It’s in the royal children’s hospital waiting room chair
It’s not hard to find sorrow sitting in there
It’s in the steps of an overweight ladies journey she embarks
Sick of the snickering and sneering and constant remarks
It’s in the 2 x 2 cell getting taught life’s harshest lessons
It’s in the homeless man’s trolley with all his worldly possessions
It’s with the millions of people fighting a battle inside
When you go looking for sorrow it’s not that hard to find
So when sorrow comes calling be sure to answer your phone
And acknowledge that it’s too big a beast to try and tackle alone
Endure the best way you can all of life’s undulations
Knowing that sorrows a train that will stop at all stations.
Most Beautiful Christmas Poem 11/25/22 Based on the Messianic Prophecies
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Christmas Rose
The Christmas Rose bursts into bloom
As echoes of midnight’s final chimes resound –
Precious Bloom of Perfect Prophecy inhales a first breath
Of winnowing starlight foretold
The Prince of Heaven steps into our blemished creation
New lungs fill with aromatic fulfillment
With bursting refrains once heard in Eden.
Torrents of roaring grace
Smash narrow portals of garden betrayal
Eras, ages and eons of sneering dominion
Stumble sideways in vertigo
Temptation’s false victory turned upside down
Smug visages fade into imploding arrogance
The missing piece of the human heart
Vibrates again in unison of Emmanuel’s Eternal Beatitude
With the tenor of timeless oblations
Heaven’s trembling preparation of holy delight
Explodes in triumph with the New Genesis
Through the breathless comma of anticipation
Before defeated wraiths of wildness
Gorges shatter, valleys level
Avalanches of obliteration raze
Buttes, crumbling cliffs and ridges of desolation
Midnight’s last stroke of domination
Turns a beastly reign into a flailing whine
Gone the plaintive elegies of exile
Heralds of angels harvest flowers in the desert
Gates into everlasting broad highways open
First Born Mystery in swaddling clothes smiles
In desert blooms of sweet frankincense
With everlasting scents as joy blooms in Eternal Laughter!
Eden’s new age of Exuberant Truth strides into time
Writing beauty’s signature on mountaintops
Leaving incense where insolent decay
Abandons ashes of deluded victory
Sweet scented perfume of grace overpowers putrid
Baby conceived in Anointed Advent, gird in Gloria, arrives!
The task begins with awareness, and freedom without it is harmful. So let us not look back in fury or forward in panic, but rather around in awareness. By Poet
Let me tell you a story.
Can you Imagine a harsh quiet? Jeers sneer idleness,
or scoff to classify the ultimate sinful act of sadness;
or quashing irk for an eternal colossus of havoc,
perhaps the planet was spaed and will be ruined here.
Cynical scorn asphyxiates, cauterizing all life on Earth;
who can imagine how vile days linger eerie memories?
how often tongues are swelled with astringent tartness?
those with acidic sadness tease with a biting reply.
Soul was sunk on all live paws to quell a herd of verrucae,
could you kindly scan feeble shapes on a pealing day?
how would you handle a splenic tongue with an awful zest?
or apply on a scorching sting a horrible sneering welt.
Mortal musings slay my sight while roaming ruins,
I feel the pain, frocking seconds ripen fruitful minutes;
none to stop him, acidulous hours burn a swollen body,
did you honor your vow not to view your tears in public?
Or, to win, they select the nuclear light to avow the day,
scavengers swarming forbidden self-destruction zones;
where the war had started, it was awarded might;
whenever beguiling eyes and spite the sight,
I hate lethal viruses as much as a police car passing by;
I hate falling asleep at night as well as not falling asleep,
I hate the doorbell at night and massive storms,
I hate going broke or having too much money.
I fear being late and fear being the first to come;
I fear that all I yearn for might jeopardize others I love;
I fear death or a miserable existence for a long time,
I fear not adoring enough and being confused.
Slow slurps, wearing vengeful speeches bleary;
on stage atomic bombs were used to turn the sky purple;
Insouciance fosters the dreadful pulverization,
I should have dropped my Kyiv pass.
wabbling world......
2ND PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 17, 2022
Theme: War
Form N - Narrative - New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!