Best Subpar Poems
Belly up to the table, our soup is well liked.
Just don’t drink the cool aid, I think it’s been spiked.
Come and get it while it’s hot, it’s the best I’ve been told.
Beware of the poets who like their soup cold.
Our table is large, there are plenty of seats.
You can sit for a spell and enjoy some good eats.
If it’s been a rough day and you are feeling subpar.
We have ice cold beer, on tap at the bar.
Everyone is welcome, come and give it a go.
You might become famous you just never know.
Our poets are diverse, each flavor unique.
Welcome to our club, come in and take a peek.
Friends, fellow poets and countrymen, please lend me your ear.
I do not live in Australia, and I wish to make that perfectly clear.
I will not insult that country, for to do so I’d have nothing to gain.
To be so rude would buy me a seat, on Trump’s derailed a$$ train.
I am a patriotic American, this is where I choose to reside.
I love my great country, and by its laws I will always abide.
In our United States, you’re eligible to vote if you pay your tax,
giving you the right to bash Biden or ride Trump’s crooked tracks.
Don’t tell me my country is broken from over 8800 miles away.
You can kiss my grits for that slander! That’s what I have to say.
You dare claim America is broken? How would you even know?
Was it social media and Fox News, or did a little joey tell you so?
Your political intellect is subpar, your facts are drivel and fake.
Cut back on the amount of Gin used in your stale Kangaroo cake.
You make me laugh, attention seeker, because you are such a fool.
The blunder from down under is just a brash Trumpeting Tool.
I come to write, not to bury another country for its faults.
If you’re not an American, then it’s time your pen halts.
Stop the demeaning insults you keep slinging at our borders,
or people might start pointing out your disturbing disorders.
It is pointless to write with dull pencils
When a pen keeps the sheep safe at night.
And water can flow from a hole in the ground
As long as the spring’s not too tight.
Cargo is sent from a shipyard
But a shipment can go out by car.
A wise man is often superior
But a wise guy is usually subpar
Tonight I will drive down the parkway,
Yet park in the driveway at home.
No wonder I can’t speak this language
It only makes sense in a poem!
© Dean Wood
Oct. 26, 2017
It gets kind of crazy living with 3 young boys, there’s always a mess and there’s constant noise.
Their mouths constantly running, their little legs too; they rough-house like tiny wrestlers, off the couch they just flew.
They never get old, those silly fart jokes; and the noise and clanking of those bicycle spokes.
They change costumes every minute from football to Batman; next it’s baseball then it’s on to Spider-Man.
You better watch where you step when you come through our door, there’s legos and Nerf bullets covering the floor.
They’re covered in mud, they’re covered in dirt; there’s ketchup and Cheetos all over their shirts.
They argue, they fight, they cry and pout; then they giggle and laugh after they hug it out.
Living with boys you never know what’s next, you better watch what you say, they’ll change the context.
Their imagination totally rocks; they can make anything out of a box.
Just give them some scissors and a glue stick; that box transforms into a Batmobile real quick.
They’re wearing their breakfast, there’s mud in their hair; it’s an act of congress to get them to share.
Their diet is subpar, all they want to eat is junk; and with three sweaty boys, you can imagine the funk.
We’ve turned into detectives, constantly looking for lost toys; we’re also mechanics trying to fix whatever they’ve destroyed.
Although these boys can cause us some undue stress; I wouldn’t change a thing to prevent their mess.
The house can be clean when they’re grown and they’ve moved out; so for now I’ll sit back and see what life’s all about.
I’ll enjoy all the noise and the mess on the floor; I’ll pray my feet are protected from the legos galore.
I’ll wash their clothes and clean them up; and be thankful I can fill all our cups.
Thank you God for my three sons, we’re thankful and blessed, and we love them tons.
I read a poem when but a youth
That inspired me to something simple see
When I was young and in poor health
A regular man I wanted to be
I worked and prayed to be the best
At the simple things in life I knew
My health got better and so did the rest
With the struggles in life I grew
Now math was my passion from little up
Though I had to leave school when only a tween
My learning continued for I wouldn't stop
From someday obtaining my dream
You see a dream that is followed
Will take you as far as you can believe
So for me subpar would simply not do
For I had much more to achieve
Now I would still get my schooling
Though I needed no school to learn
I would get the info from wherever I could
A high school degree in time I would earn
Now manual labor is all that I've done
To earn a living you see
But I am still working to overcome
For a regular man I still want to be
Now a regular man continues to work
To be the best that he can be
He doesn't give up when things get rough
But will overcome mountains you see
My life I feel is far from through
For there is much more my faith can see
I know with Gods help what I will now do
Yes a regular man I will someday be
Wrote August 11 2015 Written for the Childhood Dream contest.
Eulogy For An Unsung Hero ©
The late John Sidney McCain III,
now flies with Arrow Smith,
Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
eighty second birthday,
taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
(during the Vietnam War)
his life source did
nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
asper absolute zero gainsay,
no rhyme nor reason
can even feebly explain,
when approximately
a quarter million young men
(oh...yes, perhaps
some women too) perished
at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,
zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
and bold assertion,
a mere minor tirade
subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
United States veteran and,
subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
merely mildly silly putty,
piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
such as books
for children star
ring Dick and Jane
does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
might smack of hyperbole,
my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill
adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
the burial plot (right next to
lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
amidst a plain
extolling grandeur and solemnity,
where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
that didst wax and wane.
What gratitude is of greater reprise,
Appraisal sought within four wall confines.
Yet tests congure my personal demise,
Subpar intelligence is redefined.
Determined only by pure blood descent,
Whose family heritage dominates.
But haste, why linger, such foul discontent,
Saved from years of unethical debate.
Bitter sweet rejection bore new mercies,
Undrained from society's precedent.
To pursue a life without fallicies,
Devoid of tragic human sentiment.
For now, I delight, reap labour's success.
My life is all mine, to live and to rest.
Doctors (particularly biomedical engineers)...
really trolley train hard to keep track of patients
Eye tell ya we (spuds)
pulled up stakes after four yar
and zero scores ago living in Bryn Mawr
salutary heart and lungs figurative
storied Main Line Health medical network
latter part of June tooth thousand seventeen
approximately July first
same year bidding au revoir
bid good riddance account
to slumlord - hood did spat and spar
moved to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
unsafe to ride bicycle without handlebar
economical, geographical, practical...
subjected by Grosse and Quade tyrannical czar
dom low income facilities housing
nattering nabobs of nihilism whose intellect subpar
candidates vetted by Jaclyn Geiger registrar
courtesy nepotism unexceptional manager
thanks be to her papa, she drives fancy car
unlike this pauper and the missus
limited to schlep near and not far
afforded by rattletrap motorcar,
no driving prohibitive number of miles,
crossing sketchy territory warning signs
picturing dangerous avatar,
(especially during inclement whee thar)
determining risk to forego
top manic kin Michelin
money grubbing cannibalistic
surgeon's earning equivalent silver star,
or comparable civilian rating touting specialists
while bonafide topnotch indivisible tailors swifty
stitch ink, viz tattoo back parlor shop whar
exemplary Patients Matter Always
buzzfeeding, inoculating, kickstarting...
healthy medical network,
hobnob, kibitz, schmooze...
drown lackluster lovelife at the bar
parting paramour with such sweet sorrows par
for the course during pouring rain how bizarre
necessitated our lucky find locating physicians
supreme nsync with Google high reviews
receiving, scoring, nabbing,
incorporating... truevalue re: vector and scalar,
we veteran trooper seasoned renters
luckily blessed chance
cost us pennies on the dinar
general bang for buck amazingly
found yours truly strumming his air guitar
pleasantly situated among picturesque poplar
resort within Skippack Village, a tourist
mecca for devout or
secular gourmandizing, earning
catering and acquiescing savoir
ole mighty faire Benjamin
legally tendering expensive bazaar.
December.
My coldest winter ever.
My slow descent
into destruction,
my epic battle with the devil.
Thought I’d never meet her.
Wondered
if I would make it out.
Got so used to being cold,
the warmth I start to flout.
Stifling.
12 months
have slipped between
my fingers.
Lived every day
buried,
but never pulled the trigger.
The irony’s simple.
And I’m still not living.
All the days
seem the same,
they blend into
each other.
Didn’t see the
silver lining,
stop putting
forth effort.
I thought I was better.
Until my vision clears
and I see the
same four walls.
The amount of pills
gone the night before
getting harder to recall.
December.
The end of the year
that has faded so quickly,
I don’t know where I’ve been.
Close to dying,
running off,
the truth will make you cringe.
With the facts
in your face,
it gets hard to pretend.
The year’s
not the only thing
coming to the end.
December.
Couldn’t take it
any longer,
no more hurt to remit.
Think,
“At least I made it.”
Barely.
Feelings still heavy.
Dropped everything else,
left no luggage to carry.
Still wishing
I was faded.
Wake up
each morning,
count down to evening.
Dread the time
in between.
December.
Hate to see ya.
You’re my confirmation
that this is
reality.
My life,
three acts
stageplay tragedy.
Just a square
of blackness
on the cheap playbill.
The opening’s subpar
so it’s all downhill.
Casting was crummy,
the director’s an addict,
on paper
the parallels would
have been perfect.
December.
How soon
til it’s over?
But at least
I made the choice
to live.
December.
I get it.
The sign to
get this life together.
That I have to
wrap it up
to start fresh,
oh December
you’re so clever.
I have no choice
but to get ready.
The future’s creeping,
life is waiting,
depression’s pleading
to be buried.
Hello December.
Let’s redo
our introduction.
Living layers of being tugged around scraps of lusterless metal shape the man who was
Or is it the other way around
He can not tell anymore
Improvements or subpar substitutions
He marches on despite his contemplation
The clang and tang of metal on metal echo from his right leg while the muffled thud of organic flesh whispers from his lesser left
He marches on
Imagine feeling where your blood stops flowing as if your veins have hit a metal door yet beyond its frame lay dancing ghost who mock your past
With every augmentation he advances yet diminishes his mortality and morality
Still he marches on
On assignment that must be completed
Computing
The command was entered, a reaction will occur, must occur
His ability for choice is doubtful yet feared
A semi-bionic time bomb ticking its way to a liberating explosion of conscience freedom
Until then he will march on
Sounds of something somewhere sound so absurd
Silence in the section of the unspoken spoken word
Seriously over sensitive a silver screen scene everyday
Study the students social scale to see who actually stays
Separating the subpar scores standardizing who to select
Sensitivity can be sabotage so smile wide to all suspects
Saliva slips sliding out the mouth down to a slippery chin
Second place with so so skills so step it up so you can win
Sounds of something like this sheet still sound so absurd
Silence in this sections stanza of simple unspoken words
bmdavey@11/22/17
The night sea makes the stars ‘my private universe’
And yet, one feels the multitudes gazing the same way
Kneading thoughts of multiverses staring in reverse
Enchantment on daunting dimensions making headway
Inside the rarer paths of hardened real, the surreal
takes on the wild waves that once tore at mettle to fray
electronic virtuality’s so subpar
surpassed always by experiences neuronal
Everlastingly firing away, the near, now far
Atomic energy spin-drives all ~ elemental
(9/12/2020: '93 Sea Ray 330 DA; Sac Marina)
I am a diamond
In the rough, I start
Like a chip left short,
My subpar anatomy
I will not be defined by
What sparkles in the light
The dark spots fall within
Fear of failure like a lake
Against the currents, my head kept up,
Watching my fate approach
I will not sit idly by
For Nothing cannot sit
Inside these prism walls I stand
And then I begin again...
This is written in defense of the contest sponsors who are being disrespected by a 'poet' who feels his entries were not judged fairly. In separate posts, he contested their judgement. They should never be publicly harassed by a poor sport.
Someone is disgruntled and quite perturbed
so, he wrote about it. Could be he is disturbed
Got some bees buzzing around in his bonnet,
but can he rhyme the lines in a good sonnet?
I find his poetry nonsensical, and often inept
but he must think it's worthy, and so he wept
for not being a winner, a fact he can't accept.
That shows conceit and for sponsors, disrespect.
"OH, WOE IS ME," cried the sorrowful dissident.
"I'm not appreciated, and wasted time spent
writing for poorly sponsored contests and lost.
My poems were read and then they were tossed!"
He thought each entry deserved a shining star
With vengeance in mind, he decided he'd spar
with contest sponsors and called them out,
so, acting like a spoiled child, he decided to pout.
"I'll show them and give them a piece of my mind.
My poems were better than some. They're blind!
I'll even mention them all by using their name.
for not awarding me prizes and robbing me of fame."
"OH, WOE IS ME." cried the sorrowful dissident,
Upon getting even he seems to be hell bent.
I doubt that his poetry will ever make him a STAR...
The KEY to winning contests is to stop writing subpar.
From a teen of 14 until this year 2020, I'd say that I had a secondary sanctuary. Being secondary does not by any means place this sanctuary in a
subpar position. My primary sanctuary, currently more meaningful, has always been 'me and my quiet place'. In both the primary and secondary, there is
always acknowledgement of 'The Sacred One'. There can be no sanctuary without the presence of both the 'Holy Place and The Holy One'. For the
first time in my life, my association with my 'secondary sanctuary' has been curtailed. The Coronavirus COVID 19 in 2020 has necessitated limited and
conditional 'church attendance'. However, the virus has caused a greater appreciation and utilization of my primary sanctuary. Early mornings, Bible in
lap, coffee in hand, sitting in my chair and watching the sunrise; Sanctuary! Quiet, calm, peace, poise, solace, stillness, and prayer that involves little talk
but lots of listening; Sanctuary! My sanctuary is more defined as a 'God- infused state of being' than a place. In Judaism, before there was a Temple
or Synagogue in Jerusalem, there was a Tabernacle in the wilderness.
Where ever the Israelites went, every journey they took, the Tabernacle was
with them. Sanctuary! And for my Christianity, where ever I am, God's Presence is with me. God's Presence and me! That's Sanctuary!!
081520PSCtest, Sanctuary, Silent One