Best Tawdry Poems
Perilous is the journey, sordid is the quest, flashing flirtatious desire,
Treacherous is gaudy aspiration, playing with torrid flames of fire;
No matter how thrilling, how visceral may feel this insidious chase,
Neither it is a road to endearment, nor is it a destination of grace.
Provocative is charming croon, simulating sound of love’s acclaim,
Exhilarating is ephemeral attraction, missives seductive inflame;
Audaciously feigning love, squalid is the phony paramour of shame,
Teasing emotions in tawdry games~ ignoble is his heartless name.
Allures of the dangerous dalliance, dazzle donning a seamy stance,
Hosting rendezvous immoral ~ an illicit dance of lurid romance;
Transient are escapades of infatuation, never meant to forever last,
Buried are their broken-hearts, in cemeteries of jilted forlorn past.
In interludes of life and time, wrinkles weary warn of receding age,
As lascivious phase, in book of life, begins to turn a fading page;
Revealing to glamor and courtship: the aura of beauty is long gone,
And nightmares of regrets have since robbed, avid dreams of dawn.
Obsession of lust wasn’t love~ admonish the sad memories of yore,
Promiscuity of casual encounters, pathos of remorse now abhor;
Wondering if it’s too late to long, for lasting bond of kindred hearts,
Before empathy of love departs, before the warmth of passion parts.
Dark And Tragic, When Fate Sets Its Black Hand To Decide
Icy cold had invaded, her heart became a hard frozen tomb
Never again would she allow love to penetrate its new armored shells
That night she had seen one of death's many tragic and ugly faces
Its ancient mask, the one that crushes love's fever and kindness in a mere blink
Now she flows through a vacated life, on wings of sorrow's eternal flight
Awaiting a doom that her crushed soul welcomes in its dark and sunken state.
His death had been tragic, yet made for some of the most interesting news
All the clever twists and turns of an old Hollywood mystery movie script
So ghastly, his head found in the graveyard, atop her lover's white tombstone
His bullet riddled body found miles away in a cheap and tawdry motel room
Perhaps now he knows, how it feels to find Fate's eternal and deadly hand
In his well deserved doom, devil that had sent her into her dark and sunken state.
Robert J. Lindley, 6-30-2018
Prose, ( Tragedy In One Of Life's Screams)
Not For SilentOne's contest
Note : I rarely ever do Prose. Started with the plan to write for SilentOne's new contest but my muse took me ever onward and this became too long to enter.. Giving thanks for the inspiration but it does not meet the eight verse contest requirement.
So I post it now as it is and wonder why my muse so stubbornly refused to stop writing... She vexes me to no end sometimes.....
I believe that poetry is and of is was were have has been of as one pretenses a
poetic practical pompous, pro (p) ransomedramatical postenses
pretending to prose promise a
predictive premise primatory practicum politicallty
polishing practcoriam process of primary
preliminary postures pragmatic promulgates
telling the ta ta tumultuous tillo tales of tawdry
banal blog lists calling me to quali-quantify the reso-resolutes
resounding in resilient quo quotients that bear a
breach bridgeborn badge billed
barometer bearing broad billboard
catatonic catashrospies creating caustic crill
coffinistic coiffures canonizing
socio unsettling leo linguistic lies in a somewhat
lovevoid livid liquiditoria regal
ransom based regalia resonating
rawbone residual retinal real time
tombosoties transitioning with
toying transient trio tide tooth
crass cavity craino creep mandibulo master mildew
mold molecular mamsy-pamsy sillopsuedo master of
ever me present I , me , mine, maestro
sitting back and looking at the world as a place to be
not to be, hope to be, wish to be, be to be, in the
proper primer of humino yesnomenclatureculture of that which is u
me us our belief sem radical of our prim-ordeal sociodiscontentselfevident
irrelevant mean fullness, to countercure our quick/quack quotient
umbrella upbringing to say do write feel text tank athink
all that is emo exit everpresent to keep the fecal faces free of
founding father status inquo man although time is time in place.
Mindfulness is a mute place ill unattended by sociocrap everlasting.
Treasure travel inviting innate needs netherly nodding to the primo positive
practitudes of acoustic ancillary annotated awareness, allowing all annuities
ancient archaic to willfully wind wind waveringly wish away intrinsic id-ideas.
It it is what u want it it to be, say, scroll, live, plural, self to self. Use it, lose it,
share it, beware it, con-cure it, it. Know it it's criminal capitol is wary for before
u know it it, life it before it its u, and will its it and
ego ale all eek out the precious profit of its itdom idiocracy illusionary in its
illogical inness so mad made as not to gravely gravitate ungracious griefs
upon your its it.
scary huh. Karma it, Big Daddy.
I really have outdone myself this time!
My ‘God Machine’ is finally in place!
I’ll never have to fret about a rhyme,
Or stop for a red light that changed from green
As if it sought to put me in my place
A random hiccup clearly quite obscene.
I really am quite clever I must say
My ‘subtle knife’ (1) allowing me to splice
My ‘God Machine’ into time’s tawdry day
The true God left completely unaware
That He is now controlled by my device
And just another victim of malware.
It seems there’s quite a lot that ‘God’ screwed up
That I intend to change now I’m in charge
I think that its bad form to cover-up!
So what’s the deal with dying anyway?
Let no one die will be my countercharge
And life is just a breeze on my freeway!
All pain mere nuisance, manna heaven sent
And sin gives you enormous facial zits
While love and kindness clear up all your rent.
Though talents differ, jealousies dissolve
As differences bring none real benefits
And non-destructive social moves evolve.
All birth defects, parental wealth passé
Genetic weakness gone with dodo bird
No accident of birth gives worth per se
Sins of the parent cannot taint the child
That God might favor one is just absurd
The color of one’s skin no more reviled.
But now I find my plans have gone awry
My God Machine decided I’m a flaw
It seems that I’m outdated samurai
Humanity endangering MY plan
Just plankton in the future’s yawning maw
Machine judged only advocate for man! (2)
Brian Johnston
November 5, 2014
Poet's Notes:
(1) subtle knife - A reference to a magical knife that can open windows in time in one of the 3 books in the Phillip Pullman trilogy 'His Dark Materials' including The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass.
(2) My poetic version of the lesson of the book and movie 2001 (written by Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke) where HAL, a computer so smart that it becomes sentient, decides that that only way to really protect a manned mission of a spaceship to the planet Jupiter is to kill all the humans on board the spaceship. The crew's humanity HAL decides is just too big a risk to the mission that HAL is charged (by its human programmers) to protect.
from the forest, deep, she came
like a jaguar, quietly prowling
drawn there by my late-day flame
typhoon in the distance howling
black hair with a coal-blue sheen
eyes like ink and faultless gold
linen sun dress, white and clean
tawdry tan, with charms, untold
white-cap sea foam licked the sun
then softly tasted sweet, its bright
slo-melting on that briny tongue
and sav'ring still, the fading light
there beside the aqua ocean
palm fronds laid in proper form
with sublime and torrid motion
we let loose our perfect storm
high above, the Perseids streaming
wept the sky, with tears of fire
wishes granted - we, so dreaming
meant for fools to thus inspire
flightless angel birthed in darkness
wrapped me in her pinions, warm
sacred embers, cold and sparkless
burning for that summer storm ...
lost in her - my perfect storm.
There’s a sense in which all life is scum on this earth
(without God as creator), life here (more debris
that just floats on the surface of things, that evolves
to fill niches that former life spawns) has no worth
in itself, demonstrates all life does is make space
for more scum, that will live on life’s poop, or it’s flesh.
And if God does exist, might this God view with mirth,
not the flora, but fauna (that fled from the sea
to escape what would eat it) could think World revolves
for its pleasure! Dare parasites dream that their birth
is a proof of God’s LOVE, virtue, intellect’s, ‘ace
in the hole’ for our kind; hint we’ve souls God should thresh?
Does my life have more value if I have a soul
or does fantasy telegraph who has control?
To choose God makes things’ better?’ Is what I ‘think’ JUST?
If God’s real or God’s missing, what grownup owns trust?
Just how long is one day in the life of a God
for creation took billions of years, should we pray?
Is our Bible infallible, final, ordained
‘truth of God’ or a primer for 1st graders, ark
for man’s soul, meant to save us from ‘downpour of pride?’
We grow trees meant to float us, or harvest what’s there?
Do you lie to your kids when they voice, “It’s so odd,
Why’s sky colored, not black?” Are you filled with dismay
to say, “It’s not my choice, but the color’s constrained,
to be just what it is by creation’s real SPARK!”
The truth’s Science, not faith, or stained truth’s override!
Oh, the mind of a man is a tawdry affair!
Is Spark SPARK? Can we know? Still, faith calls SPARK, “I AM!”
There’s no epigram spoken more valid, less sham!
Truth is God could be ‘real.’ Safe bet universe ‘is’
and reflects God’s true nature (if God sourced ‘Whole Biz’)!
Long Tooth
June 18th in 2020
(Especially, for new writers)
Just as in real life, some poets have the art of wearing masks of friendship.
You will know, when they stop commenting to all your works.
It's not rocket science to figure it out.
They just stop posting to you totally and it feels like being hit with a boxing glove.
No, your poetry is not inferior!
In fact, you may be a more than one time POTD winner!
Even then, they simply refuse to acknowledge you.
They just ride on white unicorns, under an allusion that they are superior?
How cheap, how tawdry, how unloving and cruel!
These poets who think they are some precious jewels?
But you must go on, though they ignore you like dirt.
They are nothing but arrogant, selfish-centered squirts.
The most loving poets are here in abundance.
They honor you, love you..
These lift your soul with a sweet, humble incense filled cadence.
......Write-on..ignore the unicorn riders......
"By their fruits, you will know them!"
January 14, 2020
Death belies the darkness summoned,
tombstone-colored is the sky,
shards of memories merely fragments,
wailing wind the sole reply.
Violent storm winds strip the tree limbs
like a poltergeist, unseen,
tawdry feeders, heavy wind chimes,
beat against the window screens.
Waiting for the glass to shatter,
like so many childhood dreams,
china teacups, rosebud patterned
in the dustpan, unredeemed.
© 2009 Danielle White
Starlets tender their heralded names
Just another pretty face; another superficial dame
Brokered pawns in tawdry, transparent game
Bartered tinder is their trite acclaim
Stars that twinkled then imploded in combustible flame
Fickle lives; filthy lucre their singular aim
Pleasing the masses with articial drama their claim to fame
Egotistical debutantes who proudly gilded their shame
Fealty and familial bonds with pleasure they did cripple, mame
Fading memories that inspired more of the same
Burnished symbols remembered only by their surname
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
Twas the night before my cousin's
wedding
He reluctantly gave in to the
bachelor party vetting
A burlesque, tawdry strip club was
the setting
Unbeknownst to him, the bridesmaid
was his appetite whetting
With gratuitous lap dance, began
the ribald feting
In drunken stupor, the enamored
groom his fealty forgetting
Released his inhibitions all of his
clingy garments shedding
Strode platform, in sync with
bridesmaids erotic moves duetting
In tantric rhapsody, she released
pheromones his testosterone
subletting
Enraptured with his riposte jaunts,
her matrimonial bond shredding
The enamored bridesmaid with lust
his bare essentials began petting
His betrothed parts to her
dominatrix will indebting
As the groom climaxed, his phallus
got entangled in her fish netting
Two truant souls now writhing;
spent body parts bloodletting
Dislodging their carnal chains, into
frothy night jetting
To hotel that lodged devoted bride;
their remaining passions bedding
Lurid, tawdry tryst not regretting;
but o'er bawdy exhibition sweating
Wedding contest
September 14, 2012
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
The cows is lowin' in the old corral and all the evenin' chores is done.
Hank scraped the manure off'n his boots 'cause he's a fastidious son-of-a-gun.
He drew his pay, jumped in his pickup and headed fer Clyde's Saloon,
To quaff some brew, grab a gal er two and dance to the fiddler's tune!
There was a hoedown at Clyde's where cowpokes met ever' Saturday night.
There they danced, boozed and let off steam that usually ended in a fight!
There was a band with drums, banjo, fiddle, bass and a steel git-tar,
And the pianer player Mike McGurk (when they could pry him from the bar!)
A gal named Mousy Bush sang with a voice that quivered like Robin Hood's bow.
That's where Hank hung out Saturday nights to blow his hard-earned dough!
Hank was dancin' the Texas Two Step and havin' the time of his life,
When an incident occurred that occasioned another night of strife.
Some dude splattered a Coors on Hank's new Calvin Klein shirt and jeans.
Now, stuff happens and normally this wouldn't amount to a hill of beans,
But this got Hank's dander up and since he never held his hootch all that well,
He punched the guy, bloodied his schnoz and began a-raisin' hell.
A grand brawl ensued with ever'one tossin' punches, chairs and tables.
There was a heap of cussin' with patrons lablin' others with tawdry lables!
Hank arose Sunday mornin' with a poundin' headache and two black eyes,
But he'll be back at Clyde's Saturday next to enjoy a hoedown with the guys!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
(Not for the contest)
I had the distinction of being labeled 'Robert' by Mom and Dad.
Somehow that evolved into the moniker I'm known by today,
And the name I prefer, just plain ol' Bob - what more need I say!
I shed the cute name of 'Bobby' when becoming an older lad!
Many chaps through the ages have carried this distinguished name.
Let me list some of the redeeming qualities of us guys,
And I'll leave it to the reader, our attributes to surmise.
Some of us were destined for dismal doom - others to glory and fame!
Bobs tend to "git 'er done" with a minimum of pretension.
Most every Bob is a trusty, reliable and decent sort,
And is just an all-around ordinary good sport.
We like to get lost in the herd thereby attracting less attention!
But, mind you, Bobs when necessary can be rough and tough.
There is nothing flashy or tawdry about us Bobs,
And we detest crude behavior and insufferable snobs!
Furthermore, from nary a soul will we take any guff!
The solid ol' name of 'Bob' means "bright shining fame."
The name 'Bob' is also a palindrome, don't you know,
Easily spelled no matter which way you go,
Something a Clarence, Buford or Wolfgang can't claim!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Entry for CT's "What's In Your Name" Contest
The lightning strikes and all is dark,
the Lock Ness Monster is about to embark
on a journey along the ocean’s shore,
more diligent and courageous than before.
She is strength and beauty combined,
a delicate creature, so hard to find.
Her head crept above the water quiet yet stark.
She strolled through the mounts with might,
ready for the battle of any nightly fight.
No one could mess with the immense Lock Ness,
and I admire her colossal power nonetheless.
She’s redeemable, stupendous and severely tough,
wearing leather skin so resilient and rough.
She’s my favorite mythical creature, I must confess.
Brawn and firm with a head that slithers,
her veins always hydrated, they never wither.
Fading under the moonlight she slides under water,
sleek and stealth like her mother taught her.
Never stops swimming, she’s aquatic that way,
only pries at night, never during the day.
Never once has a great white shark fought her.
Long necked with stamina and vitality,
with an original and intense personality.
Muscular and sturdy with gazing eyes,
a tawdry creature with a slippery disguise.
Potent by nature with energy and force,
always swimming on the righteous course.
She’s got a puissant form, intelligent and wise.
The lightning strikes and all is dark,
her head crept above the water...
quiet yet stark.
Loch Ness Poetry Contest
January 4th, 2017