Best Trope Poems
If I write down words
that pour from me like
water rushing from a rusty gutter
carrying my cries in the flood
with decaying leaves and
the smattering off the roof
of droppings from so many
prominently perched pigeons,
is that a poetry of sorts?
If the aged shingled roof leaks
at its eaves (like my eyes)
when wind blows the rain
nearly horizontal and the house
beams creak and sound like
corroded hinges when
seldom-used doors are opened,
has a trope occurred?
And, is anything -- honestly --
more than almost senseless patter?
Does it really even matter?
As I intently peered into the darkened trope clouds ?
Aligned amid the sky; holding this bottle of sins which formed
Collected throughout ones nexus life ? Casting it as far as one could
Into the deepest of blue oceans; to swallow then, turning..
Unto Beauty's Angels and they, by my side whom stood atop, indelibles
Fertile shores smiling at me, while her winds began their howl and, the thunder
It's roar lightning, crashing at our feet twas then that this peace; tranquillity
Spoke within gentle tones as I bowed upon my knee; a pouring into the sand wherein
Love's moment I arose, when Majestic took hold; softly my hand ? Alpha yet Omega
My King Our Lord Glorious His Angels, began to laugh these eyes mine, growing bright
And pulling me into His loving heart He, gently spoke, “Come, let 'Us' go from this place....”
****^.^********#_^******************^@^******************^_#********^.^****
....“To Gather The Stars” *
Petal's begin bloom
growth receiving rays of light,
trope glorious heights...
Now you might think?
The titles a joke...
Yet if you deal in
Marijuhana
I hear there; is truth
In that old trope.'
Friday morning
I hopped out of the shower,
popped over to the lavatory counter,
flopped my most profound sexual characteristic
down and onto a misplaced curling iron,
burning the tender center of my-very-being.
Thankfully
Ms. Careless had left a glass of iced coke,
by her torturing implement.
I quickly and fully submerged my pain,
into the cooled, amber liquid.
Friday evening
I attended my first and last meeting
of the Brazoria County Poetry league.
I arrived at the BCPL president’s home
by invitation, to hear their guest speaker,
a young, professor of literature,
from Rice University.
He spoke at great length about metaphors.
What a metaphor was.
How poets used metaphors
to improve imagery in poetry.
He gave examples of metaphors,
and more examples,
explaining each one in detail.
It was raining damn metaphors.
I would have lapsed into a metaphoric coma,
if I had not discovered my bourbon glass
to be much too small, requiring me to rise,
and refill it several times.
When Dr. Metaphor finely finished I
strolled over to where he was smiling,
and announced that he was
full of rhetorical trope,
and didn’t know anything about real poetry,
and he had stepped on a metonymy
and it stank the room up.
And we poets from the sticks
didn’t need a hot-shot from Houston
telling us how to write poetry.
and the president of the BCPL
grabbed my arm,
and snatched my glass from my hand,
and it still had boozes in it.
And he promenaded me to the door,
and assured me that I was talent-less,
and that drinking myself to death
would be my one and only contribution to poetry.
He pushed me out of his home,
onto his front steps,
slammed the door in my face,
after suggesting
I never attend another meeting of the BCPL.
For a moment, I was stunned,
then bowing to his authority
I hurled on his “Welcome” mat.
And Friday morning
as I stood in the bathroom
cradling my tormented body element
with both hands,
the Queen of the Bastille entered,
demanded to know -What my problem was?
I informed her I had no problem,
and suggested she drink her damn coke…
before the ice melted.
A little alliteration by a long shot speaks so loud.
Metaphors muddle my mind
And silly similes stymie the sentence.
A terrible trope takes too much of my time
g Tiberius is my tag and title
My nom de plume is a personal platitude personified
Better *****es badger me with their bared bosoms
A curious cacophony controls my cochlea
Demanding drugs and daffodils
Eventually ephemeral earth will evince my effervescence
Freakin' phantom fear will appear
Had enough, Harry?
Or do you just ejaculate jocularity?
O K - I'll specially spare you the shroud of St. Sebastien
And say Adios, amigo; ta ta to you, see ya, Zebra; good-by, sweety-pie
So long saintly Samuel, take care, Virginia Dare
And that's the way it is, my miz
Amen and au-revoire.
Form: Alliteration
A little alliteration by a long shot speaks so loud.
Metaphors muddle my mind
And silly similes stymie the sentence.
A terrible trope takes too much of my time
g Tiberius is my tag and title
My nom de plume is a personal platitude personified
Better *****es badger me with their bared bosoms
A curious cacophony controls my cochlea
Demanding drugs and daffodils
Eventually ephemeral earth will evince my effervescence
Freakin' phantom fear will appear
Had enough, Harry?
Or do you just ejaculate jocularity?
O K - I'll specially spare you the shroud of St. Sebastien
And say Adios, amigo; ta ta to you, see ya, Zebra; good-by, sweety-pie
So long saintly Samuel, take care, Virginia Dare
And that's the way it is, my miz
Amen and au-revoire.
First sky says, Toth faced the reptiles
Just go back and read the tiles
Forever written laid before your eye
The story goes on for miles
Forward to the time of the snake
This is when the story becomes fake
See eye becomes quicker than hand
Now then thee earth really did shake
Ushering the coming of a lamb
This was the time of the Ram
The establishing of the law
A dividing between you and Sam
Now jumping to the time of the fish
The next step in answering your wish
Love each other as you love yourself
Soon they will arise in dish
Heard from the cry of the guns
Entered we have the time of the one
Whosoever can hear me and see me will
Hit the game winning home run grand slam
Exegi monumentum aere perennius
Were that to be true,I would clearly be a genius
Like Quintus H. Flaccus who presented us with that trope
Inviting every poet to share that selfsame hope
Of clothing our visions in immortal verse
Which is what our poetry seeks to rehearse.
With words aplenty we endeavour to imitate
What Raphael in his bright art did delineate
When he transformed his beloved Fornarina
Into that sacred symbol Caeli Regina.
But how pale is our verbal imitation
Beside such delicate delineation.
Bacon with his spare aphoristic style
Readers of every age does beguile.
Keen and sharp his words pierce rapierwise
To etch his meanings tartly through our eyes.
His work will eternally live on
For us he remains a paragon.
Wildean wit is our next port of call
As with earnestness he does us enthrall
And with his epigrams makes us all smile
As he toys with words forever and awhile
His aesthetic makes language both sing and dance
Will we ever behold his like again perchance?
If only I could marry Raphaelesque immaculate conception
With the acute penetration of Baconian perception
To the gossamer lightness of Oscar's touch
Then would my poetry be improved much.
So it would be that every generation
Would consider my efforts truly Horatian.
celestial ladder
human trope bridges divide
divine curse disbands
Resolutions should give voice to hope
when reason gets beyond all the trope.
Reckoning ahead to energize
I resolve to get more exercise:
physical fitness
mental alertness
spiritual, more praying
social, more playing
emotional, less stress
Looking inward to 2-0-2-2.
a more intentional me for You
Resolutions help us get onboard
to glorify our Almighty Lord.
December 27, 2021
Disappointment comes in shades of blue and gray
Delivered with a large dose of dashing hope,
My mind vacillates between sadness and dismay.
‘Tis time to put on a happy face for a better day
Fighting the strong urge to sit around and mope,
Disappointment comes in shades of blue and gray.
For me, disappointment is a perfect way to decay,
It is always important to find a solution, to cope
My mind vacillates between sadness and dismay.
It helps finding something amusing to enjoy, to play
Or, engaging in an activity that enlarges my scope,
Disappointment comes in shades of blue and gray.
Even then, on the edges of my mind, I cannot allay
Feelings that, somehow, I’m at the end of my rope,
My mind vacillates between sadness and dismay.
When disappointment strikes, I wish I could be gay
I suppose the censors will allow me this apt trope,
Disappointment comes in shades of blue and gray
My mind vacillates between sadness and dismay.
Written April 7, 2022
There lies a shadow
Of darkness and despair,
A disputable foe
Filled with lost prayer.
There lies a light
Of purity and hope,
The truth to what's right
In this poem of trope.
Can you tell of the two?
If so, which one are you?
Ek wou nie wees als wat ek kon
wees,
Ek wou nie meer 0800 gedoen het
as ander,
Maar ek moes, om 'n beter
toekoms te he.
Troep maak seker die
vlag op jou linker skouer waai
altyd vorentoe,
Trope grawe daai gat,
Troep skeer jou hare,
Troep, is jy lief vir jou land.
Dit is maklik om n mens te laat
doen wat onmenslik is
As jy hom eers laat vergeet dat hy
mens is.
Afgryse is minder afgryslik
As dit deel is van jou werk
beskrywing.
Toe ek my eerste dooie kind
gesien het,
Het ek my self oorreed dat dit is
waarvoor ek opgelei was.
Toe ek my tiende dooie kind
gesien het,
Het my brein hulle in 'n
kompartement begin stoor.
Toe ek my eerste dooie soldaat
gesien het,
Het ek myself gesê dit sal nooit
ek
wees.
'n Familie man lyk net soos 'n
terroris.
Jihad beteken heilige oorlog,
Maar ek het die verkeerde god
aanbid in daai land.
Hulle oorlog was 'n oorlog teen
my.
Ek het geantwoord met my
geweer,
Nooit vrae gevra nie.
Ek het huis toe gekom met al my
vingers en tone,
Maar 'n gedeelte van my het
agter
gebly.
In die aand maak my brein daai
doods kompartement oop.
Ek was 'n soldaat,
Maar verkoolde lyke maak vir 'n
kak alarm in die oggend,
Lucifer se braai het 'n neiging om
aan jou neus te kleef,
Insomnia doen min om my
senuwees te kalmeer.
Meeste mense droom hul lewe
lank om 'n held te wees,
Ek herleef dit elke nag in my
nagmerries.
Its wet and drear in London dear, the pomp in on full trope
Though hope is gone, not dead for Jesus is the only hope!
Its foolish to trust in others; dopes.' In robes and words
In fear and force, its hackneyed ethos, solid dross of course
One hundred mill, so bums can sit.' and ears listen to
Waffle and some titter, and scraps and traps such slippery
Tounges we'll no doubt hear, yet will we sum? A throne of
Gold in a nation sold, to the w e f, just same old same old.'
The crowds are thin, not much the din' dis-enchantment is
Setting in.' geriatrics in phylactics gather and throng how
Can such traversitys continue on? Food in piles is stored
Away, as childen are hungered, its the British way.' Some
Vassels also, it seems agree although; their people need
To be set free.! Free to thrive to grow and prosper, yet to no
Reason i now return, to the parody of vanitys and a useless
Crown ' thats just the head though, i'll make this clear on
A British day of pomp and drear, might he take a little trip?
Before the throne..As ascends he it.' Twould be indicative of
The wider nation, that needs a real King not this Abberation.'
In the sizzling heat
She wears new a furry mink
The sly little fox
Now its brimming cold
He dared bare himself of skin
The wily serpent
And what racket here
The cricket makes through the night
The bats cannot hear.
The rain is singing
The roof plays her pop songs sweet
Clouds dance on the street
A little black boy
Playing upon the blind rock
A trope for lost joy
Naked on the sand
No season tells tropic time
The sun milks the hand.
The eye milks the sun
For gold leaves waiting to fall
No fruits on bare limbs.