Best Trouncing Poems
.
"This is Spring" said I
what could go wrong
The sun shining
with a soft warmth
mine eyne glowing
my brain trouncing mine heart
wheedling me on
"Look there
in the garden
presenting Spring's
soft breeze
pining affection
leaning
pointing in my
direction
her florescence"
Death's Messengers
by Rick Rucker
Death's messengers came for me today,
I eluded them, though, I crawled away.
Seeing just the smallest chance,
I sneaked into an ambulance.
I thought that it would surely fail,
That I'd soon be cold, and pale.
Noting that my blood did leak,
My future prospects seemed rather bleak.
One second, an iron horse riding,
And the next, my suit of leather sliding,
Down the road, at times bouncing,
My feeling of luck taking a trouncing.
I couldn't speak, my breath was leaving,
I knew my wife would soon be grieving,
I thought myself quite brave,
But I heard a medic say “Grave,”
Where I knew I soon would be,
On a hill, under a tree,
Thinking about the riding fraternity,
A biker through eternity.
Suddenly I felt a pain,
A searing blue flash went 'cross my brain,
Something just wasn't right,
Don't people say to “Go to the light?”
The only light that I could see,
Was red, and on a CHP,
Cruiser that was straight ahead,
Probably thinking I was dead.
Could it be that I would live?
How much fluid can one give,
And unfailingly survive,
Or , possibly even thrive?
I had to get into a hospital bed,
Before “THEY” knew I wasn't dead!
How fast can a medic go by rights?
Use the siren and the lights!
I wasn't feeling too nice,
But we got there, in a thrice.
Many doctors rushed me in,
Just one pain, from toes to chin.
To ease it, they gave me juice,
Soon, I began to feel quite loose.
Knowing that this dulled pain's talon,
I asked, “Could I take some home, a gallon?”
Seeing me under the weather,
The doctors all gathered together.
Discussing all the effects most tragic,
The witch doctors began to work their magic.
Soon enough, I knew I'd live,
I thought to take the time to give,
To The One that let me stay,
Above the ground another day!
I don't think about it much,
There's little pain to the touch.
The only legacy I carry,
Past cemeteries I do not tarry,
I haul as fast as I can go,
If I go a little too slow,
Death's messengers might see,
The one that got away-that's me!
Soft flurries, at dawn,
spurred on by wind;
the blow and drift
of twilight’s whiteout blizzard.
Achoo, here we go;
how ravenous the roses.
Red petals tickle schnozes.
Earth in royal bloom.
Flopping into the pool,
tummy trouncing off water,
red, white and blue -
colors of American hero.
Loving cup of leaves,
dancing and romancing fools.
Oaks baring their souls.
Rakes vowing, “I do.”
A wild flower, grew up through
a crack in the pavement, I wondered,
why already not trampled
by so many preoccupied feet?
Sat I down on a
park-bench, further pondering this yellow
charmer, to which I cordially gave greet --
“little tenant,” oh just missed another!
Thinking I saw it, knowingly parry aside;
(one wild flower, persistent, determined
not its beauty to hide.)
Unaware came a team of training joggers,
in colorful, striped briefs; legs and tennis shoes
thoughtlessly-trouncing-everywhere –
Feared I this brave little trooper had finally been
dealt its fatal wild share -- the wind of the runners' healthful,
self-indulgent passing, seemed more a cyclone of careless,
petulant stomping – no sense a little blossom would
they spare!
Deeply rooted in soil, it could not retreat, without vocal
cords it could not plead a shriek – could not shield itself
from such crushing, annihilating defeat.
Sat there I a sad bit longer -- would not dare open my eyes, felt
a tear slipping, my heart seeming knee-deep in morbid dripping.
Smeared blossom, and grieving sunbeams, saw I like a funeral's
dark-arm-band – a segment of my bright world, had just tragically
ended...gone with the lone blossom's, last futile, floral stand –
till a child opened my eyes, making me take peak,
a sweet little voice, not the least tinge bleak, as they carefully parted: “Oh
mother, isn’t that dandelion so dashingly chic!?
A Champion must lust for that ancient adrenaline
the primal prize alive in the eyes, trophy of thunder in the pulse,
a Champion's heart welcomes adversity with teeth gleaming sharply,
worships the battlefield with risk righteous in ripped tradition,
doesn't celebrate the strikes that knock the foe into awe
finds glory in striving for the impossible
creates Legend from the unthinkable become visible,
buries the adversary's soul in the winter of forever woe,
the Champion says with disciplined effort and presence pure in practice,
lightning is comin for you, blasting your bones, bashing your boasts
tear you up and down and all around
your dreams nor dare, will not be found,
The Champion must adore the trauma of training,
remembers the humility of a Beginer's trouncing,
must pray with innocent instinct, thank Providence with confident conviction,
makin bravery out of bruises and being headstrong amidst hecklers,
invents technique like a Freeborn freak,
they shame the opposition into reverence with indisputable excellence,
true Champions are unforgettable, architects of shock and hope irrevocable,
indestructable like a titanium pyramid,
To be a Champion is to have a demolishing drive,
they must excel when underestimated
and must dominate when expected to succeed,
the Champion's Faith devours fear and punishes pretenders,
to finish the foe with decisive declaration, " Check Mate! "
a Champion always defies, and never dies,
there is no calculation of defeat for an Angel following a Divine beat -
J.A.B.
Round about nineteen 1971-2, yours truly bid adieu
to Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
(situated at crossroads – then beau
colic rural routes of Evansburg Road and Ridge Pike), where nary a clue
prevails today of such pristine farm country due
to undergo radical urbanization during my boyhood edu
cay ting this sensitive kid asper flora and fauna drastically became few,
but primary aim of poem intent to focus
on grievous sobbing from lifelike goo goo
doll (cries and whispers ken still be heard within beef jerky
ladder day grown man body electric) hoo
vividly recollects scathing stabbing, torquing twerking,
survey monkey wrenching “IDO
NOT WANT TO BE ALIVE” reaction from manifold factors,
which exponentially increased goy tar attacks
targeting thine mideastern suffer tick Jew
such baiting (though nary a hint
how mean neighborhood kids gleaned this information),
since not one kewpie doll,
nor telltale Star of David dead giveaway, no one knew
such sacred symbols never adorned, deployed gripped ourselves,
(Unitarians encompassed family of origin), which credo Matthew
best describes as a hodgepodge, pastiche, ragbag, et cetera of pew
pills amassed from a gamut of disparate Parochial spew
wing litany trouncing as heresy
any diametrically opposed sanctified religious treatises
secular regents questioned plants seeds of white lily
germinating, sprouting and teasing out through
logical, oratorical, rational invocations such a heretical view
which synoptic backstory of mine, now allows,
enables and provides an opportunity for you
to read what I intended to be main essence
of this notion communicated
from one to another primate within the human zoo.
Skulled hill
supports
the lifted
standard;
skull bent
and dark;
naked for
all who travel the high–way to see those exposed:
the arrogant, the proud; the humble and forgiven;
the one who forgives the most needs no forgiving.
Red sealed
and stained
with filthy
lacerations;
suspended
with spikes
on toothed
roughhewn
dry kindling
envisioning
the fires of
hades itself
trouncing on
the carnage.
I accept and
make it my
own. The Cross.
Animals
Natural fauna
Camouflaged food chain
Living, trouncing, sustaining, beautiful
Wildlife
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
February 22, 2010
Poetic form: Cinquain
A spider was climbing my walls,
The size of it truly appalls,
I’m certain it’s a lass,
With a kardashian a ss,
I couldn’t spy male spider balls!
I shouted for my hubby to come,
He gasped at that huge spiders bum,
But my old Henry hoover,
Just couldn’t remover her,
I’m screaming Help I want my mum!
My p ussy cat eyed up the spider,
She wanted this beastie insider her,
Huge spider is walking,
Cat’s expert at stalking,
She corners it by my step strider
As Tiddles is superb at pouncing,
That spider got a severe trouncing,
And now it is dead,
What more can be said,
The death of spider I’m announcing
For Julie thanks for the inspiration. bb xx
09/02/11/
When you cross worlds of uncertainty and confusion
Are you not the one delighted in the trouncing of it all?
Or would you rather kick and scream until you are left squirming?
Embrace the shadowy terrain of soulful search,
Surpassing futile dignities and vagaries,
Surpassing the very souls that long to tear away your victory!
I am not the stone in the middle of the path,
The cold, rough boulder in which you pound away at
Seeking warmth that never seeps through
Engraved in the midst of me is a softness you will never understand
And as the fog surrounds you, chilling you into hysterics,
I will run through like the leader of the pack,
Feeling a wind on my face that can only be felt in the climax of the run!
I am too fast to indulge in the fires of your anger,
Threatening weakly to consume me!
How desperate you are!
How foolish this all is!
Follow me if you dare
But do not try to break me
As you lift your head to witness the peace of a crowd’s jeer
Can you not turn away and smile at their ambrosial fear?
Why do you insist on roosting in the very nests we have burned?
You turn away from the beckoning obscurity,
Yet you bask in the lies of surety!
My victory is sure—how far can you endure?
You are not the victim pushed along the wayside,
But a whining martyr seeking self-centered sustenance
I eat pups like you for breakfast,
Out of the kindness of my heart!
Rue the day I set you free
Yet do not come near my pack—or me!
Hesitant to say, I love you for you
But not enough to allow the warmth to seep through
Fight me if you cease to care
And be ready for triumph to spew from the boulders you have created
To criticize a person with a crude controversy,
Is like stripping off one's clothes, in public, without mercy;
This has been, yet, a habit common in the social sphere,
Like drinking a cup of coffee or cheering in chilled beer...!
Lula da Silva, a member of the Workers' Party,
Trouncing Geraldo Alckmin, won people's support hearty;
He came to be known as the most popular president,
With wisdom and wit, he did blend his prime power advent...!
Poverty, inequality, joblessness, child labor,
Illiteracy, and infant deaths he did not favor;
Average wage morals and income modes molded and matched,
Ethos with education and health care got soon attached...!
Disputes erupted about him on and off like mushrooms,
Jailed and released as though a goat thief or burglar of brooms;
Elected president as though no speck of theft stuck him,
He was soon plagued by many corruption scandals grill grim...!
He fanned, like fuel wind, through fumes of filial fiddles,
Molded mildly and minutely, evil ethnic appeals;
Operation Car Wash exposed his treasure-hidden frauds,
He was found guilty of wads by all odds before law-gods...!
Nine-fingered (left-hand little finger lost in a mishap),
Like the Chinese cartoon rat escaped from many a trap;
Yet, when the hands of law and the divine amalgamate,
Could even a pirate great easily skate off his fate...???
21 April 2023
They say he's a loser Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
Hear the muttered snivel of our kids
Puked away to gloom, twinge and disease
Wrecked by creeds
To fulfill an antique mores
Whose ruin is beyond scientific darn
See the boulevards and the creeks
Before sight are male Mal-nourished toddlers
In rag togs, blistered feet, beseeching alms
And ingesting the remnants
From the poorest buffet
They toil in tackle capacity
Inversely allied to their weight
From sun rise to sunset
To earn much less than you
See the boulevards
How they stir; bunched
On the trot to any kind of dub
To good and to evil
Death becomes a familiar friend
At first light and at dark
From toil, food, water and sleep
Such a despicable way of live
But then the espoused antique mores, woes
Regenerated by ills of the society
To the blanketed vision of the moneyed
To plunge empathy and impious reliance of all
Can this be our way of life?
Trouncing fortunes to antique mores?
Reticence to rascality?
And nationhood to meanness?
Seize subtle see
Calm cheer claims choice
Enjoy empty
Notice numb noise
Touch trouncing tee
Soar spheres sightly
Sign special sense
Chide cramp content
Emote end etch
Note nice new next
Thrill tender trace
Sight sunny space
Sense slippery
Create calmly
Employ ending
Nicer needing
Treat treasures toil
Speak salient spoils
Sail solemn shores
Choose clever chores
Empty entice
Now nimble nice
Tokens tumble
Sensuous stumble
Straight seeing stays
Compress clear clay
Endow each etch
Noxious new next
Truth troubles text
Sign succinct sketch
Leon Enriquez
19 Apr 2014
Singapore
A slice of sea whisked its way up as wave
Spinning sun's refulgence whithin its whirl
The trouncing wind lashed it with ruinous rave
To toss and tear on shores its lustrous swirl
Silhouettes interred in silent sand grave
Reeked of ruddy remnants of comber brave
Date Jan 24 2017
Contest A Rhyme in 60
10 syllables each in six lines
ABABAA Rhyme scheme
bouncing
trouncing
flouncing
pouncing
Tiggers: bouncing, trouncing synergy
of pure flouncing, pouncing energy