Best Uncultured Poems
Shackles of cynicism have displaced your heart,
the love that once transcended time is no more.
No wordsmith can bring beauty to an invisible emotion,
lost in translation to an ignorant uncultured mind.
As you searched for a definition of the tangible,
intangible feelings were ignored, even with eyes shut.
Funny, how three words cause a chemical imbalance,
but the euphoria is short lived when ego takes hold.
Promises to comfort, wipe away tears, anguish and pain,
come with no guarantee of satisfaction - no refund for regret.
Love does not say when the fire is burning to wage war,
it provides an opportunity to nourish peace and harmony.
Love does not say to be bitter and live with a grudge,
it asks for you to forgive, not to antagonise another's soul.
In a world lost to materialistic commercialism,
the skeptic doubts like a pessimistic detractor.
Love is not like money, that must be reciprocated with interest,
it is simply an undetectable phenomenon that graces us all.
To some a second hand emotion, but the language of love
still remains the most powerful feeling known to humanity.
One tongue that has no religion, race nor geographical boundary,
which only fails to blossom when limits are implanted.
Silent One
Written 28 February 2016
Re posted 30 May 2018
Categories:
uncultured, analogy, love,
Form:
Free verse
Sometimes quotes are all that we leave behind... quote by poet
I told them I'm tired now
time stands still a casual acquaintance without breaths
death is not gracious just an unfaithful companion
sorrowful sombre soul slumbers
bound to uncharted waters I'm drowning..
loyal morning birds chant mournful melodies on repeat
strumming to heartbeats
mishmash medley of images reverberate repeatedly
regretful reminders
leave an emptiness behind
echoes float like ghosts..
I can hear a billion souls but I'm deaf free from those
bitter and remorseful ignorant uncultured
without realisation of words unspoken
what could have been should have been but was not
it's too late regret is an unfaithful belief
loved ones stare upon my grave shivers and silence
anguish and grief pain and relief
I'm paralysed
unable to rise
to wipe their tears and fears..
craving to have one more chance to make amends
to express my emotions to show greater devotion
it's too late nothing is immortal love we share only a memory
in times when my scent reappears smile that I existed
love with all of your heart..
I was never lost never found
misunderstanding led to impassive pretending
I became too preoccupied building walls
they failed to overcome and conquer
yet I was no fortress..
legacies left behind reveal with time
words written words unwritten surreptitious or controversial
unimportant for remembrance die with me
maybe grim reaper will listen...
Categories:
uncultured, death,
Form:
Free verse
You brought armfuls of dream
Want to parse the stream
They say you are made of cream
Bright and leading my tongue scream
What else was so sweet
This is your cross street
Always stand on its own feet
No matter how much the clock beat
Uncultured and out of control cars
Foolish drive from hours at the bars
Received license from the planet Mars
No wonder purple stars
Without you in my life my friend
Visiting hours are over ~ the end
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28.10.2015
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
3rd place in the contest
Categories:
uncultured, death, farewell, missing you,
Form:
Sonnet
It's a piece ripped from myself.
Truth brutally extracted for their musing.
They plead for me to bleed often.
Because they might find it soothing.
They delight when we suffer.
Nepotistic sadistic circle of acceptance.
They worship ruin expecting perfection.
Cheering you with a muted indifference.
I see your twisted game.
A sad view that's excruciating to feel.
Greedy survivors of inward starvation.
Stripping us and tossing away the peel.
We don't pander to the pawing.
Those who do find the abyss.
Truth remains externally unfound.
To the narrow mind, an impossible gyst.
I will gush blood until I'm dust.
But I will never sacrifice for them.
I do what I do because I must;
refusing their footing to effect or condemn.
My struggle to evolve is written.
Wounds laid bare for all to see.
You think it's for you.
It's how I get a better look at me.
-Angel Fatale-
Categories:
uncultured, america, analogy, culture, slam,
Form:
Rhyme
Hate is a geography
A floating continent really.
It spends most of its time
In the Far East (the Orient)
And moves west with the sun
To nourish its flowers and vines.
Its beasts will forever feed on your indignities
Catholic and otherwise.
Like every continent
Its got its rat eat rat cities.
These cities
The legal apparatuses
are always unhinged
And points towards
The punishment of the sleepless.
Punishment
That is
After all
the Catholic way
The endless sport
With no true winners
In the mind of the guilty.
Only you have declared
The residents of this town
As sexless
Unwashed
And uncultured.
A city of peasants
Who spend their time in church
Or behind a typewriter,
Computer and spewing
All vile and forgotten things
From the outdated theater of
Black and white ideas.
All with the grace of apes.
A city of apes
Whose lone desire
Is to break the backs of their youth
And be forgiven in a Sunday confessional.
Their backs were to be broken forward so
they can always bend at the foot of the cross
Of the holy
And rotting corpse.
As one great writer put it
“Does Christ ever get tired of bleeding?”
Though you have declared the rock n’ roll soul can heal anything
A dubious claim if you ask me,
As long as you can escape this city
And find a natural home
In another town where depravity
And sex flourishes.
But sooner or later
This continent will sink below the waterline
Until the next great
Betrayal.
Categories:
uncultured, angst, conflict, emo, feelings,
Form:
Narrative
If you are alive and on earth my brother
You better take every risk to succeed,
Even if you do not court any hazard
Existence is the biggest risk you must heed.
Some things about this life are just not fine.
You may gather remarkable wealth over time,
Skipping meals and working instead of sleeping
Until you end up with such abundance of dime;
But then your Jeep loses one of its speeding wheels
And you end up on the ice-cold slab of the morgue.
Some other lazy folks take over your hard-earned estate,
As other licentious rascals comfort your wife with a sinful song.
The biggest risk my uncultured brother
Is the fact that you live here on earth;
Here heavens give you the grace to make the world better,
And soon after the labor demise trims your mirth.
Something about our earthly existence is simply not alright.
You start the maturing of some expensive whisky, forty years in all;
If you are fifty, be sure other never-do-wells will sell your whisky,
Don’t think Azrael will watch you outlive the ninetieth fall.
So those impatient chaps will imbibe your distillation without gratitude,
Not even mentioning the name of the deceased fellow who brewed the thing,
And cursing the ‘idiot’ who made such a crisp thing to be by others imbued;
Not even humbled by the fact that the whisky is far much older than they!
Living is the greatest peril, man.
And if you dare attempt some funny suicide
To do away with the unbearable menace,
What do you think the final Judgment Council will decide?
That a brazen murderer you should burn forever.
You might be irreligious – but it’s a possibility still!
Categories:
uncultured, life,
Form:
Verse
As time flies, so her emotion swiftly fries,
As life frowns to dust, so her affection swiftly drowns to lust,
As love turns to coal, so her smile swiftly runs to the cold,
As sunset sets away, so her truth swiftly upsets the root of likeness, and erects away the boldness of trust,
but her hate doesn't rate me to roasted rat, because her hate is wingless, and no other can make her sweat and melt to hashes like I do.
Damn! I’m damned, if I get soak in her socking beauty,
Damn! I’m damned, if I get stolen by her golden smile,
Damn! I’m damned, if I don’t bench her lioness sex drive, I’ll infinitely feel less, like a quenched man.
Damn! I’m damned, if I merge with her chameleon cries and battalion kisses.
If I give in fully, just for the sake of ‘be a real man’, not 'a steel man',
my life will end up like the life of a North American bug, which inflicts painful bite on love and life.
When I transparently decide to give into love, all I get is:
Vultures smoking cigarette in an uncultured manner,
Kangaroo's doing Michael Jackson’s moonwalk in a live show in Cameroon,
Monkeys ordering for coffee, while wooing female donkeys
Zebras playing golf, with liberal views,
Lizards rearing Afro and trying to reawaken Lazarus from the dead,
Dingo's wearing costly tuxedos in Mexico, and speaking Spanish fluently,
Frogs driving Rang-Rove jeeps, in a foggy weather
Snakes wearing condoms to nibble into snacks,
Female Goats, wearing sexy underpants, to enable them float in a sinking Titanic boat
Bareheaded demons and bears drinking chilled bears together in a beheaded mood and using chilly pepper, to chill down their temper,
Horses babysitting housewives
I trip endlessly!
lost in a confused mood and temper, for she false me, she false me not.
I limp endlessly!
No matter how we try to put souls together to make our love bright and wealthy like the brightened face of Paris and the fat pocket of Las Vegas,
We always end up creating a poverty of love.
I have relentlessly tried praying forcefully for our love,
but I end up noticing that people, who aggressively pray the most for love, end up marrying angry praying-mantis.
I will just have to remain light-footed in love, and let her featherweight affections for me, turn to true feelings, or get carried away, because she false me, she false me not.
Categories:
uncultured, lost lovelife, me, hate,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
Often we talk of our
rich culture
And ask the
generations of
future
To follow it with
heart and soul
And to be proud of
its trends all
But some things make
me confused
For these trends are
often abused
What are the things
to be proud of
The things to be
preached loud of
Should I follow the
culture that teaches
To oppose the other
religious preaches
To oppose the
languages of others
To oppose the
sentiments of all
brothers
Should I feel proud
of the culture
That treats the
women like a minor
That harasses her
in a brutal way
That is ready all
the time to slay
That highlights the
caste discrimination
That never cares for
the respect of
nation
That feels joy in
smashing the weak
And deceiving others
to reach the peak
If all these are
good things of a
culture
They will not create
a human but a
vulture
To be uncultured I
would prefer
Before following
such a culture
Categories:
uncultured, men,
Form:
Lyric
Hobbies are for losers, and habits are hobbies for the poor,
But hopping into heaping piles of rubbish is haute couture.
What’s in, ladies and gentlemen, is what we want thrown out,
But not to own it but instead to be it is what it’s all about.
I doubt the likes of the uncultured swine who read are sure to know,
How to throw yourself in the garbage so here’s a do it yourself below.
First we listen to the radio, turn up that Taylor Swift,
And sing along as if, like her, you think you have a gift.
Then we watch the television to watch the newest episode of the View,
And listen to the hens upchuck their clucks on vomit’s gurgled cue.
Next we watch the nightly news with Lester the Mind Molester,
Whose stroke-like Fester face spits lisps like pussies named Sylvester.
So then we reflect on what we’ve seen and heard in the pot that’s hardly stirred,
And realize that what we prefer is to be free from the jaded herd.
Yet, the only way out is through the trash,
Since we need the herd to earn the cash,
To pay for before we’re buried or ash,
So just jump in the dump with a sassy splash.
Categories:
uncultured, america,
Form:
Couplet
"Hurry up!" yells Mom, "the hack is coming 'round the bend!"
Another torturous day of school, won't this agony ever end?
With a fried egg sandwich in my Roy Rogers box for lunch,
I climb aboard to join that gloomy and sullen bunch!
What a disgusting horde of waifs each morn I must face.
Unwashed mugs with bits of breakfast showing a little trace!
The bus reeked of fried eggs, oranges and other exotic things.
What an unkempt and uncultured mass of little human beings!
The only ray of sunshine in that long and wearisome ride,
Was when my puppy love asked me to sit down by her side.
The other highlight of the day was when we were homeward bound;
A more exuberant gaggle of kids on earth could not be found!
Mr. Frank had driven the same old bus for years and years,
But still ground steel as he double-clutched to change the gears.
When getting stuck in a three foot drift of snow,
He would rock to and fro in his seat to get the bus to go!
A special treat that made us kids so very happy and gay;
Mr. Frank gave us a bag of candy to savor on Christmas Day!
Long forgotten rides on trains and planes were quite a thrill,
But memories of school bus rides remain with me still!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
uncultured, childhoodday, me,
Form:
Rhyme
Poor me;
My heart has become a tool in the hands of fate,
Maybe it is true; nature is weak.
Like winds in the coast,
Am now an addict of her presence.
I look at her eyes and forget my existence.
It is true; the mystery men call love, has taken hold of my heart.
In the blooms of the sunrise,
My love for her springs awake,
Uncultured feelings that continuously mocks my courage
Could this be the magical feeling my grand mother once told me?
At the eclipse of her presence,
Her fragile hands make my lips tremble with fear.
My princess, please take away your beauty from my weak and helpless eyes:
For there in, is the fortress of my weakness.
I only prayed for a lover.
But in my princess is a slayer.
She slays me every second and restores me back with the blooms of her unequalled beauty.
A spirit and courage to savage all tender moments,
I ask from God.
Through pains and the first blood of innocence,
I would make my lover bound to me.
So she wouldn’t let me off her arms, even beyond the cost of rubies.
BY: IKPESU PRINCE IGHO
Categories:
uncultured, beauty, best friend, crush,
Form:
Didactic
In these days, we prayed -SERIES-
"TELL FREEDOM"
June 10, 2017
TELL FREEDOM
‘ The Black Soul ‘
TELL FREEDOM
Sanity was dressed in filth
And nobody recognized her.
The long days and warm nights
Sped along, chased one another,
And were lost in time.
And time,
Man, and something within him
Conspired against him and his innocence.
While the darkness of the land
Rushed on to meet him.
Suddenly, three overgrown and uncultured
White boys were about him.
"I'll have this one,
“A ginger-headed lad said.
"What's the matter?" He asked em.
"You're going to fight us,"
The ginger-headed lad replied.
"We fight fair," another added.
"I don't want to fight you", The black boy pleaded.
"You'll fight!" the white boys iterated.
But for what reason should I fight you?
"We want to kill you!" they replied.
"For what crime?" He screamed.
"You're black," one of the white lad said.
"Ready!"
"For this much all men know:
Despite compromise,
War, struggle,
The black man is not free.
The ***** is not free
For he plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always tolerance, abject and mute,
The receipts of his forced labours cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall he delight their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
A black man was not made eternally to weep.
For it’s a known fact that:
‘A black man only exist
In this world,
Without truly Living?’.
Godwin Henry Osaigbovo Pa Shakespeare
Categories:
uncultured, africa, freedom, time, travel,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Amid Sun rays
Through the hole of creak open
Morning sun rays entered the room
In juvenile and strength romance of dust particles
As usual first sip of morning tea
Why did not give fresh and spirit
In the length of life’s running game
A bundle of yesterdays due
Not wanting to open in today’s schedule
Slowly standing from the bed desire opened the window
Glamorous yellowish rays of the sun
From the east has risen towards south
Usual change of colour silver noted hour’s principle
A game of thought always peeps in the heart
Filling deep breath in lungs wanted to revitalize breaths
Column of news paper did not delight
A case of child immolation pinched heart
Civilisation still could not give a success
Where will be that peace and rest before death
Far in the branch of tree a crow cawed
Heart should not be immensely terrorised
Why circumstances too devoured kid of 5
Everyday sunk heart not finding as water, air pure
Uncultured other’s importance calls daily death unnatural
Sleep and bliss violate rights of live happily
Modern men’s imperfect selfishness kills poor girls
Why teaching, does not work, pundit of peace
Everywhere cracks are full to demolish others right.
Categories:
uncultured, city, conflict, crush, culture,
Form:
Blank verse
The poison has been applied again,
the blade has cut deep,
Each branch is gnarled;
my leaves are few,
my thorns grow large,
my flowers small,
So what if I am the weed?
The uncultured peasant,
the bastard flower.
Do you blame me for
Cursing at the rose, or
Whining about the Iris,
Shadowing above the pansy?
Should I not push my roots deep?
Show my face to the sun ?
Am I not of god too?
Yet the gardeners hand holds
no compassion, his eyes give no love,
His speeches of plucking
And cultivating is not
for inspiring the culled.
So piss on the gardener!
I‘ll Shove my roots deeper,
and pray for more thorns.
Categories:
uncultured, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
The Music Room
By Elton Camp
Mrs. Van Snoot, of the arts is a patron
She’s a stuffy, self-righteous matron
Who wants all, her virtues to see
Of any vices, she is entirely free
In the fundamentalist church, she’s a pillar
Pure living and sobriety are what thrill her
“Liquor’s never passed my lips,” she said
“Before I’d imbibe, I’d far rather be dead.”
Late afternoon and well into the night
In her music room she’s locked up tight
A huge bass fiddle is on display
It serves in a decidedly uncultured way
For its front can be pushed aside
A well-stocked bar it does hide
Mrs. Van Snoot loves wine, whisky, & gin
Completing the rounds, she starts again
Enjoying culture, for her, goes so far
And then she needs to visit her bar
Categories:
uncultured, funny, music, music,
Form:
Rhyme