Best Uninteresting Poems
7/9/20
"Sickening"
This is sickening
And quickening
Not at all, what I was envisioning
Nobody listening
Most chickening
Fidgeting
And limiting
Themselves to the point of being crippling
The effects rippling
And tripling
On top of it, we've got social distancing
Still dribbling
I've been chiseling
And scribbling
No matter what has been incoming
Pivoting
And occasionally grimacing
The temperature freezing, cold, mild or sizzling
The weather icy, windy, calm, scorching or drizzling
Clowns continue giggling
Petty people are still belittling
Over every little thing
Not all that riveting
It's becoming uninteresting
Sometimes I sip, sometimes I swig
Sometimes I flip the script
Even though sometimes it's rigged
Before opportunities are shriveling
And dwindling
Got to get it quickly
And differently
Meanwhile all senses are tingling
I never understood " alone in a crowd" until now.
They smile, they don't know.. and I smile back.
The ice cream tastes flat..uninteresting.
The full moon is just........round.
I know the spring is glorious, but I don't care.
Is this the face of depression? The moving from
grey to black? The guilt of feeling this way..
After a talk with a friend who is depressed
Another crossroad.
Invalids weep when
wearing another's
soiled diapers suddenly
disappear.
In spite of the battered off-chance -
from a despondent interruption;
I'm the exposed exception.
Coarse fingers bleed.
My wheelchair spokes
are hardly friendly.
I proudly bawl when no one
can see me bow my head
amongst the company of
irreverent observers.
At rest
with this solemn disease -
the embrassing stench of inhumanity
forces me to open a
newly glass-stained window.
I whisk swallowed past-killings
onto bent steel hangers.
Neatly there, they elegantly droop -
angled and uninteresting;
in a dank closet where
falsified myths
and I
silently hide.
Leukemia, I personally, thank you.
Mid wives laugh at me.
Jesters poke a crooked finger, also.
Kings, queens
and jacks are left behind.
I chuckle, too - with an
unbridled Lucille Ball lament.
Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon;
the uninviting hospice where we
comfortably bed together
crocheting darned finales.
Say farewell.
Don't tell anyone.
Blood bleeds beyond
frowned staled dales and
expiration is a personal moment.
Daddy and Mommy need to witness
the definition of
an unwarranted demise.
Open ended the
Grimm fairy tale concludes,
without a finely tuned
Aesop moral,
leashing the braille-exhausted
onto another muddied
crossroad.
Bergman Numbers
... there are no uninterest—
ing positive whole numbers—
“because if there were, there would—
be a smallest one, and the—
property of being the—
smallest uninteresting
number would be…be? You see?”
Thanks to Prof.
--- George Bergman
Emer. Prof. Math.
UC Berkeley
*Poetry&Mathematics—A square: the number of syllables in a line equals the number of lines.
Have you ever imagined the world we live without women?
It is like a lung without some oxygen, agonizing and inevitably dead,
A face never with a smile, boring and unfriendly.
A cup of tea without some grains of sugar, bitter and foul,
A pool without some water, dry and empty,
A good ride on a bad untilled road, rough and uninteresting,
The earth without some drops of rain, an inescapable famine,
But how come with the great number of women on planet earth?
We still live to cry as a reggae legend sang “no woman no cry”,
It is because they permit evil as much as they permit good,
Gullible and instrumental in the hand of the wicked ones,
Ugly and nice, beautiful and dangerous,
Cunning like serpents, deceitful like chameleon,
Holy but liars, having a form of godliness but highly ungodly,
Lovely like little puppies, sweet like bees honey,
Women, an invincible force in our our world today.
(c) 2010
Oh I'm sorry I didn't get it,
not to worry I won't forget it.
In order to win, it's not the contest,
but rather the spin. The more stupid
the parameters, the more ignoresponses
from amateurs. The more moronic the
directions, the more sophomoric
the reactions. Could u b more
histrionic in your language
glucolic, never ending of cliché
pre ponderunceses of innane
uninteresting plainjane, U r a poet because u
have PAID the big $$$ dues and have special
powers of words/phrase lifeology. All will be yours
in member recognition, regardless of yr ignonill offerings
according to this site NOTALENTU.
True is the phrase you
really do get what u pay for. (Please don't end a sentence
with a preposition?)
Real words, dimensions come from a place within;
deep, dank, dark non existant and incoporeal of anything reality based.
U can't pull emo tensions off the top like adding cream
to yr coffee. Poetry is a gutterial personification of the fecal life
that inhabited u as an earthling offspring not chosen
to a family of illgotten gain origin. Given the noncapacity to provide the common
requirements for sociosill survival.
All of u can smooch my **** premise, bend over to shake my
gonadal good interntions as u pissprose praise one another
each other as OMG, yr choice of emotional integrity resonates with my
soulful intent to do better in the world. Throw up here. Vomit
victims filled remorse and no coital containment
u must be kidding when u set up these contests and yr stupid
rules that only u r to privy. To make yrself look literate above all others.
U stink like a skunk that is dead in a trunk. Oh the stinch
is so much that my nose I must pinch. Get off yr high
horse and get with the crowd, as yr present purpose I must protest
to LOUD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Write what u feel and For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge
forget the rest. Bend over.
"Grey Rock"
I am just a Grey Rock. With all the rest I blend
To keep away a narcissist, an enemy not a friend.
If I remain uninteresting, unattractive, and dull,
I am like a stalk of corn with no corn to hull.
A Grey Rock attracts no attention to a narc's eye
And therefore, won't be fodder for a narc's supply,
Which, for their survival, they require upon to feast,
To fill in their black hole, they have from satan, leased.
A narcissist needs drama to feed on and thrive,
Along with flying monkeys to keep their goals alive,
Of destroying others to give themselves a lift.
Otherwise, through life, they aimlessly will drift.
So, if I seem rather quiet, in the background, faded,
It's to stay in the shadows, where I am and feel shaded.
From time to time I'll be more than a Grey Rock in a pile,
But solitude brings me a peaceful living style.
Perhaps, the narcissist, who's been stalking me for years
Will become very bored and afflicted with the drears,
When he finds he is being no longer entertained,
Because my presence by him cannot be obtained.
Since technology enables him to my life, invade,
Being just a Grey Rock, blended, in the shade,
Disables his intrusion by squelching his desire.
Where there are no sparks, there can be no fire.
Being dull, unattractive, boring, unappealing,
Has been peacefully rewarding and too, revealing.
A Grey Rock, from a narc, attracts no attention.
Hence, all the more reason to pursue this intention.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2019-02-23 11:08:00 (EST)
All rights reserved.
A man in his later years enjoys a cigar.
He holds a fat brown rolled stogie with his fingers to his lips.
He puckers at the end of the stimulating stump, pulling a large puff.
He lights his vice with a blow torch.
Blue, red, yellow flame jets out the end of a curved steel tube.
He is balding and grey with whiskers.
Puckering and squinting casually his skin reveals fine wrinkles.
A dark green frame with round clear lenses sets on a large triangular nose.
His clothes are plain:
a button collar shirt with tiny blue checks,
a dark blue puffed coat, a tan denim bib.
His hands are large with fingers like sausages.
He holds his cigar and torch like a gorilla enjoying fruit.
At times only a moment matters.
The best things in life are not always sophisticated.
Experience and simplicity allow senses to be the only luxury needed.
People relish their vices
after youth and excess have revealed what is common and uninteresting.
It is the process of feeling what is familiar and different about the moment
which drives people in later years to enjoy an awareness of their senses
rather than any perception driven by language.
If there's one thing that keeps this old lamp burning
It's love dear friends, it's love
The ultimate of human emotions without doubt
There's no greater feeling above
When true love evolves, the fireworks begin
Things have a brand new glow
What once was boring and quite uninteresting
Is intriguing as life starts to flow
Things like the aroma of coffee in the morning
Or the amazing freshness of spring
The voice of a robin singing it's sweet song
Just a few of these simple things
They make us aware of this world we live in
And wonders that never cease
The trees, the rivers, the sun and the clouds
Leave us with a feeling of peace
Each of us is only a speck in the universe
But as vital as kings and queens
So give thanks to our creator dear Mother Nature
And wonder at what all of this means
If there's one thing that keeps the old lamp burning
It's love dear friends, it's love
© Jack Ellison 2015
My favorite time of year
is Halloween.
It's the one day out of the year
when everyone else wears a mask, instead of just me.
I am reclusive very,
retarded socially
and as uninteresting as dull can possibly be.
Some may hear this and totally disagree,
because they see what I allow them to see only.
They see my mask that I wear publicly
whenever I'm in situations socially.
Behind my mask I am reaching out desperately
to assimilate the behavior of others I have studied
who find themselves entertaining others socially.
Inevitably it all ends up being too much work for me
and so I return back to my life of reclusive solitary
and remove my mask alone at home where no one can see
the reclusive very, retarded socially,
uninteresting as dull can possibly be,
ME.
A Desert-Like Heart
Full of emptiness
droughty
love is absent
misery rules
no river of joy
water's scarcity
a vacant-void
abandoned
like a refuse
ignored
like an uninteresting entity
loneliness reigns
whom to love ?
who loves ?
nothing to cultivate
because it's waterless
no growth
no life
no taste
but isolation
a shameful galaxy.
Drencho POET Loads
Stimulating ideas pop into your head
You need a pen…you need a piece of lined paper
It looks like you’re outtah luck…no wonder you’re drowning in dread
You need a shoulder to lie your head down for a moment’s rest…
You need a helper…to aid you while you struggle emotionally…
I’m not trying to irritate you purposely
Try with all your might…try your best
To stay optimistic and fervent
I believe that you’ll pass the test
Be upbeat, kindhearted and jubilant
I appreciate the words you wrote on my notebook…
Sometimes, I feel like leftovers left on the counter…
I’m a rotten mess – you’re leaving me as if I’m an uninteresting book
Sometimes, I feel like a coward – I don’t mean to bother…
But, you’re like no other . . .
You’re like a mat – you’re constantly stepped on…
I’m like YOUR unwanted tool –
I stepped on you and
Pushed your buttons
I accused you of being the fool
When, in fact, I’m the fool by your side…
You’re drifting…pushing me aside…
I’m writing words of truth though –
Expressing how much I’m fond of you
I esteem your presence
Glowing with glee
At times, you do say things without thinking
I’m the god of distress –
You’re leaving me breathless
Cutting me down like I’m some decaying tree
You don’t see how much you make me…
Guilty for your crimes
Taking the blame about the hundredth time
At times, I feel that I’m awkward when I’m around you
You’re like a backpack – you carry everyone’s weight…
You’re like a sponge – soaking in our stress
I’m a distraction to you – you’re wasting valuable time…but don’t hesitate
I’m writing words of self-centered feelings – logic doesn’t exist…
But these feelings aren’t as bad as committing a crime
These feelings come and go – I just had to confess
I didn’t mean to screw up your progress…
Hey, if you need a few sheets of paper to right on,
Use me like a notebook instead…and write with all your might
It seems as if you read me…like a book that drags on and on
Use me as your tool of relaxation… and read me all night
When you wrote those words on my notebook…
It made my day…you’re such a delight
Like reading a fascinating, classic book
We used to go to museums –
frequently –
There were favorite artists:
Picasso
Matisse
Giacometti (especially Giacometti)
Henry Moore (never passed up a Henry Moore)
deKooning
Calder
Oldenburg
Oh, yes, and Francis Bacon
Lucien Freud
and Georgia O'Keefe
I could go on,
but you get the idea
Painters were favored –
20th century greats
and a few who straddle the 21st
We don't always agree
but we have roiling discussions
I like Franz Kline and Robert Motherwell –
not his favorites –
No dispute that Philip Guston
should have chosen another profession
(what's with that shoe sole and cigar,
and pink? dreadful)
Now we wander from gallery to gallery
wondering what happened to all the talent
and why we don't respond to
multi-media (too frenetic)
square boxes (too simple)
steel slabs on the floor (uninteresting)
piles of junk (more like detritus)
And what's with those neon signs
Very puzzling –
this response to visual art –
and mystifying –
Like all viewers
we know what we like
Like all viewers
we also believe our preferences are superior
But, no matter,
looking at art –
perpetual pleasure
If this was my last
poem, I should suffer
immeasurably.
I’d wake
late in the day-
there’d be nothing
in the early light
of collective awakening
to record in cursive letters.
I’d eventually lose
my sight
for irony and ecstasy
in the mundane, then
life would be perfectly
uninteresting.
The ream of used printer paper
recycled for blotted thoughts
would gather dust
and no more dreams.
This pen would be left
in an old coffee mug,
standing nib-up
until its ink dried. When
taken later to quickly scribble
an address or number
it would grate
angrily against
the grain.
I’d let my wrist
loose and jerk
the pen and the air
would be moved
to whip me.
I’d feel shame
for once
I had used this pen
as a whip.
Another day ends with insipid sun
One more uncertain season
Another month ebbs slowly invariably gone
One more uninteresting month another reason
Each bulb impressively pushing old soil up
So absented from every winter irritation
The orchestrated plants unite drinking along nature’s everlasting cup,
Invigorated refreshed, outdoor rains unbidden now and so equip spring’s irrigations
Now offering beautiful uniformity, colours ablaze ferociously
Ever changing illusions painting over the untamed soil
All struggling evermore to imitate natures ordered ways
Unbeatable colours abound, Mother Earth delights in toil
Overlong tall upright grasses allow seeds easy dispersal
Insects dancing on flowers undulating formations.
Accustomed we ever become inclined to ogle things universal
Nature abounds with ever more interesting luscious opulent flirtations
Untold species all working ever closer in harmonious obligation
So unlocking faces all smiling even now in sunbathed oblations still unseen
Yet authenticating spring, escaping winter in fulfilling overall nature’s unification.
© ~GG~ 22/03/2013
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