Best Unpoetic Poems
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
Because my brilliant hooks read indirect,
But bait directly one illiterate,
They likely slip stripped fish-net intellect,
Thus, now, I’ll lure completely different:
Just like the redwood trees that grow sooooooo tall,
Gapetto’s puppet’s nose Pinocchios,
And since I’m not a strung-out ancient doll,
I guess it’s you who picks the snotty rose.
You might believe you harness magic string;
The pixie dust of Pan in Neverland;
But don’t forget what came of Gollum’s ring
Once Frodo lost a finger from his hand -
It was rewound, re-reeled, forged gleefully,
Forever lost in false reality.
3/18/2017
Note: In keeping with John’s “Something Completely Different - Monty Pythonesque” theme I wrote this after randomly pointing to 14 different words in a Hustler magazine article that I then forced myself to integrate into a sonnet, one per line, in the order they were selected and implemented a rule of “no-edits” after a line was complete. The list went like this:
hooks, *****baits, fish-net, I’ll, grow, nose, strung-out, guess, harness, never, what, finger, glee, lost
"Time to take the Soup off the stove,"
a little birdie whispered in my ear:
'Tis the Sabbath Queen that's drawing near."
But the Soup's not done, I dared to say
in an unpoetic, defiant way
The little birdie just looked at me
with pity, but not with sympathy
Shook his head and moved his beak:
"Sabbath's come; the Soup is done.
~ So's all your work for this week!"
A day’s routine so easily holds me captive.
I confess to mindless, museless departures,
Brainless unpoetic habits so unreflective,
That I cannot dwell in momentary textures.
But January ripens oranges on my neighbor’s tree,
Marking spring’s beginning in California.
Midwestern groomed; such play awakens me.
Fat, lush oranges tumble all over the area.
Bold bright balls, they must be painted,
Landing in my drive, my car mashes them.
With this mortal crush, I breach life sacred.
Yet, once I eat one, it’s no longer a problem.
Tree of oranges brings fruit reviving passion.
Luscious harvest renewal of vibrant conception.
Resting your eyes
through the tears slowly falling
Feeling the ache
of the loneliness seep
Thinking what if,
though it bears not a reason
Silence is loud
as you fall off to sleep
Life is a joy
holding days that are heavy
Nothing it seems
ever runs quite as planned
Distance becomes
something so unpoetic
Hearts tend to hurt,
that you must understand
Still if you look
back on moments so happy
Words you have shared
on the edge of the stage
Chapters become
what we hopefully make them
Offering thoughts
as you’re turning the page
Each day will find
there’s an end to the rainbow
No pot of gold
but so much more it seems
No one is lost
if we always remember
Soon we will see them
again in our dreams
“The Legendary Adventure Moments of Doctor Hermione Baggins the Reddish of Winterhold, The Master Sith Rainbow Lord Lulu Pucca, Cloud Kitty Carla Chandra the Ruby Rose, and Rand O'From Equestria the Darken Raw Snow vs The Strange A.A. or Perhaps B.S. Educated Scotties Homer Pilgrim’s Search for More Resources by Destroying the Galaxy to Make Way for a Interstellar Lightspeed Railway or Was It a Fishing Pond?”
Apathetic the game will continue on anyway
“Bidet,” a person points, "first door on the right in the hallway"
Celtic orchestrated melody commences to play
Drastic the GM in a serious voice proceeds to convey
“Exotic treasures will be rewarded at the story's endplay
Frederick and Scotty have threatened to destroy the floodway
Galactic dragons will soon have control of the realms gateway
Heretic man wearing the scarlet hand is on the highway
Icteric smiles seeing the party ‘do you have an issue?’”
“Judgematic paladin, what course of action will you do?”
“Kinesthetic, I'll flash step next to him and use my kung fu”
Laconic, looking over at the monk, “not your turn Lulu”
"Majestic I promenade over and address this mildew"
Novelistic I say, ‘the dragons, and mage, I must melee’”
“Optimistic the NPC rolls a 16 and tries to outplay
Panic soon kicks in as the druid and monk cross the pathway”
Quadraphonic sounds play as the initiative ensues
"Rollick, the monk and I go over, but I just rolled a two”
“Slapstick the heretic encounters the paladin’s swordplay
Tragic it's late and we must stop the story right here today
Unpoetic I know but we'll pick up again next Wednesday"
Updated 5/14/2019
Earthworm is dying in sun.
A lone poet,
an unpoetic family.
An Opinion
Does "old age" have its own rewards?
I have reached a point in my life when
I am inclined to say: yes. Yes.
Often, old age is accompanied
by aches, in body and in mind.
Our youthful vigor is long gone.
We miss those no longer with us.
Age does not magically bestow
mythical "wisdom" as is trumpeted.
I am not very much wiser at 81
than I was at scarcely fourteen.
Somewhat slower on the uptake, I'm
no hungry sponge absorbing input
without loss of clarity or of comprehension.
Aged, I have hearing deficits, "mental fogging",
and don't control strange stray thoughts.
Even my delusions aren't as vivid.
This is due to hormonal changes as I age.
I'm greatly bothered by absence
of family, treasured friends...and lovers.
I mean all those I myself have loved,
platonically or otherwise. I do not tout
a rapid end to life. Despite discomfits,
it's much better to be alive --- save
for agonizing pain -- than to be
unrevivably dead. Living in others'
memories is poetic but isn't an
incentive for terminal departure.
I've listed my unpoetic opinion.
I encourage all: live life. Have no thought
or wish to speed its end. Nonexistence
is permanent, ever looming -- unavoidable.
Live and derive pleasure and some worth
from our unique (but very common) human
process of growth and aging. At all its stages
life's much more than paltry preparations for
an ending. We are lucky to be old, human, organically
still viable. Live with the intent to thrive!
Urban dictionary says "narwhal; an amazing, magical combination of a unicorn and whale"- oh ok,
I'm sure one can find beautiful things about a narwhal. The same way we find beautiful things in raindrops and matching sock. And like all beautiful things we write about there are always things that threaten the inhabitants of those thoughts implanted in our subconscious. There is something so personal about comparing ourselves to beautiful things and then pinning terrible things to the people that make us unbeautiful.
Like... I am a narwhal. And how I swim through my sea of thoughts, filled with colorful imagination. And how the only thing that makes me thankful for the Horn on my existence is you. Sleeping soundly in the oil spills that linger in my blowhole- despite the fact that the word "blowhole" is super unpoetic! Even more than the word super.
But that's how you make my little metaphorical narwhal heart feel! You're the one with the harpoon words and gallons upon gallons of wasteful, wishful thinking that you're better than me. GOD DIDNT GIVE A UNICORN HORN! HUH?! No that was ME!
‘my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with
iridescent shapes of
you’
I'm reading this again...
probably not the best thing
for me to read at this moment.
sending off...hmm?
do you still feel the same?
a ramble of unpoetic lines
shoved together haphazardly
if the power of words can kill
then
I’m butchering a pig—
—blood as virtual ink!
…pathetic
not poetic…
comparing my ‘poetry’
to yours
my UNpoetry
yet,
you say—
—you claim to love it
sending off—
—do you still feel the same?
‘my eyes’
-coming ‘round full circle-
‘with a film over them’
—just incase—
you’ve forgotten
[my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with
iridescent shapes of
you]
‘clouding them with’
-repeated-
‘iridescent shapes of’
—not quite—
‘you’
sending off—
—do you still feel the same?
do you
still
feel the same?
its very hard to say who i love the most
i love all poets from coast to coast
dickenson, poe, frost, shakespere
an endless line of poets i fear
but when it comes to real poetry
and some not all may agree
there is none better than sorrow or greif
to bring to life ones poetry
they awaken a ghost living inside me
holding my attention ever so silently
they share our spaces with a sombre pride
tell their stories with tears in eyes
they aim there words at broken hearts
and with a tired line they start
others unpoetic they wail
but all from abuse and death they hail
they bring the words that stir our equlibrium
make us cry when our spirits meet with them
laughter and happiness they have their place
but saddness and toil you cannot erase
i'll screem my sorrows as high
as the listening skyes
rage with anger as if my soul died
and with my words dampen every eye
inspire, unite, defy, denigh and teach
make it seem as though i preach
make them look up to the stars
and think about there own scars
(I would have won that contest.)
......"Leave you slumpt on the dutty streets........
...I dunno where you from..But....thats how its done in east".....
Was what a pathetic chav so full of snide had once said
Those words turned prophetic once he'd knifed a lad to death.
An unpoetic wannabe gangsta
One deadbeat thuggery wanka
The Whideboy who couldn't rap
His lines wouldn't rhyme and his timing was crap
Who thinks a balaclava makes a man harder?
Only scared little wussies
An big fooking pussies
An pricks like gangsta wannabees.
So many ways he preys with a blade
When he got denied by a date
Then he tried his hand at her rape
Intimidation with no hesitation
Prisons waiting your destination
A God given blessing convenient
Knifes gone missing where it went
And the only witness except the late
Is the lowly convict and his mate
If the victim's slain and laid to rest
Makes it easier to blame self defence
Maybe he's a one off the rude sheep of the clan
Let's see how many more of his crews deep in the slam
I don't use words like SCUM lightly
It won't be untoward it's just and rightly
A quick flick through the dicks
Facebook wall told you it all
And gave me the answer
He's a wannabe gangsta, A TOTAL TOOL.
I bet he'll become a Love ***** in prison
Get really chub and give some bosom.
poetry
beautiful, romantic
reading, composing, musing
poesis, literature, essayistic, unrhymed
writing, paragraphing, clustering
wordy, unpoetic
prose
to whom I offend
gift my unpoetic end ~
I fall on my pen
I should have been contented with squeezing out
neat verses from jumbled, random thoughts,
with fashioning stanzas pretending profundity,
and with dashing off lines of serious lyrical nonsense.
I should have been detached and insulated
from pedestrian dalliances with the raw jubilations
and searing sorrows of the all-too-familiar souls.
I should have taken to heart the art of being aloof
to the stirrings of the mind about what to you
are such artless triflings with good and evil,
with justice and inequity, with ethics in politics.
Then I would have been to you a true poet,
your cold comrade at the shrine of your stoic art
of the brain, not of the heart.. but I'm the unpoetic.
.