To campaign
in poetry
but govern
in prose
Words stretch
till breaking
integrity
blown
Promising
everything
sins
unconfessed
Bombast
and pander
the charlatans
— best
(The New Room: July, 2025)
Let’s cut right through
the bombast ...
your camouflage of words
And redefine
the essence ...
of what you’ve never learned
Your double-talk
pontificates ...
to lure and to distract
Whose lies deride
wherein you hide ...
from what the truth exacts
(The New Room: February, 2025)
Strutting
in place
Message
defaced
Words left
to spew
Bombast
in view
Worshipping
mirrors
Begging
for fame
Image
debasing
Vanity’s
— claim
(The New Room: March, 2025)
I’m reading the paper real fast;
Don’t know just how long this’ll last
But my gut gets inflamed
When the culprit (unnamed)
Fills the page with his awful bombast.
By and by, there’ll be news I can read
But no politics, that’s guaranteed,
Or I’ll stick to my books
Where, if there are some crooks,
They get punished for each dirty deed.
Hear our voice
From the east, west, south, and north
Hear our independence
This July Fourth
Like flowers in bloom
In the night
See the chandeliers
Hang in the sky
With crescendos and
Reds, blues and whites
Explosions and commotion
In the battle lights
In the bomb blasts and bombast
Crimsons, umbers and beige
Like the dawn’s breaking light
Mauves, cobalts and jades
All the high-lights and sky-lights
Caught by the American’s eye
It's In the fodder of the diviner’s rod
In the wizardry of July
Am I in a dream
Only as it may seem
I am music, I am the notes
You once were the wreckage on which my soul floats
Now I am the maestro, I am also first chair
And now the crescendo (and you are not there)
And it's okay that it's not you (I've found someone new)
All colors came from three
The primary Trinity
Amaranth, Burlywood and blue
Phlox and Pesimmons to name a few
Magenta, Tawny, Zaffre and Zomp
It's bomb blast and bombast and pomp
Under pacto arco iris
We have our first kiss
The world welcomes lovers
Especially the giddiness from under the covers
And so it is an eternal dream we seek
"If I spend $2.98 on a dream
It should at least last a week"
Do you treasure
perplexity
strive to confuse
doubting the obvious
pandering the ruse
Do you live inside
cloud cover
avoiding the sun
exposure avoided
your fear on the run
Do you hide
behind bombast
the panderer’s lie
your costumes unchanging
as truth you deny
Do you wander
left aimless
your ego unbound
to cry from the wasteland
— bereft and unfound
(County Line: April, 2024)
Not lying outright
is far from the truth
Hesitance vacuous
barren of fruit
What never gets said
deceitfulness hides
Stalking and preying
while buried inside
The pulpit a soapbox
lectern a mask
Pontification
deceptions bombast
Wittingly fervent
the devil subverts
False implication
—the ultimate hurt
(Dreamsleep: February, 2023)
In with a bang out with a whimper
Gone is the bombast, the fist pumping high,
The people have voted for a country that's simpler
Fairness and decency their blaring war cry.
Obstinate tweets well may he air
While brooding and scheming for legal dog-fights,
That darkness and gloom he'll pervasively share
Will always be trumped by hope's purest lights.
We as a people believe above all
That the footsteps we walk are of giants untold,
Where no single man with bluster and gall
Will trample the feats of our heroes of old.
This not to say a man with great charge
Cannot some good things bring into our lives,
But where we do not want such man to just barge
Lies within that true heart our Nation so drives.
So as with winter where leaves fall and die
While circling clouds block the sun's warming rays,
Spring's blossoms first peek initially shy
Exploding as one to a flowering blaze.
Shouts, Yells, Screams, Rants, Raves
Bullhorn-magnified Bombast
"Decapitate him!"
Why don't the police stop it?
What happened to enforcement?
FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL
I tower above the crumbling ruins
Of a once majestic tower,
Flag and pennant proudly proclaimed
Pompous claim of pelf and power.
Yet all the boast and bombast,
In crumbling silence relates,
Of transient tenebrous things,
Of fickle times, of fickler fates!
Filigreed fronds in gentle sway,
Butterfly-hued my petals smile,
Delicate poise, yet firmly gripped
By roots who’ve been awhile.
So here I sit so up on high
Exuding sweet allure,
Biding time in changing climes
To wilt and die for sure.
But then, again, I’ll never die!
My seed will traverse to distant land
In nurturing avian gut to drop
In crag or cranny - to make its stand.
(And phoenix-like I'll rise again!)
A lecherous neophyte he preyed
upon their folded hands and closed eyes
bathed in their dolorous mumblings
sated himself on their penitential inhibition
Left them to flounder hopelessly - adrift
drowning in his vitriolic bombast
a hard burning scent of incense
left to smolder in their souls
for Providence had delivered them - to him
©6/16/2019
Eight word free verse challenge Poetry Contest
John Hamilton sponsor
Of late, nature moans inside a scraped womb
As her lush environ FLOUNDERS breaks out…
Played like a trusting NEOPHYTE from woods to rivers
She endures the BOMBAST of dirt through man’s crimes:
Awaiting kindness …amends remain undone
While LECHEROUS deeds persist without guilt, why, why?
More wrongs ravage innocent fish and flora
Infecting her very marrow, to drain away.
Loot, SMOLDER, rip a body ! Time runs out.
Mother Earth answers through bloodied jolts…
By will of PROVIDENCE, she whips a storm without INHIBITION
Halting indifference, her fire scalds air’s layers,
A battle citizens might grow DOLOROUS over--
Until her soul is nourished back, till she moans no more.
-----------
Eight Word Free Verse Challenge
For John Hamilton’s Contest 6/13/2019
her thoughts, dolorous, often smolder in her mind
long before they are penned upon paper
often crumpled and disregarded
like kindle for a fire
they call them poems anyway
she is inferior, a mere neophyte
fueled by inhibition
that flounders her way through life
and on the page alike
yet they call her poet
perhaps she has the providence
from her youth as her guide
to rid those memories
or spark the fire that burns
as she pens what they call poetry
she doesn't see her worth
between her words
or lecherous stares
cast from unworthy men
that burnt through her soul
she remembers only
a collection of bombast thoughts
that haunt her mind
as she writes them out
then damns them
through the flames of memory
yet they call it poetry
June 12, 2019
Sometimes sun rays feel deliciously nutritious
in delightful ways upon my then titillated skin.
Sometimes early dawn’s ideal golden streaks
smolder atop the ocean in ways that awe me.
At those times, I flounder trying to unscramble
my power to articulate all my feelings convey.
When ocean waves cascade then fade crashes
with a blustering, continuing bombast-style,
it seems a brag of guile lacking any inhibition.
Sometimes my emotions sense a divine providence
of mysterious insist in a glorious, intricate sea.
Sometimes I feel an existing cryptic, dolorous and
lecherous content equally miraculous in sea depths.
At all these times I feel with breezed emotional might
that I am truly focused as a neophyte of life.
... CayCay
June 11, 2019
written for a contest that required the following words: 1. Neophyte,
2. Inhibition, 3. Flounder, 4. Dolorous, 5. Bombast, 6. Lecherous, 7. Providence, 8. Smolder
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