Tongue Tied in Clichés: A Blessing in Disguise
A blessing in disguise,
a double-edged sword—
a far cry from peace,
yet all in all,
at the drop of a hat
we reach for a ballpark figure,
beat around the bush,
break new ground,
burn the midnight oil.
By the book we cut to the chase,
play devil’s advocate,
fill the void with food for thought,
start from scratch,
then get cold feet.
Give the green light,
go down in flames,
hit the nail on the head,
find ourselves in over our head,
jump on the bandwagon,
keep something at bay,
leave no stone unturned.
Out of our depth,
past the point of no return,
we read between the lines,
take it with a grain of salt,
see only the tip of the iceberg—
until at last we throw in the towel.
If you don’t like the weather
wait five minutes and it will change.
A pitcher has pitched a shutout—
he is a hero.
You can bet
he’s talked about everywhere.
Somewhere something is on sale—
it was marked up the first day.
A song in the background rocks
but it is lost in haste.
A stitch in time saves nine
but old blue jeans are thrown away.
People say take care
and disappear.
A man in a bar nurses his drink
half-empty or half-full.
‘Circling the wagons’
is an absurd cliché
‘Cos even stations-wagons
are out-of-fashion today
Love turns into despair
As a slipper who can't find his pair,
All we want is love that's fair
But with you, it's so hard to bear.
The feeling that echo
That we can't let go.
Those foolish things, we repeat
Seems like a constant beat.
One's blinded with stupidity
In the end, oh what a pity.
Once heart's rebound
A soul can be drowned.
Repetition of chances
A dark side of love glances.
Above all pain,
It's love that can't be maintained.
I didn't go to school yesterday
Didn't feel like it
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say
Nobody was very fond
When I was absent from school with no good reason
Whoever "they" is...
You lied to me
I'm sick and tired of the so-called muses,
especially the one who always chooses
to make it clear that I don't work hard enough,
yet, when I ask for a little help with my stuff,
she's always the first one who flatly refuses.
My muse yelled, "Stop! That's prohibited."
I said, "What?"
"The behavior you just exhibited."
I said, "What did I do?"
She said, "You took some lines that didn't belong to you."
I said, "Jeez! Instead of helping me, you're making me feel totally inhibited."
Someone asked, "Could you write without a muse?"
I said, "Probably could, but I'd refuse.
Why? Because a muse is so good at showing
what to tell the audience and what to keep it from knowing
so that you can keep right on going with your wild-ass ruse."
I was having a hell of a time
with a poem that shouldn’t ever have been mine.
The muse had made a big mistake
by giving me lines that shoulda gone to this poet named Blake,
of which I could make neither reason nor rhyme.
He walk the talk
Don't play with fire
Easy as pie.
Although it's a well worn cliche,
there is something soothing
in the thought of lying in bed
listening to rain. Last night
I was front row in a symphony.
An adagio of soft fall, murmurings
on a metal roof and whispers
running along gutters.
Calm in the tempo
of raindrops, muted gargles
and gulps echoed inside
the throats of downpipes.
Then everything changed.
A quickening pace heralded
heavy rain and hailstones
falling in a roar of wind.
Lightning flashed
behind curtains, thunder
drew nearer, giant, swollen
bags of noise burst
to come crashing down,
rattling windows and sending
the spill rushing through
doorways into tense rooms.
Heaven unleashed its might,
as if trying to tear itself away
from this world,
as it still does, weighted
with words and held here
on a page, longing to lift
into song with drum rolls
and tremble in a crescendo
fit for a thousand voices,
straining to break free
and fly somewhere else,
finding itself stuck
in a poem, slowly drifting
towards sleep
and oblivion.
"Be not careless in deeds, nor confused in words, nor rambling in thoughts." (Marcus Aurelius)
In certain moments, less is more.
It's regarded as a cliche,
but when you think hard about it,
it is true in many cases.
I'm not thinking in terms of wealth-
in certain moments, less is more.
Imagine a boring topic,
now someone rambles on about-
tax refunds, software management-
a bacterial infection.
In certain moments, less is more.
It will benefit everyone.
Think back to middle and high school-
your math teacher talking about
their lunch, then algebra, then pens.
In certain moments, less is more.
Is that your name?
Do you want to call it grotesque fame?
Is it truly there?
Or it is floating in thin air?
Can you grasp it with your tiny hands?
Is anyone there from your chosen land?
Do you wish to call it by your name?
Hasn't it arrived yet? Or it is just another game?
The compilation you hesitate to conclude,
You aspire to present it as your finest, dude.
Nobody can live long with this gruesome win,
Is it your another committed sin?
Your fame is quite a cliche,
Everybody wants it to be their greatest niche.
Your utmost blessings are your most disastrous curses,
You are disowning your indispensable circles.
Is it truly a blessing or just a curse?
Nobody can blame others they cannot trust.
Is it on the brink of possessing an innocent soul?
Or is it just a snowball rolling around without any resolute goal?
Regarding Time
Where does time go…absolutely nowhere…only.that
humans believe time is stationary!
9/5/2023
Well the experts say
in your poetry
don’t use a cliché
to tell your story
bleeding hearts of men
the tail of a dog
clucking like old hens
croaking like a frog
a bright twinkling star
the light of the moon
runs like a new car
humming a soft tune
she’s the cat’s meow
the chug of a train
a slow drifting cloud
the patter of rain
even this rhyme scheme
they always told me
has no place it seems
in your poetry
well maybe what’s wrong
with this world today
we still go along
with what experts say
cause with no cliché
just what can I do
no ‘Happy Birthday’
or an ‘I Love You’
my advice is to
forget what they say
if it works for you
do it anyway
I swear I wouldn’t wear a smirk
if I lost the errands that lurk;
No need for an adult style quirk;
I’d rather work; I’d rather work;
Give me a monotonous day
I will clock in without delay;
It may seem bizarre that’s okay;
I’ll take cliche’; I’ll take cliche’.
Above the heat
the sky is flecked with ice.
The sun is no longer burning,
it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags
of a coat-tailing wind.
There it is - arriving out of a hazy distance
a living cliché, a Bald Eagle
It must have caught a thermal.
I think of all the medallions and coins
it has been stamped and embossed upon;
here it is
an existential exclamation mark.
The eagle veers away
turning deeper into the ice-blue.
No one witnesses this,
even my eyes watch cynically,
the jaded disappointment of this sadness
is darkening my sight.
All hail to the he American eagle -
slowly disappearing.
© 59 mins ago
Imaginations fun and free
From simple things to really fancy
Your mind escapes somewhere new
Like when pigs are flying over you
Wings spread out sharing the sky
With large elephants way up high
An umbrella you will need
It will get messy yes indeed
When it's raining cats and dogs
Look out for the falling "logs"
It's hard to tell or really know
If its hot or frigid cold
A coat or not upon your shoulder
Visiting a hell that might freeze over
You earned a penny and can save
Till you turn over in your grave
A bull causes chaos and drops
All the china in the shops
A chip on your shoulder can be
A way to show your vanity
A baby apples too young to see
He hasn't fallen far from the tree
Only coming out at night
Worms won't be the early birds delight
Behold all around is the beauty
That your eyes can finally see
That's all cliches my mind can bring
It's over, let the fat lady sing.
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