After the paint
has dried
all they're left with
are false pictures
Internal fixtures
externalized
masquerading
as truth
The truth is
their mask hides
the lies but exposes
what's true regardless
They're artist of
a different kind
Kind words for those
conning their way
with heartless acts
Me?
I rhyme with facts
not looking to sway
you or any other
I pour from a cup
that runneth over
& spill only what
I intend to tithe
When my cascade
aligns and falls
there's no running
for cover nor packs
in which to hide
What befalls you
is as liquid as the paint
used to tar & feather
I'm transparently lucid
whether you're far
or near sighted
I could never
feel slighted by
eyes in dire need
of glasses
I inspire you
to see without eyes
to counteract it
Those cataracts
insofar as I can see
has blinded them
with fake glee
Slowly but surely
they're starting to see
what it is & isn't
cracked up to be
Written: December 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
Castle Ravenloft looms—
a janiform crown of storm-light and stone.
Its spires protrude as if imploring
a cold, unanswering nimbus.
Below, Barovia lies—
a shabby village where cowslips squirm,
and daybreak, under mists,
offers only a brief farewell.
This land’s spirit is sacred suffering.
Hope and death entwine in chiaroscuro.
Symbiosis curdles into a curse,
and the living move with shadows
as though born to them.
Ubiquitous, gelid mists
embed xenogenesis in every breath,
Their jagged deceit conning the brave and mulish.
Dark, shriveled streets of Barovia—
laden with pale wisteria—
echo with inane, forgotten glee,
an odor of treacle, revulsion, and lost joy.
On the edge between night and terror,
a winsome child may hum a chorus—
a fleeting overlap of sorrow and mercy.
But the mists return, hostile and persistent;
after tasting music, street, and soul,
only the castle remains—
a riddle whispered against
a cloudscape that refuses to rise.
the rich old man could not pay his children to visit him
They knew how many tears their mother had cried at his whim
Newcomers were sometimes fooled by his super charms
Politeness he reserved for those who were not family
Most who did know him, had moved away or aged into forgetfulness
His grandchildren did not know him, some did not know he existed
He bribed people to do things for him
assuring them he was leaving them his full estate
He received free gardening, housework and cooking for years
Conning three people who were sworn to secrecy about their “inheritance”
He died on a Saturday, leaving no will.
Everything was gobbled up by the state
No one claimed his body.
There was no celebration of life
It was a life that deserved no celebration
Rich in money but nothing else.
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder Poetry Contest
Crystol Woods
Her man friend, grey, over the hill, and older
He's cheesy, conning, plain, and a freeloader
She's in her twenties and smart
Her friends ask why this old fart
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Her friends are so puzzled and think something smells
They even ask what happened to her brain cells
Break wind and smell the roses
Please don't take his proposes
She followed her own heart and the wedding bells
For someone else's trash is another’s treasure
Who are we to point and object, and measure
Maybe her man has a good side
And she's in it for a short ride
She's free to do what strikes her whim and leisure
Aesthetic expectations, quomodocunquize,
An exasperating farrago of marketing lies,
Conning client desires,
While promising celestial skies.
In the "Selfie Era," so condescending,
Filters sculpting phantasmagoria, never-ending—
Painting a majestic illusion,
Regality of beauty, a fleeting delusion.
"Ageless," a dream that transcends all streams,
Flustering the mind’s membranes, it seems;
Cajoling artists, ripping through pockets,
A glamour tornado that ceaselessly rockets.
Embrace imperfections with pride,
Challenging the conventional tide.
Luminance flows from deep within,
"Mirror, Mirror, let self reflection begin".
Common marketing
Mind capturing language U K
The Commonwealth gone..'
Wandering, ever wandering
straddling cultural divides
Never homing, ever-roaming
o’er fretful borders or oceans’ high tides
The hands of a tailor, a mender, a fixer-upper
conning the vernacular just enough for supper
Wandering, ever-wandering through darkest woods
a sharp eye for the worth of second-hand goods …
Known to one and all, the disheveled figure
makes his way with aught but moxie and grit
The wandering Jew, scraggly beard, ear-locks and spit
pride in his bearing ~ scraping by on faith and wit
The Socialist gang leaders,
in the House and Senate still sit.
Not respecting the American
Constitution one tiny bit!
Conning their followers that
Capitalism is an evil way to live.
Hitler thought the same, and to
Germany lied and gave them all
a deathly, lying, shive.
I have to wonder, deeply about our
lost and belittled great history
Universities on down, don’t teach
truth but opinions tangoeing in
fabricated mysteries.
I pray our schools return to decency,
not sex continue as sex change facilities.
And more, yet more Americans, pray
to their God on humble knees!
11/17/2022
A law-abiding citizen is
One who keeps the law.
There are many of them,
Of this, I am sure.
Sadly there are others,
Who live a life of crime,
Conning and conniving,
And never serving time.
Why does this happen?
How does this come about?
Law-abiding people,
Find it hard to work out.
People in high places,
Often get off scot-free,
Why are there no rules for them,
But strict rules for you and me.
Lawyers have a responsibility,
To follow the letter of the law,
Not looking for gratuities,
As the offender walks out of the door,
Footloose and fancy-free,
Confident in his next court case,
He will win as easily.
What sort of world do we live in
When we cannot trust the law,
Filled with war crimes and sin.
What do we employ Lawyers for
In this day and age,
People cannot stand much more,
It's time to turn the page,
It's time that crooked lawyers
Become a thing of the past.
A
man who
wanted to
invent things, he
claimed he had made a
car that ran on water!
Said to be bribed and threatened
by Big Oil, he was deemed a fraud
when he refused to let the court test
his creation. Did no one see it work?
This is but one of the mysteries that
surrounds Stanley, who died after he
sipped some juice at a restaurant.
He gripped his throat and said that
he’d been poisoned, but this
was not proved. Why? Was
he gas-lighted?
Or was he
conning
US??
June 8, 2022
for Joe Maverick's Life Death And Aims Of Stanley Meyer Poetry Contest
emperors run empires
kingdoms are for royalty
religion owned by paedophiles
and numpties run the countries
democracy is a mockery
communists and conning tricks
socialists are emotionalists
and dictators are just total pricks
people need controlling
but never trust control
conspiracies are interesting
what do cover ups up hold
a story just to past the time
yet some commit and pick a side
others say they're out their mind
nit picking their twisted find
belief in God or not a God
always seeks a closure
and then one day just like that
your clucking life is over
a stupid slab stands in the ground
this is where your corpse is found
athletic, thin or somewhat round
once made noise to not a sound
and everything is stuck and spoiled
rotting deep beneath the soil
at least you're not a lobster....
those poor gits get gutting boiled
gutted before their gutted
destined for your hungry gut
you'll see your day disrupted
as they erupt out of your butt
some call it a miracle
the part we play is miniscule
destined as a particle
i think life is fart-cical
Ignorance is Bliss
What do I think of this?
I have enough sense to see
What is right in front of me
Obvious and undeniable
Sadly not always reliable
The conning and conniving
That seems to abound
The dishonesty that is all around
The whole world is spiralling
Searching for a common ground
What we need
Is more care
Less greed
Too much is going wrong
I can hear a distant gong.
I find it hard to relate
To a World in this dreadful state
Thomas Gray was not amiss
With the phrase
IGNORANCE IS BLISS
Nessie slept soundly cuddling
the tin-plate toy submarine
fitted with plastic wood head
on long sinuous neck attached to
the conning tower, that drifted down
to Nessie's hideout deep in the cave
at the bottom of Loch Ness.
Nessie knew the pressure was off.
The fake photographs had quelled
the endless searches and prying.
"We'll give them their monster"
the model maker declared.
He gave them an image - a fake.
People believed the photograph was real for such a long time,
that no one would ever
see or know what Nessie really looked like.
People would always look for a snake like head on a long neck
with one hump or two from the tail.
People wanted a monster,
wanted a photograph to confirm it.
Now Nessie had the model,
he could poke it up through the surface
on dark stormy nights when lightning
added to the mystery and intrigue.
The stranger-than-fiction inner truth, hidden by what people wanted to believe.
A Trojan horse enshrouding truth, within a fake cloak of myth revealed.
The submarine disappeared after it sailed
Its mission was an exercise that didn’t prevail
A search occurred until all hope was totally gone
And the crew of the submarine could not live on
Years passed and the submarine memories remained
When reports of the ship being sighted were unexplained
A mystery of this ghost ship developed still sailing to be seen
Appearing near ships on a painted sea as a waking dream
So if you sail in the South Atlantic Ocean at dawn or dusk
You may see this submarine on its mission as a must
It may appear next to you as a surprise
With the crew on the conning tower looking with dead eyes.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Even to the realm of silence
I follow.
To primordial chaos
The specious zany follows.
Seemingly myopic,
my sepulchral glare.
Beware! Of conning eyes
you raider of fulfilled rapture.
I hound the hooded hound
for my demi-soul.
Adonis for Aphrophone
walks plutonian deeps.
Though, I come,
futility behind
scourges with strikes
of dejection.
Yet, on void grounds
I push to limbo
being met by wan faces,
wry creatures.
I fear that perchance
the blazing pecan
is ripe for reaping
Will you succumb?
Aphrophone!
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