Mostly an oddball was Magritte
here however a portrait sweet
Usually & reputably so surreal
this 'cig girl' is so so real
Belgian Rene Magritte
whose paintings were so neat
Full of stilled enigmatic
in scenesso idiosyncratic
Rene Magritte so surrealiste
was also a moraliste
His art as a dream
never reveal what they dream
Renee Magritte,an enigma in a bowler hat
I wonder what we should make of that
perhaps they are his alter ego
he never said so we'll never know
so
banal
yet
deadpan
absurd
clashing
symbols
heard
in
the eye
where
imagery
is
all
honestly,
idk what im doing
im not a poet
nor a genius...
SIKE
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
Gotcha!!!!!!!!!
anyways
drumroll please.
...
...
hello?
y'know what?
forget the drumroll...
Fredrick Mitchell's brand new poem...
IDFK
i, don't know...
where to go.
i, forgot,
my way home.
i worked hard, and my brain is mush,
guess i'll black out and faint in a bush.
today was the last day 'til my quota.
my deadline is due,
to bring my poem to you!
i'm tired, and forgot
how to spell the word shew
the thing you put on your foot.
i found my way home,
using google maps
this stupid siri voice, is giving me the craps,
my day has been ruined,
and my day is soon end,
just listen to this voice
"turn down at the bend."
it thinks im driving,
im walking...
this deadpan poem
is getting boring.
and like an old man, im already snoring
i sleepily unlock my door...
and...
my key broke.
FOR FU-
...
ahem,
im too tired for this...
*beep, beep! beep, beep!*
"hey, Frank... can i go to your place. my key broke... again."
...
"yes, i know its the middle of the night."
...
"and i know your on a date."
...
"i've got a key to your house. bye!"
screw my life.
Bison, bottle up a brew.
Boiled above a fire.
Mantle earth, the stoked red flue.
Core beneath, blue dire.
Trick of modern man, orange plan.
Deadpan, zombie horde.
Tub in which they scrub, black ban.
Widow white, reward.
Awesome force, know risk? Remorse?
Killer's knife, off course?
Paranormal, high horse? Source:
Zoanthrope or zorse?
In fact, formidable? Sure.
Underworld, thy tour?
Bottled essence, keeping pure?
Disease fatal, cure?
Opponent or enemy?
These problems reduce.
Latter, sink it in the sea.
Former, set to use.
Priory, civil or short?
Element, burn fine.
Spark in heart, green out of sort?
Lachrymose, lark, line.
Brine salty sea, zymurgy.
Brewing up a drink?
Life is vicious. So are we?
Anyway, ink. Blink.
Rook roundabout, riddle read.
Shiny objects sought.
World, tan tweed, grit game glass greed.
Sold, old? Bought, robot?
MANIFOLD ECLECTICS
deadpan
newfound
possibilities
rippling
mind-scrambling
over-lays
a
panoply
alludes
to
exhilarating
yet
muted
& imbued
response
a
cerebral
tension
undergoing
needless
unruly
elongation
touching
personality
in
a
exquisite
ravishing
unfinished
but potent
revolving
brilliant
encounter
with virtuosity
tradition
a
glinting
shimmering
spontaneous
nonchalance
glimpsed
a feint
reworking
transparent
& benighted
radically
sardinic
matter
of
sophisticated
qualities
of empathy
Those with a culinary masterplan
Know go for neon glow talisman
Spick & span with fancy dan elan
Wooing doing the cooing can-can
Riot on a diet expands my lifespan
Wrinkle free wry mystery Peter Pan
Doorman to sly new world deadpan
For sushi like John Belushi a madman
Oodles of noodles like silky doodles
Caveman craved calming ramen amen
In a hurry then lasso a curry.. yep Katsu
From svelte purveyor and belt conveyor
Time to have a durry in the rusty daihatsu
Beg for an egg sandwich from heaven
Palette parsons from Lawsons not 7/11
Stricken saved by nori or yakitori chicken
Remembers glory of flaming embers story
Or ditty of look at me too pretty sashimi
Detect such respect in every single aspect
Mingle & scan no defect full effect scran
No also ran but our number one suspect
Wasabi touch of ginger..trusty kemo sabe
Culture protect am a fan can only be Japan
dead
dead end
deadeye
deadlock
deadpan
deadweight
I love flipping through a dictionary
making notes
sometimes for later poems
but this time for this one
LIFE IN ACORNISTAN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a brown-haired squirrel named Stan,
the charismatic, electrifying mayor of Acornistan.
His fur held a most strange zap
“We’ve got to do something ASAP!”
His advisor suggested, “Call in the g-man.”
They summoned a blind man from Bhutan
‘You’re fur’s gotta go,’ he said, his face deadpan.
‘But like Samson, I’ll lose my power
To this static I shall never cower!
You’ve got to have another gameplan.”
‘Maybe some crème rinse or a bit of Dippity-Do*
will eliminate the static from your furry ‘do.’
‘Dippity Do,’ Stan exclaimed. “Just who are you?
Go back to Bhutan, you silly man. Shoo! Shoo!’
‘Stan decreed. ‘No static in Acornistan. Static adieu, adieu!’
Cassie, a green faced witch could not find the right kind of man
I think I’ll make an elixir and create him, she would deadpan
She actually did it, wearing her fanciest ruffled dress
It had not been ironed, so was a bit of a mess
Her purple hat had rosettes of green, fuchsia, and teal
She incorporated a few items she got “in a steal”
her red curly hair got close, and a few of them dropped in
He came out perfectly lovely with bright pink skin
Sorry she said, but I wanted a green-skinned guy
He jumped out of the cauldron and showed that he could fly
she got on her broom and chased him off over a hill
spoil alert, this did not have a happy ending for this guy named Will
He got tossed off his broom and fell into a rather deep pond.
Cassie cast a spell, and he turned into tall pea green frond.
He was not the guy for me she said, picking up an old toad.
The next experimental ingredient, a gloomy forebode.
By the Streetlamp
Secrets held by the streetlamp,
Delightful, sad or wicked,
Witness through its deadpan eyes
Of events by its roadside,
As distant stars in the sky,
Are kept in depth of her heart,
With its vows of secrecy,
Never with someone to part.
Portraits on the wall,
some grand, some small,
staring at the people,
sat around the table,
portraits on the wall,
ego show for all
in silence they stare,
look back if you care,
at disjointed thoughts,
from bygone hearts,
faces deadpan bare,
each behind every chair.
the walls sweep around,
from top floor to ground,
chandeliers and fireplace,
speaker phones, flower vase,
those portraits in the hall,
don't say much at all!
every few years a new one,
of the president just done,
adding to stares one more,
extending history and lore,
the friendly, the grim,
mix with bright, wise, and dim.
faded memories from past,
wonder how long they last,
Portraits grow each year,
their number cause for fear,
will stay or will they fall?
one day bring down the wall?
Written about a 100 year old establishment
that puts a painted portrait of the last president
on their walls.
I see demons
I see ghosts
Staring at me from the bedposts
Gargoyles of grotesquery
Statues of misanthropy
The Prince of darkness has come for me
There's evil in this room
I can smell the sulfur in his perfume
A fiendish foray into Axe body spray
Wedded with used ashtray
Trade name The Devil's Bouquet
Why me why me ?
why today?
Because poets die tragically?
Remember Shelley drowned at sea
Where's your humanity?
In the voice of a late night disc jockey
A silky deadpan delivery
"I lost it the day the world began.
You may have heard not my game plan.
God made Adam and Eve
I made beggars and thieves.
See Milton Book Ten
Are you not well read?
The blood immediately drained from my head.
Beg pardon what was that you said?
I'll have you know I'm quite literate
I have a ing doctorate!
So full of laughter my prince chides,
‘This tale is a screwball romance.
Do you enjoy deadpan perchance?
I was swept into paper tides.
They remind me of us besides,
today what else have we to do?’
Gazing into a soul so true
I said ‘ I enjoy a good book.
You’ve entangled me with your hook.
I can think of something in lieu.’
Bess’s expressions were grotesque
Most usually weirdly cheerless
She is under unusual duress
Her family is an utter mess
Bess is playing poker more or less
Her deadpan expression not needless
A stickler for rules more or less
My watercress-loving friend named Bess
The snow man stands deadpan under the faint
Glow of the lamp, his scarf damp as snowflakes
Fall ‘round him, the land grim--isn’t it quaint?
The fake smile--what guile!--who would smile like that?
Made to suffer, with a muffler, he shakes
As cold wind rolls almost toppling his hat.
I remember one November day when
You made me wait ‘neath a tree. My heart breaks
‘Coz I’ve been in that scene waiting since then.
October 24, 2024
Baguio City, Philippines
Not written for a contest but based on the wit and out of the box chutzpa of a ballsy poet. If Shakespeare shakes his finger at me for breaking Sonnet rules, I will tell him I am a Lawless one, and a quill like John's is in my bag of tools.
One Soup poet is a rebellious man
He's a 'Wild Boy,' sung by Duran Duran
Known to break a few rules
Pen and paper, his tools
Lawless' humor is jocular deadpan
Some baffling riddles from the Boston Bard
Might take an inspector from Scotland Yard
He's mugged a metaphor
"Innocent," he then swore!
Be ready to run when John shout's "ENGARD!"
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