Standing on the springboard of idiocity, spitting out lies shamelessly. Idiots of the nation in the corridors of power.
Preaching shadows of democracy but catalysts of democratic backsliding committing heinous crimes in the broad daylight. The idiots of the nation in the corridors of power.
Their Satanic hypocrisy is the product of their arrogance and mental stupidity. Their big ego blinds them from ultimate reality.
Pretending to be superior while standing on the shoulders of the masses, the idiots of the nation in the corridors of power.
Novel entities of society lack moral values, being drunk with power. lot of the mumbo jumbo from their mouth .
Turning politics into business of lies and manipulation, the idiots of the nation in the corridors of power.
Robbing the poor and destroying their nations, mischief-makers on the world stage. thinking with their bottom and not the top !
Climbing the ladder of success dubiously and ruthlessly, committing organised crime day and night against their nations.
Idiots of the nation standing on the springboard of idiocity!
By Chanda Katonga.
We are all going to celebrate the jubilee!
Buzzed the over dubiously excited bumblebee.
Do we have to pay in pollen? Is there a fee?
Asked his cousin Jeremy who almost dropped his tea.
Will of course we do pay, there is a tiny little fee.
Said the enthusiastic bumblebee. It is a jubilee!
How much is the fee? Do you know? Butted in Spider Lee.
Spider Lee was hanging on to his web with one knee.
Not sure, the bumblebee said, but I know that dried up she
Pointing to their flamboyant godmother, the old queen bee
Will pay the way for all of us to go, yes all three.
She is forever generous, this old queen bee!
I teeter and I slip, sliding
Terrified, and yet excited
On the edge of something dangerous
An abyss is waiting, dare I let go?
Adrenaline races through me
I take another step but this time I am running
toward my dubiously dangerous destiny,
which fear cannot keep me from enjoying
Don’t get that close to the tracks! I hear in my head
The whistle of a train is coming right around the bend
I begin to limp, knowing my foot will get stuck
And I will soon die.
I have written eight poems in the middle of the night.
I am beginning the ninth one, but it is clearly not right.
You can do this, I admonish myself, you used to be bright.
My muse stuck out her tongue and it was a fright!
Do you have Covid? I asked her as I looked at the blight.
She flipped on her toes and flew away, out of sight.
So here I am on my own, on this dubiously super cold night.
Trying to write a poem without Trixie, which simply ain’t right!
Life as a poet was never my chosen profession or vocation
Nor do I aspire to wear a crown in ceremonial coronation
but I am grateful for comments with sincere appreciation
My capricious muse and I conferred, and after deliberation
we offer you a list of poetry resolutions, with the stipulation
that we dubiously hope to keep in this whimsical declaration
1. I will diligently try to pen new forms, without frustration
2. Write with positive karma, avoiding negative confrontation
3. Create more imaginative poems with ambiance and elation
4. Laugh at those who try to malign me with childish vexation
5. My muse made me promise to engage in harmless flirtation
*List appended with a clause stating: 'exaggerated expectation'
December 9th, 2021
Five New year's Resolutions Contest
Sponsored by L Milton Hankins
Dangerously and dramatic, delightful diamond-clad damsels from Delaware
deviously dazzled dashing dapper dweebs from Des Moines.
Deliberate dallying drained the dullards of their discerning dendrites.
Deeming them deliriously and dubiously devoted.
darling dimpled dervishes
dancing delightfully
ghouls goblins gargoyles
gabbing, grabbing, ghosting,
witches wearing weaves,
wistfully watching watchers
dust of night brings Halloween
Outstanding orange ovarian owls
studiously studying steeples,
betting bulbous bats below
will wind-fly down, betwixt and between.
jealously juicing, joyously jeering
Dubiously doubting daring dust of the night.
It's mother nature's dance
spring growth dubiously enhanced
resting beneath the summer sun
bees, birds and butterflies on the run;
hurried in and out the garden gate
nestling in the flower blossoms safe
a melodic hum drum
to the beauty of the season come.
It makes me smile, causes me to see
the simplicity of life in every bumblebee
to feel the flutter of butterfly wings
listening to every bird that sings;
a warble, tweet and trill
holds my heart with every thrill
some garbled fish swim splash
escaping the heron's gnash.
The waterfall dance
stretched along the stones tranced
with each reflections of some petal fall
mixed colors from palette painted scrawls;
a dragonfly zipping along the pickerel
beauty quite visceral
the grandeur elaborate and intense
this year's rainbow along the fence.
Welcome one, welcome all
to the wonder and beauty of the garden's call.
My inner voice calm, looks for compassion.
To give encouragement, it comes from within.
I look for honesty as my eyes turn inside-out.
Always searching to bend nettles and thorns
into a perspicacious light, intricacy of lace —
intimate in the meaning of life and love.
Gems, like an embryo, form in the dark —
eye-popping wisdom of diamonds and rubies,
sapphires and fiery opals, not endlessly hypnotic
but romantically impactful, not dubiously distracting.
My arms don’t begin at the shoulders but are in the pits
of my inner ken, an amiable passion, like a Winter’s fire
surging powerfully to my hands that draw the waters
of kisses and hugs and the mundane of cleanup
at the end of a day, restart over and over again —
deep deep breaths whisper slowly of strength and vigor,
though the knees ache, the back’s bent but the smiles spark
and the laughs light up like fuel from within. My family draws
from my spirituality, the sense that everything will be alright.
4/23/2020
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
A Poem Honoring Spirituality Poetry Contest
I’m King Cat she said with her nose in the air
Majestic, regal, confident, super soft hair.
A female King, I said dubiously, but aloud,
Heard of Nefertiti? She asked haughty and proud.
Yes she was King Cat, this sovereign who reigns
She eats delicacies of tuna, and we’d best not run out of supplies.
In my home daily, who brought with her two names.
We all fear her too, this Egyptian Pharaoh with green eyes.
alone the widow seeks autumn ground
stray thoughts both beautiful profound
a rendezvous with soul’s despair
while skittish fingers curl locks of hair
it’s death’s treachery tore us apart
in silence strung my heavy heart
dangled dubiously by a lone thread
while birds of prey hovered overhead
they circled a drab once spring green park
till nightfall drenched it in foul sullen dark
bitter feelings of abandon ever fathomless
left me brokenhearted and frightly breathless
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted on February 20, 2020 for contest WRITING PROMPT – TEN WORDS sponsored by DEAR HEART - RANKED 1ST
True patriots,
regardless of color, creed, or cathartic party,
are loyal to cooperative interdependent change
from below
and within
as needed to liberally balance conserving health
to co-empower compassionately wealthy democracy.
Fake patriots
are like colonial loyalists
supporting patriarchal monocultures,
status quo
business as competitively usual,
dubiously needed to reactively protect
exclusive
from above
and outside wealth of kings.
As if patriotic wealth could ever survive
privileged autonomous apartheid,
one way receiving,
without any giving back
EarthTribe eco-patriotic value.
Passion can overpower
all resonant and dissonant voices,
for a brief flash of reactionary time.
Autonomous passion can behave so loudly,
univocally self-invested,
that Others' passions are no longer heard--
inviting impassioned debate
disinviting dialogue.
When compassion errs,
we are under-powered fragments
fractured from future's long-term opportunities.
Passion shines red-blooded brilliant.
Compassion listens
for cooperative patriotic resilient.
awful awkward
birthday bash
celebrated creepily
dubiously, diabolically
enormously enlightening
fastidiously frustrating
gory grotesque
hospital hallways
illustriously illuminating
joyless journey
keeping
little
me
notoriously
ordinary
quixotic
realizing
Sophie
Terrified
Unclear
Very concerned
Wanting me to return home
'Xpecting a hero's welcome
yet
zealously delighted that I will feel better.
Intentionally deceived by those that augmented dubiously.
An Innocence killed by lies that seemed real.
Now, what a heart should feel is controlled by strength of will.
Entombed down deep inside a garnet red does hide.
Tossed away, you lost, I'm afraid.
If you do not want taken by the police, do this,
It has always worked for me, and I always persist,
I'm guilty! Take me, I scream,
Running to them in a stream.
Lock me up, take me away, I must insist!
The policemen always smile and laugh,
Thinking I am a psychopath,
they leave me alone,
and I go on home,
Another day to not do math.
I have myself on video doing this today.
In a dark place I have it locked away.
I keep it in my sock drawer.
So I can watch it evermore.
I love this dubiously silly kind of play!
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