It’s all an illusion.
We are the stuff that dreams are made of.
Delusions of grandeur.
God’s special project, Earth.
It certainly stands out from all the rest.
Water is life. Is water God’s blood?
The atmosphere, His breath?
The Universe, His Body?
The Stars, His eyes...
Where there is no escaping His gaze,
Or the occasional Solar flare.
Then there is me.
His souper special project.
I certainly stand out from all the rest.
Yet I remain hidden
From all the scrutiny.
I’m not a god like Krishna
Being born a little differently.
Am I more or less likely
To be born in His image too?
Or am I just an anomaly
With my twelve toes and bi-fid thumbs?
Perhaps, I have some left over recessive ancestral alien DNA
Coming to life thru me?
Or maybe, I’m just a mutant all mixed up into the gene pool
Swimming thru life doing the butterfly stoke, feeling it’s effect
All the while sipping poetrysoup
With a perma grin plastered all over my face
And the word ‘SUFFER’ birthmarked on my other cheek.
Buzzards on the Infamous Hill
Always sitting at the edge of my seat,
When, oh when, shall truth finally come out…
As a true,American splendiferous treat!
But buzzards of cravish deception,
Fill the political, pockmarked skies.
Leaving us forever, with questions.
These carnivores reside on The Hill.
Where truth and goodness perish.
Americans left with lies, hope is killed.
Ethics lay as pricey,broken sunglasses.
Crushed beneath deceptive, well heeled feet.
“No news, just pure propaganda for the masses?”
Now, an amoral ,upside down, nation,
Where cheating and lies are given full reign.
And all good folk, dubbed as “abominations?”
Indeed, tis the poison Swamp’s entire purpose.
To establish a frightening totalitarian future.
Where depravity is honored, in their very sinews.
7/21/ 2023
a blank crisp white sheet of paper
my fingers begin tapping and stroking
I sit back, relaxed, unsure what is happening
an infamous entity seems to know what to do
a poem shows up and laughs in my face
I am surprised each time,
wondering who has taken over my fingers
she laughs at my consternation and picks up a new page
The adages only lie
they say after the storm
then comes the bonanza
lie because the flood comes !
The body interred here:
A famous bed wetter.
More could be said,
But less might be better.
----------
for the Bite Site Poem No.38 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Line Gauthier
Written 03/03/2022
FAME IS TALENT DRIVEN INFAMY IS EGO DRIVEN
Of the truth of the vaccine
one must no longer speak!
King Biden will toss you in jail,
if one negative word you, on
social media do tweak.
For truth is now a physical threat,
Don’t you fully see?
A deadly ,vaccination trumps truth?
So roll up your once free,
American sleeve.
Free speech, no longer allowed in King Biden’s
nation.
Your body is now, entirely his, on the road
to being a Communist nation!
7/16/2021
…1…
I-nfamous
A-ilment's
N-oxious
G-rime
A-pplies
S-ilent
M-orbidity's
I-nvisible
N-astiness
Topic: Birthday of Ian Gasmin (June 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
This virus has so changed our days-
For sure, we are all in a daze.
At home, stuck alone-
Thank God for the phone
to visit loved ones on displays.
Our freedom, for granted, we took-
Now, some of our pleasures forsook.
Unseen enemy
Achieved infamy-
Has stolen good lives like a crook!
April 24, 2020
Contest: Limerick
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
The papers lay pitifully on the wooden pile
Hungry for a scholars ink
The pen pine to be touched
Not with empty inspiration
But words that drip endlessly
And there I sit
Watching their anguish
Not Bard of Avon or Homer
Just an infamous poet
Who Yearn to be loved
A badge of great honor
We wear it with pride,
They say it’s an insult
But we’ll let that one slide.
A boomer’s a doer
A person with Pep,
Marching alone
To their own special step.
The children of Giants
Who lived through a war
Instilling in us
The passion to soar.
They call us great bores
Whose opinions don’t count,
Incongruous has-beens
Our words they discount.
Little they know
It’s a wheel that does turn,
With each generation
Another to spurn.
Suffice it to add
We’re fine in our skin,
Whatever is said
They’ll still be our kin.
Millennials are brash
They message and tweet,
But most just innocuous,
In-fact rather sweet.
They look at their parents
The way we did ours,
With fresh consternation
Like brief summer showers.
When all’s said and done
For boomers like us,
There’s nothing more pleasing
Than life without fuss.
Caitiff
A word to know well—
Someone who’s contemptible!
A coward for sure . . .
Infamous and obnoxious . . .
A miscreant immoral!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
July 16, 2018 (Tanka)
Over 1200 poems I have constructed, written
bled, cried for, endured tremendous insanity
What do I have to show for it...
just more pencils, just more pens
5 more unused notepads
and a decaying, boring, repetitive, bland outlook on the rest of the world
If I were to clone myself, I'd beat myself black and blue
for reasons I can't uncover
for I scribbled all my mistakes
and silent distastes
Love, what infamous notion did I ever truly believe I'd find it
I'm only 18
the only my age believes in are flings
what a blasphemous thing
Am I overrreacting to my recent weeks
I could be
Don't remind me
I am aware some lives are worse than my mine by 10x
but I'm not living their lives
just dwelling in my own personal mini tragedies
As the hour sinks into 9, I sink into darkness
ever so slowly
I have the urge to seclude myself in my cocoon of covers
but it's been said and done
I chuckle at the thought that I was believed myself invincible
hahahahahaha
....I'm only indefinitely vulnerable
I was once in thrall to the infamous myth
Of the artiste souffrant,
But I’ve come ultimately to see it
As the cruelest of delusions.
But could it not be said
That it’s still among us,
That malefic notion
That the artist is a spirit set apart,
For some special purpose
Of which pain is an essential component?
Should I enhance my recognition
by defiantly treading on an innocent heart?
Or perhaps mine is a sin of omission,
fleeing with fame a la carte,
while thoughtlessly tearing another soul apart.
What reward can be found
as I stomp on another’s dreams,
leaving them quaking on the ground
where incivility screams
and not one ray of light beams?
Perhaps there is more joy in obscurity
than in fame that grows from ill roots.
Before me is an angel basking in purity
besieged by destructive brutes –
wolves dressed in lambs’ suits.
My soul will not let me go there –
to that place where evils dwell.
Entrust my fate to a prayer
that self-promoting acts cannot dispel
the eternal fires of an infamous hell.
*Written April 12, 2015, for Sheri’s “I, Icon” challenge
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