The Poets are our quintessential rebellious, rebels
The Maroons, the Braves, and the Daredevils
There is a ton of biases even in simple poetry
The Poets are known to be born freedom fighters
The unafraidheroes of hell, the sweet bees
Which can sing and sting, and deliver honey
Even in Poetry, we encounter weird free-loaders
Sick unabashed orators and pusillanimous braggers.
The Poets are born to be different, legally liberal
Awkwardly conservative, strong ass-kickers
Blunt truth seekers, and not obedient ass-kissers
Call the generals, the Police, and bring the arsenal
Of bloated words, and epithets; dumb or foolish attributes
Write verses and elegiac poems to pay countless tributes
To the sorry plagiarists, and to the ill-polished writers
Nobody cares anymore about the well-versed truth tellers.
Copyright © November 2017, Hebert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
tis what happens when ya’ be kissin’ the Blarney Stone
although I never did~ they don’t wipe between kissers
and my wonderful wife said I didn’t need to~ my gift of gab comes naturally
Calm and beautiful,
When birds fly through the sky.
Solitude and Peaceful,
When leaves on branches dance.
While in search for the light,
The bluest skies go gray.
They say, when all is restful:
Flowers and bees are the finest kissers.
The wind blows in May,
With love and kindness blending.
But you just have go living,
As, it is the place where we all rejoice.
Your loved ones, childhood friends
sticks to you, mostly when you reign
The ones you danced with in the rain
most of them, kinda appreciate your pain
You are loved with pure hate
we get hurt, but we still extend our arms for them to take
The Judas in our lives
The good bad kissers
The ones we sweat for, bloody Samaritan's
The ones that hide claws
The ones that show us their jaws
They give us filtered Joy
They backbite us, and then smile to us at sunrise
Would you choose loneliness instead of disappointment?
Or you would choose affliction, and fake appointment
Would you embrace love from your haters?
or you would rather, bleed for your lovers!
I am in love with love and love is in love with me
life is sweet and sweet is sweet on me for I know
that kisses are kisses that brush good kissers like you
and you are love and love is you and love loves you too
Pride myself as a giggle maker elite
Putting smiles on your kissers, I'm at your feet
At your service each day
To happy up your way
Enjoying life's ups and the downs to the beat
Pride myself as a giggle maker elite
Putting smiles on your kissers, I'm at your feet
At your service each day
To happy up your way
Enjoying life's ups and the downs to beat
Honk if you love sex, the sound would be deafening
Not much chance the honking would start lessening
By the grins on your kissers
And the stroking of your whiskers
It's brightens your day and was really refreshing
© Jack Ellison 2015
Why....
Why must this life be so bitter-sweet,
Why do the stars fall down from Heaven,
Why are all the sweetest songs the shortest,
Why do you wait for true love the longest,
Why on a warm summer night does come the chill,
Why is life sometimes this bitter pill,
Why do the best kissers make the worst lovers,
And the best lovers seem to remain friends...Why,
I ask these questions because I long for answers,
My soul to the inner depths thirsts for the waters to satisfy these longings-to-know,
Why...
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A contextual contrib to the categorization
for rat-ICK-al political fans.
Simply put, the contest is not for the faint of heart.
Testing the spine of the spineless
demi-gods of media-o-craSS-y against each other
often produces hilarious outcomes, balloons full of
hot air which rise, sinkers like submarines
A-bombs which ann-I-oH-late beating the literal
pants of of pre-despotic predators!
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A confab of convicts crashing the party of humanity
for their own con-test, loot-seekers all.
Blue ribbon, hollow trophy-seeking, baby kissers.
Even the best of these deep thinkers seldom
produce products which do more
than a-GRAND-Ize themselves.
Hitler con-tested the right to breath of the non
Aryan races...now that's surely contestable?
Kings and demagogue contest the human rights
of man daily, throwing female babies out with the trash.
So in an effort to auto adjust this neolith-ICK behavior
I vote we go sans test!
*There are no spelling errors here
what you see is poetic license.
I've never seen two kissers more in love
The smiles curving their faces interlocked at a baggage claim,
Our modern symbol of distance crashing into connection.
You are my everything
I change point of view over you.
Magic resides in the present.
And a kiss such as this remains forever.
"Where do we go from here,"
You might ask.
"To my family, to my love, to our
Growing season."
I wouldn't say the last bit cuz it need not be said.
Our walk will say it all.
Our love we will tread.
My Dear Mr. Heck,
The song you quote
May be dreck...
But it's truth forsure,
And underplayed,
The company folded long ago,
One clear factor for sure I know,
The owner spent his days playing golf,
Hired brainless butt-kissers whose thoughts were slow,
And customer service was on a par..
With Nazi treatment at Auchwitz,
Sometimes even more bizarre...
If asked by a customer straight out, I couldn't lie,
So I would shout.
"Run for your life rather than buy here...
The end's at hand, it's very clear...."
So the employees joined the customers screwed,
And faithful vendors got the worst,
Mr. Arnold Hershbain, the villian supreme,
Has now built another evil nest.
Where are your upstairs friends?
The coffee break girls;
Credit card tight,
Newly coifed,
Numerously heeled
And
Playing a little material bridge.
Where are the elevator girls?
Those check booked cynical
Fifteen minute friends.
The boss kissers;
Union mothered now
Skipping rope in third grade circles.
Are you still upstairs big time,
Afraid of that ground floor?
Tight backed
polished bags.
Billing friends;
Lonely little time certificates.
Where are all your front desk pals;
Weekday girl scouts?
Locker liquor safe.
Ladies room tokers.
Sold out till Friday,
Crying on the phone till dawn.
I saw you through that upstairs window
Waving paper children.
Tuesdays friend.
Sundays weeper.
Watched, clocked and counted;
Moving to the sound of silver.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.