The little boy I was…
The man I’m s’posed to be…
The distance ‘tween the two
Vast as the open sea.
The dreams I had are gone.
Naught left but memories,
And nothing in their place.
The worst of cruelties.
The little boy I was
I’m glad can’t see me now.
The changes I have made
Are more than he’d allow.
The man I’m meant to be?
He’d view me with disgust.
Lambast me to my face
For losing that boy’s trust.
And here, alone, I stand
Not either of the two
But somewhere in between
Not knowing what to do.
That little boy I was,
The man I’m s’posed to be,
Are both forever gone
Replaced by only me…
The spirit of Robin is well in France
2023 his ethos advanced
The middle managenent break ranks
In suppirt of freedom for people in France
Free power supplied to homes and schools
Buisnesses hospitals spared daconian rules
The goverments farce is now under lambast
Reason has ignited in the mindset of France
Robin des bois, they play your game.'
People before profit thats purely sane
We can have both..' who says otherwise
Do we a want billions? And much genocide?
Many minds can figure, solutions and ways.'
Stand walk; march, improvise i hear France say.'
once i was a contender
riding rough shed over feelings and sighs
i had a yearning light
my lambast kisses unmerited
I would unsmile
Brunettes took their vows
weeping away their beauty when I rode
once I was a lover, and they came to bed
Once I was a clown
breaking the silence of the night
i shone the correct anger
between sharp lyric
and loneliness
The Angels called on me
despite being alive
Mallory the cat needs a bit of a rest, he’s older than me.
Nothing to see, I tell the neighbors. He’s just up in a tree.
Gawkers come by and lambast me for letting him rest.
Up in his regular place, his tree where he is blest.
He has been sitting up there since he was a kitten.
He’s fine, I reassure them, he looks rather smitten.
Some want to rescue him, which is weird to me.
After all, Mallory is my cat, he is hurting no one up in a tree.
Cameramen from the paper came by and took a quick flash.
They put Mallory on the front page, and it made kind of a splash.
He’s out there today, sitting stoically, turning away from the street.
Loving it that so many coaxers are offering him a come-on-down-treat.
My worst enemy deserves to know the truth.
I owe her that.
So I am going to lambast her now.
You need to play more; to take life less seriously.
You would be happier if you concentrated on the positives.
Let the negatives slide down the brook into the river.
The large catfish will devour them gladly.
Be your best self every day.
You do not have to fix everything.
You are not in charge of everyone.
Be less intense. Be silly sometimes.
Write those songs, and play
Be yourself always.
I know this needs to be said
And done
For my worst enemy is me.
"You will come to the grave in full vigor, Like the stacking of grain in its season.
— Job 5:26
Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.
— Genesis 25:8
PARADE OF SILVER ROSES
Ripened with wrinkles and jowls of joy,
why cry over fallowed days,
when the brightness of youth
squeezes you tighter than foremost days.
Giggling, kicking at the mound of enjoyment,
the parade of silver roses laid at the grave —
that’s how the whippersnappers see you,
those tug-a-war children that hound at the heel
of your beloved grands of glockenspiel.
Supercilious satisfaction as you tether your cane
to tenderness and affection, aggressively pointing
only at those crooks who choose to lambast insane,
ruin your days and keep at arm's length the babes.
Silver in your hair, spun by hands with stigmata holes,
and you’ll breathe your last and first breath all the same.
With seasoned wheat, such golden beauty,
ecstatic at heaven’s attraction, standing in frame.
3/9/2020
They shot anything that moved,
anything filthy and poor.
Down with the proletariat!
The Prussians played cards
and praised red French wine.
They passed round the Vodka,
The Russians played cards.
Down with the aristocrat!
Lambast the filthy rich.
They shot anything that moved.
By Parizo Van Thulare
The echo of my rhyming
Making waves from the calcaneus up the nerve of auditory
Cleansing all which was blocked in tympanic membrane
This is poetry 's Lambast
The beauty of wisdom making Blast
This how i Cast
Hear them throb through the cortical cells
Storming and stomping as the dozer of Bells
The words through my lyics
The bond of my syllables
The fonts of the collabo
This is me the Commando
Parizo De Lá Poerto
Used to touch my toes
Kick my legs in the air
Do exercises in droves
Like I did not care
Now I’m full of donuts
Potato chips and blue cheese.
My ankles are all puffy
I can no longer see my knees
Have not been swimming since ’98.
Weigh now more than a boxer’s weight.
I waddle to my well-deserved fate
Have no one else to lambast or hate.
Excoriate means: abuse, assail, attack, bash,
belabor, blast, castigate, jump (on), lambaste
(or lambast), potshot, savage, scathe, slam,
trash, vituperate
Deplorables and Excoriables
Are many people who are excoriables,
We did discover are really deplorables;
Now exist,
And persist;
Find to be foes that are formidable.
Jim Horn
THE PARABLE OF THE TALENTS
The grave he dug, the monument he built.
No one saw the single coin that died so fast.
No time for a blessing, nevertheless knees stained,
In the dingy, dirty dark where seeds lambast.
On topsoil, five coins flitter between a man’s fingers.
The magician amazes the crowd, he doubles his wages.
His master will cheer him on, with soulful eyes.
Of his faithfulness, angels dictate lovely pages.
Yes, those who doubled their score whether small or great
will find favor and a hefty inheritance at the pearly gates.
But for the ones who bury their treasure and sit upon it
a sharp shovel will grovel, gripe and shape their fate.
10/7/2018
Contest: The Parable of the Talents
Sponsor: Holly Hippocampus
Angel whispers are heard by the chosen
I hear, but ignore, not feeling worthy.
Their persistence bodes well for heaven,
They turn my keen senses topsy turvey.
Pure angel messages resound in my soul,
I am silent, completely humbled and awed.
Angel whispers of joyfulness lambast me whole.
I do not deserve it, I am completely soul-flawed.
Persistence from heaven forces me to listen.
When I close my eyes, I resume resistance.
Barely asleep, angel wings start to glisten.
I am humbled by their chosen insistence.
Totally honored, I meditate on their message,
Why I was chosen is an anomaly to me.
The voice is persistent, keeping me hostage,
Until passing on the message is what I agree.
Written: 8-4-18
Entered:
Sponsor:
Frankly, you blew it, lost your cool;
you let loose and lambasted him.
Seventy-eight years, you ole fool,
frankly, you blew it, lost your cool.
You aren't ashamed? instead you drool.
Going to the pool for a swim?
Frankly, you blew it, lost your cool;
you let loose and lambasted him.
THE GHOST BAR
gangrenous chains
rusted and burdensome
lambast the oak plank
etching ethereal gouges
the serpentine length drags
with warlike screams
ghoulish intensity
grabs each bony-disk
with heartlessness
the ice cold floor and
daggered eyes, seem
but a hallucination
to the drunken lot
but the barmaid sees!
she screams
as the breathless apparition
howls with wrathful laughter
she faints, fast and dreadful
the chains coil about his neck
in retribution for his act
yanking him about
the floor gives way like quicksand
and he plummets yet again
to certain death
covered by miles and miles of clanging chain
the barmaid’s brought about by salts
she tells the tale over and over again
until the legend of the ghost bar
becomes famous
detailed in rusty chains and eyes
...one peeks through
10/23/2017
How Dare We Ever So Boldly Speak Out
Let me write in obscure and chaotic words
stirring waters tepidly unknown
Yet my spirit refuses to admire such birds
or the massive flattery they are now shown
Why yes, some of us write from poetic hearts
with passion and not merely for fleeting praise
We that sail the seas, using understood charts
are now thought to be in an insane craze!
O' that we dareth to sparsely use archaic words
in poems as way of joining with the past
O' what folly, not wanting to be in a modern herd
or be afraid of those that so love to lambast
Cry thee, to thy Gods of confusing adulation
while we carry on in our simple ways
Content with depth, not writing for modern adoration
full of faith that truth and heart in poetry pays!
Robert J. Lindley, 4-27-2017
Note- Old poet, simple slam and quite tired of elitist criticisms
of poet novices, true hearts writing in understood words and
some that seek to exalt themselves by tearing others down..
Yes, this is a slam, but one done in a simple,reserved and more poetic style.
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