To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
In the midst of weeping with a salty aftertaste.
There is a warm embrace of light, not waste.
Some stories are cloaked in frantic haste.
This is emerging in the midst of the chaste.
Lost to history, the tales of heroes and baste.
I'd wish to walk to the beach and lambaste.
While immersed in the eons-spanning waist.
The place of plentiful smiles and fish paste.
Written: June 04, 2023
They scar and mar the alma mater of the altar/
We’re hard on bars as we rock it and lift off far and soar sure of our space car/
They’ll never run us flat too solid for that /
Matter of fact we hear ‘em like a fawn’s blat after we snapped with sass and packed brass/
More chatter they chit chat the madder the hats/
Were out here spit for spat aghast at the sadder cast/
Thinking their blabber lasts they flash and lambaste/
Then lay waste and deface their two faced ace/
Glazed flakes with play fakes stake out to take from an honorary mate/
Years they’d wait after my best mates tragic fate/
A frayed tactic that’d leave my Dad, my hero dismayed /
Worked many days, played and paid to have it the way it was made for our stay/
Irked by the flirts of dark days lured by stark strays
To hoard your gifts, to sit upon
the dust and ash - this life won’t last.
I n a c t i v i t y bores, i n v i t e s
the demons in…these beasts lambaste.
7/5/2022
Sin of Sloth
Margarita Lillico
abcb
Used Rhymezone
Guess Who,
One Clue,
Old As Dirt,
Sometimes Curt.
Tom’s Opinion
1/13/2021
She preaches forgiveness and promotes divisiveness,
and isn’t plagued In her purpose by indecisiveness.
She’s had years of practice at spewing false claims,
A partisan politician who excels in fanning flames.
Any articles of impeachment she’s not apt to table,
and disagreeing with her, gets some west coast label.
It’s said when she gets mad she can throw a hissyfit,
and even if somethings good she still wouldn’t like it.
If found on her bad side she’s not slow to lambaste,
and like Churchill “she never lets a crisis go to waste.”
She’s like a bulldog in a hay barn taking a breather,
she won’t eat the hay and won’t let others eat it either.
Silence Is Golden
Written: by Miracle Man
3/15/2020
Some willingly parse words and minutia look past,
the smaller details just never appear to matter.
While stepping on others feelings each time they lambaste,
they constantly fill a room with unwanted chatter.
“silences make the real conversation between friends.
Not the saying but the never needing to say is what counts”
Margaret Lee Runbeck
The tempest kiss of seaweed miss.
Her temper heard ~ his heart stirred.
His ship astern and fast.
The siren’s scorn lambaste;
Blind youth’s reality is blurred.
The satin hair of Whitney bright
A pearlescent veil, the tide ~
Calm! Calm! It’s all a lie!
Her body movement spry.
O serpentine witch, her smile, her glide…
Her bright white fangs aglow, move slow.
The magic of her song moored
In his terrified glance;
The seaman’s in a trance.
In former life, he would have scored.
She slowly sucks his soul, and then,
One by one she tenders them.
The fishhooks through their eyes,
Amuse her with goodbyes.
Rehearsal of fatale la femme.*
2/5/2020
*femme fatale order of words was switched to aid rhyme.
A poet’s prerogative:)
Never Judge Another
Written: by Miracle Man
1-23-2020
Withhold your praise if well I do,
and lambaste not, my failure, I pray.
Unless God has commissioned you,
to sit in judgment of me this day.
mid-September wind
the breeze on my countenance
sunlight on my cheeks
Autumn’s just getting started
lambaste of limbo awakes
9/18/2019
Here is a poem on etiquette, about which
I barely know the subject from the predicate
It seems to me that etiquette's all stuffy
It's for royalty's ilk, haughty and puffy
Who the hell cares how you hold your fork
One way for fish, another for pork
Of course, eating soup's a precarious matter
Make sure not one drop is carelessly splattered
As for zupping up the dregs straight from the bowl
That faux pas will land you in etiquette gaol
Then there's the matter of how to drink tea
Proper form being, up with one's pinky
And effeminate gentlemen tuck in their napkins
When carving a bird with all the trappings
Well, I hope you've enjoyed this sacrilegious romp
Dripping with sincerity, and a dearth of pomp
And now that I have etiquette happily hammered
I leave it to you to lambaste English grammar
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
When darkness surrounds you and sadness stalks,
When you are lost in labyrinth and stagger in walk,
When you are broken and your memories haunt,
When folk lambaste and bitterly taunt,
When your towering strength washes away,
And you find it hard to adamantly stay,
Let not darkness drive you to the madness,
And turn your happiness into sadness,
All the worldly things secretly contrive,
It is you, who must survive,
And fight your hidden demons and foes,
Be the waterfall and stream that elegantly flows,
And change its path and make its way,
Be that stream and make your day.
A person who empower his energy,
Can defeat the world with infinite mystery.
Let your life to spark and ignite,
And forget your erstwhile plight.
M. Shahid Hussain 22 Nov, 2020
Four kegs, they’d left on the rye field’s bare crest
gone were the skittles and the balls of wood.
Four kegs empty of magical brew, strewn
upon the hill’s breasts, where gnomes had stood.
They’d left long ago, twenty years today.
Here’d been a mountain, where now a farm stood.
They had left their tipple as each strike thundered
to lambaste lightning from stacked firewood.
On the rye field’s bare crest now shrouded in snow
beneath a Wedgwood sky, stood kegs of wood.
On the rye field’s bare crest each keg turned stone
marking the bones where rebels once stood.
Gone ‘till tonight, the gnomes and jack tars
until the moon’s magic topped the keg’s wood.
Gone till tonight were the hard balls and pegs
this night spirits would dance where we now stood.
Published 2017 by Illumen
Stephanus Marcus Book 1
Canto 4
Verses 6 and 7
In saddle he attacks Sir Sinefred's shield
and smites with mace red buckler giving baste.
Duke Morley reins his steed from fight to yield
to Marcus; Leopard strikes again in haste
and makes Sir Sinefred's shield a dented waste.
The blows are given, taken three for three,
but Sinefred's armor's taking great lambaste.
Then mace with force hits plate around his knee.
Now Sword of Bleadershame doth harken Cedric's plea.
The Blade of Bleadershame doth rein back white
and takes self right where Cedric waits uneased.
Together gallop fleet to find more might
and seek the way to rule the dale as pleased.
Thus Saint, alas, will see the dale not seized
and Morley hailed the victor great in strife.
This late cool afternoon of day is breezed
as by the Patron Saint of Morley's wife.
Such benediction blesses knights, his soul and life
A Ladle of Forms Still Sit In The Cradle
A week has past
Questions were asked
Them truly lambaste
For their lemons vast
Leaving readers aghast
In view of better typecast
The flock may hold fast
A herder's iconoclast
Say, sheared wool for the enthusiast?
But hear ye what's in the forecast?
connie pachecho
10/18/17
Note-In the wake of poor poetry form examples, like the ABC form,
here at PS, where the featured poems do not even come close to
following the definition, words of condemnation needed to be addressed.
A week has passed, sigh, nothing has been done.
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