Long Annoying Poems
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I’ve realized after living for so many years
That sometimes taking a life isn’t something you choose.
I walk through the streets of the city with no fears
Of retribution from the creatures beneath my shoes.
If it were possible, I would leave them all alone,
But there are just too many of them living out there.
It seems like most of them don’t even have a home.
To avoid killing them, you would have to walk on air.
I know that they are necessary for us to survive,
But I’m just not a fan of the ugly, creepy, little things.
The more people there are, the better they thrive.
At best annoying, at worst, scary to us human beings.
We all wanted to inherit Aunt Ida’s ruby choker.
It is gorgeously set with rubies, emeralds and diamonds.
Are they real or fakes? Someone asked. .
Carol, a very annoying in-law.
She should have no right to this gorgeous piece.
We lied and told her they are all faux gems.
We know better.
But we know another thing about this relative.
She is a thief, so lying to her was easy.
I would wear it anyway, she told us.
Aunt Ida always cautioned us to never wear it to bed.
Our cousin Lulu inherited it.
Wore it to bed.
Was found the next day, deceased.
That’s when we decided Carol should have it.
We told her it would be good luck to wear it to bed.
My pen cannot much bleed.
My heart, though it may ache,
cannot a loud sound make.
I suffer – as do many others -
from nearly endless annoying conditions
for which I seek relief, but I can no more make
you feel my pain
than I can make you feel my smallest grief.
We live each in our own bubble-worlds,
understanding one another’s words,
but how can we really feel
another’s pain for REAL? Mere words do not suffice.
I think of those who suffer from mental illnesses
or others marooned on their own little islands of despair.
How can we ever make ourselves comprehend THEIR pain?
And with strangers, how easily can we care?
We live with trials, sometimes never knowing
why some burdens came to be our own.
People born with no arms or legs – a horrifying fate.
Sightless or worse – the brain so dead it never can create.
What good in bleeding one’s woes with a pen?
Somewhere in the world right now
people are bleeding far worse than you or I
again and again and again.
Imagine if we could really “feel” each other’s pain.
One's mind could not withstand the onslaught
of feeling everybody’s strife.
God made it this way; and thus is life.
And so we write or we tell our woes to friends.
I do not know why some suffer more than others.
I only know one day the suffering ends.
Until then, I keep on writing because I feel the need,
but the pen I use to write with hardly knows to bleed.
Summertime involves barbeques and picnics,
baseball games, swimming, and dogs fetching sticks.
Pitching tents and sharing the ground with slugs,
centipedes, and other assorted bugs.
As twilight wanes, female mosquitoes thirst
for blood: vying for who will bite you first.
And at sunset, as evening breezes warm,
clouds of annoying gnats begin to swarm.
Ebony fields showcase flashing fireflies,
blinking in and out like sparks on the rise.
As creepy crawlers stir in the moonlight,
crickets break the silence imposed by Night.
The morning mist dribbles droplets of dew
on blades of grass that green grasshoppers chew.
And as butterflies sip nectar, first light,
dragonflies flex cellophane wings for flight.
Summertime's menagerie of insects
includes artists, farmers, and architects.
Alive, yet as beautiful as a gem:
we get to share this blue marble with them.
When you look at cancel culture,
and what it has become today,
you can’t help but look back and think
it didn’t use to be this way.
Free speech was once more respected,
people allowed to say their peace,
half the lefties who want us gone
once said the people should speak free!
So why is it that they do this,
what has made them seek to repress?
There’s several reasons, each worthy
of examination, redress.
The politicians are simple,
they see it as a useful tool
to rid themselves of annoying
people who think the pols are fools.
Like all the tyrants of the past
they love making souls ‘disappear,’
and any thing that helps them out
they will indulge in with great cheer.
their kind has always been this way,
The founders knew that pols were sh-t,
but they can’t use tools unless we
let the jerks get away with it.
And we know that the corporate types
just go along to get along,
fearing so much to get bad press
they don’t care if their acts are wrong.
So in bed with the government
they’ll cower and do as they’re told,
so afraid of losing money
that they don’t dare anything bold.
They think twitter is the real world,
and shrink back from shrieking harpies,
afraid that if they don’t play ball
they’ll lose out on the ESG.
Ignoring the big audience
that is waiting for them out there,
openly calling us bad names
to convince the crazies ‘they care.’
Then there’s the weak majority
who never grew out of high school,
they bit their tongue and say the words
out of fear they might not look ‘cool.’
That they would appear out-of-place
from what the news preaches to them,
fearing what other people think,
scared that they might lose all their friends.
These people don’t cancel themselves,
they just try to keep their heads down,
but when someone’s life is ruined
these types are nowhere to be found.
They do not bother to speak out
even when they think it’s wrong,
they rationalize the evil,
because in truth, they’re not that strong.
willing to give up all their rights,
then go make excuses for that,
they’re feeding the alligator
hoping that in will eat them last...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
He stands before us
to deliver
a poem, a prose, a
verse a rhyme, or message.
His manner quite
manifesting,
and his confidence
puts the crowd at
ease.
Soon and very soon,
too soon- we loath
him.
There is
too much cluster on
his magniloquent,
vine, of strung
together
words without
substance.
Though the use of
an, apophasis
gives poetic license
to insult.
we loathe him
instantly.
The silver-tongued
orator's
brilliance, soon
becomes wearisome.
While the mute
articulate points of
his eccentric
ramblings lead us
to dead ends.
Unfulfilled and
burdened.
We now loath him.
The loathsome Bard
goes on to rant
about, degrading
and dissolute issues
of life, which we
felt the
Bard had not
concern.
His bombast
delivery,
to some appears
eloquent,
grand-stand
language, bellowed
out quite grandiloquently
.
Wordy vagaries,
leading us nowhere.
As we listen to the
of his charades, we
loathe him.
Though quite colorful
and pompous; He leave
us in shambles, brains all
scrambled and we
loathe him.
The once brilliant
verse, though
well-rehearsed,
becomes wearisome.!
The Bard,
went not in hard;
We the discombobulated,
pray aloud, “next poet
please Lord".!
We all were relieved
as he finally did
leave, because he looked
better going than
coming.
With our intellect
he was toying,
though the Bard was not
hard!
Most certainly;
He was annoying!
Why did they name it a freeway to begin with
Honestly it doubles your chances of getting hit
Drunk drivers and those with road rage throwing fits
Constantly driving defensively to avoid a near miss
Are the ramp meter lights really controlling the traffic
It causes more confusion when an idiot drives past it
It's on this road that the impatient show themselves
Another reason the insurance comanies are high in their sells
People changing lanes like they're under the influence
Tailgaters are annoying and also drivers with no insurance
If an accident happens anywhere on the freeway
Artificial traffic builds from the nosey looking that way
Then when lanes aren't moving but yours starts to
Someone always dares to dash right in front of you
You also have those who try to cheat the carpool
Even break through the solid lines just to roll through
That freeway business can be too much for me
To avoid that madnes I rather take the street
I don’t remember much about our party line, only that we weren’t quite as bad off as what they showed on the Green Acres tv series. We didn’t have to climb a pole to make our phone call. Three rings and it was ours. The kids were discouraged to pick up till they got the number of rings down pat. How annoying when someone didn’t. It was the late sixties and we weren’t rich, this was the least of our problems.
to this day
remembering
our old phone number
AP: 2nd place 2022
D'ya know any people who are always right
Are they annoying creatures or what?
Wonder who made them this walking thesaurus
They sure make my blood run hot
Love to poke holes in what they're saying
Proving that they ain't infallible
Jump at any chance to prove these guys wrong
To be right every time is impossible
Engaging these people in normal conversation
Is frustrating and hard on the psyche
You wanna scream and yell naughty words
And physically harm them, by crikey
Best thing to do is just try to remain calm
Dispute everything they are saying
Drives them batty and they blow their stack
As around the issue you go skating
A naughty and devious man I am
Get a chuckle out of seeing 'em rage
Sure serves 'em right for being so arrogant
Must be the attention they crave!
Every morning at a quarter to six, I can hear my he him trotting down the hallway to the bed where I lay, shriveled up under my weighted blanket, so fat and un-tall.
There’s a part of me that should feel sorry for my little Cowboy husband Joe, but the other part is as angry as Sophie Dog, who snarls and snaps when she hears him in the hall.
“Time to get up!” he says in a sing-songy way, being a nice guy, who truly, only ever wanted to be a child, outside, who could laugh and play like a kid with honey bun food.
“Son of a mule’s *******,” I say, in the kindest cowboy-kind of way, knowing he’s going to feed Shark next, and he’d better tip toe as I am in that kind of I-HATE-EVERYBODY-KIND-of-Mood.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
“I saw that the baby opossum on the porch was out of food again, so I banged on the window, and he ran off with that little hop-skip he has,” Joe babbles on. “After he left, I took some cat food out. He’s eating it now.” Joe is wearing his best hat, and boots, but I don’t give them no mind.
Son of a horse’s behind, does he always have to yap like a coy dog? I think as I try to get a growling Sophie dog’s butt off of the covers I’m trying to put back over my head, so I can have some peace and QUIET; “Get OUT OF HERE!” I yell, I’m 11 minutes behind!”
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Sophie and I get woked up three more times by him, and we chase him out each time, baring our teeth. It reminds me of my early days with my mother who used to be just this damned happy and annoying in the morning. She used to give us pancake rolls. Which means she used to jump on our bed and roll on us making us extra angry before we left for school.
The last time, the final time, the I mean it this time, he brings me my usual Chuck Wagon Caren is hungry as a giant Stegosaurus on speed breakfast. Five pounds of hash-browns, a three egg omelet with bacon, and it damn well better be the exact temp I like, he has learned the hard way Sophie and I are
Very particular about the temp of our bacon. He takes off his 10 gallon hat, sitting it on the bed, and says “anything else, my ladies?” Before we can speak, he magically produces my jalapeno peppers which we dump lavishly over our hash-browns. Yes, he is the perfect cowboy for this fool.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.