Long Nonsense Poems
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This is not a poem, this is a message for those who only come at my page to see flaws in my poem and in me, so they can make foul verbal comments. I'm not referring to my fellow poets here. I'm referring to my ill- minded compatriots.
Some even comment that its not me who makes my poems. But you can't really know or comprehend what it takes to be a poet and to make a poem if you're not a poet yourself. As Bob Dylan said, "don't criticize what you can't understand." It makes me smile to hear nonsense comments, like those saying that I copied works from other people when the poem is all about me or my situation, even containing personal details about me, especially those who comment that I plagiarize everything, including a short prose or a simple poem. You cannot apply your level of thinking or situation to that of the poet.
As you can see, every poem we make here are copyrighted the moment we make it, and many if not most of them are made for a specific competition under specific criteria set by the judges, so there's no way we just take poems from somewhere and place them here, especially if our intention is to place in the competition.
One thing that you should understand is that every poem is unique, because the condition under which it was written cannot be exactly duplicated in another time and another place. This means that except for competitions with open themes that may accept poems that were already written, poets write based on their feelings, emotion, state of body and mind, prevailing inspiration and other surrounding circumstances the time they write, which make them the only person who can explain the exact meaning of their poems. When one plagiarizes a work, he only copies the lyrics but not the essence of the work as when it was made by the writer, and definitely, the skill behind the making of the work cannot be plagiarized. That sets the difference between the person pretending and the real maker of the work. So there's no point in copying works from other people because there is no essence of self fulfilment in it.
Every poem here is open for everyone to see. If we'd be putting plagiarized works here everyday, we'd be slapped with countless charges. Besides, the admins of this site do not allow plagiarized works to be placed here. This is a site for lovers of poetry and not for haters.
December 23, 2023, PST, SPC
..She felt so damn nervous making that call,
and when he picked up she just gushed it all,
he listened quietly, then she asked to meet,
she quickly wrote down the place and the street.
She met him at one of his restaurants,
he looked different now, his eyes didn’t haunt,
he had no gun, just company t-shirt,
but something about him still spoke to her.
She asked him, “Why did you do what you did?
Why risk it all to go and save my kid?
We destroyed your business, threatened your life,
made it clear we hated anyone white.”
He gave a sad smile, and then explained,
“If that’s why you’re worried, I’ll make it plain,
how could I have just let your child burn?
The thought of it just makes my stomach churn.
“He’s a human being, in danger great,
what kind of man would leave him to his fate?
Whatever rage that the mob felt for me
had nothing to do with a child of three.”
Jacinta learned forwards. “You didn’t care
that my people didn’t much want you there?
After what happened, and what we destroyed,
you went to rescue a random black boy?”
“My ‘people’ call themselves American,
and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them.
Even if you weren’t, I’d still have to go,”
he said,”Such horrors children should not know.”
She felt amazement, and shame more than a bit,
that it took all this to understand it,
she thought ‘color-blind’ had been some quaint phrase,
those were the words that her family would say.
But this man had felt that her son mattered,
even when he had been just a stranger,
and she realized that his life mattered too,
whether black, white, or brown, such people were few.
This one man refuted lies she’d been taught,
her brother’s nonsense had all been for naught,
she saw a good man, wanted to know more,
started talking with him about his stores.
He told how his father had opened the spot
that the mob had burned, she felt her soul drop
on hearing how he’d played in the kitchen,
and chatted when young with those who came in.
She told him of Keenan, where she now lived,
he offered a job, said, “It’s mine to give.”
Soon enough Keenan would play in the back,
and the man smiled, gave him lots of slack,
mostly because he was dating his mom,
Jacinta didn’t stay on welfare for long,
the other workers snickered, she let them,
where would she find such a lover again?
CONCLUDES IN PART V.
(following on figurative heals
sans, l'amour,
i.e.,and that bastard conception
of life, liberty, and the
pursuit by George - Marshall ling, Grant
ting, and Bing Frank.)
Expectant motherhood generates aurorean
sonogram x-ray zooms
bringing developed fetus
healthily shimmering viz,
quasi hologram seen
glowing halo, inducing
jubilant kickstarter lil bean,
administering capitalone
earthlinked joyful lyft,
natural pheromone readying cerulean
tommorrows, venerated ecstacy doth gleam
zinging bounteous
dizzying feelings hormones houseclean
jackanapes leviathon nestling
pinterestinly interocean
reaching terminus vista
xing zee birth canal mien
doctor readies Fallopian tube cutting
helping jiggle little nymphean
possibly ranking...
as future topnotch venerated Olympian
fast forward to joyful loving neuro
logically plain resplendent teen
knee weeny tiny
vaunted expanding zing
baby dripping Vasoline
like goo fully gesticulating
happy jolly newborn.
Which miracle whipped
purely by chance
given reason to the most orthodox
to sing and dance,
sans said singular biological
phenomenon does enhance
freshly minted parents,
or the mommas
and papas genetic
copy wrought grants
who already passed along
to a brood of offspring
gushing with excitement
akin to fire hydrants
spewing forth fountain head
treasuring such Kodak moment,
cuz such instance
and subsequent tender
wonderful blessed
Instamatic reverent cherished instants
will zip at greased lightening
via speeding hurled lance
sing remembrance of things past
during twilight years,
an eye blink those yesterdays,
when my troubles seemed so far away
and upon being centenarian,
doddering fogie gripping hold,
hugging intensely, indubitably decrying
how quickly of
decades long ex pants
didst elapse, when tendering
to a coliciky, finicky,
inscrutably lemony snickety offspring
wishing infant would grow up already,
now onset of autonomy
Das Agean sea sunned
father or mother
hood doth rants
at father time, he doth access
without a word an excel lent
power point demonstration
with near vertical line brevity
of how mortality slants.
Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again
Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process
Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because
He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels
He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more
Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool
Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt
In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted
“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”
“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”
Later, Mr. Obvious noted,
They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”
Mr Trump later told reporters.
“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief
France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump
sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude
could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”
the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief
When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.
april 17 poem for April Month of Poetry Challenge see Writers Digest, All Poetry and my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for the rest
Broken...shattered...and scattered...these are the pieces to my life. A puzzle with no picture to look back on. Fragments of memories that form a story...A story that has long ended...As I lay on what is to be my bed I stare at the ceiling, and can only imagine what will come next. I try to close my eyes for a moment of peace, but my head is like a jackhammer on the streets of New York City...So much NOISE! WILL IT EVER END?! I'm sorry...I did not mean to blow up like that...Sometimes I wonder if I am the hero...or I am the villian. Do I make people smile, or do I make people frown? Although Robin Hood was both villian and hero, but Robin Hood was doing a bad thing for a right reason. Agh! Why am I cursed to be so numb! I can only feel the hatred I have for myself! Curse the people who created this monster...I have hurt so many, but I am the one who is hurt most. I apologize again...I am rambling nonsense. I just hate how everyday it is the same thing. The same people, the same school, the same job, and when you move on...It is the same. Same people new faces. The world is a boring place....If I was to "live life to the fullest" sooner or later life to the fullest will also become boring. Now that is saying I survive all that I do. In a way the world is also broken. The world is divided...Race...Gender...Politics...Religion. Always fighting for something... As I lay on my bed, and look through the window to see the blue sky, and cotton candy clouds I can't even raise a smile. I raise my hand up to reach for the sky, but I pull back. The world is never going to change...You are the one who has to change. You have to be the one to complete the puzzle. You can be the one to overcome all of the obstacles in your path. You are the one to glue the broken pieces, but once you have fallen into the dark pit of depression it's hard to get out. It is a fighting stuggle just to climb up...If you are alone...the fight is more like a war. Not only do you lose the will to fight, but also your sanity. It amazes me how I have not completely lost my mind. Although as the time progresses...I fear the worst for my humanity...I have tried fighting for so long...I CAN'T DO IT ANYMORE! WHO EVEN AM I ANYMORE? THE SOUND OF THE DRUMS BEATS HEAVY IN MY HEAD! I CAN NOT STAND THIS PAIN ANYMORE! I AM NOT A TOY YOU CAN FIX! I am broken...shattered....and scattered...
I'm a firm believer
In limerick fever
(This isn't news)
"It'll cure the blues!"
Says Jan (who is no deceiver)
Written by Jan Allison:
Writing limericks is a fine art
Yes I write about poop or a fart
But show me someone
Whose not dropped a ‘bomb’
then from poetry soup I’d depart!
Written by Lim'rik Flats:
Does art mimic life or life mimic art?
Don't ask me, I'm not too smart.
It seems the soup
Has the same poop
As watching the news (or a fart).
Drama and trauma, factions and foes,
Smiting and fighting, (hard on the nose),
Saves me the trouble
Of viewing double
Saves time, and less grief I suppose.
Written by Ray Gridley:
Raise a toast to this collaboration
Whatever your race or your nation
Just write on a whim
Lim'rick Flat's bound to grin
They are all going to be a sensation!
Written by Daniel Turner:
I know a guy called Lim'rick Flats
Writes limericks at the drop of a hat
Jan is his pal
She's quite a gal
They met in a laundry mat
Jan makes jokes about poop
he puts them in alphabet soop
drinks from the bowl
with no self control
which makes him a nincompoop
Also written by Daniel Turner:
Write all the limericks you want
but don't fart in a restaurant
people will laugh
call you riffraff
even if you're a debutante
Written by John Lawless:
oh the limerick it ain’t quite a sonnet
and the learned, they look down upon it
for they cannot grasp
its head or its ass
nor the cleansing effect of its tonic
Written by Terry Reeves:
Late for work she flew out the door
Took an express elevator to the 29th floor
Let some discreet killer farts
Nearly stopped all their hearts
Left them gagging; she'd evened the score
Written by Tim Smith:
Nonsense is here found out in the alley
Five funny lines we'll add to the tally
a smile or two
we laught till we're blue
so put out your best and join in our rally
Written by Alexis Y:
Hey what's going on in the soup?
Lim'rik Flats I want the scoop
What do you have to say?
You got poem of the day
Congrats, I shouldn't have flown the coop
Written by Jean Murray:
John is always fun.
His poems and their puns.
If you need a lift.
He has the gift.
Lim'rik Flats is number one.
psst. How could I not add this to the string? ~ john
Above ,
sitting atop a crested hill
solitary , but nary lonely
Agemo is what he answer's too
but question is alway's on his mind
His twin , Ahpla , calls him a dreamer
Agemo has grown to expect this
considering Ahpla's domineering demeanor
alway's suggestive to take without quarter
not understanding his brother's nature
how Agemo recieves more satisfaction giving
being there for the rest of the pack
helping to create a pleasant atmosphere
Ahpla's role as a tough , no-nonsense
protector , can show no weakness
he love's his brother Agemo
but at time's detest his obvious softness
But the pair with it's conflicting opposites
has found a way to oversee
those dependent on their intelligence
stern at times , yet comforting
Right now though ,
Agemo continues to watch
the rise of the moon's daily journey
wondering what tomorrow will bring.....
Ahpla and his twin brother Agemo
are the proud protector's
of a land called " Laskrizon "
a lush mountainous valley
nestled northwest by southwest
in the western hemisphere
Hidden to most , known only to few
legend tell's it , that Laskrizon
is a famed combination , called so
considering it's the last lacrimal horizon
the final portal , the last vestibule
where Nature hope's , and other's wait
uncertainty weigh's heavy here
The pack are guardian's of a secret
holders , protector's of a treasured jewel
only knowing , a time will come
the unknowing stirs an unease
but the honor bestowed keeps steady
Alway's a watchful eye to the sky
never was told what to look for
they believe they'll know ,
when the time arrives
anxiously awaiting
fortitude a definite calling here
The jewel is a stone
more so , a rough corpus
a veiny mass ,
crystalized in time from space
some have called it a seed from heaven
in the land of the two-legged
it's been called many names
grail stone , philosophers stone
even the water stone of the wise
All the pack knows
is to protect at all cost's
lest it falls into dire grips
The stone's purpose is unknown
easily overlooked at first glance
closer inspection reveals it's uniqueness
only under the light of the sun
distinct golden specks and threads
glorious in it's smallness , yet
simulating a galaxy of stars
with the spiral wynd of veins
a frozen beauty...........
( to be continued....)
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
I listened to a conversation I didn't mean to enter
but an evil sneer sent in my friend's direction
led me to speak before I realized it was a mistake.
In defense of my spiritual sister,
and the Truth of God's Word,
I very calmly asked a stranger
why he believed the Bible was wrong.
His response was a finger, shaken in my face
and unsavory words I'd not repeat.
I shook the dust from my feet and turned away.*
But before I was able to take two steps,
the stranger continued to rant,
"You know the Bible is out of date.
It doesn't matter what it says!"
I sighed, took a breath and said a silent prayer.
"Sir, if you will kindly allow me to say a word or two,
I'll continue our discussion in a peaceful manner."
He looked uncertain, so I began to speak of my beliefs,
but he stopped me in mid-sentence and said,
"That's nonsense! I don't want to hear any more."
I learned long ago that a soft answer turns away wrath,
but a harsh word stirs up anger,** so I said, "Have a good day."
He smirked as though he'd won a victory in a game of Chess,
looking at me as if I were a loser, a pawn, and he a king,
so besotted with himself, thinking he had won.
There was a grin on his face, laced with honied contempt.
I nodded to my friend, and she concurred with me,
leaving at this moment was what we had to do,
knowing in our hearts, it's what God expected of us.
I allowed the stranger to wear a hollow crown
in which there is no honor, no triumph or glory.
I didn't say, "Sir, your reasoning is flawed."
With one more Divine inspired thought I'd have said,
"Checkmate," but it would've been a waste of time
to throw my pearls before the feet of swine..."***
I recalled, "Whoever exalts himself will be humbled,
and whoever humbles himself will be exalted."****
With enlightenment right in front of him,
he refused to see that his reality is merely a fantasy,
so in darkness he remains... His shallowness betrayed
what his heart may have spiritually enfolded.
How unfortunate and tragic it is to me, that blind ones
are concerned about nothing more than winning a battle
but fail to comprehend the reason for the war.
October 12, 2021
The High Road Contest
Sponsor: Gina McIntosh
* Matthew 10:14 ** Proverbs 15:1
*** Matthew 7:6 ****Matthew 23:12
Can you hear the thumping, thump, thump of my heart beating away?
Can you hear my whispers of love in your ear,
as you sleep the night away in your bed, laying on the virgin white sheets,
tangled in blankets?
Can you hear me sing our favorite song, as you walk down the lonesome avenue?
Can you hear my soul, cry out for a warm embrace of your sweetest hugs?
Can you hear me cry out for a simple, loving kiss upon the lips?
I don't ask for much from you, my love.
All I ask you, is if you can hear me, and to see that you still believe in me,
and I haven't became a figment, a ghost in a scrapbook.
That I am still there with you, and not a picture of a memory collecting dust in a box.
I don't ask for much from you, my love.
I just want to know if you can still hear me, deep in your heart!
Don't forget about me.
Don't move to another, without first accepting that we had something beautiful.
Don't let me go off and vanish in vain.
Admit, you loved me, but you were afraid. Of What? I ask myself.
I don't know.
Can you feel me, touch you gently on the arm?
Can you feel my embrace, as you sit there crying on your bed,
crying to the pattern and rythmn of the rain tapping on the window pane?
Can you hear me, can you feel me? Do you even know that I'm here, with you?
Do you...?
Don't destroy something beautiful.
I love you.
I don't ask for much from you, My Love.
all I ask is that you remember.
You remember the laughs, the fun we had,
the long walks, and the long talks.
Remember the Ferris Wheel at the amusement park,
where we first kissed.
And shared our first corndog together,
and I won you that purple stuffed teddybear.
On cold nights, we'd cuddle together.
I'd write you love poems and we talk for hours about nonsense.
Remember, how you'd cry and I'd hold you, and kiss you upon your sweet head.
Remember, the nights we'd sleep together,
and the mornings we'd wake up together
with a smile and a morning kiss.
Do you remember, My Love, Do you?
Remember the good times, and don't get up and leave so quick.
To jump right into someone else's arms and forget all about me.
Can you feel the pain I have for you?
Can you feel the love I give to you?
Can you hear me sigh and cry, for one more night of love with you?
Can you...?
I don't ask for much from you, My Love.
All I ask is that you remember me,
For I still and will always remember you.