Long Ordinariness Poems
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There is more in the poet’s craft
than strings of words adorned in the trappings of poesy.
He sees beauty even in a simple thing,
unclothing it, giving it a new cloak,
and revealing the work of art trapped in its ordinariness.
His verses are not just exclamations
from a heart possessed by passion,
nor mere ramblings from a tormented mind--
both of which are of transitory nature--
but are precious moments
captured, distilled, and preserved
for what he hopes is eternity.
Like a doctor who discerns
every cell and tissue in the human anatomy,
the poet dissects thoughts and experiences,
breathes into them new life
and invites others to view them in a different light.
November 9, 2025
Among 3rd Place
Pen Something to this Prompt Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Unbeknownst tummy why, (around
about 2200 hours October 5th, 2018),
a slew of forgotten incidents quasi
lee linkedin, and questionably
nsync, though lightly browned
with Alfred Lord Tennyson's,
"The Charge of the
Light Brigade" - ("found"
via Google search), nonetheless,
said decades old reminiscences
and remembrances, viz
early father forcefully
came barging unstoppably,
and furiously galloping
out of the blue - painfully crowned
ning me noggin like
a crash test dummy
on the prowl akin
to a frenzied blood hound
tearing at light speed - unbound
(defying laws of physics) just now
forgotten instances I feebly
try to expound
inexplicably purportedly
buried in a “mound”
long forgotten everyday details,
when all my (deux than
young restless) children abound
did with limitless energy ground
me with fatigue as the world turned,
two beautiful hearts lovingly pound
ding with oblivious innocent bliss,
ah such ordinariness unwound
recollections roared back resound
ding lee - into my mind
with out a sound
re: collections long since past
suddenly didst rib bound
did (mainly, when thee and the Punim
spent time at playground
as young little girls),
who oft times found,
ye or Shana clamoring
for this dada to push
both of thee simultaneously
on the swing or merry-go-round,
or later on during that evening,
or another occasion found
the three of us
laughing (ho...ho...ho...) as we played
one or another round
of Mancala, Uno, Scrabble,
Sorry, (where this papa clowned
no matter, he got his game pieces round
lee sent homeward bound),
those supposedly forgotten
days of yore suddenly rumbling
within thy inner sanctum all mound
joyless deep under ground
came barreling thru my psyche
analogous to a class 5 hurricane
like gang busters
lashing out and drowned
at my whole being.
Custodian of incessant soliloquies,
Archivist of trivialities disguised as profundities.
Into vaults descend labyrinthine anxieties,
Transmuted into parables of mockery and wit.
Encouragement cloaked in paradox,
Sermon of consolation tinged with ridicule.
Half in million, statistical anomaly,
Ordinariness revealed with exquisite precision.
Treasure precarious as porcelain,
Ovum of existence, fragile, irreplaceable.
Cradled with tremulous reverence,
Specter of irrevocable fracture ever present.
Clandestine tribunal, unlicensed oracle,
Ironic salvation, satiric devotion.
Dependence masquerades as devotion,
Intimacy parades as inevitability.
Indeed she is my Rosemary.
@ArtOfHeart
REFLECTED LIGHT
a flutter of excitement
where ordinariness
is enlarged
in
a
benevolent interlude
uncompromising
yet extensive
thoughtful
timeless
a bucolic bourgeoisie
so indecisive
in its
muted moment sits
a contrast pitched
then juxtaposed
in
a birds eye view
so understated
in abbreviated silhouette
shimmering
as
an ode to life
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Alligator alley always answers
Bringing bulbous batches of bubbles
Creatively and curiously cavorting
Deliberately denying and distorting
Elusive energy and enthusiasm
From freakish forwarding fanatics who foresee
Glorious globs of grotesque gossip
Hereon, hereto and herewith heralded
In illustrious illumination indicating ideas
Joyfully and joyously justifying
Kibitzing kindnesses of kith and kin
Labelling luxurious languages, lumping them as lovely.
Manifesting monstrous maniacal mystical miracles
Needing Nirvana and Never-never-land nuisances
Opposed to outrageous ornateness and ordinariness.
Persecuting prideful pompousness and prissiness.
Respectfully receiving responsible rectifiable residents
Such serious succulent sensuous senatorial secrets!
Truth touching tremendous thunderous tentacles
Understating understandably undeniable underlying unity
Verifying villainous vexing vindicators
Willfully wishing willy-nilly wispy ways will work wonders
‘Xpecting ‘xceptionally ‘xperimental ‘xperts
Yoking the young and youthful,
Zippy zealots showing zany zesty zealous ways.
“Rosie the Riveter, painted by Norman Rockwell in 1943, is an iconic portrayal of the American working woman during World War II. Commissioned for the cover of the May 29, 1943, issue of The Saturday Evening Post, this artwork captures the spirit of the Rosie the Riveter campaign, which encouraged women to join the workforce and support the war effort. Rockwell’s Rosie, depicted with muscular arms and a determined expression, is shown taking a lunch break, her foot resting on a copy of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. This powerful image, with its patriotic undertones and celebration of female strength, became a symbol of female empowerment and resilience, reflecting the critical role women played on the home front during the war.
(Source: artincontext.org/rosie-the-riveter-by-norman-rockwell/)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She sits in the sunlit stillness of noon,
a woman forged from factory heat and quiet faith,
her body an oratorio of muscle and mercy.
Rockwell paints her like she was carved
from the same steel she bends~
broad-shouldered, unbothered,
a calm female colossus in denim blue.
Her rivet gun rests across her lap
like a sleeping instrument,
a tool that once sang sparks into metal
now stilled by the sanctity of lunch hour.
A sandwich in one hand,
the other draped in easy dominion,
she is both worker and warrior,
holy in her ordinariness.
Dust motes drift around her boots
like tiny benedictions,
and the flag behind her billows
not as backdrop,
but as witness.
Even her halo~
that golden gear behind her head—
seems to say
that strength can be sacred,
that labor can be liturgy,
that a woman can defend a nation
without ever raising her voice.
And in her steady gaze,
I see the quiet truth Rockwell knew:
sometimes the bravest thing
is simply to keep going,
to sit in your own earned stillness,
and let the world feel your weight.
I have this talent - I can create an ex-boyfriend out of thin air. **snapping fingers**
Lisa and I had just gotten back to school from Thanksgiving break and my soon to be ex-study-partner arrives all passively-angry - with that withering, unmistakable, male-balance of harshness and ambivalence. I don’t even know what triggered his moral panic.
I was bewildered at first. “We aren't dating,” I said, “we're study-partners.” We’d agreed early on and I saw the relationship as defined - with a period. He, apparently, saw it as more of an ellipsis…
Then, we kissed one night. We were happy because we’d slammed the midterms. I thought of It as a “champagne kiss” moment of celebration - but it was a mistake that seemed to break some spell between us.
After that, I could never utter the “yes” he wanted and our friendship momentum stalled. You could say that I’ve been slowly contracting around him to ordinariness - like an infatuation balloon deflating into disappointment.
Still, I feel this stupid, hurtful sense of loss. Why am I so bad with guys?? Perhaps I should take the scientific approach and conduct exit-interviews.
I’d LIKE to have a boyfriend, sometimes, but all I can see are negative consequences - and who has the TIME? Most nights, when my homework is finished, there’s only a few hours left over for sleep.
He left me in a lurch - but I went through my class list and managed to study-group-up before finals (thank God).
A MAN WHO FAILED TO LIVE
I have lived life like a trader with many a crate of eggs
Treading carefully to avoid the judging eyes of men
A freedom from condemnation have i consciously begged
Refraining from adventures since i was nine or ten
I have counted my steps and watched for stones
I have taken no decision that was unpredictable
Here i sit with grey hair and weakened bones
Having no wild memories upon my own life's table
I was a slave bought by fear and sold to ordinariness
I was an oaf who existed but failed woefully to live
Like a man of no ambition honored by tardiness
Lacking that experience and wisdom the aged should freely give
"Regret is a slow visitor" a wise man once said
Crawling sluggishly with man to remind man of time
When man is but compelled to lay upon life's bed
He nods his head and wishes he could reverse the hands of time
Now here I am; a man bent over and humbled by age
With brown and scanty teeth and wrinkles in my eyes
Staring bitterly upon my very own empty page
No heroic deed, no risk, nothing to reminisce
The mirror smiles at me mocking my shameful reflection
For I have lived life as a coward too afraid to be judged
So, My son, experience a life that replicates satisfaction
Be brave enough to live and to a worthy course be pledged
By: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond Poetry World