Long Sour grapes Poems
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I penned a great poem for a contest
Glowing comments stated it should place high
When winners appeared I became distressed
I'd failed to place and released a sad sigh
I silently seethed, didn’t breathe a word,
I held back tears, eyes started to glisten
The placing by this judge was so absurd
I held my tongue as no one would listen
The sponsor had been blatantly unjust
All the winners ignored one simple rule
'Winning’ poems used words of such disgust
That judge proved to be a dim-witted fool
I’ve now completed my sour grapes sonnet
If I’m on Mark’s list, I’ll eat my bonnet!
Sour grapes Sonnet Contest
* didn't counted as 2 syllables not 1 as per how many syllables
Poem written for sour grapes contest theme and is not aimed at any particular sponsor
8/16/18
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
SOUR GRAPES
Spark of an idea flashed in my mind,
it formed for my research the core concept.
Collected modern data of all kind,
built hypothesis on science precept.
Findings of my frontline research surely
scientists would appreciate I thought.
So burning lone midnight candles many
wrote a paper with all the skills I got.
To a journal of high repute I sent
quickly the paper for publication,
but I wasn’t disheartened for a moment
when I received letter of rejection.
They didn’t comprehend my concept so new
for I was well ahead of time I knew.
August 19. 2018
Syllable count : 10 each line
(Checked on howmanysyllables.com)
It's not as if I've been avoiding you,
as that I've ceased to seek you out.
The results, however are much the same,
the frequency of our encounters has
f p
a e
l c
l i
e p
n i
t
o
u
s
l
y.
What with Wonder Boy crashing through again
less a little luster, a trifle tarnished, part
of the price of living each day
as if it were your last.
Me, I bide my time
finding rather than noble
passion, only bemused indifference.
don't worry bebe, you'll soon find another crutch.
Dear 2024,
I hope this poetic vow
wouldn’t be shunned,
as I block negativity
from my phone,
like my bitter exes.
And forgive my sense
of humor that
resembles sour grapes,
like a dash of salt
and pepper sprinkled
on top of old drapes.
Perhaps, as this
year bids adieu,
I’ll find the right
ingredient to concoct
sparkling wine infused
with giggles that
age like
chucklesome limericks,
as I fine-tune the
empty spaces
of my scribbled
pages with hilarity.
I’ll learn to laugh a
little louder and hope
the ebb of every
comical tale can flow.
Maybe a stricter
chocolate diet would
help me see the
sweeter side of
powdered comedians,
sharpening my wit
as endorphins enhance
my ability to spot
the depth of puns
punctuated
with bizarre tones.
And as December rain
drizzles in symphony
of the darkness
my quill flaunts,
pardon these
peculiar metaphors,
I’ll raise a glass
of crocodile tears,
a toast for
more concise poetry,
and faces I’ve phased,
that I’ll no longer
vent about in vain verses.
Cheers to the
festival lights
on wheel of laughter,
may the florescence
forever flicker as
souvenirs of amusement.
I’ll dance into the
rising sun of a new year,
in an odyssey adorned
with shimmering dreams
embalmed in
tickling mint leaves.
The wife plays nurse Nightingale while her husband...
convalescences in sickbay
from irritable bowel syndrome,
the Flip (Wilson) side of constipation,
a disorder of the lower gastrointestinal (GI) tract,
which includes the small intestine
and large intestine (colon)
essentially a problem
with how the intestines function,
causing symptoms like abdominal cramping,
bloating, and changes in bowel habits
Any room in our
one bedroom apartment accessed
as my place of bedrest
which might find me seated
upon the commode
or lying supine on the Lazy boy
E-Z chair fully dressed
defies mine surly sour grapes
physical state where diarrhea doth erode
as if I swallowed Liquid Plumber
and complete rectal purging finessed
prior to the wife going to sleep,
she prepared me soup to goad
to withhold urge
to defecate impossible mission
I feel hard-pressed
to impose restraint
against the trademark symptom
of gaseousness finding me shell shocked
and ready to implode
laughter the best medicine,
thus yours truly doth jest
cause almost forty years shigella
contracted at July fourth Rainbow
family gathering he knowed
quite well, cuz no sooner
did sphincter muscles spasmodically
contract and expand in tandem
with anus expelled lest
I attempt to stand up
from hole in the ground
which grass grew hardy
and warrants being mowed
quite frequently hopefully
not disrupting any wild animal nest
and to think that some areas
within the webbed wide world
still lack proper sanitation,
where modern plumbing outmode
did courtesy primitive privy,
a breeding ground for
more than one disease causing pest,
now not deceived courtesy
paved yellow brick road
criss crossed with military tanks
heavily armored, tracked combat vehicles
designed for front-line warfare,
equipped with powerful guns
for direct fire
and machine guns manned
by a small number of soldiers
squabble over a spit
of land for defense cannot rest
in peace until no fighter left standing.
You grieved his soul when you stormed out that day;
Such vitriol re-echoed in your wake.
To spurn a father’s love and walk away
Was more than his poor aching heart could take.
You squandered his benevolence in vain
For passing pleasures brought no lasting joy,
Regarded his wise counsel with disdain
A libertine existence to employ.
And yet he always spoke of you with love
Forgiving your imperious self-pride,
You were the vulture, he a turtle-dove
Hoping with fervent prayer you’d turn the tide.
Your name was murmoured in his parting sigh;
How tragic that you never said good-bye.
30/08/18
'Sour grapes contest' sponsored by Mark Massey
September Premiere 2018,Any Form,Any Theme,Upto A Max Of 20 Lines Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
My mother’s husband had a strong desire
To earn his pilot wings in his own right
Flying with his friend had stoked the fire
His dear friend’s death stalled his return to flight
As I looked on I wished for me it true
To fly a plane had been my lifelong dream
Imagine my joy when he asked me to
Pursue the pilot’s license as a team
His wife, my mother, did not like our plan
She cried and urged that we should turn it down
Afraid she’d end up losing both her men
Our unfulfilled dream was a huge letdown
To fly a plane, was a sad, stupid dream
Don’t speak of it again or I will scream!
In the never ending dream I keep walking
Through the insufficient scheme I keep talking
It’s a crying shame, still not quite enough
You may call it lame, call it boring stuff
In the morning street on a shady sidewalk
I move on whispering inner monologue
Wouldn’t be surprised if you do the same
We’ve got something to alter this lose-lose game
In the fading dream, that doesn’t fade too much
There’s a hidden door, that I can’t unlatch
But I tend to suspect it’s an exit door
Must be cold outside, colder than before
So this narrow passage leads to square I know
And I’m welcomed in again, where I used to go
And the waiter turns up with a tray of grapes
Offering a complimentary aftertaste.
When thoughts like lightning streak across my mind
In brilliant flashes of the clearest hues
If turning them to words on page I find
My efforts and advances are refused
I oft will turn my ire towards the page
Until the subject on which words won't form
Dies crumpled in a ball of poet's rage
With judgement as capricious as a storm.
Yet in the calm that comes when storms have passed
As daylight drys the anger from my eyes
I see the mound of paper there amassed.
With clarity -- of sorts -- I realize
The vision that I first thought so sublime
Was never worthy of such skill as mine.
8.16.18
Contest:Sour Grapes
Syllable count checked on howmanysyllables.com
(Although it is incorrectly counting "poet's" as 1 syllable)