Long Uproarious Poems
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1 John 1:9 KJV - If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
THE DEPTH OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
a shame to not know the condition of your soul -
be joyful in the depth of acknowledgement.
it is like taking a rosewater bath,
the cleansing of the sullied parts,
the soul glows eternally grateful.
if we confess, we clean up our mess…
it is not really us
but God does the work
the perk of listening to his Son
“who is faithful and just”
like a groom to the bride, Jesus is faithful.
our sins can be forgiven though he is just.
Father God sees his Son’s righteousness
wrapped around us. the second Adam
came to reclaim what was lost. man’s tongue
tied in knots as Satan slithered in Eden, but
now the fruit of doom’s untangled to bless
instead of cursing oneself.
how clean is clean? a hot coal burns
your lips, unsealed to receive sips
of living water. dunked underwater
so sin will come undone
and you will drown forevermore
in Jesus’ love.
don’t be afraid to close the lid
on the departed, to bask
in the new you —
you look fabulous
in your saintly garb,
not at all confused.
you're at peace. Jesus
restores what the devil stole from you —
your marriage, your kids, life’s genuine jewels.
if you were too far gone
down the rabbit hole,
plucked from quicksand,
just in time,
his shepherd rod and crook
will gently guide
you to a hope and a future.
Shake off the rattle of the serpent,
the wild skin rots your flesh —
the uproarious joy of the Lord
raises the roof beyond all comparison…
look around at the weak imitation
of the Niagara, a clear night of stars,
the Rainbow Mountains, cherry blossoms
in season…i could go on.
The afterlife party with the Son will be heavenly.
1/27/2022
Repent and Believe Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they paint sound and city pastel,
never at a loss for inspiration,
weather neither bar nor barrier,
in the face of whirlwind snowfall,
freezing ice, torrential downpour,
within themselves, he, she, they plod on,
hardship is adopted, never cast aside,
while others brazenly squirm,
wallow in uproarious denial,
wilt before the slightest storm,
taking flight in arid comfort zone,
shelter is their first convenient port,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
alert does not begin an ample portrait,
of this wilful dwindling genus,
genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
they capture worlds sidereal,
under velvet moon imagining bespoke,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
how magical their canny weave lexicon,
for us timid souls to relish evermore,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
vicarious the kismet, excitement from afar,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
BLUE MOON TREES
whistles and wings
love to cling
to branch trampolines.
like humans, they hanker
for adventurous voyaging.
here’s where the story takes flight.
you see, they wade and wander,
into the genius greenery of central park,
that is on the Oasis ship - docked.
trees are silent at sea,
as little shuttles lift off,
as the vainglorious ship
departs port, and dark deepens.
lavishing love and holding hands,
wet whistles of whiskey and wine.
clapping and high-fiving wings,
in disbelief, of their uproarious adventure,
climb ever higher, as high as possible.
alight on the prime pinnacle
of their favorite trees, to fantasize.
one lone bird, closes his eagle eyes.
as the stars, billow away below,
he stretches his wings and soars,
at tremendous speed, a first bird
landing on the blue moon trees.
he preens himself proud. Evermore -
angels with wings, whistle and wish.
5/10/2017
Congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and exhibiting the right to bare firearms
as all hell broke loose as testimony
to the dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis credo, coda and cock knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto when opposing with energy
plus verve espoused by fellow delegates,
and his hologram ghost bloody
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate
as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of the twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump
who throve on the cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon
any hopelessness for civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
A butterflied eye
blinking stars do shine
on every beating wing
as birds softly sing
to silver maned unicorns dancing in a ring
of dragons snapping webs of woven silk
In a swirl of clouds made of milk
a towering blue filled sky
high diving wheels do fly
on a hundred tuxedoed marching bears
humming out sweet honeyed airs
a hammering anvil octopus with tentacles uproarious
playing a melancholy song
on harps long gone
to sea depths of whales
clicking tongues with their tails
while dolphins do a trick to a metronomic tick.
Purple waves a thousand string bows
as I pull out a petrol coloured rose
from everybody's nose
children burst out a laughing bubble
on a policeman turning into a clown
frozen stiff with a frown
a bassoon the size of an elephant bellowing out such eloquence
with oboes and clarinets that slither and snake their way
blowing bugles into bubblets parping out little trumpelets
and saxophones rippling out dancing skeletones
that shatter cymbals and kettle drums into smithereens
blue tongued lizards fingering their zithers
And last but not least a thousand nimble mice who play piccolos on ice
The performance now takes on a darker tone. Is that a flash of lightning?
Do ominous clouds roll in across the sky?
A belated troop of grinning baboons
Sawing double basses
gnashing teeth and pulling faces
As I wave my wand to whistle forth a dark cloaked demon
from an infernal region
to hit grand piano keys bringing the crowd to their knees
blackened sulphuric fingers spread
Inspiring some unholy dread
as cloven hoof beasts clamour
and witches dance enamoured by yer fiery guest
who draws out hell at yer own behest
Purple Cat rings a bell and the whole artifice fell.
Without knowing your gender...,
(nevertheless ex post facto still flattered
genuine heartfelt kinship mattered,
hence the reasonable rhyme
across the webbed wide world
I subsequently scattered).
Linkedin to the previous poem,
(similarly written scant few years ago.
I also codified, glorified, and lamented
an unexpected cessation of communication
with he/him who affixed yours truly
appellation of wise man, which modesty
of mine gently downplays.
Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender
benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,
(I did miss render
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind bender,
when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,
adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and
upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender
as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking sexual
identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed
metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold,
mine apology I did obligingly surrender
and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
sixty plus four shades of lavender.
Laughter, they say, is the best medicine
against life's grind and long face blues,
But reverse the roles and imagine this scene:
If infected by laughter, have you any clues?
It's the most infectious virus around,
Once struck, it spreads pretty fast,
Among young and old alike it abound
Caught in its grips, quite a while it'll last.
The discerning symptoms are quite obvious,
You go into an uproarious bout of laughter,
Permeating a delirium of intense happiness
Making you look like a clown or a jester.
Stay away from him who often smiles,
You will catch it and pass it on too,
It'll spread around you and for miles
Like a belly-aching and watery-eyes flu!
'Humorous Poetry' contest by Thomas Martin
Brilliant light and sound show
not disappointing forecasters promised
outstandingly uproarious performance
powerful winds rage
against the machine
embark to score prestigious
chart chopping hit
pliancy of heavy
boughs sorely tested
ear splitting cacophony
presaged coming fury
within safe shelter of B44,
I hunkered down
analogous to brave soldier
avoiding deadly crosshairs
imagining villainous turncoat
targeting yours truly, now
considering me enemy sniper fire
body instinctively crouches
against impending "FAKE" battle
suspected collusion trumpeting
thunderous applause issuing prelude
betokening nonpareil symphonic
unscored cacophonous rendition,
where pliant limbs
deign to welcome
impending stormy "Daniel" reign
impossible kickstarting boots
on the ground impossible mission
mere mortals cannot hush
their lame clout ineffective against
weapons of mass destruction
unleashed by Gaia
forcing immediate recall
atavistic survival skills
tapping into fifty shades
gray matter within
primitive brain stem
long atrophied primal beast,
an individual object lesson
desperately summoning
emergency measures
lest life and limb
whiplashed to pulp
by furiously roaring winds
fierce howling tempest
reminding 21st
century *****sapiens
merciless Mother Nature
intolerant toward global indignity,
perhaps foregone
watershed of extermination
points ship of fools be damned!
Wilbur wasn't always so sure
His horse knew how to be good
He gave him the best directions
And plenty of love and affection
But, Mr. Ed could be quite the comic
Never listening to Wilbur's instructions
Instead, finding amusement in the ones
Who felt like watching his funny sitcom
It was actually Allan Lane
Who gave Mr. Ed his voice
He told of this and that
And every imaginable choice
Mr. Ed was not who we were told
His real name was Bamboo Harvester
A delightful name for a famous equine
Who will forever reign in my heart
As the horse who brought so much
Grace to the part of the famous Mr. Ed
Wherever I go in this world
There will always be assurance
That the famous Mr. Ed was one
Who brightened lives with his pranks
He was a funny, good humored horse
With so much love in his heart
I could never imagine another horse
More capable of filling the room
With uproarious laughter and joy
Mr. Ed was a wonderful old boy!
A Notable Horse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
September 28, 2021
HOT SUMMER DAY
hair’s fallen, wet.
clinging shirt with sweat.
shoe’s barely protect
my feet, from the pavement’s heat.
i climb aboard the bus, no
air conditioning, of course,
and head to the bustling city streets.
perspiration stains and inpatient glances
all shout, with the fervor of a wet dog, shaking himself.
i depart this catacomb.
windows decorated with sundresses and sandals.
the dummies never bat their eyes nor stink,
though the steam seeps into every crevice.
i’m glum and irritated,
the heat pressing on every thought.
i’ve come here to find a gift -
and i do i do i do
not in the shops
but in the street.
i hear the uproarious laughter
of children.
the city street has sprung
a fire hydrant leak.
oh those tinkling voices,
like crystal, lifting up my spirits!
oh the joy of splashing waters
and the serendipitous smiles!
oh how i can live
through the glorious eyes
of happy children.
my heart forgets my complaint.
9/16/2017
Eve Roper’s Hot Summer Day Contest
1st Place