It’s all right.
The eye, inner cheek, thumb, knee, and leg.
Begging for relief.
The trigger thumb should be released today at one.
Hip-hip-hurray! Let’s not talk of the hip again…shh!
Perhaps, next week some news, some talk
about the knee…too long it seems, it was lumped
in, with lower leg sciatica pain.
Aye yi yi, the eye, I read,
is chronic (say what?!)
Yep, nurse practitioner did not tell all.
No one dumps the aging news on us
until we’re knee deep in the “stuff.”
Oh the pain…the pain…the pain!
No wonder sitcoms came to be.
We needed to lighten up.
Laugh it up, millennials -
I bet you see the light.
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
Hey Universe
Why you coming at me so hard?
Did I do some sht to piss ya off?
Or you just playing some evil part?
Its all getting kinda rough
Im not nearly tough enough
To get through this & come up
been kickin me down so much
Im bruised & lumped up
in every possible spot I can touch
I've already accepted i got no luck
But seriously, like what the fck?
You Actin like a fckin schmuck
When all I ever be asking for
Is acceptance & love
Got me questioning what i did
that was so wrong?
Sht been so bad for so long
I just wana finally
find where I belong
I wanna smile forreal n not
Have to fake how I feel
Breaking down every day bc
I cant deal
An honestly idek if
All of this is even real
...I hope not
If you are under 23.
Then you are Generation Z.
You grew up in a technological age.
I don’t know if that makes you sage.
Sometimes, you go outside to play-
On your phone on the porch all day.
You grew up with a different sort of struggle.
Social media that takes a toll.
Never will you have kids or a house.
Maybe an apartment shared with a pet mouse.
Or maybe you were born before the year 2000…
But you’re not a millennial, instead you were chosen.
To be lumped in with a generation of teens.
Who make you feel old by all means.
If you are 27 like me.
You know that being an adult is not free.
Dark denizens of the night
gathering in ill-lit backrooms
haunts of the night
They tease each other with
rouged cheeks, their mascara
their pimply breasts, shaved legs
Some are known for tantalizing
tempting striptease, revealing
hairy chests and knobby knees
Their hardened faces greeting poor
unsuspecting 'straights,' who, horrified
run screaming off into the night
And now the Left has lumped these
misbegotten sickos of the night
in with today's 'civil rights movement'
of transgenders, kweers, and worse
too debauched to describe, to be
celebrated in 'Drag Queen Shows'
in our public libraries, where America introduces
her precious youngsters into the fraudulent
creepy cabals of Satanism, endorsed by 'leaders' gone mad
My soul leaves sixteen minutes after I reach the bed.
It’s not that I have it timed, it’s that I know
Without knowing how I know
Hear those gentle puffy breaths?
They come from my body, automatically.
I am not in there, and she does not care.
No concern. At last she can fully relax.
Because I have been released.
My soul is zooming around, checking out the night people.
I travel from alley to honkytonk, looking on, amazed.
As people do what people do naturally in the middle of the night.
Thinking the world cannot see them.
I see, and I smirk. Glad I know how to astral travel.
Thank you Daddy for this gift.
He lumped it into being a psychic.
I attribute it to being an empath; no matter.
I am here now.
It is now three thirty a.m.
There is a silence in the world that cannot be explained.
People have paired up and are having sex in cars or apartments.
There is a smell of urine in the air thanks to the homeless.
I travel to a far off hill and enjoy a hoot owl’s call.
Bam! The silver thread pulls me back to my body.
I go in kicking and screaming
as usual
‘Twas on a morning brisk and airy
I met a creature big and hairy.
It glowered at me, and I at it.
I was not afraid, not one small bit.
Its eye was crookedly turned all askew.
From its nose escaped ghoulish-green goo.
A wat’ry rivulet down its cheek.
“It needs a tissue. It looks quite bleak.”
My proffered handkerchief it did take.
Blowing its nose made the sidewalk quake.
It took a moment and looked at me
with a grim grimace, or gleeful glee.
We nipped pleasant words and parted ways.
A morn to remember for always.
We tipped our heads in courteous nod.
Away it turned and away it plod.
This tale is so insanely absurd,
to this day all the details are blurred.
I scarce should repeat it now and then
that I am lumped with demented men.
But for the creature’s courteous bow
It meant no ill will, I know that now.
And when I am asked if I believe,
a brave and bold front I shall achieve.
I shan’t retell the tale of itself,
choosing to keep the tale to myself.
If it returns and it should see me
I’ll smile and definitely pleased be.
what i want i want it right now
i want to be the queen and the queen's clown
i don't care if you bow down
just give me what i need.
i'll jump the hoops and run the mile
i'll betray the people and win the title
i don't cares all lumped in a pile
but only this one i'll reuse.
silly pages with silly fairytales
got my hopes so high they fell
i'm running out of poems to tell
but the end is still not seen.
and so i think and think i so little
i won the olympics and got the medal
but my reward was only so little
cause no one wanted it but me.
AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
if the one issue is murder,
murder’s number one,
let’s ignore “the truth”
“put on this blindfold
listen to my soothing words.
i’m your mama.
no, i’m not pulling your leg.
don’t look at the man behind the curtain
nor the puppeteer.
ignore the split; pretend
it’s a banana split, all pretty.
put a bow on it.
don’t worry; you don’t need to look.”
look the other way.
traffic’s coming;
but it’s not you who gets “hit”
mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, in-laws
missing from the family line.
who cares for those lumped
into a heap of parts;
parts for sale
sell the koolaid
in all its l-o-v-e-l-y hues —
choose is the flavor of the day
obey the almighty parade
of fame and fortune
the “sacrifices” don’t even warrant
a burial plot
1/24/2021
Then the Lord said to Cain, Where is your brother Abel?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
The LORD SAID, “What have you done? LISTEN!
Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground.”
Genesis 4:9-10 NIV
She traces a litter of rising stars;
while exploring a place blissful within--
or even feel a desire to extend a timeline
where vicious crimson cells invade
those mounds of chalice breasts, uninvited.
And a once vibrant energy grows frenetic ,
nearly withering from the changed biopsy of
a frame now boney, lightly skeletal
from a hostile tumor raging within Reena’s veins.
Yet, she crawls uphill , this woman warrior
of a hiker… steadily focused on reaching
the mound’s crest, undaunted by lumped pain
as soft tears glitter upon those thinning cheeks.
Grappling with a second -stage notice,
her limbs wobble in exhaustion, her fingers
cold at the same time eager: treading on, I
watch my friend dressed in bald crown, facing
this combat between towers of hope and despondency.
My breath weeps inside. Reena smiles and blinks at me
like an advancing star.
Topic Of Cancer for Craig Cornish
6/20/2019
of part one pertaining to my most recent poetic entry (Inexplicable Quirky Memory Unhinged clasp one) unintentionally got submitted twice, and rather than tamper with attempting to delete delicately, (and probably wreak greater havoc then desirable), this generic human male (meaning thy characteristics of body, mind and spirit) lumped within that general category designated as average.
this chap neither exalts in arrogance, haughtiness, orneriness...nor does emasculate, humiliate, lacerate...his being.
tis modesty i strive for despite the (all to quick to judge via initial virtual impression) predicated on my predilection to populate poems (and/or prose) with ponderous pedantic particular pun dit tree.
Crossroads prod roads that download and upload quads of queries
Lumped and dumped on our battered bodies by blister berries
Spiced with slices of suppression and subjugation
That in the end neither mend nor amend our conjugation.
Crossroads prod roads that download and upload wads of whims
Whisked and kicked into reams and streams of our dreams
Spiced with slices of surrender without a defender
To prevent vents and tents that land our glands into a blender.
Crossroads prod roads that download and upload squads of sentiments
Sneaked into tricks that kick our caveats and comments
Said with the aid of braids of dread and lead
That pound and ground pain within the brain in our head.
Crossroads prod roads that download and upload triads of tribulations
Located to allocate lots, plots and slots of sneeze speculations
Marinated with cellulite, marmite alongside territory termites
That undulate and perambulate in our tenderness satellites.
Ravaged fast-food bags thrown by the way
French fries lumped or scattered
Bits of bread and ketchup, maybe a pickle.
The paper will blow
Or some good soul will pick it up
But the fragments of food fill the bellies
And clog the arteries of the innocents.
The city birds feast.
Trump now loves rhyme, its integral
to his existence as his name
rhymes with so many words so well
and words that qualify his fame,
There’s flump and rump and also plump,
then’s sump and its close cousin, slump
and not forgetting grump and dump
all lumped together form a chump
And contributing to his art
in English Trump describes a fart
Epilogue
When Trump was told his poetry
was subject to some caveats
he thought he’d act on the advice
so based on it bought a cravat.* *
*reference his ? poetry book cover photo !
They marched in like they owned the place
In uniforms, formidable and menacing
Bereft, looking around with hostility
Bayonets in hand, immutable in their stance
They pillaged what was not theirs
She was lumped in their vicious interlude
So enraged was she, her body lay brittle
Taken by force, abused and humiliated
A reluctant starlet in a morbid sketch seeming to last forever
When the men left, there was a short tenuous instant
But she picked up her courage
With her scattered clothes
Made her way to the shore
Demurely walked waist deep into the sea
To wash away the last traces of disgrace
Determined that their assault would not last a minute longer
Chalked it up to being just another victim, another statistic
Life would go on, she would turn the page
Refusing to sacrifice the rest of her life
With another thought of this gruesome ordeal
Refusing to be a victim for a moment longer
Not giving them the satisfaction
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on October 20, 2017 for contest EIGHT-WORD CHALLENGE sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 3RD
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