Torment storms turn light into darkness
A once-bustling steel city now drowns in feebleness
Meanwhile, data centers are on the rise
Yet, there is no power-only murky water, noisome refrigerators, and teary eyes
Looters punching the clock and going to work
Nights and days are frightening with lingering pain and hurt
Stirring echoes of Katrina making its way through the Midwest
Scary. Very scary tensions for all the residents of a city in unrest
Your green-tinted rallentando,
beating on lovers’ bongo
is out of sync like a noisome
nail on a chalkboard. Calm down,
my love belongs to you precious
music maker; my heart’s beat.
Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
**********
The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.
Written: November 02, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Charles Messina
**********
The man in the elevator wore a nimbus atop his head,
He claimed he was a janiform—half genius, half dead.
A cheerful opsimath mastered the art of juggling spoons,
While humming mellifluous tunes to passing raccoons.
His nickname was “Treacle Tom,” but no one knew why,
He adorned his socks with jelly beans and icy pumpkin pie.
With rhythmic bursts, he danced as a lively sprite.
And gave a lecture on narcolepsy at every traffic light.
Once sipping lifeless tea, he felt a sudden revelation,
That the spirit resembled a rodent caught in vibration.
Though noisome in aroma, his charm was at its zenith—
Could the man in the elevator be a legend or merely a myth?
Get thee hence! Get thee hence!
Away the riffraff from my fence
Ye've rattled window and rattled doors
Till there's no peace upon the moors
The hallowed folk have left their graves
To rid themselves these noisome knaves
The tyrants peal rings through my head
Till any room for thought is dead
I'd rid myself this fearsome bane
If I had not a limp and cane
Yet wield do I that wood in vain
For the blighters to abstain
Their laughter loud begins to boil
Not troubled they at all my toil
Surrender I with naught a choice
For it seems I've lost my voice
I must placate them one and all
Returning to them their playball
Bouncy Brock blew bigger bubbles than his friends,
Friends whose bubbles were small, soapy bursts of suds
Brock’s bubbles were so huge they’d certainly cleanse
While his friends looked on, Brock trailed through the redbuds,
Blowing such froth, sharing his marvelous gifts
Brock’s bubbles were always stunning, never duds
Brock’s bubbles climbed much higher as the wind shifts
Followed by trails of foam where his bubbles roam
Bubbles wandered through meadows and over cliffs
Bouncy Brock kept blowing, when gone or at home
Leading friends down a path, blowing and blowing
So everyone he met knew, though not noisome…
Brock spent his time puffing so he was glowing,
Realizing his bubbles were mind-blowing!
Beautiful, belonging, banging, booming.
Noisy, noisome,
Scary sounds are coming for me.
And the connections whirl around me.
Scary, sounds, steaming, swirling.
Banging, clanging.
I claim these connections as my own.
And it’s like,
People think it’s childlike.
Like liking a bike.
Going back and forth and circling.
Connections become looser like gravel being spun by tires…
And so my voice is gravely.
And I am tired.
Walking home with my best friend,
Umbrella resting o’er both our heads,
Wondering, will the rain never end?
Dressed in darkest blues, never reds.
Umbrella resting o’er both our heads,
Plodding along, thunder softly rumbling
Dressed in darkest blues, never reds.
This day, the gentle rain, is so very humbling
Plodding along, thunder softly rumbling
Secreted beneath the cover of the umbrella
This day, the gentle rain, is so very humbling
My best friend is so kind, such a good fella
Secreted beneath the cover of the umbrella
Rain pelts the pavement as we trod on home
My best friend is so kind, such a good fella
Even though it’s quite gentle, it’s still noisome
Rain pelts the pavement as we trod on home
Wondering, will the rain never end?
Even though it’s quite gentle, it’s still noisome
Walking home with my best friend,…
Spring's not all about feeling chirpy good,
Boom of blooms causes pollen allergies,
Scour and scrub the house of dirt, that I should!
Spring cleaning done - too tired...Achoo!..to sneeze!
Forecast, a li'l chilly, I wear a coat,
Out for a walk - whole crowd's had the same thought!
The sun's bright and shining, sweat glands afloat,
Don't bump into me, I'm already hot!
Sudden thunderstorm, get completely wet!
April showers came too soon, feel crappy!
Winter was far better - you bet! I fret!
Muddy and moody walk home, unhappy!
Squeaky squirrels en masse*, noisome licence!
No peace to write a poem in silence.
*en masse - counted as 2 syllables (HMS syllable dictionary counts it as 2)
5th February 2023
For Michelle Faulkner's "Spring is not all" contest
.
Slipping twixt mine dukes digits
hern pretty
moaning
Beguiling mine
her Marabou stole
Emerald eyne
Too
hern tinted thew's sheath
their whence
Intrigues me not
Not az her
limp
her protuberant stare
the silence
Inciting
Mine noisome sneer
her
offed
hefft
* for the astute indulgerz uv this write; thanx for the visit...
for those who indulge for the guess why i wrote this: the original
pronunciation uv Macabre, in the 1400'z by the french iz, how it iz written.
in english, we say 'macab' ...phonetically pronounced: mah cobb.
it comes from the french "danse macabre"; death dance ;)
Sad the dark of night has fallen once again,
Rapturing the light of another splendid day
Wherein I have many noisome dragons slain.
Reintroducing me to a night of nagging pain
Beneath this quilted coverlet for solace I will lay,
Sad the dark of night has fallen once again.
I foresee the wee hours of a hot, searing chain
Tightening around my joints, it is no simple play
Wherein I have many noisome dragons slain.
Strange, so apparent, it comes when I have lain
On my bed in peaceful slumber come what may,
Sad the dark of night has fallen once again.
Though those who know explain arthritis plain
And I know nothing about the condition is fey,
Wherein I have many noisome dragons slain.
Is there some moral lesson one suffers to gain?
To dread the early morning hours in this way
Sad the dark of night has fallen once again,
Wherein I have many noisome dragons slain.
written March 11, 2022
In the quiet of the night, I rejoice in my own way
Where I can find stillness and a blissful calm,
Knowing that I may commune with the spiritual
Without interference from distracting, noisome
Blather….
In the quiet of the night, I can escape restlessness
And discover that “peace that passes all understanding,”
When my head is cleared of the day’s mindless drivel
And I am freed from the ever-constant, worrisome
Blather….
In the quiet of the night, I let my imagination run free
Finding peace nestling in my flannel-covered cocoon
Thinking about all the things I treasure in life, mindful
Of all the things I need for life’s comfort and joy,
With no Blather….
TENTH PLACE WINNER
written February 22, 2022
especially for "Vibrant Blissful Stillness" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
I am wondering are sighs everlasting
Or do they come and go like noisome vapors
Some the eternal remains of unburied flesh
How loathsome the infinite unexplained sigh
Which can be beautiful nipping at love’s heels
Limitless in breadth and scope like infinity
I tell you, some things are boundless but
Few things endless like sweet wedded bliss.
SILVER MEDAL WINNER
"Endless Poetry Contest" as "Sweet Wedded Bliss"
sponsored by Lasaad
All Poetry - September 21, 2021
written September 6, 2021
By degrees is the hard rock
Hewn with tired chisel tips,
Witnessed by worn-out eyes
Above over-taut crimson lips.
In teary bits is the banner
Minaretted by hands sore,
Fatigued by fitful rites of war
Against hell's vicious gunner.
Three decades of searing toil
Have lapsed since earliest throes,
And still does the battle pierce
Through years of noisome woes.
Fears yet beset though the coast
Be clear and ridden of robbing ills,
And though Hades' gates boast
All horizons nigh promise hope.
To gormandize upon the fungal billowing
of its noisome mustiness,
beguiles many to munch upon its earthy reek.
A creamy white meatiness enchants taste buds
to pillage pale fetid delights,
while a gluttonous well-being
permeates through every orifice.
Before they were banned from overhead storage
Durians ruled the sky.
Air sickness or a stomach churning turbulence
were deemed more desirable than
than those choking emissions
wafting from their pulpy substance.
High above the Indian ocean
passengers overcome by the funk
demanded parachutes.
Some renounced their white privilege
or fell to their knees to pray for breathing masks
to drop.
Even when disembarked, cabs would not carry them
fearing the lingering grip of clammy odors.
While still in their departure lounges
hardened Limburger eaters grew pale,
trembling at the thought of flying unprotected
from that most redolent of fruits,
the mighty all-pervading Durian.
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