Some use AI yes they do
But won’t admit that it’s true
I’ve seen AI much too much
It’s got that robotic touch
As long as other folk strive
We’ll keep REAL poems alive
It’s just too good to be you
You use AI yes you do
I read each line and I stare
As I am all too aware
It is just computer speak
The content’s very weak
We must keep poetry real
With true emotions we feel
You use AI yes you do
why not admit that it's true!
Does my posture hint who I am
At open mic poetry slam
I prefer to hide behind lime winged words
On my pc or tablet or pen paper if I have it
Will my message get loosely lost
As you notice the style of hair I toss
If I am short tall fat or thin
Do YOU hear my message or take my presence in
I don't always walk up to the mic
And I'm wondering this teal thought tonight
Is my heart a red paper valentine
That presents as giving up on love in time
I stand here on this stage
Full of fear desiring fuchsia praise
Seeking love of audience in my way
Unity and community follow my page
I am mistaken I am not a poet
Just a lost soul hoping to grow it
That special something the it factor
Standing on stage as a benefactor.
If you notice my shoes
You know I'm an old soul
Hearing my heart is bruised
Told you so.
I get confused with the snaps and claps
All I want from you is a spiritual tap.
I stood too long before the crowd
I read my poem in a voice so loud
I feel relief like yellow sun from cloud
Thanks for listening glad I came out.
On the surface
you’re all sweetness and light
But ...
the truth is life isn't a game
and if I were to start digging
digging deeper than a gravediggers soiled shovel
I'd see through your libelous lies
which spread daily
like a cankerous carbuncle
Well honey
I’m shooting from the hip -
why can’t you simply sit on your fingers?
Just cut the crap
I’m through with your festering fallacies
get a life
and leave me to live mine in peace
THE CRAP SHOOT POETRY CONTEST Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
4/29/19
We live in a world of brainwashed morality,
A world where the assumed romantic preference is the opposite sex,
A world where we expect people to marry and have kids.
I thought about having kids as a kid,
Marrying and having a family,
But it was not set in stone, and I questioned it.
Then I grew a little bit,
The idea lost its sheen,
And I began to think “no.”
Then I went through puberty,
In which I told you “I don’t really want kids,”
To which you said, “You’ll change your mind.”
Time has passed,
I am no longer a child, and my answer is now “no, under absolutely no circumstance.”
My answer’s been final for year on end, yet you still say the same thing.
“You’ll change your mind,” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” “You’re too young to know what you want.”
Why is is important for me to have kids, even when I don’t want them?
The world is full of unloved people, and I would only add another.
I know what I want,
I have my values,
I don’t want kids,
And that’s my final answer.
"Contests. We don't need no stinking contests."
We..What's this "we" stuff,
You got a mouse in your pocket
Or is this a Mexican stand off?
Pff....Whatever! I'm a single player
Compeating against other mis-chief makers
I have no rules!
I'm a second rate gal
With a second rate termology
Go away boy scout
Your to much of a lamb
Contests are for dopes
Writing in the hopes
Of winning a killer diller deal
What's the deal anyways?
There's no money involved
The grand prize is recognizing the top dog
-Silent-
(Cough, cough)
Suck an egg poetic justice
You like to judge with a smile
I like to smile when I'm winning
There's no team in winning
Did I say winning again
I meant, there's an "I" in team
I am one team
Winner or loser
Losers gain a bum rap
Villians blazingly laugh
And winners......well winners are still Losers
We don't need no stinking contests
There's no publisher scouting us
08-14-18
Poetry slam
The words, full of rhythm,
The performance…. outstanding,
Charming the audience, holding them tight,
Like a first-time mother with a new born child.
The arguments the agreements all flowing into one.
Philosophical reasoning shared by the individual voice,
As if a conversation by the many.
Poetry slam?
Performance at its best, appealing,
Fascinating to watch, amazing to hear,
Taking the mind away to another space another time,
I sit and I listen;
But I still wait…. for the rhyme
Yo Yo Yo my name is Robin
And my poems are really rockin'
With me you can not compete
You will feel sad defeat
My writing skills can't be touched
All your words need to be flushed
Down the toilet with disgust
Listen to me you can trust
My opinion, you can't rhyme
It makes me sick everytime
Your words fail to connect
As all the ones you select
Should never be seen or heard
Your writing skills are absurd
It's useless to waste all your ink
Because your poems really STINK
When I was younger so much younger than today, I used to go to lots of poetry events. There was something called Red Sky that was every week, people were so very serious about it. Then one day I had an epiphany, "My god. I'm at a poetry event," and stopped going.
Later it all became poetry slams. Went to a few of those, too, in awe of the awfulness. People with neither talent for acting, for reciting, for rapping, and certainly not for writing poems, put all these lack of talents together and had total support from audiences that consisted in the main of people only waiting for their turn.
Once when I'd blessedly escaped from a typical slam, there was a homeless drunk across the street from the noisy venue. He was having his own private poetry slam.
He kicked a telephone pole and screamed "Hello telephone pole!" stomped on the concrete and screamed, "Hello sidewalk!" then peered into a garbage can with "Hello garbage!" and shook the hell out of a newspaper vending machine, "Phuck you news!" It was a better poem than any that was being screamed inside at the slam.
My heart
cr
ump
led
like the screwed up scraps of paper
now languishing in the trash bin
okay, so I write humourous poems ...
I rarely write 'free verse'
or 'perfect' iambic pentameter
yet you lambasted me
Your cruel words tore me apart
my writing style will NEVER be good enough to please YOU
So screw you...
YOU'VE WON
I QUIT
My pen will bleed no more
scaly scabs now prevent the ink from running ...
submitted to favorite free verse not for any contest
Sponsored by laura Loo
04~20~17
You’re an idiot –
Can’t you see
That what you write isn’t poetry?
Why aren’t you embarrassed?
How can you be pleased?
Your poetry’s the snot
Blown out of a sneeze
An ooey gooey booger
You want me to read
Well NEWS FLASH
YOU SUCK
Your poems are so bad
I can’t read past the first line
Without going MAD
Get them out of here
Your poems aren’t a gift -
In fact I will tell you
The truth and it’s this:
Your poems are just steaming
Piles of S H I T …
Remind me of the times past.
The time before it all went wrong.
The time before we truly thought for ourselves.
The time before we found out how different we are.
The time before controversy.
The time when we could be ourselves and felt no need
to be accepted because we didn't have to be.
Why have those times gone?
When I have a daughter or son, I am going to tell them
to never grow up.
"It's a trap," I will tell them.
Yet I will fully know that it is impossible and I will curse the world
for being such a terrible place.
And when i wake up in the morning, I will remember that
I am a part of this world and like a wise man once said,
I have to be the change I wish to see in the world.
So wake me up when I am small again.
Bring me to life when we get back to the easier days.
Let me live in the times past.
Love Poem, 2011
V. Ortiz Vazquez
I am no slam poetry poet
No love story reside within my pencil
Strawberries, tossed salad has no residency
Smooth skin, deep breath, loud moans
Non existent
Bleeding pen draws away
The thought, idea of love making through ink
Passion flow with no identifiable destination
Taking not borrowing, lines begin to form spectacles of no love
My pen-pencil, tools entrusted to absentees’ pictographs
Images of lost, missed, forgotten times
Tried by many
Explore by few
Spit by few too many
Hardship with frown for a smile
I am no slam poetry poet
No love story lies within my pages
Notion of impossible curves
Sweet nectar, delicious lips
Absent
Day dreams resettle night dreams
Suddenly awaken rushing to fall asleep once again
Return to…where did it go?
Relax muscles
Swollen vessels
Dimmit!! No longer asleep
I am no slam poetry poet
No love poem here
No
Love
Poem
Here
No event! No audience! Brain spasm!
Is it fun for the sponsor that has 'em?
Folks numerically judge.
Presentations with grudge -
Slam without performance is a chasm.
How in cyberspace can one perform his poem?
Can U-tube audiences judge random?
There must be an event.
That is the slam intent.
Otherwise, it becomes aimless, gruesome.
There once was a poet who disliked slam.
She slammed anyway while eating eggs and ham.
I was told by a bird -
She got choked on her word.
Too bad it was not performed for the cam!
© July 21, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
A SPECIAL THANKS GOES TO OUR POETRY SOUP TEAM for their continued support of the art of poetry in all of its forms and for their sensitivity to the needs of poets on Poetry Soup. SLAM POETRY is about performance. It is about beliefs and opinions...NOT just about dissing. Some SLAM Poetry is purely beautiful. I visited the link posted on their recent blog. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8723097898466379752# It was a marvelous experience. SMILES
(I just took this as a fun little assignment.
I did not even make the deadline for the
contest. I was not targeting any person
at all in this little story. I do not object to
slam poetry and I think it would be
humorous to see someone get arrested
for not even being able to slam correctly!
I love all my friends, slamming and
non-slamming alike. ) Andrea
Some poetry cops learned the crime
Of a slammer who just couldn’t rhyme.
In a jail cell he pays -
Being forced endless days
To hear sonnets while he’s serving time!
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