He seems to be the pompous sort;
looks down his nose at us and snorts~
"your poems are subpar
and only fit as char" ~
in the judgement of his self-made court!
Postscript: If the shoe don't fit don't try to put it on.
I know a funeral when I walk into one
I can tell between a funeral and a burial
They are two entirely different artworks
One is done on grand canvas, with drunken strokes
Of sashaying brush and bleeding paints;
The other is done on mere sand, with foot and hand,
Forming sandcastles built by toddlers.
I know too well because I have my senses
Intact after the last funeral I attended on a gambolling coast.
I should know because I participated in the burial of a
Village lout, a wretched lord, so grand with contumely.
Funeral lasts for days and contains the sounds of cannons
And other elements of ceremonies, so loud, so eloquent,
So ceremonious —full of man and illiterate beasts.
A burial, on the other penurious hand,
Reeks of haste, attended by a teething crowd —
And at times comes with thunder that speaks in jest
And a lightning whose light flickers on all things subpar.
Shared standings and beguiling beginners
Brobdingnagian breeding and brutal babies
False fellows and flumadiddle flair
Well-attended wedding with subpar sageness
Cash corrosive customs control
Plagued positions and phony persona
whimsical world pious properly pegged
Written: April 30, 2023
Alliterisen Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Line 1 - x = 10
Line 2 - 10+2 = 12
Line 3 - 10-1 = 9
Line 4 - (10+2 )-1 = 11
Line 5 - 10-2 = 8
Line 6 - (10+2)-2 = 10
Line 7 = 10
The day was tainted with bitterness.
fueled by concealed emotions of wrath
apprehensive over social rejection.
afraid of enduring the same fate.
The bedrock is utterly stained with blood.
No one likes to face this conundrum.
the most noxious fallacy to mankind
ethics-based feelings of guilt or shame.
Tonight, there's a tense vibe.
a foreboding of impending violence
Children have been bred to be harsh.
given that nobody seems to care.
Tonight, I'm going to rest my head.
However, tension is present and active.
pounding away at mental stability
as it seems, I'm bold with getting nailed.
I shall rise soon with renewed vigor.
and thriving considering people's faith
since I've been using subpar tools
to keep my hopes alive for my dreams.
Written: November 21, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Belly up to the table, our soup is well liked.
Just don’t drink the cool aid, I think it’s been spiked.
Come and get it while it’s hot, it’s the best I’ve been told.
Beware of the poets who like their soup cold.
Our table is large, there are plenty of seats.
You can sit for a spell and enjoy some good eats.
If it’s been a rough day and you are feeling subpar.
We have ice cold beer, on tap at the bar.
Everyone is welcome, come and give it a go.
You might become famous you just never know.
Our poets are diverse, each flavor unique.
Welcome to our club, come in and take a peek.
The night sea makes the stars ‘my private universe’
And yet, one feels the multitudes gazing the same way
Kneading thoughts of multiverses staring in reverse
Enchantment on daunting dimensions making headway
Inside the rarer paths of hardened real, the surreal
takes on the wild waves that once tore at mettle to fray
electronic virtuality’s so subpar
surpassed always by experiences neuronal
Everlastingly firing away, the near, now far
Atomic energy spin-drives all ~ elemental
(9/12/2020: '93 Sea Ray 330 DA; Sac Marina)
Living layers of being tugged around scraps of lusterless metal shape the man who was
Or is it the other way around
He can not tell anymore
Improvements or subpar substitutions
He marches on despite his contemplation
The clang and tang of metal on metal echo from his right leg while the muffled thud of organic flesh whispers from his lesser left
He marches on
Imagine feeling where your blood stops flowing as if your veins have hit a metal door yet beyond its frame lay dancing ghost who mock your past
With every augmentation he advances yet diminishes his mortality and morality
Still he marches on
On assignment that must be completed
Computing
The command was entered, a reaction will occur, must occur
His ability for choice is doubtful yet feared
A semi-bionic time bomb ticking its way to a liberating explosion of conscience freedom
Until then he will march on
If your verse is subpar and your output is low
these could be the signs of a poetry troll-
Do you spend most of your time stalking blogs
launching caustic bits while your quills full of snot-
If you get sky high off another muse's low
You just might be a poetry troll-
Do you fire impotent arrows then cover the quiver
when somebody hits back do you tend to shiver.
Do you add fresh fruit or rotten to the bowl
if it's the latter, you just might be a poetry troll-
Do you get jealous when somebody masters a form.
or hops on the podium donning their finest haiku bow
are you jealous when a poet deftly weaves ink into snow
if so.... you just might be a poetry troll-
When a muse spills their soul for the whole world to see
do you respond in kindness or get off watching them sink.
when your games are unveiled and its your time to go
are you already plotting another sneak attack incognito
if so...you just might be a poetry troll-
Do you really want your gravestone to bellow.
"Nothing down here but an old poetry troll".
I am a diamond
In the rough, I start
Like a chip left short,
My subpar anatomy
I will not be defined by
What sparkles in the light
The dark spots fall within
Fear of failure like a lake
Against the currents, my head kept up,
Watching my fate approach
I will not sit idly by
For Nothing cannot sit
Inside these prism walls I stand
And then I begin again...
It is pointless to write with dull pencils
When a pen keeps the sheep safe at night.
And water can flow from a hole in the ground
As long as the spring’s not too tight.
Cargo is sent from a shipyard
But a shipment can go out by car.
A wise man is often superior
But a wise guy is usually subpar
Tonight I will drive down the parkway,
Yet park in the driveway at home.
No wonder I can’t speak this language
It only makes sense in a poem!
© Dean Wood
Oct. 26, 2017
What gratitude is of greater reprise,
Appraisal sought within four wall confines.
Yet tests congure my personal demise,
Subpar intelligence is redefined.
Determined only by pure blood descent,
Whose family heritage dominates.
But haste, why linger, such foul discontent,
Saved from years of unethical debate.
Bitter sweet rejection bore new mercies,
Undrained from society's precedent.
To pursue a life without fallicies,
Devoid of tragic human sentiment.
For now, I delight, reap labour's success.
My life is all mine, to live and to rest.
I just cannot figure it out
What do I say without freaking them out
Am I a person or some kitchen counter grout
To be scrubbed out
I really wanna know right now
How
I dunno
The door always seems to be closed
I can't open it
Or
I suppose I won't
We're all scared of being exposed
Undisclosed
Who we really are
Subpar
The sky is blue
Then the sky turns grey
It ultras to a red that seems to say
What are you doing down there
With your useless human life
What are you doing down there
With your useless human life
I shrug
Still looking with my head tilted back
Just letting firmament hit me with metaphorical smacks
Why
I don't know
Where do I fit though
I can't be the only cargo
In this whole free-throw, freak show
Oh wait
I'm the no-go, no-show
The only one not in the photo
Always be a kid
Cause' there's nothing to outgrow
I can't figure it out
The pieces never fit
And there are too many of 'em anyway
What do I do
What do I do
I can't figure it out
What do I do
What do I do
I can't figure it out
And guess what?
Neither can you
Sounds of something somewhere sound so absurd
Silence in the section of the unspoken spoken word
Seriously over sensitive a silver screen scene everyday
Study the students social scale to see who actually stays
Separating the subpar scores standardizing who to select
Sensitivity can be sabotage so smile wide to all suspects
Saliva slips sliding out the mouth down to a slippery chin
Second place with so so skills so step it up so you can win
Sounds of something like this sheet still sound so absurd
Silence in this sections stanza of simple unspoken words
bmdavey@11/22/17
The Main Cause of One’s Troubles
By Elton Camp
For the assorted problems we have in life
It’s tempting to blame others for the strife
There are some who will say
“My genes make me this way”
Or, “My upbringing was far subpar”
Blaming that for the way they are
“My father was cruel, lazy and vile
That’s the reason I am under trial”
“My mother preferred my brother to me
That’s why I am such a mess, you see”
“It was in poverty that I had to live
Which is why I have little to give”
“I picked out the worst possible wife
And that’s what has ruined my life”
The true cause of most trouble to seek
In the mirror one need only take a peek
You're different, but in an
elegant way
I mean we're not even
together, but you still enlighten
my day.
You fear of letting your heart
ascend,
So to you, I'm just a 'kind of
friend'.
Hopes of love for you are low,
But infinite smiles are headed
towards you, that I know.
You think little of what makes
you cry,
You have little of what makes
you cry, in happiness those
content tears are often dry.
Maybe little but you have tried
So because of, your notions
died.
Stubborn? Yes you are
Despite love's distance is never
far,
In amidst neglecting you reside
Because everyone worthy for
you seem subpar.
You'd think Love's sun has lost
its shine
And romantic songs has lost
their rhyme
So even if this is the first time,
I'll be glad to say
Smile beautifully Happy
Valentines Day.
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