Uncultured Poems | Examples

Gets in the Vehicle

"Hey buddies. so what are we doing !"

Looks around and the clique has snotty faces on,
pedigree pinkies in the air. "You are not one of we, 
the beautiful approved ones. You are uncultured and that's gross !"

Whatevs, go .... ........ !

(Junior follows them to camp and 
pisssssssses on their campfire !)

Satisfying, takes a plug of tobacco and spits on their 
jelly clog-Birkenstocks-for snob hill gardening-
before they lasso the noose and hanggg me high !

Worth it.

(Disingenuous Anglish prudes gather in their jerk-circlejerk...circling typos and chanting to Mammon...
We call upon the forces of the Upper Middle Class and beyond. "Get these Wal Mart shoppers looking for bargains for the poor out of here, they are not the "beautiful ones"...")
Bows to the beautiful ones.
All hail the clique ! Click.

At the Soda Shoppe

The poem sits coyly at the counter of the Soda Shoppe,
waiting to be discovered, slowly sipping an egg cream.

Making it last all day, the creamy lukewarm liquid
drips down its poetically pointed chin,
a sticky puddle forming at its iambic feet.

The Soda Shoppe’s bell tinkles;
a thirsty reader breathlessly arrives.

Taking a stool next to the poem, she reaches over and lifts the creation to her lips.
Tasting its invigorating words, she sucks down its essence of life, grins and leaves.

Reveling in being discovered,
the poem sits coyly at the counter of the Soda Shoppe.

The Soda Shoppe’s bell tinkles.
In the throes of a moon-in-June love quarrel, a young couple enters.
Sitting on the other side of the poem, they decry the sticky mess on the floor.

Dripping with the dregs of saccharine philosophy, the poem chuckles,
“It’s so sad when uncultured people don’t realize what delights are just within reach.”

Polyglot Heart

My mind is kind of uncultured,
       but my heart is polyglot
       speak all languages
        that speak love...!

Decorum

You sat still at Miss Binnington’s
No swinging legs or kicking feet
Back pressed against chair back
Bottom firmly held to chair seat.
Children seen but not heard
A rule very seldom broken
Only in reply could
Any word be spoken.

The starched table cloth
Pristine white and clean
Ironed and smooth with
Not a wrinkle to be seen.
Cake stand with its little cakes
Placed precisely in the centre
A reverent hush prevailed as we
Waited for Miss Binnington to enter,

Bearing tea in China cups
Delicate and thin
Really the only way then
To serve tea in.
A little  decorum followed 
Until she quietly departed
And then, only then, was
Our afternoon tea started.

Eat as silently as you could
As delicately as you were able
Only an uncultured yob dare
Put his elbows on the table.
Seventy years and more years ago
Miss Binnington’s now long gone
A more crazy and frenetic world
As the century rolled quietly  on.

Children these enlightened days
No longer sit silent and in awe -
Good manners and respect
Don’t seem to matter anymore.
Some times things change
A little more than they maybe ought to
I think sometimes we now
Throw out both baby and bath water.

The Donkeys

The Blackpool donkeys have given up,
they have boarded jumbo jets
as emotional support animals.

Once they used to plod between
the Blackpool piers
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying whooping kids and adults
as they heavily jogged along;
fat thighs clapping sore ribs.

In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
When they could carry no more -
they were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.

Now the donkeys,
when not flying business class,
surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow
as if tailored for four-legs.

Those that once rode them
on that uncultured English beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
never wishing to see a donkey,

but if they should come across one
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising those broad buttocks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
https://www.blackpoolgazette.co.uk/news/abused-donkeys-not-licensed-work-blackpools-beaches-572591

The Donkeys

The Blackpool donkeys have given up:
they have boarded passenger jets -
to be emotional support animals.

Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and plump matrons.

In a dull daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
plodding until exhausted.

Now the donkeys have retired,
when not flying
they surfboard on Hawaiian waves.
their Bermuda shorts billow,
tailored as they are for four-legs.

Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly now ever see a donkey,

but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobbly donkey spine
roughly slapping their
tender time-worn *******’s.

Naked Moves

Walks were more often comfortable without pure guilt 
Words were left unsolved with masters of manipulation
We often slept with tremendous outfits with uncultured synonyms 
My sweet sorrow was disclamered 
Words of mystery, words of action
Let me move from high hills to plateau 
Naked moves with naked body
Established respect with honors of fibber
Never lead expectations with true being 
Grounded myself with richness and individual 
Prosperity was never an option 
Self written citizens with disloyal accents

Green Repent

Birthing genesis back to We
Falling out as from freedom's favorite tree
Rebirthing Earth wombs warm content
Extending out where gospel time grows bent

Through Creation's prism for network Time
To originally fall from divine sublime
Into rising place of uncultured wandering
Back to exodus from which we came
Regenesis longing free fall belonging

Death lies squandering
Last of climate originating Falls
Tolerating winter
To rebirth genesis
Back to Spring
Summering in a sycamore tree
Rebirthing Earth watching warm co-investment
Passions growing out
Where green revival Time flows rebent

Repent warm womb falling
Into unspent wandering to rise.

How To Throw Yourself In the Garbage

Hobbies are for losers, and habits are hobbies for the poor,
But hopping into heaping piles of rubbish is haute couture.

What’s in, ladies and gentlemen, is what we want thrown out,
But not to own it but instead to be it is what it’s all about.

I doubt the likes of the uncultured swine who read are sure to know,
How to throw yourself in the garbage so here’s a do it yourself below.

First we listen to the radio, turn up that Taylor Swift,
And sing along as if, like her, you think you have a gift.

Then we watch the television to watch the newest episode of the View,
And listen to the hens upchuck their clucks on vomit’s gurgled cue.

Next we watch the nightly news with Lester the Mind Molester,
Whose stroke-like Fester face spits lisps like pussies named Sylvester.

So then we reflect on what we’ve seen and heard in the pot that’s hardly stirred,
And realize that what we prefer is to be free from the jaded herd.

Yet, the only way out is through the trash,
Since we need the herd to earn the cash,
To pay for before we’re buried or ash,
So just jump in the dump with a sassy splash.

My Princess

Poor me;
My heart has become a tool in the hands of fate,
Maybe it is true; nature is weak.
Like winds in the coast,
Am now an addict of her presence.

I look at her eyes and forget my existence.
It is true; the mystery men call love, has taken hold of my heart.
In the blooms of the sunrise,
My love for her springs awake,
Uncultured feelings that continuously mocks my courage
Could this be the magical feeling my grand mother once told me?

At the eclipse of her presence,
Her fragile hands make my lips tremble with fear.
My princess, please take away your beauty from my weak and helpless eyes:
For there in, is the fortress of my weakness. 

I only prayed for a lover.
But in my princess is a slayer.
She slays me every second and restores me back with the blooms of her unequalled beauty.
A spirit and courage to savage all tender moments,
I ask from God.
Through pains and the first blood of innocence,
I would make my lover bound to me.
 So she wouldn’t let me off her arms, even beyond the cost of rubies.


BY: IKPESU PRINCE IGHO

The President

The President
Today Benafim got a new president of the local council 
he is a stern type wants to do away with meals on wheels 
close the old people's home for those who cannot pay.
He promises to reduce taxes to a cheering crowd of fruit
And sheep farmers, this will attract businesses to set 
up shop, the local hairdresser thinks he is wonderful.
He is a coarse man speaks uncultured Portuguese, not that 
I would know, but that`s what the manager of the home 
she went to university in Coimbra and had a degree. 
Rumours have that he has touched up women fifty angry 
females stay outside the post office which is also 
The president`s place of work. Not that I care, I was posting 
a letter, but was blocked by women with placards
I will wait till next week when the anger dies down a bit

Uncultured Pop

It's a piece ripped from myself.
Truth brutally extracted for their musing.
They plead for me to bleed often.
Because they might find it soothing.
They delight when we suffer.
Nepotistic sadistic circle of acceptance.
They worship ruin expecting perfection.
Cheering you with a muted indifference.
I see your twisted game.
A sad view that's excruciating to feel.
Greedy survivors of inward starvation. 
Stripping us and tossing away the peel.
We don't pander to the pawing.
Those who do find the abyss.
Truth remains externally unfound.
To the narrow mind, an impossible gyst.
I will gush blood until I'm dust.
But I will never sacrifice for them.
I do what I do because I must;
refusing their footing to effect or condemn.
My struggle to evolve is written.
Wounds laid bare for all to see.
You think it's for you.
It's how I get a better look at me.

-Angel Fatale-

What Might They Find There

On brown sands of an uncultured river
In the burning sun rays of the primitive sun
Would lie in wait the sharks and crocodiles
Of the time when it was a paleolithic weaver
Of dancing carnal shadow of unclothed appetite
Towers of illegitimate light

This jungle scene one would come across
One who would peek deep down in my soul
And so it was until the angel emerged
(What is the human life except the lovely journey
From the molecules of hyena and leopard
To the milky foam of an angelic transcendence)

Stark greed in need of dense dark raw delight
In impatient prying plight day and night
Until you came in the form of an angel
(Are not you and angel in essence the same)

Refining the wild bison towards angelhood
Gradually but steadily come the cultural flowers
Comes fresh morning with the terrible trash gone, in lieu
Two shiny cups and a teapot in a lyrical view
________________________________________________
17/9/2016

The Whore and Glitch

"The whore and glitch"

Time tantalizes me, Bars I'm behind
Despair inside  that hides my beauty
My worth only determined through biased eyes
In another life I was a whore, 
Then an artist with a beautiful mind

Born in the wrong place or the wrong era
The Matrix made an error yet I'm still here
The glitch who will become a paragon
Desiring fame but want to be left alone

The paradox of one
Who strives for enlightenment
Collar and train me
It will free me, I promise

Pay homage to the Sacred Feminine
The Satanic and August
A poet until gagged and bound
Branded, admonished

A beautiful mind is mine
My dark curiosity seeks a Master
Alas it shant happen
A rare glitch uncultured, uncaptured



If you enjoyed this please visit: https://traviswolfkill.wordpress.com/

- When the Angel of Death Comes -

You brought armfuls of dream
Want to parse the stream
They say you are made of cream
Bright and leading my tongue scream

What else was so sweet
This is your cross street
Always stand on its own feet
No matter how much the clock beat

Uncultured and out of control cars
Foolish drive from hours at the bars
Received license from the planet Mars
No wonder purple stars

Without you in my life my friend
Visiting hours are over ~ the end



                 __
                /_/\/\
                \_\  /
                /_/  \
                \_\/\ \
                    \_\/





28.10.2015 
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

3rd place in the contest

• Short Uncultured Poems
• Famous Uncultured Poems
• Best Uncultured Poems
• Read Uncultured Poems
• Long Uncultured Poems
• Uncultured Quotes