Vapid Poems

Teeter Totters

I’m tired of the teeter-totter polemics 
that pass for profundity.
I’m tired of the see-saw tug of war,
the streaming regurgitation on every channel.

Yes, I’m weary of the predictable posturing,
the vapid, barren landscapes of the oligarchy.
I am groggy in the dull fog of capitalist pretense,
the plutocratic hubris sold by carnival barkers.
 
I am worn down by the endless banal chatter,
the mindless daily clutter flooding all our
electronic screens, all our senses. 

Scientists in a million years will
try to decipher our primitive etchings.
Our digital scribble will remain.
Will they recognize our AI ventriloquism?
Will they distinguish us from chimpanzees?

I don’t have answers in my advancing years.
I’ll find cozy books and trees instead,
while we still have them. 

Helpless Winners At The Fair

Helpless Winners At The Fair

Clone Wolf
 Tantrum Rages 
  Leader Of The Pack…

Careless Sycophants  
 Elephantile Contagions
  Self-Defeating Victims. 

The Old Irony Escapes
 Bare-Knuckles
  Modeled, Paling…

Grabbing Artificial
 Pleasure From
Manipulation's
 Freshest Kill.

Your Cheeks Are
 Tender Bloody Sweet
All You Cuddle-
 Yummy Treats!

Your Tribe Awaits
 With A Better Hat And
Sweater - Be-Damned…
 Re-Damned. AGAIN!

Idolizers.

What You ‘Really Needed’
 Cost Us All Our
  Arms And Legs.

Too Bad That
 Couldn’t Save Our
  Extremely Enormous:

Vapid 
 Heart And
  Head, Instead…

 Skull-Candy Now
In Sugar-Cotton.

-Gray Squirrel

06-30-2025

I do not have the time to write a tome

I do not have the time to write a tome
I’ve just too much to do right here at home
I dread the thing that calls with vapid tone
That distant idle chirping of my phone

And yet I must abide and scan the screen
Perhaps it’s something I have never seen
Or worse an urgent message from a teen
Saying the Irish whiskey turned him green

And yet my fingers love the keyboard dance
My mind in fevered harness longs to prance
Upon the snow cap whiteness take a chance
Somehow the empty pages to enhance

Yet I am stuck at home a wingless drone
Resembling the forests aging crone
Subject to a curse turned youth to stone
A voice of cryptic curses to intone 

Thus do ancient fingers keyboard dance
The challenge always there to take a chance
Put on your dancing shoes and boldly prance
To hell with those who say “you’re old…you can’t”

Justin is just out

‘Faced with a fight I don’t back down’,
He, blowing last trumpet his own,
PM and Party Head,
Somewhat misty eyed, said
With heavy head on losing crown.
______________________
Happenings|08.01.2025| 

Poet’s Note: Prime Minister for ten long years Justin Trudeau had to finally ‘back down’ despite all his bravado. But he himself was responsible for the loss of popularity with his immature behaviour and policies. Trump called him governor of 51st State of USA and he took it with a smug smile. Xi of China once gave him a one-to-one dressing down and he could muster little defence. His troubles with India are well known. And to top it all, he is disowned by his own party and people of Canada. No wonder, Justin Trudeau is just out-- a handsome yet vapid man who failed to do justice to his famous last name. It was in India, his first trip that proved a turning point in perception of his personality (more than his inviting a convicted terrorist to his entourage, it was his general buffoonery).         

I'm Hungry

A lonely son beneath the lonely sun
Knowing I’m the only one
Lone Ranger with an empty gun
Back to my cave when I am done

Fire doesn’t warm my soul
A dark abyss of gaping hole
The wind is speaking in strange tongues
And fleeing from my vapid lungs

I am Jonah in the whale
A one man crew manning the sail
By myself I hold the wheel
By myself I think and feel

Everyone and everything 
And no one knows the lonely sting
And everybody is together
And I am all alone forever

I don’t have a friend in you
Don’t even have a friend in me
With everything so far apart
And past the chasm I can’t see

I’m so lonely cold inside
Even mirrors can’t confide 
My reflection left me too
Who am I and who are you?

Ubermench

ubermench

When living in a block of flats is noisy 
when a hammer and nails on walls to hang
up a painting bought at the supermarket 
Hitler and Nazism interest me, it didn't die
in 1945 but grew like nestles in countries 
mainly in Israel and Ukraine
After years of democracy that has ended 
in a woke culture, Europe is turning  right
finding a democracy that has brought 
havoc like the import of millions of Muslims
bringing an alien way of life and a religion 
that is as demanding as Christianity is vapid
in Ukraine, the Nazis are in power  and helped
by NATO and the USA that hates Russia 
for being powerful and winning 
In Israel, Jewish Nazism is in full bloom
attacking and killing the Palestinians 
who deemed savages, also Zionism needs
more elbow room, we have heard that 
before and the people hail their leader
who has made them feel powerful shall
we say like Ubermensch.

 

How's This Affect Me

I can't say a word
Tell you one thing
Whether important or vapid 
Alot or nothing
Because I know the  first question
With such certainty
It's all that you care about
"How's this affects me"

Will this be a bother ?
Will this take up my time?
Will this cost me money?
Someone else you can find?
Is this really a big deal?
Will I have to attend ?
You know there's a game on
Can you just bring a friend ?

So now I won't bother 
I'm just keep inside 
My sucesses my failures 
I'll no longer confide
If I'm hurting or happy
I won't let you see
So I don't have to hear
How's this affects me?

RE: Poeticisms Out From The Left Field

"A personal shout-out to our sponsors and their vapid articulations who made this message possible," ... by The Poet.

Poets and poetesses ascribe to a greater call, 
in their endeavors to make their chosen path a cure-all 
from those who trivialize and minimize their virtuous 
field of poetry's righteous domain and their arduous 
measures to maintain a certain quality in their works
of art, to the world of writers past and present, networks
that tethers a fragile grasp on absolutes discipline, 
and severance from the mundane, effortless, and simpleton,
out from the left field, melodramatic, sugarcoating,
southpaws are unreasonable and consequently, nothing 
our opponents that come out from the left field properly
have no concept of true value to offer poetry.

valhalla weeps

"There is nothing in the desert ... and no man needs nothing." - TE Lawrence

         ~

providence …

vast-upon-vast ...
Deucalion, gifter of cities, met
do you not now see your charge?
'tis upon the peaks
titanium white -
aching, ancient arias borne by a thrush
find their proper reports
amid canyon vaults
built by the hand, Prometheus
to press and place
columns, grand and gilded of the sun
this, this is where gods weep fury
bound by the faults of
human calamity …
an eye, sapphire streaked
and damp with dour
bounces reach-to-reach on the morn
scraping stars away with
bitter disregard …
despair not, in its dazzled gaze
for the fiery fells are given
god-to-godless, thus 
his pleasure is to dance for their sobrieties 
and give supplement to
their vain and vapid adoration
sad Prometheus, father
clothed in only pity
clasped to you by blood and
progeny's err …
for the little beasts
who beg of his portions
and their seed -
'tis a weep, barren ...

the ruin of man.








Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden

Remembered Waves

The waves crash upon the shore evermore, 
As my soul sinks deep into my darkest friend. 
No sup to sop my ache, my scorn, with better bitter sin no more yet-gain. 

So burn, love, burn until fictitious grin some more, 
As sands drip and thoughts whip,
Like wind through gorge on whim.
Vapid values bloom in the tomb of mind of penurious men.
 
So lie, love, lie until belief is brought in shops of time; no sign of pen nor yen,
Yet I fade into the grave, remembered... only then.

A Dazzle of Poetry

pulchritudinous ingots chisel and shades
dazzle and illuminate umpteen reasons

poetry is like a swirling, susurrus-sibilant chimera
of innuendo arty souls, albeit vapid syntax
around serene scenery, orbs, and idealism

Is unction vital to adorn naked words with plumose wings?
whose views of contentment, vim, and happiness?
Inversely hamstringing people with arrows?

sighs of sorrow sound sowed soil
mothers, wailing and yelling out to unborn spirits

as our hearts crave affection
poetry provides its verisimilitude vacuum

do susurrus coruscating suborn scarlet spills?
deep within a stymie pirouette
the tortured sinews of a troubled mind are twisting

my life bill was still due till my final breath
I bequeath you my spirit as expressed in sonnets
I bequeath you my marrow, wrapped in iambic style
I bequeath you my mind, crafted with mispronunciation
sharing with those who owe me a xanthous soul

The ONES WORD

In the small of my ego, turn I
To the ONE with no equal, hope I
Whose words are forever,
But these limbs are never.

In the small of my fear, turn I
To the ONE whose peace is pure
Whose WORD defied the squall
Thus my ramparts no longer.

The strength of limbs is vapid fancy
For the strength of dirt is squalor
But the WORD spoken is forever
As the eagle soars, so I

For the WORD speaks strength and power
Dirt when bankrupt,
The WORD's love is steadfast
For the ONE seeks the broken and hopeless

Now see the eagle
Now see the swallow
Now see the sparrow
Now see me…

Voyage of a Coconut

From the lacy green coconut tree  
I fell into monotony of the vapid  sand 
a golden quilt embraced my senses
under the majestic umbrella of pines.
still reminiscing the happy moments,
nestled in  gentle swaying branches
where nests of weaving birds hanged.
still craving the comfort of an anchor 
where a bedrock of trust cradled me,
I stay lost in shade of warm memories
 
But the vast deep blue beckoned...
freedom of sea... freedom of  sky.
 as stars and clouds steered me 
 in the new path of storm and wind
 I paddle into my Aquarius adventure.

aimlessly I float paved by waves
island to island to unseen shores 
a solitary moon my lone soulmate
a vagrant bristles in twists of fate.
weary wanderer in waters richochet
my rumbling ride to a horizon astray.
Will I ever find my archipelago?
a turquoise lagoon with dolphins to play
and a virgin cove where palm trees sway.

Timorous Creeds

Dancing to the tune of iniquity,
Deviously artless in their silent retreat,
Elusively lashing out unjustly, 
Pelting out timorous creeds;
A casualty in their vapid beliefs,
Brought upon by diligent lunacy, 
Primed in erroneous ideologies.

Vampire

Vile creature of the night;
vice unquenched, sees her, the
victim, innocent, warm;
veins lush with blood. He feeds
vacates, leaves behind a
vapid ashen corpse; her
vital signs fade to naught.

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