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Best Poems Written by Peter Golden

Below are the all-time best Peter Golden poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Irony Personified

Contented as moi 
although others see a fool, 
every day I cry.

Details | Peter Golden Poem

Random, Imaginary Thoughts

Wrapped up in a suit of mandarins
playing hop-scotch with 
a hillbilly from Enniskillen
whose left leg is filled with
soot and yellow dust
all wrapped up in a festering, 
three week old banana crust.

A Marilyn Monroe figure 
enters the fray
as a dinosaur named Ray
plays Russian Roulette
with a self-righteous pacifist
the day after he marries 
his suicidal wife
whose mother was married 
to the London gangster, Reggie Kray .

A libertine who fell in love
with a parody of nihilism
comforts a gay priest 
whose real name is Marion Morrison 
but you can call him ‘Big Leggy’
if it is your soul desire to molest
his world weary inner sanctum.  

A carrot without a head for heights 
falls headfirst into a bowl of 
freshly ground coriander
on a wet afternoon in June,
the chef steps back, trips and
ends up with his fingers in  
his Kenwood food blender,
‘oh you fluckin' 'anchor' screams 
his dyslexic mum
as she kneels down beside her
now only six fingered son.

If only mummy hadn’t left me
alone in a dark cupboard 
full of ghostly faces 
with only an unhinged spider 
named Mr Woof for company, 
who frequently crawled up my nose
and inside my ears 
on a far too regular basis!


Notes: Not to be taken seriously.  I simply love words and what my imagination 
allows me to do with them. Pete

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Alone

Wisdom: a cliché,   
a soul left undernourished    
as ignorance gloats.

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Naked Optimism

Master Angry and Miss Depressed 
are bemused bed-fellows
who relish, even excel
in each other’s company
that is until 
Lord Hope and Baron Optimism	 
don their top hats
at a jaunty angle,
put on their cocktail coloured boots
and come out to play
whilst dancing with 
a hypnotised ostrich 
who thinks it’s on the game.

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Identity

Under a red derided sky
do we masquerade as
misshapen mannequins
within a material vortex
of ubiquitous satirical lies,  
as our individuality
is consumed, even crucified
within a mantra of ‘must have’     
in a commercialistic existence 
we naively profess to accept 
and allow to permeate
into our everyday lives,
as ‘they’ bombard our instincts
and distort the innate desires
we so rationally justify
as ‘their’ subliminal messages
enter our sub-conscious minds?

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Spiteful Adoration

Buried in my womb
repressed by rampant anger  
Loved by suicide.

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Innocence

A virginal banana 
gives birth to 
his inner masculine 
peculiarities 
by peeling back 
the layers of 
his latent 
sexual machinery. 

Self-gratification 
is an insincere 
occupation, 
a contemptuous 
pleasure-seeking 
leisure interest, 
satisfied only 
by the dexterity of one’s 
lust filled imagination. 

Alas, 
he could only 
handle his own 
diminutive stature 
if his blossoming bonanza 
was viewed through 
the magnifying glass 
of a short-sighted, 
armless geriatric. 

Oh, to be a child 
whose soul ambition 
is to play 
doctors and nurses 
with the girl(s) 
next door.

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Continued Contemplation

The clichéd cavalier 
clings to his 
carbon copy life with 
constrained complexity 
and settles 
for conventionality. 

Miss originality 
and Master clarity 
dismantle, reconstruct 
withered concepts 
within a cul-de-sac 
of ubiquitous creativity 
by alienating themselves 
from main-stream 
cultural orthodoxies. 

Our imagination: 
a perverse configuration 
of disparate thoughts 
that congeal into 
an incomprehensible concoction 
of cerebral combinations 
which reconfigure, 
inexplicable, 
to creatively convey some 
innovative originality 
and clarity 
into a world 
which continues 
to advocate constrained 
and conformist ideologies.

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Families

Stilted conversations 
over many years 
have left me 
bewildered, angry, 
even ashamed of who I am. 

Superficial intercourse 
always open for discussion 
as wry smiles and 
awkward silences 
fill the artificial existence 
we all pretend to enjoy. 

We gather round, 
an afternoon soiree, 
as families do of course... 

But our eyes never meet 
as those who love 
each other should, 
all blind to each 
other’s emotional needs. 

Dysfunctional neurosis, 
the glue 
that has kept us together. 
Ironically, reticence, 
the glue 
which continues 
to pull us apart.

Details | Peter Golden Poem

Tortured Memories

My rational and irrational thoughts 
as always come out and 
start to spar with each other
in an all too familiar 
bitter sweet and obnoxious way:
identical twin brothers
who don’t even have the energy
and wherewithal to  
despise each other
but continue to have  
the ‘wisdom’ to loathe 
the people they have become
to the detriment
of an adult who still 
aspires to embrace
and caress the inner child
with a knowing affection
even though his parents,
in spite of themselves,
contrived to present  
a  marriage, a family refuge,
(don’t make me laugh)
which all too often resulted
in so many angry 
and aggressive arguments,   
night after night 
as my sister and I tried to sleep
upstairs in their so called 
marital bed.

My sister and I,
well, we haven’t spoken for years.
When I see her again
will I embrace an adult, a sister, 
who is now fifty years old,
or like me,  a still terrified 
four year old child
who has spent his life, alone,