Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
more often than not, a knightly surge
     combs a pawn me,
     especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,

     where bats in the belfry
     flap their wings at the speed
     of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house

     (which doubles asthma
     Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
     to economize on space,
     especially during tax time

     (as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
     me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
     idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom

     Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
     particularly speaking
     on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,

     particularly War between the States,
     where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben

a fit to this American
     Civil War Yankee incarnate,    
whose doodling word
     ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
We clamor for the answers
On why Poetry always takes a back-step to everything else
We've lost all the components of the belt
It's still beautiful and heartfelt
But it fails to implement welts
Inside the barriers
That refuse to be our carriers
For any more to be in public print
You better have the green eqivalent
To enter this contest
That you might not even win
No wonder why we're so vulnerable to throwing our work into the trash bin
Why should I lose money I worked so hard for
To be circulated in the financial parkour?
I'm not trashing them
No disrespect
But after a hefty inspect
I think we can do better
I'm so used to rejection letters
I'm just not opulent or sophisticated enough
I don't have a yacht like Billy Collins to splurge about
I write purely what gives me an urge about
Don't care for the money and the clout
It won't make me pout
I can tell you what Poetry is about
No need for the textbook explanation
That's not your destination
It's about who you are
How you feel
How these thoughts reel
What happened in your tri-optics
And how we can solve it
The world has churned out a campaign to ignore and omit it
And they're almost successful
Almost is as useful as a horseshoe against hand grenades
Let me drink my Lemonade
Writing line after line
I know I'm not Elitist enough
The edges of these words are kind of rough
Or as the Poetry Foundation says vague
Then explain why these poems almost always become trending?
I guess I'll buy my seventy-nine cent pen and express myself
Sit down and be laughed at the ones with their prestigious titles
Looked at as another wannabe
Even though I have the spirit like Ken Wantanabe
I guess what will be, will be
I'm just another bee in the Harvest
Trying to be Independent
Another lost soul in the forest
I take pride in my work but I'm considered the poorest
By the highest of the contempoaries
With their personal Secretaries
Thank you for your submission
But it puts you into the Obiutary
That they'll forget about

I'll make my own way
Starting today
Or was it many years ago?
It's hard to truly decipher.
That Billy Collins quote about buying a seventy-nine cent pen and express yourself has always ****** me off. This is why we haven't gained any serious traction amongst the decades.
Though a wimpy, tiny, and puny
(smaller than a breadbox) Ogre
whereat my portable minuscule
fingerhut size adobe abode ex
posed to Strunk and White raw
grammatical elements of style,

I counted Flip (Wilsonian) view,
to camouflage myself anytime
and anywhere as significant add
vantages. The obvious down side
(i.e. severe limitations to pull off

major coup) forced me to axe
paunches pilot while taking a chopper
if I van nah miniaturize daring deed
(done dirt cheap) reconfigured,

retouched, recorded by Das scribe
named Magnum Opus. Indeed,
this chance to golong (equivalent
of Olympic gold) foretold peering
into granule size barren crystal ball.
Preliminary steps undertaken

to pull off impossible mission;
mo' difficult than a blind man
taking eighty steps to Honah
infiltrating 70+ shades of gray area

prime Donald Trump real estate.
A priority prevailed to act on
the QT (q-tip) lest cover get blown,
and suspicious communique encrypted
to gal lobe trotting henchmen.
Urgency spurred daring deed,
cuz targeted subject in question

(majority population counted
as debouched, delirious, and
demonstrably dangerous
demagogue, in short a "FAKE"
president! Security details
(like stray cats on the prowl),

could sniff out ploy to re
program depraved, deranged,
and detached supposed Master
at helm. His audacity, effrontery,
and isolationist iffy ideology
placed him squarely as half baked
cookie monstrosity against

United States Commander in Chief.
First order of business necessitated
tranquilizing this doughty, haughty
enemy of the Lumpenproletariat!

Renown chemist friends of mine
(actually War tin buddies) alias
Diet Coke and/or Diet Pepsi
secured an ampule Taj Mahal

~ circa 1631vintage. One ampule
viz pill could knock out a giant –
sans, Jack and the beanstalk fame.
No ifs, and or bots, the secret
got pulled off without spilling

figurative (jelly) beans. Once
inside auditory labyrinth, I
immediately noticed striking
deus ex machina ***** riot ting
resemblance to microscopic cave.
A thick baad *** sieve sludge
of cerumen sis tah

(waxy substance) deaf finitely
posed an initial dilemma,
which audio slave solution
entailed collaboration to build
a toothpick fence. Pensiveness

unexpectedly found subject
reflexively scratching, poking,
and jabbing inadvertently
finding me toward ground zero.
Sometimes I don't have any common ground or any cents, I'm just a porcelain doll in a haunted house
Florence Maude Sep 2015
I've got a fire in my soul
Behind this sheet of ice
And if you think to mess with me
You better think twice

I've got heaven on my mind
With hell in my veins
And if you ask how that can be
Well we all make mistakes

I've got the face of a doll
With a cloak of innocence
And if you ask what's underneath
You'll just have to wait and see

I've got gardens in my heart
With thorns as my fences
And if you ask to be let in
Just don't is my two cents
Charlie Chirico Aug 2015
I wrote this in the dark.
Because the last poem stripped
from the book binding and ripped
from my chest was not valued at
the utility company's worth; a two-hundred dollar bill is not easily disbursed when each
poem nets zero cents per word.

A candlestick will
dematerialize faster than
a wax seal on parchment -
one that establishes the epoch of
Civil Rights -
this is a correlated falsehood
of fixed rents in a gentrified neighborhood.

The plus-side of *******
the poor to cater to the wealthy
is that when the new occupants
move in, and the stainless steel
refrigerator is moved in, the empty
box is placed at the curb, and with
the right imagination it can easily
become a home for two.
talaina sorensen Mar 2014
Common sense,
No, not cents.
You cant buy it..
But if you dont have it you'll pay for it.
Not from your wallet
Lets call it...karmic.

— The End —