#poetasters
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Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone
.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
*.
Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone*
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
.
*Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone*
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
.
*Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone*
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
*Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone*
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
.
Sad kings would have themselves
Be known as Bard, tho without music
They clack song, clang along, bleeding
Ears in their sycophantic, bull kingdoms,
The horns, hardly trumpet in the barnyards,
For it is writ, because they have so inscribed,
All must now be audience, and used witness,
The spotted fawn, is all their sorrowed brilliance,
Yet, the tower raven mocks these kings crowing,
How they vainly display their sorry proclamations
On flea broken, loosed, rusted, disused abacus,
Their tabulations of worths non are mounted
In a mirror by their chambers and hands,
But all the knowledge of fallen Rome
Are simply pleasures to dream,
As their dim wordy dreams
Know praises so hollow,
As fools on a throne.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
*When sun exposes
Lizards hiss flail writhing
Light shows so truly*
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
*Sickly sweet colours
With their feathers fanning look
Still they soil the ground*
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
.
In mid airs, dimly,
The ****** birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
There are ********* near,
Who fain love yet disappear
When cool sun is a light.
Hello Poetry, mediocre
Is their way, do not play,
Let posers hang each other.
Weakly poets pretend to be
Relevant, yet, never amend
Spend days saying me, ME!
See the fiefdoms offered
Yet, held close to shames,
Let awful set each to flame,
In hollow, with an empty page,
So many useless words dredged,
Wounded egos pathetically end.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
*HP sycophants
Why would someone prop up hacks
Idiots praising*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
There are ********* near,
Who fain love yet disappear
When cool sun is a light.
Hello Poetry, mediocre
Is their way, do not play,
Let posers hang each other.
Weakly poets pretend to be
Relevant, yet, never amend
Spend days saying me, ME!
See the fiefdoms offered
Yet, held close to shames,
Let awful set each to flame,
In hollow, with an empty page,
So many useless words dredged,
Wounded egos pathetically end.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Little yellow finch . . .
No bird listens to her song,
. . . Only cat entranced.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Dull grey starlings come,
Parade on gardens not won,
. . . Never too soon— gone.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
Glow bugs chew up home . . .
**** branches climbing to sun,
. . . Bark at base of tree.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
.
Words, so many words,
****** of meaning—
Flailed at admirers,
So much pulp and filth
On the ****** page—
O how the vain can spill
Blood in an ocean drained
Of salt, in a vast vacuum
Of listeners who only
Aspire to sully themselves.
Is there meaning in followers,
Deaf, drinking in a whine?
Are the stars only gaudy dots
To spill on a black canvass?
The feigned, would be human
Stars fall in the cold, reigning
Drivel of wet, grey words,
That dry in the sand box desert.
Spare us the shallow veins,
The caved insights—
Of your shadows.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
HP sycophants . . .
Why would someone prop up hacks?
. . . Idiots praising.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC