"blowhard" poems
#
From an ornate podium
the orator spoke words--
..extraordinarily elaborate ones..
as if,
as if
But those who know..
we who have laid low,
down in to the trenches
as grunts, both outside
and inside
of the wire..
Those who have quietly
done their legwork..
who have accepted their
difficult fate as that borne of
and in to, a training.. an equipping;
lay low,
lay low
. . . .
The throngs
at the foot of the podium--
mesmerized by their own need
to be mesmerized, never even
noticed the children
who in their innocence, peered
out from under the crowd's legs
to better see the 'magnificent' podium..
The oldest of which, ran back to trenches
trying to describe what they saw.
Two of the quiet, unassuming-ones
made their way back to the podium,
and in blocking out the orator's voice,
(which to the knowing,
was as that of a clanging bell..)
Now observed up close, the inner-workings
of the elaborate podium
and sat in wonder of its expenditures--
wrapped around such slipshod, weak
and hastily assembled framework..
And in having become interested in the
structure's groundedness to what one
would hope would be a solid-built
foundation, placed onto solid, earthen ground
They instead gasped as they saw its
legs floating upon nothing..
*"What the **** is holding this thing up..?"*
War-trained and battle-hardened,
they remembered their superiors speaking
in hushed tones that even ****** with all
of his blowhard oratorical ******** at least
had a semblance of the podium's fastenings..
Albeit, partially assembled by our own country's
stupidity within certain provisions brought forth
in the Treaty of Versailles,
but this
but this;
This oratorical misleading of the broken-ones
this empty illusion of a presentation, borne
not from a suffering leading to true regeneration
but instead, a distractive short-cut into the Realms;
This counterfeit substance..
as if borne in power, as if.. as if.
.. But the realms.. they know
It is only those down here on earth, spirit
cloaked within the deceptive misgivings
of the flesh-- so aching to establish itself
apart from the necessary legwork needed
to humbly become a part of Stream's flow:
(borne, solely from the inner Wellspring-- deep
within the bowels of Love's True Ache)..
It is here.. on earth.. that you will find
the reward you seek.. oh wondrous orator,
oh magnificent 'smither' of fine words..
**Your podium, a whitewashed soapbox
floating upon nothing..**
--And therefore meaning nothing
within the Substance-Based parameters
of the Realms.
#
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 3:48 PM UTC
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous
<>
*the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised
and so the job,
our work,
begins*
<>
five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned
the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati
like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless
yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!
your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate
now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din
quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day
and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully
luminous and dangerous!
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
Everyone is a joke
Says the clown
Her mother has lung cancer
Crack a joke
He's crying because I bullied him
Crack a joke
He killed himself a week later
Crack a joke
Hysteria
Loud blowhard laughter
Bulging blood-shot tear-filled eyes
Butterflies eating your intestines-
Serious nothing.
Everyone's always your plaything
You say it's because you're Albanian.
Male.
Because you just-dont-care.
Because we're all stupid.
Hypersensitive.
That's a cop out-
I think,
You're just a clown.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
warm and fuzzy like a big blanket
all draped like a Newfoundland flag
over homespun homesick ** Chi Minh
shoulders, shell shocked soul soldier
mmm 'ho yes 'tis truly the seed of Morpheus
lo good old blowhard old god of dreams
tho I sleep not
thru barely eye opened
lucid reverie
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Time and Place (To Say Goodbye)
You know where I am ensconced,
In my nook, in my solar system,
By the bay.
My love, my life's interloper,
Who divided black from everything,
My creditor, comes upon me silently,
Checking upon her investment,
This sneak attack, holy anticipated.
The music, unfettered by earbuds,
Plays for all who share the moment,
But it plays for her, specially.
When she arrives, Madame Butterfly
Fills the air, before extinguishing life.
When entering the Kingdom of My Lapland,
Time To Say Goodbye,
Con te partirò,
Fills the frothy air, that selfsame wind of yesterday,
Not just remaining, but has grown stronger, carryover,
And the voices, my poetic entreaties,
All, have failed, to calm the blowhard's wrath.
No matter.
My possessions, few and final,
The music, my poetry, the sun bright
and my life, my love.
Of the moment, I whisper.
This, this precise spot,
In this worn down chair,
Where I gave birth to so many
Of my children,
Is where I wish to die,
When it is time,
Con te partirò,
Time To Say Goodbye.
"But not-today, my love, she orders."
In my heart I whisper,
Who can say,
But I smile and say,
*"But not-today, my love,
But not-today, my love."*
For if it were today,
I would not deny it,
For if it were today,
In the moment of now,
Its perfection, accepted.
For should to my chair,
She, solitary, returns,
She will have the music,
The sun's companionship,
The wet-stain spots where the tears,
I weep, at this, of the moment, and,
So many love poems,
And the comfort,
Of this one too,
And the perfect lyrics
Of this our song-to-be.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
The Wind is fickle
A mighty blowhard so fierce
A soft, puny puff
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
These days
It seems like you
Only show up to
Aggravate me.
You erase my
Footprints,
Rendering me
Aimless.
When I thirst,
You bring storms;
I simply ask
For a cup’s worth.
At night, When it’s coldest;
You aren’t there.
You sleep soundly?
When you’re mad;
You kick sand
In my face.
I’m still blind.
I still walk;
For every step’s
A nail down
The new womb.
Try and chase me.
-Juan Carlos Gomez
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
keep her clenched in your fist for an hour
she'll give in
cramped places
do that to people
kick her hard
while she lies
in front of you
baring her innocence
she'll give up
and that's what you want
you want submittance
admittance
of futility
you want her to say
that she knew she couldn't win
that she couldn't fight
that she knew you'd win
you want her to admit
that she is
lesser
it's not going happen.
i won't admit anything to you
out my ****** teeth
you try so hard to hurt me
you go out of your way
you're a blowhard,
and i am not less than you
you are just hot air
i am solid
i am not
less than
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
as i was playing my ***** at a sidewalk cafe
three bums who’d monopolized a table for an hour
exchanged belligerence with a guy boarding a harley
i don’t know how it started
i was busy with my unfinished symphonies
but i felt the violence in the air
"get off the bike," said one of the mooks at the table
the biker jumped out of his seat and took off his helmet
a hollywood handsome moviestar stud
"come over here," said the seated blowhard
"oh, i’d love it if you took a swing at me"
the biker announced to the whole street
staredown; poseoff
the fools at the table didn’t rise
no thanks
the biker was winning just by standing there
bragging about how he’d love a punch in the nose
he didn’t have to approach
only wave his arms in bring-it-on jerry springer motion
then he overplayed
"my lawyer would love it if you hit me"
a roar went up from the table
"the guy rides a harley and when it’s time for a fight
he hides behind his lawyer"
it was a complicated macho standoff
an intricate defensive moment
the bums had backed down
but the biker had blown it
he climbed back on his bike
"yeah you’re real tough guys"
while the table which had stiffened in NO
taunted him with his lawyer
moral:
***** music incites violence
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
We can never be
both patriots and racists,
we were once the open arms
to the seas on both sides,
to the oceans of grasses
and deserts between,
we were once home
to the huddled masses
having no need for castle
walls and moats built
to segregate the freedom
we forget doesn't belong
only to us because we are
more than the buffoonery
and blowhard ********
saturating the evening news,
it takes more than a tweet
to govern a country, we are
more than the flag we hold
hands over hearts to honor,
more than the Trumpets
and twilights last gleaming,
we are the space seekers,
the star dusted travelers
brave enough to strap
ourselves to rocket fuel
and hope, we were the first
to help, we are more, and
it is time we were it again.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
As the morning comes
The tide of sleep finally washes over me
a respite from a long night
wether from todays trials
or yesterdays flashes
no one can say
slowly whittling down
friends and enemies
lack of pressure causes the blowhard to expand
fill the mold of the cage
cornered into the outline
freer than a bird
allowed the grave he dug himself
its his and his alone
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC