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Blue Flask Jul 2015
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
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

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.


"Now there were seven sons of Sceva,
a Jewish chief priest,  doing this.
But the evil spirit responded and said to them,

“I recognize Jesus,
and I know of Paul,
but who (the ****) are you..?”

And the man in whom was the evil spirit,
pounced on them and subdued all of them
and overpowered them,
so that they fled out of that house naked and wounded."
~Substance 19


..we are defined by our actions, not our words.
https://youtu.be/bGb3CT7ZKKI

xox
youtube.com/watch?v=vkQpgNecMQA

xoxo
youtube.com/watch?v=rECKlXkopIQ

xoxoxo ox
youtu.be/exaEt7szfi4?si=s91DV0Nk8fX0d9is
dj Nov 2012
Tom
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.
I wanted to post his last name in the title ... decided against it.
Duke Thompson Aug 2014
warm and fuzzy like a big blanket
all draped like a Newfoundland flag
over homespun homesick ** Chi Minh
shoulders, shell shocked soul soldier
mmm '** 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
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
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.
http://lyricstranslate.com
Italian
Time to say goodbye (Con te partirò)


Quando sono solo
sogno all’orizzonte
e mancan le parole,
Si lo so che non c’è luce
in una stanza quando manca il sole,
Se non ci sei tu con me, con me

Su le finestre
mostra a tutti il mio cuore
che hai acceso,
chiudi dentro me
la luce che
hai incontrato per strada.

Time to say goodbye.
Paesi che non ** mai
veduto e vissuto con te,
adesso si li vivrò,
Con te partirò
su navi per mari
che, io lo so,
no, no, non esistono più.
It’s time to say goodbye…

Quando sei lontana
sogno all’orizzonte
e mancan le parole,
e io sì lo so
che sei con me,
tu mia luna tu sei qui con me,
mio sole tu sei qui con me,
con me, con me, con me.

Time to say goodbye.
Paesi che non ** mai
veduto e vissuto con te,
adesso si li vivrò.
Con te partirò
su navi per mari
che, io lo so,
no, no, non esistono più,

con te io li rivivrò.
Con te partirò
su navi per mari
che, io lo so,
no, no, non esistono più,
con te io li rivivrò.
Con te partirò.
Io con te.



English

Time to say goodbye


When I’m alone
I dream on the horizon
and words fail;
yes, I know there is no light
in a room where the sun is absent,
if you are not with me, with me.
At the windows
show everyone my heart
which you set alight;
enclose within me
the light you
encountered on the street.

Time to say goodbye
to countries I never
saw and shared with you,
now, yes, I shall experience them.
I’ll go with you
on ships across seas
which, I know,
no, no, exist no longer.
It’s time to say goodbye…

When you are far away
I dream on the horizon
And words fail,
and, Yes, I know
that you are with me;
you, my moon, are here with me,
my sun, you are here with me,
with me, with me, with me.

Time to say goodbye
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
now, yes, I shall experience them.
I’ll go with you
On ships across seas
which, I know,
no, no, exist no longer,

with you I shall experience them again.
I’ll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
with you I shall experience them again.
I’ll go with you,
I with you.





Read more at http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Con-te-partiro-duet-Sarah-Brightman-Time-say-goodbye.html#650EH3ZbvI6FxOyx.99
Dorothy A Jun 2012
The Wind is fickle
A mighty blowhard so fierce
A soft, puny puff
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
~

Keep It Simple Stupid ("Your Poems Are Too **** Long")

~ for Natty~

white sheet of foolscap,
imploring the fool's fingers,
natty. natty, just this once,
be the simpleton dunce,
spend but a modest pence,
cap the blowout verbiage well

pretend
being a short and sweet poet beat^,
leaving those blue line requests
more white than black,
emptier and thus,
more silently, fuller, and powerful,

build  each line from a few hard crafted,
forged-wrought-iron syllables,
say the more in the
unsaid unwritten

snap your fingers in clapping praise,^
kiss the words bye-bye slow and single,
hold back the overfilling raucous reprises,
those stanza'd motley muddled crew,
de-access all excesses,
a manly, word squad^^^,
no more,
the shaft to success
be a David slingshot of single pebbles

but herein have,
prior blessed and true confessed:

"for I know there is soul in brevity,
but that ain't exactly my finest quality"


this is a "not know how to,"
for when I plunder the sea deep of a
single and singular
first and foremost# kiss,
still forever kept,
and that cylindrical memory volume so full,
one must seek and speak,
many verbal Ceylonese herbal tea toasts,
for the drunken 'n blinder I become,
the greater the need,
the lesser to please,
commissioning the poet to sing of his
long odyssey home,
of even the briefest venture ventured,
a combo of triumph and escaped,
wrapped in a single word,
his every feathery eye retention plucked,
a bald bird to be fully consumed,
even the bones, committed to
paper memory...

what the heck,
you want a speck,
a "say hey kid"^^ haiku,
a shorty hearty 60 second sophomoric Campbell soupy blessing,
microwaveable, heated but not hot,
radiated but not cooked

woe is me,
cannot be denied,
why use a pithy when
for pity's sake,
thrice won't suffice?

the woman, the observer
punches me with a solitary and indelicate,
as her wont, as her want,
"just-this-once"
telling the blowhard to not spout

this prideful pain,
deep water drilled in the muscled fortress of my rocky biceps,
eliciting  an outsized
"ouch, that really hurt,"
and my spouting retort...

~

by this bruised blotch, this redsome refrain,
dulcet sung in black and blue, a sonnet's colored quatrain,
by your flesh's mark, thee I join, in places where no mark dare
reflect our secreted touch, witness-protected by our guardian eyes only...*


**** it.
4/25/16 08:00pm

^in a particular club in the West Village in the 50's,  the beat poets congregated, there was a shared shaft-way with local Italian families.  The club owner instructed them to snap their fingers instead of clapping, otherwise garbage would come down the shaft when applause sounded.  Hence finger snapping became associated with coolness.

^^ The Say Hey Kid was Willie Mays

^^^a squad is composed of 9 to 13 men

# http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1518614/f-f-1stmost/
Redshift Oct 2013
>
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
the dirty poet Oct 2018
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
sir humbug Jul 2023
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!
r Jan 2018
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.
Resist!
Bob B Mar 2018
Tell me how a man--a real estate mogul,
Who brags about women he can ****** or ogle;
Who NOT through hard work but by using his fame
Rakes in the bucks from brandishing his name;
Who supplements his fortune by appearing on TV
And adds to his resumé: celebrity;
Who stiffs his employees, as many have noted;
Who riles up his base against the scapegoated;
Who breaks all the rules and who shoots from the hip,
And earned himself a zero in statesmanship;
Who criticizes others for breeches in security
But whose own practices are clothed in obscurity;
Who hides from the world his shadowy case history
And wants to keep his tax returns a total mystery--
How can this man--this New York resident--
Become a country's 45th president?

There’s trouble in America. That’s what they say.
There’s trouble in America. That’s life today.
There’s trouble in America. Something is broken.
There’s trouble in America. Let the truth be spoken.

Tell me how a man can pull in donations
Despite--give or take--nineteen accusations
Of ****** harassment--of ****** impropriety--
That normally would bring you shameful notoriety.
Women, immigrants, and others whom he blasted:
Why weren't more of them completely flabbergasted?
How could he lead a Party to victory
When his behavior is so contradictory?
White House jobs go to son-in-law and daughter;
He talks of friend Putin as though he walks on water.
How can a person con his way to the top
And "waist" so much money--excuse the malaprop--
Spending so much time at his posh golf resorts?
(Maybe he's making up for time he'll spend in courts.)
How many voters regret what they have done
Now that the blowhard is leader number one?

There’s trouble in America. That’s what they say.
There’s trouble in America. That’s life today.
There’s trouble in America. Something is broken.
There’s trouble in America. Let the truth be spoken.

Tell me how a leader can garner support
When it comes to honesty and he comes up short.
When you're pathological, how do you earn
Respect from ALL of the people that you burn?
If your administration has a racist flavor,
You cannot be doing justice a favor.
Running a country requires a lot more
Than being rich and famous and thriving on lore.
About his private life, most don't give a hoot,
But now he's in bed with NRA to boot!
As the Russia probe keeps digging deeper,
The mountain of evidence keeps getting steeper.
"Un-presidented" is what the man would write;
"Unprecedented" would be more erudite.
Scandal after scandal in the USA!
Madness is only one tweet away!

There’s trouble in America. That’s what they say.
There’s trouble in America. That’s life today.
There’s trouble in America. Something is broken.
There’s trouble in America. Let the truth be spoken.

Trouble in America…

-by Bob B (3-12-18)
Four main beats per line. Once you get the rhythm going, you can rap your way through the poem.
Bob B Jul 2018
When the anthem begins and the players
Hear the words "Oh, say can you see…"
Some have chosen not to remain
Standing; instead, they've taken a knee.

Taking a knee to protest injustice,
The players have faced their critics who feel
That when the national anthem is played,
People don't have the right to kneel.

But what about a president
Who criticizes our institutions--
Who calls the press the enemy
And scorns their vigorous contributions?

What about a president
Whose racist ties are loud and glaring--
Whose stance on U.S. asylum laws
Is unequivocally cold and uncaring?

What about a president
Who boldly refuses to take a stand
Against the industries that poison
Our water and threaten to ravage our land?

What about a president
Who throws our allies under the bus
And sidles up to Vladimir Putin
After what Putin has done to us?

What about a president--
A blowhard who has dropped the ball
In dealing with corruption, for his
Admin's the most corrupt of all?

What about a president
Who calls unpatriotic those
Who take a stand--or knee--against
Practices that they oppose?

This from a man whose actions border
The actions of someone strangely psychotic!
Trump has no right to call any
Other American unpatriotic.

-by Bob B (7-21-18)
Zywa Nov 2019
Dare you, the girl grins,

then you're gonna see who wins –


Blowhard Mister Wind!
Collection "Mosaic virus"
Justin S Wampler Aug 2022
Lost a piece of a me
amidst this life
of stable work
and responsibility.

Gone are the days
that I slept the sun away.

Gone are my nights
of staying awake.

I was reckless, and a blowhard fool.

Wandering that veiled path
of apathy and altered mindsets
robbed me of my love for family.
But it granted me words,
I found poems everywhere
while lost in that haze
of clouded adolescence.

I wanted to be Bukowski,
I wanted to be Keidis.
I wanted to be Dylan.

I gaze back at myself sometimes,
the boy I used to be.
The twenty-something ****-up
that hadn't a dime to his name,
that hadn't a care in the world.
I gaze back and wonder
if there was a piece of me there
that got lost in the transition
between boyhood and man.
Something left behind that
used to truly define what
I believed in and
what believed in me.
Not by choice this average
     bonehead configured Earthlinked
     went kicking, and screaming
     into refuse bin
naturally (no questions asked,
     nor guffaws uttered) with chin
clamped tight, since the missus
     (by some rare, min

ness school, one in a
     bajillion chancy pin
in a haystack fluke
     of circumstance) sin
gull handed dropped,
     the entire set of keys (YES) vin
**** heave lee into
     the morbid, horrid

     and fetid weeks old
     garbage filled dumpster,
     this an absolute zero - no win
ning situation, roundly pitched
     against a cosmic malicious yin
hmm..., a hunch shot
     thru my mind, that she,
whose first name simply Abby

blithely, casually,
     and deliberately tossed
     the only set of keys free
lee (for sole access
     to our apartment, plus
     the singular way to start our car,
     a 2009 Hyundai Sonata

     as if that makes sum difference),
     and with her sinister glee
fully, excitedly, and coquettish lee,
plus maniacally, preternaturally,
     and snidely wanted me
to sink deep into the
     junk yard rabid dog gone,
     maggot and rat

     infested stinking pit pre
venting no more violent
     fisticuff altercations getting re
tally lit tory revenge e'er since
     (I readily, stoically,
     and tacitly admit),
     this blowhard good
     for nothing husband drunken deal

O meg odd, Sigma Epsilon
     former frat boy,
     who weathered
     volleyed unspooled evil
epithet laced expletives  
both of us suffering fools dell
lose hen null, asper
      this match made in hell

yourr truly inflicting (measure
     for measure) un intel
ledge gent till hurtful heaping
     glomming pell mell
     more'n a death knell
feline times nine
     lifetimes of misery hard sell
tum ma crony's, a

     worthless corny soul
     shucked aye tell
     each of our base grotesqueness
     equally receiving our
     deserved respective weltanschauung
headstrong shouldering keel well
ling kneecaps, and toes
oven angry papa

     no match for an absurd
albeit, one petsmart mama bird,
twittering cruelly, emasculating    
my manhood, curd
dill ling, and excoriating
     thine ego, gird
ding mine entire being
     with accursed damnation heard,

this side of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
     sans her blistering, unswerving,
     and weltering wicked wrathfulness,
     yawping fiendish zeal,
     she malevolently espoused
     with every scathing word.
The following scenario imagined
after the hoopla of
Democratic National Convention miracle workers
Kamala Harris and Tim Walz
trumpeted politically wholesome zeal,
and achieved advancement
propelling them ahead
in the race to the White House.

Unlike the hangdog expression of Eeyore
the current vice president of the United States
linkedin with governor of Minnesota
woke the electorate and victory they did score.

The donkey brays
with hearty "hee-haw" sound
finding formerly grim predictions
as foregone conclusion
reversing what appeared
as a near landslide victory
for the party where pachyderm
characterized as mascot

Fiery rhetoric mobilized populace
unlike former lackluster candidate,
a common Joe - just Biden his time
foretelling a horrid and gloomy fate
championed courtesy overstuffed
ego freezing ingrate
donning trappings of narcissism,
he didst "Libidinally" luxuriate
lacking honorable communication skills to orate
glibly dripping savage machismo sore loser
mean mien patron of vile hint
said unnamed contestant doth remonstrate
accompanied with sax, and violins
and fiendish banshees that ululate.

We will not go back
to the a bomb bin able Flintstone days of yore
bubba's zayda's bubba's zayda to the nth power,
where tyrannical patriarchal misogynistic jack
of all trades and master of none
played knick knack paddy whack.

If thee dear reader a childless female
litter really say yes
to being a weird fraidy cat lady
cheeses crust, especially even trounced
courtesy mouse a lean knee.

For those whose re: productive years
lie in the future,
the world is your oyster
and for those about to rock, we salute you
government houses golden opportunities,
a veritable unexplored treasure trove
potentially pitting thee untested newbie,
whether young lad or lass
into metaphorical formidable no man's land,
a danger zone barred against fairer ***,
or really anybody not battle tested,
yet with adequate trappings,

one can garner access
to trespass into territory
bound by razor wire
with signs stating “keep out”
(all the more reason to enter)
verboten off limits barred regions,
where the wild things are
don't be deterred to brave war zone
ringed with hot pockets
of intense mortal kombat,
where absolute zero odds as survivor
against brutal and nasty onslaught.

A similar probability stacked
against likelihood the forty sixth president
would clinch the nomination
to serve a second term
as the oldest commander in chief
since Kamala Harris
now holds strong sway
surpassing in popularity the oaf,
cuz a cutthroat villain Trump doth portray,
which tactics incorporate aspersions
toward opposition his trademark vituperation
likened to blowhard sore loser,
a proxy war of misinformation

his dom minions submissively inveigh
bully me, whereby
sowing seeds of insurrection
supposed to make America great again
as patriarchal White Anglo Saxon domain
turning back figurative clock
on socially progressive headway
presently allowing, enabling, and providing
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
to bank nest egg upon advent
when shades of gray
pepper combed over coiffed hair
or periwig donned faux virility to display.

— The End —