"boastfully" poems
You want to judge the book;
Or you are curious and keen.
Gibingly you ask about microbes.
With Naked eyes unseen.
Fourteen hundred is the age.
Yet you can scratch your head.
I know it is not going to help.
Because you're alive yet dead.
You think you're very literate.
Yes it speaks about microbes. ***
But are you literate enough?
Then there were no microscopes.
They discover and boastfully talk.
As if they've created, never they stop.
Compare themselves with God.
But their origins are in ***** drop.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
it's unnerving how easily a pair of eyes strip me down
and take away every layer of defense
I have built up over the years.
hey sweetie, why don't you come over here?
because I don't want to, because you're repulsive
and your voice is scary and I felt your eyes on me
from the instant I crossed the street and I was hoping
you wouldn't speak.
want me to show you a good time?
but I was having the best time before I knew you existed,
when I was still just a person walking home
and the silent threats you make hadn't made it to
the horizon of my mind
**** what you doing walking around with hips like those?*
hips like these belong to my mother and
her mother and all of the women that have come
before me. in my body I possess history and blood
so strong it was only ever spilled during times of war.
how dare you. attempt to take that strength and power and pride
away from me. don't you know that I am magic,
that my body exists as art only
I should be allowed to admire
who gave you permission to steal from god's temple?
[I still see the dark look in your eyes
when you said that to me, the emptiness of
your pupils haunt me. they say that you see
me as nothing more than a body, a corpse.
someone to walk over.
someone to conquer.
you licked your lips and winked, the
wrinkles in your skin were clear even in the dark
and I could see that your two front teeth were
missing, so now I can't stop having nightmares
you grabbing me and tearing me apart, using
the same legs you whistled at as toothpicks]
*why are you walking so ******* fast?*
because you are terrifying. because I know
despite how brittle your bones may appear
there is a large chance if you catch me I won't
escape. because the risk of not escaping is an
automatic death to me in every sense of
the word. because I have friends, and they have
told me how their bodies were pillaged at the
hands of men like you.
*who the **** do you think you are?*
I think I am an island and I wish you
wouldn't insist on being so intrusive.
**** you too, *****
I just want to go home. I just want to go home.
why can't you let me do that?
you're not even that pretty anyway
when I met up with my best friend
she hugged me
and said I smelled like vanilla,
that I got more beautiful over the summer,
and that boys are going to lose their minds
when they see me.
my mother shows me off
boastfully, brags about my small waist like it
is a trophy, tells all my family that I am
peligrosamente hermosa,
dangerously beautiful.
and I believed them until I met you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
May your year be measured
by revelations and not resolutions
May you see your uncountable gifts
than boastfully count meagre goals
May you on uncharted waters walk
than by uncertain stars fearfully chart
And may you in power compelled to fly
than all powers beseeched to comply
Dec 24, 2021
Dec 24, 2021 at 8:42 AM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
--------------------
With Both Feet on the Ground
Hello, dear-one.
What say you in this lowly place?
"When twilight traces the terrace,
Touch the torch-sky with the tip of your lip.
A sweet heat
Will draw your willful mind,
But watch! The torch-sky takes:
Heart-stems
Drip
Drip
Petals shower
The firelight blaze, like my root vein,
Spills languid and warm across the sky.
Beauty in elation
But now breathe out!"
--------------------
Then Into Deep Water
Say, dear-one,
What's all this now?
"The blue of night is sweeping over the torch-sky,
And shadows steal swiftly as silent silhouettes,
Come coldly dancing
Do not disdain—dreams form feather-light foam,
And fade heavily in a salt-wash, flooding fervently.
Covered darkly
Step
Step
Shiver forward
From terrace to sea my foot falls easily.
Then the eerie eels entwine in the brine.
Feeling supine
Let the deep creep
Until next time."
--------------------
But the Canvas is Brighter Still
Stay awake, dear-one.
Is there not more to tell?
"The search for halcyon has wrought hush-flickers:
Stars staring brightly stripping night's dark domain.
Drifting dazedly: humorous
'Theirs is a humming neatly humbling hysterias.'
Whispers Nyx, 'Dwelling hinders what dreaming may fix.'
Sleeps slips
Blink
Blink
Morning stands
Beacon! Bright butterfly, beckon bravery!
Billow boastfully—this day will be mine!
Keep in mind,
It's always divine."
Very good, dear-one,
A fine farewell.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
Give me O Lord, the patience needed,
regarding the daily choices before me;
help me to use Your divine wisdom
in handling all issues of adversity.
Keep me focused on Your priorities,
as I strive to “walk in Love” continually.
Insure that I reach out to those in need,
serving as a humble representative of thee.
With joyous anticipation and expectation,
I happily receive Your new mercies this day;
praises to You Lord, I boastfully sing, since…
Your everlasting Love is flowing my way.
Thank You for Your daily Words of encouragement,
as I faithfully yearn to fulfill my poetic role;
please accept my obedience as an act of worship;
for You alone Lord, are solely in control.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Lam 3:22-24; Deu 30:15-16; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Psa 34
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Upon the taking of my last breath,
I ask that no tears be shed.
Instead, I request that there be laughter,
Laughter to fill rooms and shake shoulders.
I want there to be joy upon my departure,
Joy that may follow me wherever I go.
Do not tell them the truth.
Tell them I died valiantly,
Protecting the helpless and
Playing savior for the weak
Tell them I was fearless,
Completely unafraid and unfazed
By anything that was ever placed
Obstructively in my path.
Tell them that I danced in the rain
And that I never got sick, ever in my life,
That I wrote beautiful things and
Spoke wonderful words.
Do not tell them the truth.
Or better yet, please do.
Tell them I was broken and frightened,
Pretending to be strong always.
Tell them I was a dreamer and I never woke up.
Tell them of the music I loved.
Speak of the people I greatly adored.
Tell them I was twisted, psychotic, confused
And beautifully, boastfully, blissfully so.
Tell them how I laughed as often as possible.
Explain how I never cried in the presence of others.
Tell them how I cared for others and how
I never did understand human nature.
Tell them you could never know me
Without knowing my deepest secrets.
Tell them how few people really knew me.
Tell them they are beautiful and loved
Because that’s what I would say, if I could.
Tell them goodbye and wipe their tears.
Tell the truth of my gloriously insignificant life
But only to the ones who loved me most.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
love doesn't dash, it loiters
with repeated movements like music
and beautifully crude endearments
love doesn't dash, it lingers
with rhythms like dance
and boastfully rude aphorisms
so dally with me, my love
lollygag, lounge and in a while
we'll share breaths and mess about
Apr 19, 2023
Apr 19, 2023 at 9:31 PM UTC
Long day indentured college
do they give me land when I'm done?
I just wanna lay near the flickering warm television
like the olde days
Stop, I say
it’s all **** T.V. does not console
old days are through
already 8 O’ clock
O clock, zero clock
why’d I do nothing yet?
he shouts back in olde English binary that
I’ve only been home for an hour
I don’t know how to loot time like a lawyer’s tie tier
He pit pats after the one in the pricier suit to make sure he’s comfy, all ways
Like a tea cup dog, he’s slightly enamored to serve a taller person
The rich man feeds him emerald colored paper
a treat at sundown,
and that wily servant still finds hours to ***** his wife,
push his boy on the swings, and play a game of basketball.
I don’t know what’s coddle comfort anymore
“good.” says the gray bearded one atop the devil’s mountain horns
The great beast is boastfully clever,
but he can’t tell there’s a bhikhu camping out on his horns
his eyes roll upward, but he can’t see past his forehead.
The old one laughs
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Fog drips slowly over rose colored mountains
like sap from a tall heartwood tree
Lavender skies burst to flames of burnt orange
as the sun reaches the horizon
The moon in waning gibbous
displayed boastfully
Sage brush blowing gently
sprouted from red dust
on an indelible high desert morning.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Wise and wistful Njal perched pleasantly in the heart of Iceland
Vengeance victory and voluptuous vial veined through Flosi Njal as innocent as an infant
His demeanor held neither mediocrity nor morals but rather an emotion enthralled ego
Cooled cinders clog Flosi's heart to a stone To unfurl the expression in an utmost barbaric action
He recollects ways to reclaim rotten ridden revenge pondering upon which way will win
In one breath of fiery hell Flosi embarked his plan a sheepish grin gambled graciously on his hard face
The house engulfed in silk flames of scarlet the blood curdling cries of children never ceased
Onyx hazes of smoke of smoke danced on the top of the roof taunting the flames to devour more
Flosi's eyes excitedly enlightened in excitement his perilous plan appeared promising
He laughed lively at the feat the hysterical hollers of children was suddnely muted
Several silent minutes passed spirits of ashes resurrected from the charred house
The air was stale sparse dull life clinged to hold its existence
Bleached black bones held close to each other in a cluster combusted cloth clothed the cluster
Two tiny tinged skeletons lay in heavy heaps almost as if they were holding hands
But no longer did the embrace last no longer did the home host habitability
This sadistic outcome shed no tears for Flosi he enjoyed the revolting wrath of revenge ever so
He shadowed over the remains of bones and timber boastfully bubbling blissfully in excitement
kicking the bones like dry dirt Flosi continued to walk around the ash ridden land
His leather boots crisping in the hot coals his callused hands thrusting in the air expressing victory
He beaconed a shrill of success tears trembling down his face
Flosi has won revenge has ridden him once more
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 7:37 AM UTC
Exalted as it was, she couldn't help but stare at the sunlight that dramatically kissed the ocean waters; the majestic sky that boastfully displayed its vivid million hues; the perennial water that compassionately became home to a billion creatures; the vibrant fishes that danced and sang, jumped and swirled. The scene enraptured her mind. It was as if she had consumed a bottle of a 1964 scotch. It was as if she was given a psychedelic drug to catch a glimpse of an aesthetically blissful scene.
Entangled in the cobweb of tranquil ephemera, she opened her arms to embrace the beauty she saw. The realisation she acquired and the one she hoped to acquire were like chalk and cheese. There, at that moment, she woke up with drool on her face and pillow in her arms. The alarm clock beeped '6AM', and the magical world she was in, bid adieu to her.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Give me O Lord, the patience needed,
regarding the daily choices before me;
help me to use Your divine wisdom
in handling all issues of adversity.
Keep me focused on Your priorities,
as I strive to “walk in Love” continually.
Insure that I reach out to those in need,
serving as a humble representative of thee.
With joyous anticipation and expectation,
I happily receive Your new mercies this day;
praises to You Lord, I boastfully sing, since…
Your everlasting Love is flowing my way.
Thank You for Your daily Words of encouragement,
as I faithfully yearn to fulfill my poetic role;
please accept my obedience as an act of worship;
for You alone Lord, are solely in control.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Lam 3:22-24; Deu 30:15-16; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Psa 34
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Electrified inspiration draws me to my seat.
My mind races hundreds of miles per hour.
Ideas blossom in my mind.
When the webpage finally loads?
Nothing.
Blank.
No ideas, no inspiration, only a trickster,
dancing away boastfully with all my ideas.
****
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Cloaked in my blankets,
I hear a fulmination of sounds.
The sounds of children weeping,
And of bombs capturing the ground.
I covered my ears and secured my eyes
Only to find that this time around,
These sounds were not inside my mind.
I released my uniformity of quilt,
And stared upon an empty shelf.
I imagined a place of prestige and luxury,
And the greedy percentage of interminable wealth.
I envisioned families with crystallized patios and polished rooftops
With clothing that glistens like gold and parquet floors that exert possessive pride.
Where a vast mass of appliances lie,
And sculptures of dinnerware are overflown.
But my eyes began to water when a flag was waved with an infinity sign,
And stacks of green paper were boastfully thrown.
And way far beneath their intangible table,
I began to feel a vibration of sounds.
The sounds of the powerless praying for just a couple of crumbs,
As the families fed their colossal crowns.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
Death begins the day the newborn cries
Not its choice, grew up believing
Clinging to futility on death's bed
As if another life brings the dead to life
Affirmed as gods, life stroked, seduced
Painful dissonance yet believing
Chance is king but Will supreme
Striving to the death for one more chance
Failures chastised, pride conceals, boastfully
Offering ashes, gods obliged, believing
Truly only Money matters, Chance *******
Life ransomed too, not today, surely tomorrow
Love or transactional *** legal or not
Life's answer or preachers' lies believing
Perhaps only masturbatory self love is true
Justified indulgence entirely in one's own hands
Meaninglessness, life’s honest and brave end
Else denial and delusion, make believing
This moment till death has despair to work
Alas many flail cowardly, ironic futility grasping
Will strong, flesh betrays, in hypocrisy
Peter wept, shamelessness hardens believing
Death discerns not its own stench
Life's fragrance repulsive and offends
Life imposed freely from the beginning
Conned and chose to pay for believing
A shadow of what will be but tempted to be
And the Accuser justified and God ******
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 11:31 PM UTC
Political Dynasty
--Elle.Prvnt
Politics isn’t about competing for accolade
But for the good things you’ve made
Rulers, people placed all of you in position
To help our dear nation
You help the citizens, you may say
You can tell that boastfully
But answer this question in good way-
Are those things wholeheartedly?
From ages to ages, the politics grow
But the government’s false systems never go
Now I know that over falsehood, we can’t win
The ruler’s throne is passed on his every kin.
I thought that only on ancient times I could see
The so-called Dynasty
But I was wrong, because when the truth unfolded,
The azure skies turn red
I found my pen ‘neath the somber night
And I know what it portrays
So my heart didn’t hesitate to write
The things on these present days
Your kinsfolk spread on the near and distant regions
For what- for corruptions?
O, be true on yourself and do not be guilty
‘cause that’s what people see
Do not boast about the things you did
Or even say that you’re great
Wake up! pride flows on your every deed
Cruelty lies on your heart’s gate!
As the dark years of dawning long-term service rise,
Men were filled with deep sighs
What happened to the votes, what happen to their trust
Why corruption didn’t last?
Servants of my country, hear my voice
Do not hide on the shadow
For the truth will come, bringing a noise
To the days of tomorrow
I know that to help the people is your aim
But it is obvious that you only want fame
Are you a good leader of society,
With astray brain full of greed and vanity?
You can pretend that you give hands to the poor
With fake smiles on them, you can take a picture
Hey Mr. Corrupt, I know your idea
That is impress the people, use the media!
You may say I’m young because I’m only fifteen
But I know, truth shall win!
Why you didn’t let the others serve the people
Is there any trouble?
Or are you scared of the true stories?
False rulers, you’ll see one day
The revelations that never cease
Lies will unfold, truth will stay.
Say now that you’ve done many things in service
Those where your obligations! on boasting- cease!
I know you know that your high soaring ego
Will make you suffer the truth and you’ll fall low.
How can people respect you as good leaders,
With your falsehood, how can we be followers?
And if there is political dynasty,
How can we reach country’s success, how can we??
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
In the dead of Décembre¹, resided an elegant Accentor² dressed in all the hues of a fresh pumpkin. His rotund chest of tangerine could be spotted instantly among the frost laden branches of his bark-made household.
Throughout harvest, his henna back was effortlessly disguised amidst the fallen leaves of autumn. He was often found solemnly reviewing the state of the abundant acorns while the slight breeze lifted his earnest feathers.
Across warm season, his amber spots shined as radiantly as the sun when he floated to a near pond for a drink. The abounding dragonflies derived delight from boastfully gliding to and fro above the glittering water. Warmth lingered in the limelight as long as it could.
Along the cherry blossoms of spring, the top of his emerald head often appeared in a scene of expected triumph once he took in his mouth a bit less than the recommended daily dose of crimson berries left in the grass from winter.
_________________________________________________________________
Décembre: December
Accentor: a type of small bird in the genus Prunella
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
The rose bud clasps tight to its long lonely stem
sheltering from the cold wind and the winter mayhem
The spring sun shines so brightly is it time to parade
as the cloud covers over to give it some shade
Then around about elevenses it opens its display
leaving the people smiling for the rest of the day
It bows so graciously in the light shallow breeze
and waves at the audience, boastfully if you please
As the sun sets slowly we still marvel at its delight
then watch it cwtch up tightly asleep for the night
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
Loathsome little loving liars
Lying laughingly lazily
Poor pretentious puny pet
Phrasing picture perfect plays
Forty ******* fornicators
Flogging feathered flappers
Words wired without winds
Wistfully woven wrongfully
Bi-curious bitey bell-shaped *******
Bump big butts boastfully
Helping Harry's holey hippocampus
Holes he hides here hazily
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
She was beginning her annual journey; full of hope and excitement, back to what had become her saviour, her second home.
Years she'd spent within Italy's familiar arms, flooding her senses with summers past.
Could it really have been over a year since she last bathed in its beauty?
An entire year since her heart had been snatched away, and hidden behind her walls?
How that time had been good to her, and how strong she had grown.
Someone once told her that self knowledge was only ever accompanied by heartache and pain.
How wrong they had been.
Self knowledge had saved her life.
Self love had brought her back from loneliness.
How can that have been wrong?
Now she'd returned to the welcoming warm breeze, and the streets laced with a beauty that could release the most shackled of hearts.
A country where lovers are found wrapped tightly around one another.
Bound together with love.
Draped over statues from ancient Gods; their limbs intertwined revealing no beginning and no end. Just one heart made whole from two separate souls.
A country where street buses and cars, choreograph their way through the melody that the sunshine orchestrates.
A humidity that brings with it a yearning she hasn't felt in a million kisses. Her Senses re-awakened, a longing to be touched.
Finally freed from her self made cage.
She finds interest and delight in every withered portrait, and in the faces of every chess game, within the laziness its players boastfully adopt.
She soaks up the sticky sweet aroma like a honey bee to the morning dew.
And she is at home.
As night falls, the crickets gently rock her to sleep as she drifts away, into tomorrow's dreams of the awaiting breath taking sights and cuisines.
She falls deep into her bed.
Italy has her in its trusting arms.
She is at peace once again.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC