"boor" poems
oh yes, I remember when I was just a lad,
I was really quite bad.
I remember this one fall,
I drove my parents up the wall.
Up in the air the conversation flew,
And to annoy them more I answered with a "mew".
As I climbed the stairs and up into my room,
I slammed the door with a loud 'boom!'.
I stomped so loud on the floor,
And thought "oh, what a boor!'.
And up the stairs my parents sprung,
Their nattering in my ears rung.
I kicked and lashed out, not knowing what would happen next,
As I looked down, I thought I was hexed!
For if you stomp and kick,
You will be changed quite a bit...
Long grey ears grew high above my head,
"Help, help me!" I plead.
Hooves grew down to the floor,
And I gasped as I saw...
The little boy was no more.
Frantically I looked to my parents who said,
"I thought this would happen, I guess you need a new bed."
Now the boy is no more,
My parents bought a farm with a large moor.
And I help out more now,
As my job is pulling a plough!
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
Oh what is that country
And where can it be,
Not mine own country,
But dearer far to me?
Yet mine own country,
If I one day may see
Its spices and cedars,
Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreaming
It rises, that land;
There rises before me
Its green golden strand,
With the bowing cedars
And the shining sand;
It sparkles and flashes
Like a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearer
While I lie and long?
I see their soft plumage
And catch their windy song,
Like the rise of a high tide
Sweeping full and strong;
I mark the outskirts
Of their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,
Or what is a boor?
Here all starve together,
All dwarfed and poor;
Here Death's hand knocketh
At door after door,
He thins the dancers
From the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid,
Or what is a queen?
All must lie down together
Where the turf is green,
The foulest face hidden,
The fairest not seen;
Gone as if never
They had breathed or been.
Gone from sweet sunshine
Underneath the sod,
Turned from warm flesh and blood
To senseless clod;
Gone as if never
They had toiled or trod,
Gone out of sight of all
Except our God.
Shut into silence
From the accustomed song
Shut into solitude
From all earth's throng,
Run down though swift of foot,
Thrust down though strong;
Life made an end of,
Seemed it short or long.
Life made an end of,
Life but just begun;
Life finished yesterday,
Its last sand run;
Life new-born with the morrow
Fresh as the sun:
While done is done for ever;
Undone, undone.
And if that life is life,
This is but a breath,
The passage of a dream
And the shadow of death;
But a vain shadow
If one considereth;
Vanity of vanities,
As the Preacher saith.
3.2k
i love the way she shows her cleavage
and she really shows a LOT of cleavage
i tasted her with my eyes
she...the most special girl i'd ever want to know
to show.....!
so much *** for all to see!
what a girl she must be!
i know her soul contains
GREATNESS
her soul
contains
GREATNESS!
GREATNESS!!
and then we meet
well....
.................undressed
and after ***
what the hell to care about cleavage?
she is quite ordinary
a boor....really
still , i kinda like her
i guess its cause we shared
something
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
2.4k
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke
As rice is cooked on ******* and carried to the fields;
Over the quiet marsh-land flies a white egret,
And mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees....
I have learned to watch in peace the mountain morningglories,
To eat split dewy sunflower-seeds under a bough of pine,
To yield the post of honour to any boor at all....
Why should I frighten sea gulls, even with a thought?
1.6k
The only difference between me and her
She's an angel
I'm a boor rustic.....
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
She is who she is,
a classy sassy woman.
She drives a tractor with the best of them.
She can use an emasculator,
hog tie a calf, castrate a boor,
Knock some sense into a 500lb steer,
give a rooster the what fore.
She is the Queen of her domain.
And
She wants an extraordinary, mad love,
full of passion anything else is a waste of her time.
She lives wild and works hard.
She doesn’t have time for midcore,
life is full of midcore and she’s had enough.
She wants a life full of flavor, color, texture,
good food, good whiskey, and passion.
But
Her mouth, woo she has the vocabulary,
of a poorly-educated sailor.
and
She can tell you where to go,
then make you look forward to the trip.
She’s easy to underestimate,
you know that harmless girl next door look,
a little nerdy funny is a sarcastic sort of way.
She’s been over looked often, and shakes it off,
until she walks away never to look back.
That’s when you realize what you lost.
And what a loss,
No one will love you like she did.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 9:58 PM UTC
Do you know people
That hate people
For what they are?
Don’t invite those people
Into your car.
Do you know people
That hang with people
That steal from the poor?
Do not vote for such a boor.
Do you know people
That insist other people
Have to worship like them.
Their minds are dim.
Do you have friends
That like to steal?
Show them all
The back of your heels.
Because one thing
Will prove to be true;
They will steal from you.
Do you know folks
Who gossip madly?
Ignore them or
Treat them badly.
Then maybe some day
They will just go away.
Do you know some
Who ignore their kids;
Neglect them every day?
Tell those people off
Somehow, some way.
And if that doesn’t work,
Call the cops on the ****
Do you know some politicians
Behave like snobby patricians?
Don’t suffer and protect them.
Don’t elect them.
Ostracize them as rotten louts
Then, quickly vote them out!
Do you think you can’t
Make a change that counts?
Find these fools and pounce.
Let them know your mind.
Don’t just sit there blind.
Get mad as hell.
Then rebel!
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
Title-out of place- by meself. A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games. Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange. Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
On the surface of the moon, high in the sky and far out of sight.
Lives a creature, in a crater, half in shade, half in light.
The creature has a snarky grin.
And that is where this story begins.
People find it hard to describe the creature they see.
“he’s tall” some say, others “he only comes up to my knee”.
Some say he has two legs; some say he has four.
Some say he has six legs; some say he has more.
Some say he has two eyes, a nose, two ears and a mouth.
Some say he is charming; others say his charms are leaving him, heading south.
But one thing that is known for sure.
Is the creature that lives on the moon is a frightful old boor.
He has no words, no small talk, chitter chatter.
He doesn’t pass the time with a friendly natter.
He slinks and slithers.
He glides and shivers.
A snake, I hear you cry but “no!”
This creature is not a snake, he's neither fast nor slow.
He lives on his own and seeks no crowds.
He shouts at you “turn the music down”, if it gets too loud.
Some say he's a dinosaur, one hundred years old.
Some say he's a young un with a heart of gold.
The creature that lives on the moon, is happy being one of a kind.
He's happy being himself and has no desire to be refined.
The creature that lives on the moon, is happy in his own skin.
Makes no difference to the creature, if he has no known kith or kin.
The creature that lives on the moon, makes no judgement of what you wear.
Makes no judgement of how you choose to style your hair.
That is why the creature that lives on the moon is welcome to attend his neighbour’s parties.
That is why they welcome him with arms open wide, wholeheartedly.
The creature that lives on the moon is pleasant to them all, but he has no desire to be the star of the ball.
By preference, the creature sits alone in his chair, he does not speak, he does not stare.
He just enjoys the moment, living without a care.
He has no shackles; he is not bound.
The creature is content living life in his crater, he has no wish to be found.
The view he has before him of the planet below is a glorious sight.
A sight that waxes and wanes with the season, sometimes he is in the shade, sometimes eclipsed by the light.
A sight he adores and is grateful for.
A sight he is happy to be considered a “frightful old boor”.
When you see the moon in the sky at night.
Look for the creature, who lives in a crater, sometimes in shade and sometimes in light.
Give him a wave and say a prayer thankful he continues watching over the planet below from sunset to sunrise; from the time your head hits the pillow until the time you open your eyes.
Sweet dreams.
©Jacqueline Mead 2020
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 11:28 AM UTC
Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.
Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.
So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 9:41 AM UTC
My bar is unique
A bar-less bar
Whoever joins it
Becomes a star
The rich or the poor
The Civilized or boor
Feelings don't injure
Equal treat assure
Color or the creed
Country or breed
Such ideas don't feed
Serves without greed
Bathed in divine light
Its visitors don't fight
In their drinks delight
Here Santa's gifts blithe
Bar girl in divinity shines
Serves the 'Soma'* divine
Come here, dance and dine
Ill wills to Krishana** consigne
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
It is the era of aerosol and quick drying paints.
Nocturnal beings of angst and rage,
tags with demons mocking saints.
Turn on the news, what do you see?
Testament to the world's misery.
Cheap lit tunnels of black and beige,
for the righteous 'tis the perfect stage.
From boor to bold, in quick fashion,
magnificent walls of exploding passion.
Social themes? Put a dash in.
Something about food stamps or field rations.
The can is violent, the man is not.
Only the walls it fought.
Bombing the streets
while promoting world peace.
Feel the wrath of mighty pen,
I dare you- paint me white again.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:54 PM UTC
“Peace on earth and goodwill toward men,
HA!
What a lot of spoilt berries that is…
They’ll come around in due time, due time, due time…
Sure they will,
They will come around when they need something,
When life’s got them down,
Oh yeah, they’ll be calling out to you, you sucker…
HA!
Their hearts are what? Whatever that means,
It’s just useless with you, all trial and error but nothing after endless, endless errors?
*Why won’t you just give up and concede that I have won?
I have you know…*
Who?
You know-it-all who knows nothing at all about these animals,
Abounding love; a principle of heinous fish guts peppered about in a humid swamp of detritus!
You boor me so…
Peregrinating pompously and presumptuously until paused as Procrustes pontificates on my behalf!
You’re a loser, and I think, I think you know it.
Ha!
I’ll have them carve you the most magnificent sarcophagus ever seen…oh yes, it will be…
All you gotta do is lie in the bed they made for you!
Admit that I have won!
Mellitz,
"Has won…”
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
Title-out of place- by meself. A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games.
Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange.
Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Today, I was scolded
Was told that I was a boor;
That I had, inadvertently
Rendered some holy cattle
Of theirs a death rattle
A battle I won, without knowing
I had even fought, thought
I was just being amusing,
Somehow confusing my path
Down through the tulips
As a meander down the apse
Of some secret church.
Unfair! I was unaware.
And even now, I fear I care
Far less than they do
About their holy cows.
I didn’t then, I don’t now.
But, I have accepted, long ago
That, with social networking
I simply has to be so
That people will be offended;
Starting open-ended rancor,
Scoring slash after ****** slash
Across my Mr. Perfection sash
Granted me by nobody but me,
And that they will put a smudge
By bearing a grudge
About what I see
As a trifling inconsequentiality.
But is their cathedral,
Their Mecca to bow to
And thus I will be the target
Of slings and arrows.
Shall I be sure to only speak
If I speak plenty of inanities
Muttering banalities about love
And the weather and books
Shall I fear the looks, the scorn
Born of misunderstandings
Taken as mishandling
The hearts of the tender
And render myself informationless,
Opinion free, without personality
Speaking when spoken to eternally
So I don’t trip over hidden wires,
Don’t **** on burning fires
Of pet peeves, rip off the sleeves
Of hair shirts, do idols dirt?
Is that the way it should go?
I don’t think so.
But, what do I know?
I am the scurrilous, stumbling fool
Who ****** in someone’s pool
And told them it was raining.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
My array once glowed in the sky that this horizon
cried for winds that she boor in the afternoon
if I absorbingly flew into her midst
and like a rabbit in my throat that fed till she ware in that middle
this certain bloom that tired at my linchpin
she found with much regard
that I saw her tomorrow a swirling zest in my caper.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
I went to the place
That looked like Shawshank
The old hallways were a boor
Yet strangeness still remains
Sink's got clogged up
The bathrooms
Fifty years or so
The movie section was odd
I felt the distant show's
But I had to get back
Home
Where all is safe and warm
I went to the old
Shawshank
Where society still
Mourns
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
One may observe one's quite absurd,
And question why one's not deterred,
When one hears what one's observed.
One's world abounds with wondrous places,
Peopled with mosaic races.
When one blurts out a black man's black,
One says one's not a Democrat.
If one detects one's hue of skin,
One says one's not Republican.
But one is blamed for mouthing words
Like Indian, Paddy, Jew or Kurd.
One's innocuous indiscretions
Has one's eyes rolling on occasions.
Should one be blind to the homeless,
Then one can't see one's not blameless.
When one supports a Pride Parade,
One proudly says one's not afraid.
If one's an anti-abortionist,
Then one must help the Innocents.
“The sick and dying are a great expense,”
One yells demanding the same treatment.
One preaches hard-line on foreign shores,
Would **** the ******** in one war.
One's a diplomatic boor
(And one's glad it's there and not here).
If one knows one conceals a gun,
One's compensating for the wee one.
If one encounters a common thief,
One should keep one's company brief.
Should one hear a politician,
One needs to separate fact from fiction.
One sees terrorists everywhere
From the confines of one's chair.
One speak of one's impending doom,
Looking out from one's room.
There's so much angst one lays on one,
Yet we are one,
We're not one.
Our time here has ebbed,
Will flow,
One must leave.
One must go.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Sanmati, my source, is not a boor
As she never thinks to sore;
Nor does she at night snore.
Many do many times deplore
Against me or her to explore
Timeless expedition to score
Illicit behavior; proscribe more,
Jot down less. But not yore
All will succumb to us, I swore,
Illegitimacy! Come thou and pour
Nectar on those who still soar.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
When the recusants stand before the porcine boor in fetters ...
As the Fifth Estate is flat lining around us , the Constitution
twisted till it finally shatters ..
The Military in pursuit of its own , bestowal of civil liberties shot
full of machine gun rounds ...
Bloodhounds bay with the scent of dissidents , storm sewers turn into
raging red rivers ...
When martial law pulls the rug from beneath our feet ....
When broken glass covers every downtown street ....
I will pray for something to take you down !
I will long for someone to take you out !
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
Hope Above Dark.
Shadows too weak to walk or stand Words too weak to be understood light are nothing but light our world as dark as night even in the light
All poor, rich and poor man can sing to butter fly no more lost, maplees and boor
celebration of life is all we have they say when there is life there is hope well hope a good thing .
The last friend of man sometime, most time where art thou well we salute you, I salute you through world war I, world war II, the civil wars and capitalism you seem to exist.
Where are you now? Suru your sister was constant with us like you. For over one hundred years she lives. But not long
Biafra is coming once more. Militants in creeks to aid her Bokoharam is here
Who are you? Giant of Africa they call you. The air tells me you are the stone of the savannah. Brother and sister, imporvished or bewealthed pray cause that all we can, for a generation with a soul under this diamond sky we live .
# peterpraise
TN entertainment.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC