"braggadocio" poems
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Certainly not the intention
Nobody wants this rodeo
Sudden crisis intervention
Apologies to Tokyo
Like most things it started out small
I now feel like Pinocchio
Seems like things ran into a wall
Apologies to Tokyo
Now perhaps we did overfeed
Seems to enjoy finocchio
That doesn't explain the stampede
Apologies to Tokyo
Next time we will take it slower
try use less braggadocio
keep close by a grenade thrower
Apologies to Tokyo
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
"I think ***** may be a tragic hero,"
A student said,
"Linda tells her boys he is an average man,
And it's time for average men to be attended.
That he gets up and goes to work each day
Is enough to make him a hero."
We listen in the darkened room,
Breaking to think our thoughts aloud
Before we dive back into the pool
Of Loman miseries:
The braggart wearing down,
The cringing rage against
The darning of socks,
Silken stocking memories,
Naughtiness recapitulated.
And sons spinning round
The vortex edge,
Wondering whether
To bail or pledge....
The stage is growing dark,
The audience darker,
Receding from bright memories,
Nobility's idyllic days denied,
Nothing left but the emptiness of pride.
Accepting brassiness and braggadocio,
We lean, breathless beneath skyscrapers,
Accepting commission-only pay,
The emptiness of false news,
And mediocre heroes.
"Boys! The woods are burning!
Can't you understand?
There's a big blaze going all around!"
But no one understands.
We are all dreamers,
Hoping America makes us great again,
Wishing to live the Salesman's life,
Willing to leave Plan B hidden
Behind the fusebox for now...
If only hope remains,
If only champagne wishes,
Caviar dreams besot us in our schemes.
"Nobody dast blame this man!"
Says Charlie, and he is right.
It's tough being out there
Living on a wing and a prayer,
Promising the moon,
Promised the moon,
Age coming on,
No seeds planted,
No sun to shine
On what's left
Of the garden....
A little salary,
A smile,
A shoeshine,
Cannot suffice.
Believing dreams that lie
Is no reason to live;
Seeing the blue sky alone
Is no reason,
If there's nothing to own,
And no place to call home.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:20 PM UTC
cracked out
humble with heaps of pride
braggadocio Pinocchio
I haven’t slept in days
so watch the hours turn into haze
blown out of barely open windows
hide me from the world
I’m making a pristine machine - unbreakable
foreseeable as a weapon of poor taste
chasing wasted with chasers
are you shaking?
only with excitement
rage
hunger
My dad says get a job, get an education
so I chose a dead vocation with no hopes of vacations
and everybody is talking about the future as if it exists
it only exists in clenched fists and endless lists
of all the wrong turns you made on the journey
from then to now
I’m eating sacred cow meat - medium rare please
coming up with ways to scare these dumb ******* kids away from apathy
to put the shield over their hearts and the rifle in their hands
but wah wah nobody understands blah blah blah
shut the **** up for once
act like you actually have a pair of *****
even if you don’t
back in the day when we used to rob neighborhood garages of beer
and played with pills like candy
nobody threw tantrums about how unfair it all is
so you think the world owes you something?
the only thing it owes you is one death
so why are you wasting all of our time with your I could have saved the world
cry baby ********
I’m looking for slutty girls
pearl necklace on her checklist
so I can slam her on page verse
me versus the world, right?
left out by all the cool kids
drinking boohoo flavored kool-aid
so I made myself a parody of pretension
cunning, coming, ***********
you are the joke so I guess that makes me a punchline
I’m running sprints from the baseline until I’m throwing up the right choices
so continue with all of that angsty impotent sadness
so long as you stay out of my part of town
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
It tastes like purple
dripping of sugar and avoidance
in a circle
of loitering semi-pubescents.
Wooden sticks
precariously cling to
misshapened ice nuggets
in varying stages of licked, bitten and
melted.
School was out.
Hormones were in.
From the other hand
Becky sipped the ****** of
Strawberry Hill.
She knew things
she shouldn't know.
I wanted to know them too.
Looking over kitschy glasses
her gaze announced
(much to a young boy's excitement and fear)
she was bound
to kiss me.
At the awkward crossroad of
popsicle innocence and cheap wine
I stood clutching
my little piece of lumber
fighting sticky fingers
and the urge
to drink my first liquor
from her lips.
There is no such thing as
12 year old mojo.
The boy's experience
was only under-dated
by the alcohol in the pretty container.
She didn't care
about mojo or
decorum or
crowds.
She cared about RIGHT NOW.
She was an evangelist for the cause,
asking forgiveness
instead of permission
for her lust
...and I was being converted.
Hitchless
she walk into the face
of a clueless child,
tilted her head
and baptized his mouth
in ***** and braggadocio.
It didn't taste like purple anymore.
It tasted like America pie and graduation.
Her unseen signature
authenticates my diploma.
I am still a patriot.
And a warm piece still reminds me
of Strawberry Hill.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
I could sit my *** down
and write a hundred ******* poems
and not even touch on the subject of *******
or I could write an ode to the obscene
and here it praised as beauty
call me cocky
but you haven't seen it yet
humility tastes like vegetables
and I've never had time for 'em
give me a felt tip
and I'll make you smile, laugh, cry, and come
within four minutes
and I'll write those cutsie ******* poems
that make your older sisters say
awwwwww
like a text from a girl
saying hey
with about a million y's and ten emoticons
you like me
I don't know why
maybe it's maybeline
or maybe it's the keystrokes
stroking your ego
while I throw mine in the laundry
I wasn't raised to be bragger
but I wasn't raised not to be
wasn't raised to stop and see
the people smelling roses
or striking different poses
my smile is like similes
my method is a metaphor
my ***** soon is spilling on the bathroom floor
take this braggadocio
and put it in your back pocket
I don't need it anymore
and I don't want it
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
A small man with a big smell
when his seldom washed clothes were drying after rain.
Stubble chin, fish eye, loose lip
but always ready for0 the tankard's rim,
especially if you were buying.
One of the dark ones, relics of the Bronze Age,
whose ancestors had thrown their seed,
thin grain upon the small and bitter acres that he worked.
Only the rocks grow well in the fields of the grey hills!
At first I thought him diminished,
crushed by the land itself,
it's possession a cancer devouring
and defeat an old coat lashed round his middle with wire.
But drunk once, on a market day,
lowing and jammed like stalled beasts
into the FARMERS bar, he stumbled,
hugged me close to steady himself
and roared out loud to the heedless herd,
with arm outstretched, two fingers to the world,
****** you boys! I am still here!
Nobody heard but me,
whose ear was riven by that yell
and sprayed with rich spittle.
True though, despite the braggadocio of beer,
with the grain of him deep and compacted
like the rocks he fought, he did endure.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 6:48 AM UTC
This is a poem about hip hop, a rap about rap, I’m getting meta while you eat your wrap with feta because these poets free their words from paper, caped crusaders spitting flows from their domes and putting it to music, evoking emotion and causing commotion by amplifying their words, meditation through creation, showing their wit by going *** for tat in a rap battle, a freestyle of thought, craft a verse and drop it like it’s hot, they refuse to throw away their shot as they create a mixtape of melody and meaning, it doesn’t have to be demeaning, braggadocio is part of the show, part of the culture, we all flee from the vulture of death and if words give you armor then rap harder, better, faster, stronger, flex on em with mental might and fight until you shine bright, when the words strike like lightning, frightening and enlightening, you feel alive, driving fast, the words are at the wheel, tires squeal as you peal off the street, smile on your face as you blast into outer space.
My words trapped on paper, musically handicapped, but I wish I could adapt so I could convert these rhymes to rap but for now you have to fill in the gaps with the music of your mind, the sound of your soul, the rhythm at the root of being alive.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
****** rednecks and tabloid editors,
Choosing a big-mouthed wussy,
Voted into office a ****** predator who
Brags he grabs women by the *****
He goes on and on about himself
Blows that he is highly educated
He only tells lies, braggadocio, or
Unpresidential rot that is R-rated.
He boasted he could shoot
Someone dead in the street
Even that ugly deed would
Not cause his defeat.
It turned out to be
Unfortunately true!
That’s the kind of thing
Ignoramuses will do:
They vote some dingaling
No matter how disgusting
And decide this grifter
Is definitely worth trusting.
He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.
He said he keeps the best
People to back up his boasts,
And when he chooses one
His accomplices all toast.
It won’t be very long until
As his TV show has inspired,
He’ll open that ugly mouth
And snarl out “You’re fired!”
He knows he can keep on
In his lucrative term of office
If he just keeps the rich happy, and
Fools who can’t see he’s bogus.
He’s busily going about
Taking the rights of the poor
And wadding all of them up
Then kicking them out the door.
The only people he wants to succeed
Are him and those ass-kissers
Who hang with him out of greed.
He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
seminal squirt didst sanctify
an anonymous boulder
when mercury dipped below
hashtag mark registering colder
than usual temperatures circa
winter of year 2000 in proximity
to the sacred chapel
at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
(house zing carillon player)
rifling thru manilla folder
first inn search of apropos
mailer daemon ***** muse sic,
thence finely pitted secretly riddled with holes
encoded sheet threaded thru bell jar contrivance
sans, handy dandy mechanical holder
to accompany prurient powerful ******* pang
bubbling (like the **** kens), and didst smolder
especially, cuz a free ranging
NON GMO, **** in boots
hello kitty sauntered
(emanating pheromone heat
hand dill lee pronouncing feral passe faux foots),
dripping, seething with hormonal secretion
uttered via vow welled roots
gluten and monosodiumglutinate free *****
hapt tabby on the prowl ready
for par laid view ****** piqued Saint Peter
to enter heavenly labial shoots
rather than suffer frost bite
the above mew wing tigress attempted
to keep toasty warm
('thru minuscule tunnel
lacked add **** quit light)
prickly endowment fired
raging testosterone
with braggadocio, brio, bravura and might
owing pretentiously pusillanimous feline
fur reed black as night
hood hit attempt to cap cha moxie ********
thus ensuing a mutually satisfactory plight
until a park ranger back his utility truck
than gregarious, felicitous, erogenous
then quick as greased lightening
***** creatures disappeared out ta sight.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
At first I didn’t understand you, in time I came to accept and embrace you.
Oh the times we shared. You impressed and amazed me.
I wanted to capture your substance, your flavour, your artistry.
You helped me express myself, my habits, personality, preferences. Even weaknesses.
You sated me.
Physically and extravagantly. I devoured you.
And yet I desired more. To have you alone was not enough. I became boastful.
I tarnished our experience by gloating unreasonably. Our moments reduced. Familiarity gone. My appetite had consumed our love.
Alas we were nauseated.
The affair had run it’s course. It wasn’t you who changed. It was me.
It was gluttony.
I will heed the lessons I’ve learnt. Content myself with intimacy. Not braggadocio.
And I’ll fulfil myself again. It’s my desire. I may even over indulge. For I am weak to the pleasures.
But it cant be with you. It will be exclusive.
I WILL be exclusive!
Each meal I’ll sit and reflect on the times we had, but know our shared moments are gone.
Goodbye food photography. You will be posted no more.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
Webster’s Word of the Day challenge
Each day a new word is given
BLT has issued this challenge
Use Webster’s Word of the Day
in your poem
After you post your poem
let BLT know
In the notes of your poem indicate
The word of the day Challenge
The word and definition
I try to put the date of the word,
but sometimes I forget
Then notify BLT
He will read the poem to
make sure it meets the HP standards
Then he will post it to his site
Then BLT notify you that he did so
This way your poem
gets additional exposure
You can see by the haphazard way
I laid out the instructions
These are not strict guidelines
This should be FUN
I find it a challenge at times,
To use the word on the exact day
Yet, curiously many times
I can incorporate a word
into my current poetry
that I would not have used before.
It’s challenging and fun when it’s done
It’s a game that has opened
up a brand new door daily.
Putting my braggadocio aside
Personally There are times when I have felt I have an inadequate vocabulary
This challenge is a self confidence booster
Also a way to improve your language
and add a new word to your lexicon.
A heart felt . Thank You
To BLT For creating this game
It’s truly been a challenge and adventure
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 9:30 PM UTC
What qualities make a ‘successful man’,
Is it the tambor of his voice,
Some lofty goals, a lifelong plan,
A steering hand, his knowing choice.
Can compassion play a part
Or is that interpreted as meekness;
Is it wrong to show a heart
Without labeling it as weakness?
Does strength need to be paraded
A steely front for all to see,
Is authority degraded
When others sometime don't agree?
An old proverb said as much:
"A wise man is one who listens"
Few have had the Midas touch
And those that did have breached divisions.
Three traits renown - the deadly cluster,
The very ones to spell out doom,
Bravado, Braggadocio and sheer Bluster,
For all they bring is downright gloom.
So where's the rulebook, that golden fleece
To show the way and light the path,
That font of knowledge and inner peace,
Assured success without the wrath?
Where it exists is inner strength,
A willingness to learn whilst teaching too,
Consistency and grace to any length,
Embracing all of us, not simply you.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
WHY MOURNING
Do you know anyone who doesn’t die?
Who hasn’t died?
Who will not die?
Not I.
How to accept?
Not mourn?
Think through to not have pain,
(For pain seems fruitless), for
To not accept
Is like rejecting sun and moon,
Existence, proven, measured, seen.
Do I lament when atoms split?
Grieve, regret,
Have sadness that I can’t get over.
Nover*
Doesn’t.
Pain [we have] when others die –
That ‘other’ human, cow or dragonfly.
The local forester sawed down a fir
Which was for sure,
A hundred fifty years or more.
I mourned,
Stump and its rings all it passed down.
Is it absence or remembrance?
Is it longing for a something now a non-thing non-existing?
Is it clinging to a someone
Over whom we have no power,
Never had? Could it be wrong-er?
Fate and destiny his, hers or its
Through all of time and history.
I cannot think of one good reason
Vindicating mourning.
Were we meant for suffering?
Though I [clearly] cannot clarify,
We’re seeing wrongly,
Thinking strongly wrongly,
Wrought of ego’s braggadocio,
The hallowed hoaxer of emotions.
*Nover: me, born Arlene Faith Nover
Why Mourning 11.4.2017
Birth, Death & In Between III; Nature Of & In Reality; Revelations Big & Small; Circling Round Reality; Circling Round Egos;
Arlene Corwin
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:54 AM UTC
Messianic Don found tarnished appeal
trumpeted bluster thwarted
with muted (hip hip hooray) Democratic zeal
played (on microscale) like quashed
ill fated braggadocio big deal
bombast, sans General George Armstrong
Custer's last stand,
viz Little Bighorn, achilles heel,
where Native Americans
showed deadly steel
against cocksure doodling
haughtiness didst conceal
Yankee sited in cross hairs,
who got comeuppance,
whence his notorious
reputation did never heal,
thus markedly high light
ting (albeit in deadly fashion) might
whooped, undermined, and
served just desserts,
when forces of the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne,
and Arapaho tribes did unite
defending their turf against
7th Cavalry Regiment of the
United States, mauled as ****** sight,
which justified comeuppance,
and whipped up white
settlers fury like an inferno doth ignite
combustible material showing
no mercy toward "red men"
unleashing brutal, short
and nasty genocidal spite
long a tragic footnote in history
proves tummy at hefty price
that present swaggering presidential chieftain
more'n halfway thru administration thrice
occasions brought third "shut down"
(the first time in more than 40 years)
during his opprobrious term,
now got meted "no dice"
cuz commander in chief usurped, provoked,
and kickstarted retaliatory actions, I.C.E.
suspect, where staunch stonewalling tactics
unexpectedly found paunchy big boy lice
sensed to shame, name and blame Congress
i.e. as he ****** forward power,
and hood did launch
bully tactics doth evince,
how he does not play "nice"
demanding five billion dollars for
pet project wall barring Mexicans
(and other asylum seekers south
of the border) did not entice
unanimous concurrence thus sets device
sieve ness roundly shows
Trump doth need strong cussed hard advice!
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
bright, loud
braggadocio
bold brougham
barreling down
main street
all until
braggadocious
wheels come off
at the slightest
●○
•
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC