"broadside" poems
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Social Media chops like a cleaver.
A truth optional blade comes down
to deliver clean edge fodder
for others too pick and ****
like carrion gleaners.
A broadside to crush after
the initial hack.
Hold the handle with great care,
and far away from you.
Too heavy to wave about
like a fencer's foil.
Its damage is ugly and
spreads like the spurt
from a jugular.
Social media chops
like an unforgiving cleaver.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind
Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned
Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside
Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified
Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay
Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array
Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow
architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt
tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt
slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster’s hide.
“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
“Never!” our gallant Morris replies;
“It is better to sink than to yield!”
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon’s breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
** brave hearts that went down in the seas
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
** brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
1.1k
Hard a starboard. Lash.yourselves down boys
Were coming about to fire broadside.
All hands.
A rag tag crew.on
Hardtack and tea going about business , down to the sea.
David Jones's
Beyond the crows nest.
Ship Ahoy.
The yardarm as pendulum and there.
Ahab in his element.
Fathoms deep.
forward to world's end
Bring up the long glass. sea spray and salty breezes
Sun weathered skin, looking for world's end
around the bend in the horizon
It ends and falls away
the rest to the imagining
2.9 miles out.The deep blue
gives way to the churning horizon.
2.9 miles to world's end.
3 sheets to the wind or
To Poseidon's palace.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
The Cormorant was the darkest ship,
As dark as a ship could be,
Not only the paint was pitted black
From the funnels to the sea,
But deep inside in its rusted gloom
In the echoes from its shell,
It was like a monster roamed abroad
Released from the depths of hell.
It roared and echoed by day and night
As the boilers turned the *****
Lurching across every wave that might
Try to break its hull in two,
It was laden down with a thousand tons
Of a cargo that made it groan,
While breakers slapped its quivering sides
As it made its way back home.
The Captain stood on the shuddering bridge,
A man with a heart of steel,
He tried to control this raging beast
As he lashed himself to the wheel,
He gave no quarter to any man
Who would shirk, avoid his task,
But called the crew to witness his due
As the man was soundly lashed.
Down in the depths of the engine room
The firemen shovelled coal,
Each shovel sprayed like a black dismay
In the light of that glowing hole,
And steam built up on the pressure gauge
Of each boiler, one and two,
As men would fret, while running in sweat,
To do what they had to do.
The seas built up and the rain came down
As the Cormorant rolled and swayed,
Then lightning flashed and it ran to ground
Like an imp in a masquerade,
It left three dead on the afterdeck,
They hurried to help them there,
But the captain roared, ‘Throw them overboard,
We’ve more than enough to spare.’
A mutter grew up among the crew
As dark as the bosun’s hat,
I never knew what the crew would do
So I wasn’t in on that.
But the Captain disappeared from the bridge
And the wheel was swinging free,
With the Cormorant broadside to the waves
At mercy of wind and sea.
They said it must be a miracle
When we finally entered port,
The bilge half full of water, they said,
And the Captain fell overboard.
But the ship was done, had made its last run
As the fires went out in the hull,
Then raking through the mountain of ash
I found the late Captain’s skull.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC
In the cove where sea lions do dwell
there be Saline Sams thirty gunner
most of his jolly tars are in bars
So by the moonlit night to guide us
up by his hind we crawl
we mean to take out her masts
and give her fifteen shots broadside
As we finish with his ship
my boys move to port
and with cannons blazing
we blow to smithereens the inn
Then by dockside we alight
and with glee carry on the fight
we slice and dice till non are left
not Saline Sam, or his salty sea dogs
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Blood tinged with the taste of iron
As it follows the ridges that
Move the fluid like aqueducts, and
Deposit it into my mouth.
I let it pool and sit like stagnant water
Until I spit and paint the canvas
A mosaic of Crimson Red that represents
All the hours that you spent
Drenched in sweat from all the rounds commenced
Never overwhelmed by what you underwent
This red’s respect, across from me
A nodding head with arms and legs, and
He bleeds like me.
Inside these ropes we are all silent poets
Unspoken codes and a violent
Calm devotion to only speak with
Measured fists and feints.
Inner pain hidden behind punch combinations
Like a writer hides his heart behind a metaphor.
You never see the crowd all circled round
Like a pack of laser focused vultures
Looking for scraps of skin to feed
Some inner need to watch a warrior bleed.
They root for me, as long as I stand tall upon my feet, but
A buckled knee creates a switch of scenes,
Now they scream and plea for him to finish me.
I list as if this ring sits
Atop a ship hit broadside by rogue waves, but
A fighter hides his pain within a flame
Kept deep inside a hanging lantern
That adorns his heart and keeps him standing.
Now he moves with clenched fists
To man the sails and turn the ship, and
Aim it right at his, because if your drowning
You know **** well he is coming with
Body shots placed straight under his ribs
Now he sinks quick, gasping for air
Afloat on hope alone, searching for a beacon
To lead him from the deep end, but
He heads for the cliffs at the end of your fist, and
Your shoreline is his jawline
He washes up stiff, rinsed out and spit
Like the blood on your lips.
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 2:28 PM UTC
I am beset by boorish, bloated, behemoths
who broadside benevolent busboys by the boatload
I do not pause to stop and stare
With indifference and despair
Do I circumnavigate an indifferent globe
I am surrounded by salacious supplementals
who stand silently still in streaming sunlight
I do not return their glare
I run my hands through thinning hair
and wince at ignorance made flesh
I am besieged by bracingly belligerent bumblers,
The kind of verbal tumblers who fail to jump through hoops,
These self-proclaimed acrobats, put to shame by pussycats
All too often follow circuitous routes
these pitiful proletarian ponderers, as little more than wanderers
On a plane that reaches no destination
They do daily buy their ticket, but to me it's just not cricket
For we are here and then we die, go to the ground not to the sky
and now I lay me down to sleep, in a wooden box that wasn't cheap
and all the while the bleating sheep hear no-one but themselves
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
The great divide
religious fanatics
cause it to grow wide
in the name of their god
think they're saving your hide
when in all honest truth
all they do is misguide
The great divide
separates families
groom against bride
splitting up marriage
conversation gets snide
from their stubbornness
that's based on their pride
The great divide
the different beliefs
relationship fried
run aground on the reefs
partners have cried
days together are ending
as this trauma takes them broadside
The great divide
organized religion
cause folks to take sides
rather than bond
total lives are shanghaied
and still they aren't seeing
that the great divide as always has lied
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
Stepped into darkness
Walked off the pier
Fell into the abyss
Slid into the mere.
Was I lost or just being found
As I slid from the miry ground
Was all going to end
Or beginning once again?
Who knows I thought
As I flew into the mist.
When life hits me broadside
When a nose-dive I take
It might not be a choice
And not a mistake
Falling could be a handle
To access the well of life
When I get real thirsty
While I get super tired.
The answers are way up high
and way down below
When I cry in the night
And fly through the air
To places that are unknown
To where I don’t dare.
I might get some answers
and Maybe I’ll grow
It’s all of my journey
One day I will know.
Lift up from the slip
It’s just another step.
—
Slips
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
Pieces of eight
Pieces of eight
Polly's a parrot
Squawk.
Diamond Dip was the name of his ship
and it boasted sixteen guns
eighty five tonne and two tots of ***
for the rabble who dabbled in death.
Pieces of eight
and the skipper was late, caught
a broadside from his
blindside,
got carried in deep to where
the crew now sleep.
Polly squawked once
and died.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
(when living nightmare pierced real time
thus engendering the following rhyme)
adrenaline powered stealth bomb blast
with the noggin of this, ah... ur... bane chap,
which debilitating anxiety doth outlast
means to cope (thunder and dumb struck)
with stranger mental things
at expressed vertigo, nausea, racing heartbeat
ogres recreated tormented, torpedoed, tortured
most decades from my yesteryear,
which aye presumed long passed.
now, within my head "guerilla"
warring faction
lobs a grenade followed by "bombs away"
broadside finding this body electric doing
a kamikaze nosedive into sick bay
where major organs suffer direct hit
analogous to a giant fist
smashing pumpkins,
sans thine flesh as if clay,
which psychic sortie plagues my ability
to function reduced
tub bing bedridden one day
approximately one week ago
from this thirtieth of April
tooth house sand ate teen gray
ting, grinding, and grounding with figurative
threshing blades employed
to winnow chaff from hay
literally crushing willpower,
where invisible jaws
of sharpened steel interlay
atop pulling stalwart garrison strafed,
(akin to a crash test dummy) named Jay
Walking to become blindsided
obliterating every last trace to stay alive
hence, this emergency transmission,
viz this bloke communicating
desperate plaintive wail,
that I haint okay
with plea PLEASE HELP
this tortured soul on verge pray
begging tubby rescued before drowning
like a panicky gull clay pigeon,
and buoy albatross
strangling me far distant from any quay
quickly sinking spirits,
abducted via fiendish runaway!
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Written down in black and white and so we
think that what is wrote is right.
As if the pen had honesty to call its own and
the scribe had no agenda.
How tender is the mind, which believes the written word is kind,
a mind I'd like to think was some bridge between myself and some ancestral link,
alas
this can't be so,
because I know the cruelty of words
and fools with nibs instead of teeth who bite with ink
and bring the bitten grief.
I write,erase and write and struggle through
the maze of right and wrong.
I shall and do intend to carry on
until the writing disappears or
until my fears are overcome.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
daily life so pristine lived,
walked and got flecks of dirt on the shoes
rain drops on the pants,
glasses need cleaning,
seeing clearly, the
drunk against a fence leaning,
know where he has been,
by the trail of empties,
now filled with his emptiness,
he does not speak,
the words pouring around inside his head,
are too drunk to, so he shuts his mouth instead,
waiting for the sparks to fly from another's
broadside swipe to ignite the fire of anger
seething and waves, that will wash, from
him
taking everything
dear and near to him
far away to safety,
while strangers
are in danger,
of the bottlerocket he has become, and he won't remember,
or know how to stop,
until he is found empty,
at the bus stop,
or in the corner,
or with blood staining everything,
so that he doesn't,
know if it is his,
until he does a physical inventory, then
shards of light, poke at his eyes
every noise annoys,
his ears, and drive six inch spikes
into his head to find his pea sized sober brain,
his mouth tastes
like he ****** on work socks instead
of cigarettes,
his stomach growls with distrust as
he ended the night
fended for himself,
as he finds he is in
the same city,
the same county,
the same state,
the same country,
called Alone.
©DWE022014
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
Hunting in a box stand
on a piece of leased land
waiting, buck to walk by
wind and rain from the sky
Feeder goes off, throwing corn
day after thanksgiving morn
little six point walks by
it makes you want to cry
Because he's not 13 inches wide
waiting, shift in the chair side to side
check out the windows, all directions
ones bound to walk by, expectations
Pair of doe hop in feeder
disappear behind a cedar
waiting is hunting
hunting is waiting
Antlers is all you see
coming from behind that tree
stops and smells your doe scent lure
supposed to work simple and pure
Be still now, move real slow
slide your rifle out the window
calm your breathing look through the scope
with buck fever now you must cope
Aim behind the shoulder, hold your breath
pull the trigger hope for instant death
takes a few steps, down he goes
more points than you have fingers and toes
Pack up your stuff, go get the truck
bring it back, load the buck
gut, skin and quarter
do it in that order
Don't forget the tenders and straps
into sausage but those perhaps
in the cooler all that goes
become fried steak with potatoes
How bout gravy and some beans
sounds like dinner know what I mean
what you hope for every time
doesn't always sitting in the blind.
Back in the stand for evening hunt
doe ***** scent and call that grunts
binoculars to take a look
**** the time, a good book
Feeder throws at 4:25
be ready now, look alive
here they come, three doe's
eating on corn they go
All three heads come up and look
ready haunches about to book
relax again, another doe
hoped for a buck, all is woe
Look through binos, scan around
just a bunch of cactus mounds
waiting and watching, patiently
called hunting, not killing you see
Wait, and wait some more
fox walks by the stand door
doe's look up, they are spooked
I get ready to aim and shoot
Big eight walks out in full stride
has to be twenty-four inches wide
look through the scope, see a drop tine
not an eight but a big boss nine
He's not stopping, I grunt the call
turns broadside, ready to fall
squeeze the trigger, feel the kick
he kicks once, dead right quick
Work begins once more
break out the knife start the chore
gut and skin And quarter again
thank goodness I brought my friend
Fill the freezer for the year
day is done time for a beer
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
I've already died a million times
Reborn without missing a beat
A gridiron burden much larger than fading
I am here: as is, where is. so it goes...
Life hit me broadside and I danced naked in the streets,
exposed in lunar illumination
Enveloped in fearful curiousity
I dared to be different within an archaic monoculture
I cannot lie down, I've already tried!
This is who I am
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC