Bungling poems on Hello Poetry

Yenson Aug 2018

Welcome to the Alpha cowards who are faceless and their cowardly gangs,
The raggle taggles scums who live in sewers and gutters and crawl out to spew their putrid innards or cast mud as they are wont to do. The stinking Bullies of the West, the fascists and Racists of Modern Politics, Liars and shysters, deluded sickos.

Hail the Red Loony - Hail the Uber chavs of Chavs-ville, the deluded warriors of Wigan, the ******* pigs of Animal Farm,  the Baldrick's of Blighty, the Prophets and Saviors of the poor Oppressed malcontents, the Asinine Numpty Controller of Heraldry, the bungling vacuous Stalinist thugs, the famed carriers of the famed and ridiculous owners micro-penises and laughable quick shot minute men lovers, with  their Fem-fresh free zone females.

Hail the Bogus Thieving Red Devils and the Psychos Uber Slanderers and Shitegangs of the Western Socialist muppets, to name a few of their inglorious tags. Hail the Shameless Red flag wavers. who sexually harass females members and are only there for what they can get while fooling all they are comrades and for the people.

Now that the Jews have exposed you and shown all that you're the imbecilic Haters of successful and hardworking people, the maggots that you are, you can concentrate more on playing with the mind of that Black Prince, that is putting you and your poor brainwashed and ******* gabble of followers, to shame.

How the mindless can play mind games is of course, an anomaly best understood by the Mindless themselves, but then since when do psychotic, deluded, hallucinating, proven in-adequate and sick fantasists, those education- avoiding, opportunities-shy ( why should we make use of all the opportunities offered to us, why should we try and earn an honest living and make something of ourselves, No! we are the socialist 'working class',

We have the Welfare system created specially for us, we don't pick strawberries or work on the farm like some poor Poles, we don't serve in Hotels and say 'sir' to some ****** Johnny Foreigner, lets leave that to the Jews, Asians, Eastern Europeans and Africans ), we are free hedonistic, drunken louts and yobs and we don't care.

We hate those that believe in hard work and striving to be successful, we do not like clean, honest law-abiding people, we will bring them down to our level, we are all equal, that's democracy. We will campaign against good people and try and drive them mad, we will slander them and give them grief, We Never let the facts and truths get in the way of an asinine campaign against decent people with aspirations and sensibilities. We are mindless and irrationality, envy, jealousy, pettiness and irrational hatred is our game, I dare profess to all you Blue Conservatives.

So go luxuriate in your mediocrity of mind, body and soul, go do your hating, that's what Haters do, get on with your lies, smears and slander, what else do you have, after all your whole lives are one big facade and you are masters of superficiality, even your mothers wouldn't tell you all the truth to your faces. You are shameless cowards, internationally recognized bullies and pointless anachronisms  in this days and age.

Why not save your fears, energy, expenses and time before slithering around performing your anodyne 'street theater' and posting various fake profiles, or presenting the fowl putrid nonsensical deluded fantasies,  thinking compound 24 carats fools like you and your ***-wipes, can shape opinions or influence sane minds.  However I do appreciate this fact will be too much to comprehend by deluded psychos and brain washed simpletons, so please continue amusing yourselves and displaying your abject and pitiful ignorance, your vacuous minds needs useless stimulation.

Hail the  Hail the Reds Devils hahaha.....hahaha.....hahahaha...oh...oh....hahaha...Hail the Classic ***** of The Red Devils...hahaha hahaha hahaha. Hail the simplistic sense of power of anodyne oppositions.

Brent Kincaid Jul 2015

CANDIDATE

He, the rumpled bumbler,
Stumbled, mumbling, bungling
Through his self-made jungle
No mote of humility, his abilities
Were not inclusive of subtlety.
He settled for a public identity
Of propriety and normality,
Obvious hospitality but falsity
Like the nose on his face, exposed.

What a verbose, but artificial
Government official he was.
His cause was never for us
It was for that he was notorious;
How laboriously he dissembled.
But he resembled his opposition
Then took a position of submission
Until his mission was complete
Then he beat his feet in retreat
To those he knew could beat
The highest price and that was nice.

Twice as nice for rental cars
And pretty movie stars
Who weren’t too humble
To stumble the red carpet
With the rumpled bumbler,
Mumbling, no longer bungling
Through his self-made jungle.
Still no humility, a perfect facility
To take from the poor, give to the rich
And not care who calls him sonofabitch.

#poetry #politics #false #political #front #unlikely #chicanery #brent #kincaid #candidate

David Betten Oct 2016

The Floral War 2:3:40-67

SORCERER 1
            Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we
            Wring fingers, gazing nervously
            Into our black, obsidian mirror?

SORCERER 2
            Or, in our water jugs, to peer,
            Unbinding and retying twine,
            In hope epiphanies shall shine?

SORCERER 3
            Or shall we three, like puzzling mages,
            Cast bright corn-kernels ‘cross the pages
            Of scripture, wincing to descry
            Some omen there?

SORCERER 1                        Or shall we lie?

SORCERER 2
            Were not your lethal gaze forbidden,
            Our eyes from yours no longer hidden,

SORCERER 3
            These mirrors unfilmed to windows-

SORCERER 1                                                 Wink
            We not, you might their contents drink.
                                                           They look at Motecuhzoma.

TLACAELEL
            Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames,
            Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangman’s stew,
            You dare let sink your cataracted gaze
            Upon the solar luminance of our king?
            Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away.
            My hopes were stillborn by these blind-man’s bluffs.

SORCERER 1
            A grand charade shall come to pass,
            As marching mysteries amass,
            And urgently these lurkings gather.

SORCERER 2
            If that is what your lord had rather
            Hear from us, so be it, then.

SORCERER 3
            We’ll break our seal and thus unpen
            Two breeds of vision we may show:

From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com

#iambicpentameter

Zik Malleaux Apr 2014

Falling Apart - A Short Story

"Was it something I said?" He asked as she writhed around to the opposite shoulder accompanied by an exasperated sigh.

"No."

"Was it something I did?" He retorted.

"No. It was nothing. Just--nothing. Now, please, turn off the ******* light so I can sleep."

Defeated, he reached over his bedside table with weeks worth of night-time water cups bungling up his path to the switch and turned out the light.

She was gone in the morning.

    He woke up without even noticing at first. She usually woke up before him to have fresh coffee brewed, accompanied with a poached egg or two, but those were better days. He knew they were growing apart, but he never imagined he would wake up to an empty house. He felt her falling out of love-- and it was all his fault.

    The little things he never used to notice seem much bigger in hindsight--but, as they say, "hindsight is 20/20." The way her hand fit so perfectly in his as they would take their nightly walks. Her stories of her workday that used to deem a nuisance to his ears now seem like a beautiful aria of yesterday's loss.

    He stepped out into the hallway and felt a cold breeze coming from the living room. He slowly sauntered from the doorway with his head held low, feet scuffling the carpet. He stepped in to the opening of the living room to find the windows facing the rising morning sun wide open.
    "--the ****?" he muttered. He hated the cold, and it was this particular morning that seemed colder than it actually was. He quickly scurried to the open french-door-type windows and slammed them shut. His head came slamming against the panes followed by a lull of silence, and then a deep and heavy sigh.

"****."

#ex #alone #breakup #forever #heartache

Donall Dempsey Feb 2019

WHO MADE THE WORLD?

WHO MADE THE WORLD?

"It was a dark and stormy night..!"
as stories often start.

But - it wasn't.

It was no story.

And there was no such thing
as night.

And there was a complete absence
of weather.

Night( or day )hadn't yet
been invented.

Neither had the world
for that matter.

Creation was still
about two hours away.

Dear God hadn't even given it
a second thought as yet.

And yes He had thought about it
and Him thinking...usually made it so.

He had still to get His Mighty
Finger out.

He the Great
Procrastinator.

He had become as one
with those University students

who would crawl about the earth
messing about doing nothing until

the final moment
the final dash to get

the assignment in.

Alas He had made them
in His Image.

There were things he would have
liked to fix if...

WW1 for one
oh and 11.

The atom bomb.
Climate change.

He saw all things
as time was

all the one
to Him.

And now these unknowns
how could He

have even
thought of them.

How to fix that ****
bungling bothersome Brexit.

And what was it
exactly?

Or that annoying orange blip
that ******* liar Trump?

And Gove(ugggh!)
and Boris( aggghh)
come what May they

would all
have their say.

What had He
been thinking.

Maybe it will
untangle itself or

He would have to cut
through the Gordian lot

with His
mighty sword.

Bit Biblical that.
Or a flood perhaps?

He could blame it
on that climate change.

He knew that Brexit bit
wouldn't do but

it would have to
do.

Worlds will be worlds.
Then He yawned.

"Whatever...whatever!"

Jennifer Beetz Jan 2019

The Death of a Friendship

I try to not make any
life altering decisions
when I don't feel in
my right mind, that is
mad, or simply
less than human
which isn't a bad
thing, I mean
in the absence of morals
even a chimp will end up
doing the right thing
but there I go
already bungling
one thought for
another
or, as I am wont to say
I DIGRESS,

What a quandary, then
when the very thing I want
to change is what is making
me crazy (and I say change
because being a moral
animal ****** is not
an option unless I hire
a chimp and
BUT I DIGRESS

I cannot even rely on
that whole ******* about
fight or flight- I am apt
to do neither while
being betrayed by
motor memory, no
I just sit and take it
dear and fight is not
the opposite of flight
nope nope nope
not around here

I've spent almost a decade
getting bashed around
the whole time remaining
as mute as a goldfish
(boy o boy- if goldfish
could *****! once again
I digress)

(Skip ahead ten stanzas)

I will not wait for her
to run out of weapons
there is no glory in
a war of attrition
although I do like
the idea of revenge
as long as it's done
thoughtfully and
with moral intent
or else with a chimp
let loose to eat her face
or not, I'll leave that
to Fate

I caught a quick glimpse of this poem before I logged in and saw that each of the cuss words had been replaced by several asterisks. Up until this .moment I had no idea poems or parts of poems are censored here. I'm guessing this wasn't some sort of glitch and it s likely many of my poems are riddled with asterisks (try saying THAT five times!).
What bothers me most is that it was only when I wasn't logged in as myself that I discovered this censoring aspect of hello poetry. I'd rather there be more honesty regarding ANY kind of altering of a person's poetry- is that too much to ask?
If I've (ever!) offended anyone I apologize, truly.

Maria Mitea Sep 2020

The Bottom

At the bottom of the earth,
Where the mother of the wind lives,
and the flowers of the graves
spin the yarn of wick thoughts.

At the bottom of the earth,
Where butterflies flap their wings
on the paths of bungling scalpers,
hoping that the mother typhoon’ll move the sand grain of barren spirit.

At the bottom of the earth,

The mother of the wind is senseless,

The mother of the mountain fires life and forges death,

The mother of the sea’s whirling its flow upstream,

The mother of the winter unfreezes
the wings of the blizart on the icy stones,

The mother of the roses draws breath
from the fragrance of grief,

The mother of the wildernes’burning
the roots of thirst,

The mother of the black sea’sipping life from palmier trees,

The mother of the moon running trough iron clouds, like nebula through the light,

The mother of the earth gives, and gives, and gives,
Gives you everything you need,

At the bottom of this earth,
Only you human are dreaming to stay caved in eternity.

#earth #eternity #dreaming #mother #ocean #mountain #life #death

Sonya Ki Tomlinson Aug 2019

Sacred Butterflies

Heart shaped Kisses rise from my lips
like a thousand butterflies
twinkling across the baby blue skies

I love You Divine Mother and Father
Thank you for this sacred day

I kiss the gawky trees
zip-lining down the streets
and avenues

I kiss the young birds
squawking intermittent rounds
from their nests

I kiss the ginger brown
good luck rabbit
nibbling palm nuts on
our front lawn

I kiss the teens
their heads bent adoringly
over their phones
bungling reluctantly onto
the yellow school bus

I kiss my darling hubby
strolling with me
down Perry Street
taking in the beauty
of this sacred day

I kiss Lord Surya peeking
from behind gray rain clouds
His hand raised in blessing

I kiss you reading this poem,
my dear Brothers and Sisters
Peace Be With You Always

#ecstatic #poetry #poems #inspirational #nature #god #love #mystical #sacred #sonya

Paul Lost Jan 2016

Let go

Rhythmed hearts change with time
Molded souls no longer twine
Everything ends
Paid for our crimes

Let me go
let me be
Let hearts grow again kind
It is time to let go
Let space allow me to find

Cruelty grows
although it is fine
Mosaic of dreams
You're no longer mine

Let me go
let me be
Let me grow without bind
It is time to let go
Stop bungling my mind

Lifted shoulders reveal
Worlds filled with shine
Break free from this burden
Let the stars aline

Let me go
let me be
Let emotions unwind
It is time to let go
Tears leave you blind

Let you go, to let you be
Gave words that were kind
It was time to let go
Buried memories behind

Zywa Jul 2021

Live/Through

Living a bad life
of being wronged
and still wanting to live
- even without hope

Endure the misery
support fellow sufferers
and occasionally enjoy
the surroundings

and a story of the luxury
to have enough despite
the fumbling and the bungling
that always crosses people

My guilty life
of powerlessness, not letting
my family go short, and soon
consuming more than necessary

Also nearby, there are people suffering
and dying nearby, and I live, I want
to make the best of it
and hope for better

We repeat stories
that call us beautiful, courageous
or good, complicit only
to our humanity

Collection "On living on"

#ethics

Ron Sanders Jan 2020

I Walk Alone

I WALK ALONE

When streets are dead, when liquid lies have dried,
sifting shadows stitch a billion puppets’ eyes.
Mucus, in threads, is sewn into hide…
skin marries skin till the fresh puppets rise.
Out of my bed…man, out of my mind!
I slide into midnight—from sleep’s tether torn—
the world to disdain, the hillsides to roam.
Sidewalks are idle, the storefronts all blind.
But there…and there…are life’s bleak reminders…there!
Fleeing from footfalls, the ******* lowborn
scatter like rats under neon and chrome.

Then here…and…here: Where lamps are no longer,
the black bushes rear. Creepers emerge, in moonlight surreal.
Shrubs break from soil. The foliage draws near,
longing to lean on my lean denim foil. Sampling, saving,
the branches converge: leaf learning flesh,
thorn tracing wheal. Tendrils, recoiling, in one motion merge.
So real they feel…in ghastly waves they ache my way,
reeking sweet patchouli, seaming scrub and sky.
Merely dreams…clearly dreams are they!
Rounding my limbs, reaching my heart,
they tremble, start, surrender and die.
High overhead, a lone rider wheels;
her mask, like mine, the pallor of bone.
No path, no pale…no surface have I—
none beyond the fog that chides
the chatter of my heels. The canopy reels
where I walk alone.

Slay me where the sunlight bleeds, burn me where she dies. Turn my bones in hallowed hearths, where horror’s hand recedes.

Day is remade:
No one sees her flames run like beetles,
dashing rock to rock, crafting soot of hemoglobin.

Day is unmade:
No one hears her screams
take the elders in their dreams,
and none can know her timeworn scheme
of roaches, flies, and lullabies,
of pointless babies primed and plumped
on useless prayers and curdled cream.

Written as fools were we, from the moment our coding
was spat from the sea. Targets and tools, contused and confused—
bungling, begging, bumbling ******* all;
ridden like mules, abused till we fall.
Off in the dimness, the dark curtains part.
A rider appears, his steed mailed in stone.
No cross, no creed…no ballast have I—
none beyond the emptiness
that weighs upon my heart. The deep shadows start
where I walk alone.

Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com

Kate Copeland Jul 2019

Tidal movement

She sits on the window sill
legs bungling outside
ivy rustling in the breeze

A look at the river
A look at the vastness
she lights up and breathes out

He should just shut up
about last Saturday
about his aversions

He knows she fears too
He saw her temper
her tears like pearls

No sound though softly
without leaving a mark
No red eyes no shame

Descend into the wavelets
Descend into the song
away from him as
they both know and unsettle

— The End —