"bunkum" poems
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
That's
Nonsense!
That's
beans!
babble!
bunkum!
bogus!
baloney!
blither!
blather!
blah blah!
********
balderdash!
blarney!
********
That's
crapola!
claptrap!
codswallop!
That's
drivel!
That's
fiddlesticks!
flapdoodle!
frippery!
folderol!
That's
guff
garbage
gibberish!
gobbledygook!
That's
horse hockey!
hocus-pocus!
hokum!
hogwash!
humbug!
hooey!
humdrum!
That's
jibber-jabber!
jive!
jazz!
That's
malarkey!
mumbo-jumbo!
monkeyshines!
That's
Nuts!
That's
poppycock!
piffle!
prattle!
That, sir, is
******* and
RIGMAROLE!
That's
trash
tripe
and
twaddle
That, sir, is
NONSENSE!
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
I find myself in full fantasy mode lately. I have a BF (who I saw a couple of weeks ago) and I’m not interrogating my romantic choices - but he’s not here.
Do I have an impulse to throw myself at that boundary? No, but I can steal a look, now and then, like a hotel souvenir - can’t I?
Yesterday morning, Lisa and I stopped at Steep, a coffee shop on science hill, to pick up something breakfasty. At one point the small shop filled with the aroma of apple pie and in my mind, I had a flash memory of this guy, Jordie, last fall, coming into this shop in his little Yale blue and white soccer shorts.
He’d looked fit. In memory, he seemed to move slowly, like individual video frames. There was an interesting, uncomplicated strength, something polished and fresh about him, like a shiny new phone.
“Here,” Lisa said, passing a coffee to me. Then she gave me a sly smile and a tilty-headed look, asking,
“Where’d you go? You looked like you were lost in some bliss.”
A guilt washed through me, as thin and unpleasant as cigarette smoke. The thought of telling her struck me like a slapping hand. Submitting this fantasy to a roommate focus-group seemed wrong.
The whole fantasy was bunkum anyway, an unimportant memory, mapped to a fragrance, as if his taut, tanned, muscular legs had significance.
“I was daydreaming,” I said, with an ‘I don’t know’ shrug and grimace.
(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Bunkum: a foolish or insincere idea)
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 1:42 PM UTC
lies: sweet
nothings, soft
soap, grease,
blarney,
bunkum,
wheedling,
praise,
beautiful
storytelling
please
tell me what
i want to hear
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?
De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.
Speak nothing but the truth.
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.
I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I choose paper ****** I am going cellulose.
Even Cinderella knows the tone of Bellow's
Prose is bellicose. Let's smoke some bath salts
Then eat that fella's nose. What up!
To all my jellicles. Looky looky
I got hooky. Put on my robe and wizard
Hat. Speak Wookie to Sookie. If 2 cents
Equals three bucks, Skeletor has acid reflux.
Roll over based god. Don't be hoven
From your umgebung. Chew Ummagumma
To bubblegum. Get slim in your jungle
Jim. Calling all Mongolians.
Those alligators have razor bumps. If they
Publish this bunkum Faber & Faber
Are chumps. Plants have lovely lady lumps,
Trucks like sanitation dumps. Angler
Fish love lamp. El Dorado love Ponyboy.
Caught a full house on the Rio Grande complete
With domovoi. Know how I know you're poor?
The roaches on your toilet can sing Ode to Joy.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
Frequent meetings and seminars-So many,
Often the days stressful & hectic,
Bunkum & lengthy talks of higher authorities,
full of diplomacy & shallow at the core,
Job sometimes seemed a burden and
such a suffocating bore.
But, now I miss those days.
for I smelt the flowers of friendship, respect and unfathomed emotions,
Divine fragrances I hold close to my heart,
Even when we all are now miles apart.
I miss----
Old ***** chairs, tables and benches
But thronged by pretty & gorgeous wenches,
Their lovely, mesmerizing, broad smiles
with piercing, alluring & hypnotising glances.
I miss--
The wits and wisdom of all
wafting through the chilly air,
friendly souls & faithful buddies,
like a joint family-all did take care.
I miss--
for what a joy it was
learning, teaching, guiding & helping,
Listening to songs, making repartees and cracking some funny & clean jokes.
Where silence weighed more than the spoken words,
We all sailed through the same boat,
When someone's absence pinched but,
welcome presence meant a lot.
Alas: this golden time is over, forever
We can never embrace again.
But, it is entrenched in my memories -so sweet and full of mirth,
Sure these will stay with my soul
till atleast my next birth.
Sometimes with smile & sometimes with tears,
My memories will take roots & grow throughout the years.
The world can beguile and relations can turn fake,
But my memories are my true buddies
for these shall stay till I am alive and awake.
Oh Lord,
Let the brightness of sun to vanish
and the moon too lose its shine,
Even you can take away my breath---I won't mind much,
But till I am alive, please let my memories ripen and my true friends be in my touch.
Mukesh Kataria
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
It was the glen of jabberwocky,
Deep within the twaddle mire.
The gobbledygook was being spewed
By the grand codswallop,
The tripe was drivel
And all manner of blethered haver
Did most piffle & bosh.
The great imperial hooey of guff-phooey
Visited with bunk,
There was to be a festivity of the tommyrot;
On the morrow we would dribble bull
Till the cobblers called tosh, **** cod,
And said their applesauce.
No malarkey here crosses their fingers,
For all the liars have bellywash
And work the flapdoodle with bunkum & bushwa.
All the poppycocks we laid out
For the celebration of the gibberish,
When mumbo jumbo hung a more,
Low & long.
On the fens of the balderdash,
At the mouth of the babble,
We sang the song of argle-bargle
By our native tongue jargon.
It was first rate flummery
By the standards of the order of palaver,
The prime wheedlers of gab & fanster.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC