"byronic" poems
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
Carefree drizzles softly sings as bliss and ease taken wing.
Gaze upon the auric blooms while sweet melodies, mellowing.
Alleviate our friend's crises, their debts, paid in purple silvers.
Eliminate those pesky mortal threats, lest blood spills in liters.
Toward our star, astride the verde, vibrant beauteous noise.
Abating virtues, without the merde, cometh Byronic poise.
A smoken distance, famished flames, fiery tongues yearning.
A fearful master, ***** dames, merry songs flowing.
Parallel meridians lovingly caress floating wisps of white.
Quarreling impulses embracing soaring orbs of light.
Bright.
See... sigh.
Lavender shades cushion our convents of misty mysteries.
Serene panacea tease me upon sapience; argent histories.
Ebullient crush casting glaring lights into the hostile wind.
Beneath dusky whirlwinds come hazel sparks of sand.
Glory guilty of detested crimes, anon trembling tears.
Inspiration follow thy limelight; guidance of young seers.
A canvas of blue, emotions ablaze through one hundred days.
Amber pillars burdened with wishful horizons... come what may.
Never believe our luxurious dreams under the rainy rainbow.
Drowning in sunshine, tis the era to escape the clutches of limbo.
Cease our anthropocentrics to soar on frozen blooms tonight.
Taste vermillion pain, lest we be gluttons, spying; useless insight.
Mirrors refracting broken perfection, for ever-clear prisms.
Commit altruist favors for all our mistaken rhythms.
Behold the mind, mightier than a sword, bitter tool of priests.
Crusading zen, grander than any reward, come join the feast. <3
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
Byron enjoyed the feedback on his first run at poetry and asked me to extend his appreciation to you. As he said, "Thank 'em for me."
That lead to a discussion on some of the figures of speech he innately used in his pig roast invitation. I seized the moment to explain that a similie was an indirect comparison using words such as "like," or "as."
"Oh, like, you're a ********
We moved on to metaphors.
"Oh, you are a ********
If we should get to it,
Anthropomorphism will pretty much sum up the Byronic universe
A hero.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Don’t you know, young one
That you can’t have both
The odyssey of sailing a raging sea
And the tranquil rest of silent waves
Don’t you know, passionate adventurer
That a hard-fought journey — the one they sing about in songs and tales
Is only because of pain endured and loss
You can't just throw the One Ring in any volcano
Don't you know, wandering genius
that eradicating a single problem
leads to more "success" than being well rounded
The names you know did one thing and one thing only
often costing them everything else
Don't you know, people-pleaser
that anyone can tell them what they want to hear
and garner applause
****** was loved by the Germans
MLK, hated by his country
yet history does not point and say
look at that fearless leader!
The one who committed genocide and freed his people from debt!
Don't you know, Byronic Hero
that your flaws define you
but do not make you a hero
It's the actions despite your flaws
It's tales of overcoming, circumnavigating the things that inhibit you
Don't you know, reader
that the words on a screen
even though you use them to fly
do not allow you to escape forever
control your descent
learn from your flight
Don't you know that your thoughts become your actions?
Don't you know, writer
that your medium is language
and like any good painter, it's about splashing color
where color needs to be
don't water down your words by speaking every time the opportunity comes a'knockin
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
a blizzard of emotions,
twisting and turning,
pulled around a roundabout,
driving into love.
you seek to change gears,
your hands tempting to steer the wheel.
the tornado of your eyes
claiming the byronic charge of your heart.
you can't press the break,
love had cut it years ago
when you had stepped into the vehicle,
spun in a cold blizzard of time.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
Monthes spent screaming at the moon, cursing the sun for making it shine.
The Sun doesn't set every night,sometimes Darkness rises up and it takes the sky.
It was all pain in a hollowed out chest, Broken "Love" felt like a shattered limb.
It was a fight you walked into that no one thought you could win and you didn't.
Battered and bruised, you fell to the ground from the throne you built so high.
Black didn't become white, nor up into down, but you became the demon that is "weak".
You became the Byronic hero fighting the romantic villain, silly words and silly men.
Standing on the hills looking up to your home, this is how it will all end...
...As the One-Winged (Former) King of The Sky
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
Whether I am on the right side of history
Is a fantasy and an irrelevancy -
History had better be on the right side of me
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 4:15 PM UTC
We’re All Icons Now
Is there anything left that isn’t iconic?
Each sports hero, actress, and tummy-tonic
Now let The People say “iconic”
Each recipe and coffee colonic
And every writer said to be Byronic
And let the reviewer chant “iconic”
Famous lovers, ****** or platonic
Mountains and islands, and plates tectonic
And let The Newsies type “iconic”
Animals natural or bionic
All weather systems, calm or cyclonic
And let Mr. Meteor cry “iconic!”
Every magazine is stuffed with “iconic”
Which any Byzantine would find ironic
And let the Romans cry “three dimensions!”
Wait...dimensions…declensions…these don’t rhyme with iconic…
Oh, and don’t forget that for every reviewer every writer weaves that same old layered tapestry of…something or other
And when you go home tonight just be sure to hug your children
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC