"lauded" poems
Moths are swatted
butterflies kissed
Pollution in fog
but beauty in mist
Shades of skin
the lighter adored
Loveliest lauded
the average ignored
Wilting flowers
tossed and snubbed
Only the beautiful
are cherished and
loved
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
A lake as still as still — a cloudless sky —
A bird-less forest — silent as the page,
That monk-like sits reflecting for an age
On pious deeds exalted upon high,
The page gilded in wisdom, lauded by
Its maker’s peers, wherein is set the stage
For Nature’s bountied beauty — I give homage
Unto its gifted craftsman, one that I
Have oft’ with envious eyes admired afar,
And matchless to his art, have grasped for skill
Far far above my grade — From him to me
Has come a gift as bright as Keats' Bright Star —
Unto thy lake, may this stone rend the still,
And loose thy songbird skywards, Timothy.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Red Velvet has been lauded for breaking stereotypes
among popular girl groups in South Korea, whose concepts
tend to fall under two categories: "cute, or "pure" and ****
to fulfill a certain fantasy; in a country where girl groups'
fan bases are typically male, according to Taylor Glasby
of Dazed Digital, the majority of Red Velvet's fans are young
women and commented that "They {Red Velvet & ReVeluv}
are neither **** nor innocent, the band's music videos are often
dark, trippy, sinister, or haunting, even when they're flooded in
pastel colors". In 2017, IZE Magazine named the group
as one of the successful female figures who helped transform
the passive image of South Korean women at a time when
feminism had risen as an issue in the country. The group's music
also sets them apart from other K-pop artists. K-pop idols in general
suffer from a prejudice that they aren't considered real musicians
by music critics. But because of the group's diverse musical
inspirations and styles, these critics have since claimed that Red Velvet
has pushed the boundaries of music in the early 21st century.
In February 2018, Time magazine named Red Velvet
as one of the best K-pop groups ever, highlighting
their versatile musical styles;
Red Velvet was recognized
for their brand recognition and marketing power,
having topped _'Girl Group Brand Power Ranking'_
published by the Korean Corporate Reputation
Research Institute for three consecutive months.
Red Velvet performed in Pyongyang on April, 1 2018.
This made them the fifth idol group to ever perform
in North Korea. They performed "Red Flavor" & "Bad Boy"
at the East Pyongyang Grand Theater to an audience
that included Kim Jong-un. The concert was billed
as "Spring is Coming" and is part of a wider diplomatic
initiative between the ROK & the DPRK
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
---
what is it makes a person
great in this sad world?
where there's such mediocrety
it is a precious pearl
is it that they have money?
that they have accrued
a trillion dollar bank account?
does this make a person good?
perhaps they have a famous face
or well regarded name
maybe they play basketball
and have a winning team
is it artistic talent?
was Vincent van Gogh lauded?
in his painful lifetime
was this man applauded?
perhaps they are as Edison
and have a brilliant mind
but Edison used Tessla
to him he was unkind
this is what I think
makes a man or woman great
that they give life their ALL
that they do not faint
if you sweep the street
and make it clean and bright
If you are an educator
and bring poor children light
if you are a poet
on a humble poetry site
it is forgiving others
not having to be right!
if you are a boxer
and don't give up the fight
this is what is greatness
it's not playing a part
it is *truly living
with your entire HEART.*
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/31/2015
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
You measure in
vast spaces that my memory fills
Revolving.
I take you where
you thought before you might
get left behind.
Instead
Our Love is
sly references
to Private Jokes and
how your eyes light up
as you twirl around inside
your favorite Polka Dot Dress.
Knowing
“That’s when I think you look your best.”
With Egyptian eyeliner
to illuminate the understatement.
Kudos.
Deserved,
after all you do accept
(Not without forgiving humour...)
A latent tendency in myself
to elongate an awkward silence
after committing whichever topical
and firmly established social faux pas
given the setting.
Not forgetting,
my oft lauded lack of a certain finesse
Establishes
around my name a peculiar sentiment
Windswept spiky hair and caught-out schoolboy face
Notwithstanding.
Perhaps,
“it’s clever not to deny the girl”
her entertainment.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
#*Hey 502, dear 502
An Error, that’s your name
Like a terror, isn’t it true
A bad gateway, no one can cross
When you are so cross
Every time, oh yes every-time
Overtime, over the years
You have stayed true
A error, like a terror,
Dear 502
When you don’t play hide and seek
I am reminded of the good gateway
And the good times, we’ve had and thank
For the place that we have
Virtually real, our poetry safe
We share our words
Read others’, interact and engage
Love, like, comments and reposts
A way to connect with like minded hearts
Our safe haven, a portal
That’s to be lauded and praised
So here we say to the keepers
And us all, let’s keep it safe and working
With deep gratitude in heart
Hey 502, dear 502
That’s your name
Sometimes you stay
We know it, that’s true*#
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and ****** off
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto
Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head
I'm just playing dead for my recital
better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled
feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael
clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era
but staring in awe before the cycle
Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.
Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it
whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you
to be honest...
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
WHITE DOWN
White down
so high
and yet so lowly, soft,
your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens
damp,
so innocently growing
'spite the weather;
torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,
beside you green of moss
stone, heather,
grasses, hay,
Not lauded,
given honours like the rose
but there the mountain knows
your sweet repose.
M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.
Translated into Norwegian...
MYRULL
Kvite dun
så høgt på strå
og likevel så kravlaus, mjuk.
Lysa dine logar
der torva mørknar
fuktig, brun.
Du veks uskuldig, rein
trass uvêr,
rivne skyer
mot det blå og grå.
Ved sida di er grøne mosen,
stein, lyng,
gras og vier.
Ikkje lovprisa
eller gjeve heidersteikn, som rosa bar;
men fjellet kjenner til
din vakre kvilestad.
M. A. Waddicor/ Gjendikting ved Åse Lilleskare Faugstad
COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE
Waving at the sky,
you tufts of downy white,
your presence in the marsh,
or standing on the cracked dry earth,
the bottom of a bog.
So delicate you are,
in such a place,
where winter blizzards blow,
and icy waters, snow,
cover your bed.
Yet there you always are,
a faithful friend to travellers,
a light where grey skies dull,
a flag to show where not to go
in rain.
As pretty as a poem tossed
on hardy stems
not pictured in a painting
yet as dainty, beautiful
and free,
as any bloom can be.
M. Ann Waddicor
10th September 2011.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family.
Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown.
Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals.
I
See them, smirk or folly with time, silently.
....which they seem to quite often.
Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends"
and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long
All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage
Themselves, instead
after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework,
cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health
were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities
emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be
Written out of History
One by One by One.
II
Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle
for people who witness
and go without.
III
But what price success?
Is it to be counted in public
or left behind in wreaths?
Stern evidence
of favour, fought for and won
or shaky good fortune
One life's profitable fluke
IV
Does the cost of success itself
admit backstories of other kinds of loss
that children
without the chance of ever knowing
or changing their inheritances of fate
are powerless to cease the flow
of their own anonymity
all for the insistences of the unarguable
and for merely treading the average?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Default! Default! parties from the left cried!
But the people said no, they still had their pride
They viewed these parties with some skepticism,
and tackled the problem with true stoicism
There were no riots, no violent demonstrations,
as was evident in many other debt ridden nations
We simply put our heads down and got on with the task,
answering all of the questions the world had to ask
And now through our efforts things seem to have improved,
with a deal on the promissory note having just been approved
We still owe the money but we have more years to pay,
we can only hope our grandchildren will pay it off one day
There are green shoots of recovery, all is not lost
We learned a valuable lesson, though at a significant cost
We have done well though we cannot let down our guard
A sentiment echoed recently by one Christine Lagarde
We cannot get carried away with president Obama’s praise
For Enda Kenny on Paddy’s day, of all the days!
though lauded in Europe as a good example to everyone
we must not relax, there is a lot more to be done
But after all the cost cutting, redundancies, pay cuts,
all we get from Europe now is more ifs and buts
And I know this is wrong before I’ve even said it;
but for all of our hard work, would Europe not give us some credit?
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Whatever God created one like me?
One filled with such a stunning yearn
To be lauded so bountifully
To have the praise I feel I've earned
And yet what deceitful praise be this?
This medal, prize, or boon I seek?
Life's great champion gets a kiss
At his stage's end, upon his cheek
Life's not worth living, lest I receive
The title I think rightfully mine
From it I truly feel bereaved
My great pursuit, my silver line
But to what end will I yet place?
My worth on such a goal as this
This victory I've given all to chase
I fear that it does not exist
Outside my mind there's no such thing
As being "first" or "better" than
These people I've been slandering
For ego's sake, my fellow man
What will become of the narcissist?
And of the competitor at that?
My flaws make a prodigious list
My pride is huge, my doubt is fat
The only cure is to accept
Perfection is an imperfect aim
I'm smart to think that I'm inept
And that for me, to lose is gain
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
the words fluttered,
swung, swept, swooshed,
bemoaned, bereaved, bedazzled,
leapt, lauded, littered,
hovered, heckled, hiccuped,
made U-turns, took deep dips,
underwent saucy somersaults,
played like notes,
acted like songs,
usurped as oaths,
humbled as prayers,
slaughtered as killers,
punctuated, presided, presumed,
abetted, adhered, attacked
while the paper endured all with love.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
Lived the life of an artist
long before I became one.
Pressed to guitar strings
until my fingers were numb
to all exposed skin
that was not my own.
Listened to one thousand sad songs
over and over
until the pointless chords
clamoured over one another,
psalms of living
fall on deaf ears.
Trawled archives of ***********
Lauded aristocrats of cheap whiskey nights
and black coffee mornings.
Garnished my days with addictions carried
by better men
in love with real women.
Grew thin, moved about the apartment
in the graveyard hours
tacking songs to the walls.
In the absence of chains and ***
I fixed myself with neon lights
and cigarettes.
Spilt paint over undeserving paper
beneath the halogen bulb
to colour radio silences
of past friendships,
mountains I should let recede
like a ship in the night.
Stood alone in crowds
to witness the onset of a moment,
openings and closings of mouths and doors;
each one to allow another person in.
I go home alone
and sleep with my thoughts.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
There once was a man who wrote poetry
Which alas was not read that widely.
Until, that is, he passed away
And became the talk of the day;
Lauded, albeit posthumously!
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Brussels is now on lockdown
Which has us all in shock now
And because we are frightened
Our borders have been tightened
Ever since Paris was attacked
It’s changed the way we act
Sometimes it’s been extreme
If you know what I mean
And now our energy is spent
Finding new ways to be vigilant
So we seem to equivocate
While subjecting others to our hate
As for our values? fair thee well
Cuz nowadays you cannot tell
Exactly who we are
Because we’ve strayed so very far
They can shut down any Mosque
Because of safety at all cost
And so I fear for the time being
Certain things we’ll not be seeing
Like the liberty they once lauded
Now it can’t be that afforded
And so something does not feel right
In the city known for light
What are we prepared to lose
I don’t know, you care to choose?
And if I may be so bold
Should we abandon our very soul
So that we can feel secure
Or does that exist anymore?
Clearly I don’t have the answer
As to how we defeat a cancer
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
Some place
Some time
There was a tea shop.
Open not just in the mornings,
But at noon and the evenings too.
Mornings, the menu read
Uzhunnuvada, idli,dosa,
Uppuma, vellayappam,idiyappam,
Sambar, payaru curry,kadala
And several chatnis.
Noon, the menu read
Aviyal,achinga,pachadi,
Kichadi,pulisseri,thoran,achar,
And several kinds of buttermilk.
Evenings, the menu read
Sukhiyan, bonda,
Pazhampori, parippu vada, mulaguvada,
Diluted milk, black coffee
And several forms of tea.
There was a cook in that tea shop.
There was an owner for that tea shop.
Both had a son each.
Those boys went to the same school.
They studied in the same class.
They sat on the same bench.
Whenever he was hungry,
One of the boys thought of
The owner of that tea shop.
Eyes widening with admiration for
The great man that he was!
He could eat anything
Whenever he was hungry,
Reaching for it in the container
Or poking his head into the food shelf
Or entering the kitchen itself.
He could take anything,
The boy salivated.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
But, whenever he was hungry,
The other boy thought of
The cook in that tea shop.
He lauded him in awe of
the great man that he was.
He could cook and eat
Anything any time any quantity,
He imagined jealously.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
Wait, don’t leave yet,
Dusting off your bottom
After reading an average poem.
Sighing indepthly
Or grunting lazily
Or belching sourly.
You are free to leave after
Answering a few questions.
Who owns this tea shop actually?
These schoolboys from the tea shop,
Whose sons are they actually?
There is another boy
Besides these two
In this poem!
Who is he?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Friday night used to be for writing.
Red wine, music and poetry
Is how I survived this era of
aloneness.
An era of destitution
that rediscovered the writer
inside
with a critical edition of
Leaves of Grass
and a leather bound journal
with pages too pretty to write
upon.
Some blogs lauded by perfect strangers
who found my erotica and loneliness
intriguing.
Kierkegaard says poets are unhappy
but
Mr. Whitman seems pretty **** happy
pushing his man-flesh into his lovers.
Sometimes I would use what little
grocery money I had on that
$10 bottle of wine.
It calmed me and felt like the mark
of a true artist
to be a Friday night alcoholic.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Another volcano erupts
Masked as a mass shooting
Thousand Oaks is disrupts
By a gunman executing
Twelve innocent lives taken
Bloodshed rocked the mountain
Tremors of tears are foresaken
As the sadness mounts in
In the afterglow of the sorry night
A hero officer is lauded
For responding with all his might
His ultimate sacrifice duly applauded
As many of the bar patrons ran in fear
While smokebombs and bullets sprayed the air
The evil gunmen with his calculated stare
Left the victims without a prayer
In the aftermath sits cratered questions
With depths far reaching as to why
Many innocents lives lost, echo
suggestions
Their indelible voices still cry
For we're resigned to sitting in all normacy
With no foresight on stopping the flow
As another mass shooter festers in dormacy
And this is so sickening to watch it blow
Logan Robertson
11/07/2018
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
What would a soldier sacrifice
To lay himself on cobbled dirt,
That honestmen might vow by oath
To hold together the union?
His purse, his purpose, e'en his life,
Our knight would place on hallowed earth;
The silker, though, would rather beg
To hold together the union.
In victory's arms I sleep at night,
Beneath the fierce pharoanic sun
That built and broke the Umayyads
To hold together the union.
I traveled all the ancient lands,
I found no joy where'er I trod;
Ferns are green where rivers spring,
But lauded hills bear blackened soil,
And joy resides where dwelleth God.
The dawn of man is close at hand,
The fall of man is past its due;
The sword lies shattered in the sand
To hold together the union.
Cross-battles waged on crisping ice,
I won't for martial fame partake,
In fear that I would be obliged
To hold together the union.
Of mortal faith I haven't cared
But, lying now on cobbled dirt,
By faith, I solemnly declare
To hold together the union.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
This is
The best poem ever.
Spread the word.
Tell the masses.
Just like you did with
that book,
that movie,
that game,
that series.
Just like all those,
You know this poem is
Empty.
Pretty words,
Like pretty 'vampires',
Like pretty smurf-people,
Like pretty-boys with swords,
Like pretty pictures;
Devoid of genuine meaning.
Or is this poem empty?
I suppose time will tell.
Empty things
Are lauded
By the empty-minded.
And don't you know,
Society's head is hollow?
Bleat on, sheep.
This is the best poem ever.
Sheep go 'baa', one by one.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:22 PM UTC
Lauded for my sins
For my virtues are not loud enough
Plausible are my lies
For the truth I speak receives no applause any longer
Gradually, temptation allures me into the dark
For I feel guilt and shame in the sight of light
Desires are at the helm of authority
As reasons face the depths of austerity
Without hope, my soul faces incarceration for its goodness
For my flesh is now the incarnation of evil
Behind the mask of the once revealed hero
Is the face of a veiled villain
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Many words, so many words, are passing through this place.
Broken latin, mesonic virtues, old english lymricks,
ancient jewish pronuciation fliting phenomenal prosody.
Life as all the proper words begin to shape this grandly
generous thought of commendation. Roots, roods, rudentary
lauded buy more spies. The plura, fauna, Jane Does and Rae Me's,
fosil laute... prose.
En angle', in english, Angles and Jutes, as the rapier, pugio gladius,
a bloodless synopsis, a canon, feathered conical lye.
Sui-hsing chide us naught for German and German's is to Chinese is Tzun Zoo Choo Yen see. Their angels roll away stones, here men open doors, women pointe out stars to fight the bold, Oui Ye.
Write two poems at once, or lie. Write three poems at once, or lie.
Oh, yea we write three...
poethree. Oui Ye, Oye yea, O thee poets... we right thee.
Austerity, Whiterby, Bastoniwa,... Red Socks and resident bee.
Add comments, if Any.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC