"mediocrities" poems
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
*Let SPAM reign supreme
Same as all mediocrities
Hello Poetry*
*Let lame egos win
Peacocks, fops, vacuous thoughts
Hello Poetry*
*Let psychopaths shine
Make all the peacocks *******
Satan ruling hell*
*Hello Poetry
Tireless self promoters
Hoarders of nothing*
*Let the clueless gawk
At the boneyard of Peacocks
Feather blatherings*
*Hello Poetry
******* all life out of it
Allowing lame writers*
*Wolf Spirit blows hard
Clueless rube awful Pontiff
Hello Poetry*
*Stars shining in void
If ever there was lameness
Hello Poetry*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Your Poems as Love-Letters to God
Gregariousness is always the refuge of mediocrities, whether
they swear by Soloviev or Kant or Marx. Only individuals
seek the truth, and they break with those who don’t love it
sufficiently.
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 9 in the Pantheon edition
You live, you have lived, and you will live
And because you live you will engrave your life
In elegant scansion, in noble lines
That shape chaos into beauty and truth
Not into metal or rocks or wood
But flung into Creation in gratitude
For the sacred life you have been given
For the strength of your love and thoughts
Each little line is a gathering-gift to God
Baptized in the Jordan and in the Hippocrene
To God, and to the Muses who smile on you
And to great Mysteries beyond the stars
Each little line is a gathering-gift to all
To read in the light of seven sacred lamps
The wisdom of patience and pilgrimage
Beside the banks of the river you know
You live, and so you write, you must, you must:
For there is meaning in tumbling in the grass
On a summer day that will live forever
Helped along in your written remembrancing
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of laughter and puppy-kissings and grass-stained jeans
And that is why you must write it all down
For others in intellectually-sharpened rhythms
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of love, of deeper kissings in the dark
Emotional confusions gone crazy-wild
Until they are sensed through crafted verse
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of recruit training and sometimes war
The joys of learning wisdom from great books
Tentatively shaping your own new knowledge worthily
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of leafy springs and apple-green summers
Golden autumns and winters of blue
Writing them as hymns of gratitude
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of children in a home modest in wealth
But rich and layered in love, work, and prayer
“Is this poem about me?!” Oh, yes, child
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of lonely nights, hospital stays, mistakes
Disappearing dreams, disappointed hopes
Memories of friends buried in the dust
You live, you have lived, and you will live
And because you live you will engrave your life
Love-letters as your gift to Creation
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti*
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
1. You need to shut down your brain;
find the switch and press it.
Once you’re alone with your thoughts,
they’ll whisper things to you and
drag you deeper into the darkness.
Don’t let them.
2. Stop waiting;
stop waiting for that person to text you—
text them if you really want to talk;
stop waiting for the bus—
take the day off, walk, breathe in the air,
and just remember you’re alive;
stop living the same day over and over—
change something,
find what you’re yearning for.
3. Get drunk;
do and say everything you
never had the courage to do.
Kiss a boy, kiss a girl,
break into an abandoned swimming pool,
skinny dip, or tell someone what’s hurting you.
If you regret it later,
pin the blame on the poor *****
4. Watch the sun set and the sun rise;
let it teach you that if a blazing
sphere of gas can fall and rise again,
so can you.
5. Ask people what they think;
it doesn’t matter what the subject is—
just ask.
You’ll begin to see everything in different ways.
6. Sadness can be inspiring;
write about it. Write a poem, a song, a story.
Create a character loosely based on the pain you feel.
It’s relieving to take your suffering and put it onto a screen.
7. Little things can be amazing;
buy yourself your favourite food,
stop and admire the flowers,
watch the unspoken love between a dog and their owner,
be happy that your skin looks good today,
or be excited to wear your new shoes.
8. People are also amazing;
spend time with them.
Talking online or texting is fine,
but go see someone,
too.
Spend time with your friends,
tell them about your day and listen to theirs.
Hug and hold hands. Comfort is bliss.
Go to a party and talk to a stranger—
listen to their stories.
People can do the most incredible things.
Laugh with people and love with people—
just be around people.
9. Allow yourself to be free;
clear your schedule and don’t worry
about the mediocrities of life.
If something is bothering you then get rid of it.
If someone is making you upset,
erase them from your life.
You don’t have to surround yourself with anything
that doesn’t make you happy.
10. When your sadness creeps up to you,
know its okay to feel like this;
you’re not the first to experience this,
and you won’t be the last.
You’re like the sun—
you can fall and rise again.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Macbeth, Doctor Zhivago, Captain Call, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Allen Ginsberg, and Rod McKuen Visit the Dentist but Have to Wait for Beowulf's Root Canal
In gratitude for all the wonderful dentists, hygienists, and
technicians who keep us chewing!
Macbeth Visits the Dentist
Is this a drill which I see before me
The whirring drill outstretched to my teeth
O happiest gas! Come let me clutch thee!
Before my body I throw my dental shield
Dr. Zhivago Visits the Dentist
Poor dental hygiene is for crowds of mediocrities
Only individuals seek dentistry
And they shun those who tolerate bad teeth
How many things in the world deserve our loyalty?
A dentist whose papers are in order
Captain Call Visits the Dentist
Call saw that the dentist was looking at him
The nitrous oxide drained out of him
Leaving him feeling tired
“I hate a bad tooth. I won’t tolerate it.”
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Visits the Dentist
For a tooth to come out
Some of the pain must be devoted to Stalin
Soviet dentistry demanded happy endings
I knew I could floss and brush better than Mayakovsky
Bella’s teeth were second only to those of Akhmatova
Only I could make Babi Yar all about me and my teeth
When I saw a dentist in Zima Junction
I saw the truth of the Revolution in her little mirror
Allen Ginsberg Visits the Dentist
I saw the best teeth of my generation destroyed by sugared sodas and a failure to brush and floss
dragging themselves through the medical complex at dawn looking for a fix
thinning-hair old hipsters burning for relief from aching jaws at the healing hands of dedicated professionals among their shining instruments
dedicated professionals who did not drop out of the University of Arkansas and never saw Mohammedan angels among the rooftops
Rod McKuen Visits the Dentist
I am like a molar; I have chewed alone
Gnawed a hundred hamburgers
Never found a bone
Still and all I’m toothy
Reason is you see
Once in a while along the way
Dentists have been good to me.
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:23 AM UTC
Quick lives painted,
By the yellows, reds, and blues.
Colorful lives they were,
Intensely hued in shades.
Kaleidoscope lives.
Chromatic colors of this world,
Not the next. Although,
Flashes of heaven seen,
Built on moments,
Of crazy subdued!
Essences of bright colors
brought to bear,
For love, against hate.
A spark among mediocrities,
Starting blazes to change worlds.
Splashes of color,
In a darkening sky.
Fireworks streaking to explode,
Falling, extinguished,
Lacking flame for going on.
With their absence,
A vista left more dreary,
Yet carried to the next world,
A sparkle of color heaven gained,
Giving God a smile.
© 2016 Jim Davis
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
He paces his room
Like a man in a cell
Waiting for something
Perhaps a deep understanding
Of war and greed
Wondering what could have planted this seed?
Sit and watch other men bleed
Do nothing, it's not for greed!
Perhaps a deep understanding
Of politics and societies
Lies and mediocrities
Unfaithful wives and false democracies
Do nothing, it's for the creed!
Perhaps a deep understanding
Of love and hate
A reason why we practice the late
Day and night
Dark and light
Do nothing, it's not our need!
He paces his room
Like a man in a cell
Waiting for something
If only he could tell
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Embrace the silence
Face the violence
Transcend mediocrities
terrestrial shore.
The boredom of life
is in the cinemas
Flickering illusions
that fight comprehension’s
meandering bliss.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 10:16 PM UTC
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…”
-Allen Ginsberg
No. He didn’t.
He helped mediocrities self-destruct
Through formless howlings in their lonely minds
He pushed them to their deaths with obscene smirks
No more connected than foul faeces flung
Against the good, the beautiful, the true
He pitied himself, and called it rebellion
He squealed out his pimply scatologies
He destroyed the weaklings he could have helped
The best minds of his generation pitied him
But kept their children far away from it
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:08 PM UTC
this life is not always about our dreams that are expected
instead the reality of our life becomes merely accepted
it's not wonderful nor is it bad
something about realization is sad
we just accept the mediocrities
when we wish to attain our wildest abilities
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
MARÍA DE ESTRADA
Freeze, ***** It’s your mistress bids you halt.
Let’s see what trulls the latest nets have trawled.
Not bad, sad slave. You’ll fit your new career:
A teenage tartlet to refresh their tents.
Don Alvarado keeps a natty ring
Pranked up with goads, whose stingers top its face,
To spur reluctant steeds through rocky rides.
You’ll buckle underneath such battery.
I hope your yelps won’t stir my husband’s sleep.
María de Estrada, at your service, serf.
I reign sole victrix of this manly camp,
For I’m not fit to mince and kiss my hand,
Like all those gingerbread girls back in Spain.
No, Cuba was a rowdy, lax frontier
Where I was raised to tussle with the boys,
And now stand champion in these warlike ranks-
For boundaries built up by prejudice
Are not reformed by mediocrities.
Once I have overmatched your Amazons,
I’ll force those tomboy squaws to nurse my brats-
If but a single, over-muscled pap
Can fortify the husky chaps I’ll breed.
Enter GARRIDO with baggage, and passes over the stage.
Look to your maidhood, miss, or be dismayed.
[to Garrido]
Hold, boy! You’ve got my bag of needments there. Exit.
MALINALLI
What gibberish! So much chin-music to me,
But something of her drift I comprehend.
I must assert my merit here. But how?
My *** A trump card every girl here holds.
But what my prodigy at languages?
I’ll trail their chieftain, and my gift of tongues
Shall lift his veil unto this ****** world. Exit.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
the days get dark early, even just gone three
yesterday.
the book looks boring ,the same entry
each day
descending.
all other mediocrities cancelled,
including festivities.
the days are darker,
we gets thinner.
sbm.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
It seem like the world has been silent enough to **** paint poets
with man ruling and running history all in the adventure to discover the value of the soul.
For an unquenchable fire within that has been set ablaze by the drumming heart of a fervent soul that bleeds with free domain,
so dominant and illuminate in an illustrative manner like a mitric star that fell from a stella nest to nurse nothing but cowardice that evolved and blistered with scars that never healed.
So i pose a question,what is a man?, except a dark creature that roams freely failing to dominate the world yet calling himself a conquer.
Conquer and divide is said to be a mandate,Iron in ironing out ironic facts makes one bleed in terror and shrink in fear, only to freeze and fade with time.
What is a soul?
It is empty. What is an idle mind if not the workshop of the rumors, rumors that gave birth to suspicion between two brothers and later contaminating the whole society with hate.
Indeed rumors are Lucifer and pregnant with ignorance, and ignorance is never a defense but a bullet fired without recoil only to destroy the future, and to shamefully tell the world that sword is more powerful than the pen yet the pen puts a clause and instills war and battle fire with fire, ashes to ashes in prying eyes of the metric world that fall with mediocrities of the world above putting a silent mode to the test and screams
IF ONLY I KNEW.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
She'll kiss a word, covered in blood,
She'll dignify mediocrities aloud,
She gives me motive to blossom,
Into an entity I've long despised.
She isn't much of a salesman,
Though salesmanship is her passion,
Nearly driving herself to oblivion,
I sedate her with words that are preprogrammed.
Like a *** of water and salt,
A patch of Leather and with a yarned lace,
A cup of oil and a splash of vinegar,
We go together as if it's a curse.
To make sense of it would be senseless,
Since senselessness is it's meaning,
A shadow covering a timid silhouette,
It's passion for construction that seems most logical.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC