"overblown" poems
It must be so nice
to be cold as ice
and live with a heart of stone.
No need to think twice
in a fools paradise
when your head is so overblown.
Existing so high
you can touch the sky
from your pillar of ivory and gold.
Everyday you lie
just to pacify
an ego which can't be controlled.
You don't play fair
nor do you care
who's heart you might break next.
Another sordid affair
caught in your snare,
treating women like they are objects.
You made love a joke
with vows you broke,
that golden ring is sure to rust.
One day you'll choke
on fallacies you spoke,
then your empire to fall to dust.
And looking down on all
like you're 12 feet tall
does not make you the bigger man.
Laughing as they fall,
watching them crawl,
forgetting where your own life began.
Just keep living in excess,
desperate to impress,
surround yourself with cool ****
Cause what you possess
when dead from stress
in a few years, won't matter one bit.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.
It WAS meant to offend.
You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.
You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******** in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).
Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.
So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."
Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow
And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change
And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass
And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land
Nor now the long light on the sea
And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
4.1k
This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Once there was a heart
which had been born anew,
out of two hearts that loved
and pierced each other through.
Once there was a heart
with different ways to go,
unable to choose the one to follow
it split back into two.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
I had to put my feelings into soulful words.
I really feel our connection is tightening.
You are my eternal sunshine.
You are the miracle on the Han River!
Especially for you I created this rhyme.
I would rather have you than a trillion billion won.
You are like a white tiger amidst ordinary cats.
You are cherry blossoms in the spring sun.
I am not sure you will like my poem.
But know. That I am completely overblown.
Seoul Korea, you mean so much to me.
I have been so far away.
In this lifetime, I am afraid I will never understand.
I never knew this could be.
“Loving a place, I have never been!”
I anxiously await our time ahead.
For now, I keep dreaming of you instead.
I hope we make it; I hope it will be fast.
Loneliness quickly really lies in the past!
This poem has come to an end.
See you soon, my dearest friend.
Hopefully before this life ends...
My Seoul, “The Miracle on the Han River!”
© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------
"The Universe is big. It's vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes"very rarely impossible things just happen, and we call them miracles. And that's the theory. 900 years, never seen one yet. But this would do me." - Doctor Who Tv Series
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
In the former life I led
I had no way of filling
The empty grave of one who's dead
My pride was e'r willing
I had an ego overblown
In pompous boasts exceeding
But I was lost and all alone
My soul was torn and bleeding
I had abilities and then
Became a prideful bearer
Of all the things that I could do
At last I was in error
Even when I knew The Lord
Made charity my pleasure
My works became my righteousness
Above my only Treasure
Christ died in vain upon his cross
If my beliefs adhered to
And I rejected precious Grace
That was the point I came to
How can I live a sinless life?
I am without that merit
Jesus lived that life for me
So Grace I could inherit!
So here I am to tell you all
Pride is like a cancer
I will boast in Jesus Christ
For He's the only answer
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/23/2016
*"I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection
Why would I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom."
How Great The Father's Love*
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
Soul is immortal
Thick skin is embodied
Mind overblown with intuition
I am a spirit creature.
Ever so sunkissed by grace
illuminating rays carry my bones
through tribulations and wrath,
I’m conquered by warm winds
of pure divinity and
constant love of nothingness.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us
Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains
I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight
Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow
I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
Maybe its just me
And my megalomania
My overblown ego
But I keep seeing and hearing
Faerie
Fairy
Fae
Fey
Everywhere I go
In chemistry: the conversion faerie
(She don't exist)
In lunch: the tooth fairies
(They might exist)
Everywhere: helpful faeries
(Of course they exist)
So is it just in my head, or are faeries creeping back?
Through the tangles of mental barriers
Near the frontmost of our subconsciouses
Maybe it's my nicknames becoming more prominent
Perhaps I'm just being silly
And maybe I'm simply pigheaded
But maybe it's true
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
as soon as she sees it she wants it is entitled to it while she is stealing it she begins elaborate lie everybody knows if she truly wants it she has means everybody knows she is gorgeous movie actress celebrity starlet awesome accessory genius she convinces herself she did not steal it the darling delicate chain with finely crafted handcuff clasp and accompanying key she wears it effortlessly just another imperial trifle hanging around her exquisite throat she has no idea how it got there she may have a drug problem a little dizzy even careless but she is no thief what with her magnificent beauty idyllic body prominent discography why would anyone accuse her she is submerged in deep denial why with so much to lose and absolutely nothing but tiny shimmering embellishment to gain why do tell would anyone point a finger at her she probably wasn’t even ever there at that dicey store she never tried on the astronomically overpriced bling it may have been her dodgy handlers or stylist’s suspect mismanagement and subsequent loan hypothesis she is positively not a thief it’s too insignificant an item to squabble about a mere gold necklace the whole incident ridiculously overblown cruel in fact she hates the miserable paltry piece of jewelry here take it back she insists it never graced her illustrious neck if anything perhaps a cheap ploy by Venice Beach shop to enhance it’s value oh the genuine necklace that she stole
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
I have never been a man of many words.
That is you would not call me by any stretch of the imagination bombastic. Nor would you refer to me as long- winded. I try to be as concise as possible.
I feel that most people have a select few adjective to describe themselves.
Personally chatty, diffuse, discursive,flatulent, loquatious, palaverous, pleonastic, prolix nor verbose would be on this list.
My words are not ample aplenty bounteous bountiful generous plenteous plentiful profuse or super abundant.
And when i make a speech it is not oratorical or overblown...
I am not pompous...I try to be as consise as possible.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
Do not abandon me,
No do not leave me,
To the wilderness of my mind:
A veritable tundra, a savannah,
Cold and dry and arid.
My soul pants and thirsts for a cool tall drink of somebody.
Give me a man,
Tall, strong, beautiful,
Let him hold me in his arms and croon to me
and sing of star-song and moon dreams
under the blanket of a velvet night.
Let the warm winds come with the salty whisper of sea,
of jungle-scent and overblown jacaranda flowers,
or snatches of arctic breeze
and the high keening cry of the albatross.
Only,
Do not leave me to myself,
For the scent of jungle then fades to mud,
and the jacarandas wilt,
and the arctic spaces chill me to my bones,
And I drown in the unfathomable darkness of emotion
In the lullaby-rocking motion of the sea.
And I cannot see you,
And I cannot find you,
And the night becomes a terrible blackness
And the stars intimidate
And the moon remains impassive.
No, do not abandon me.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
I'm walking through crystals of insanity,
Mad I may be, but everything is clear to me,
But still it doesn't look real, feels like a dream.
Strange Insanity.
Strange Insanity,
How when I'm muddled I see your hypocrisy better,
You call me raving mad all you want,
But I'm still more honest than you'll ever be.
I'm still more honest than you'll ever be,
Looking beyond your best,
I call **a ***** a *****
But I'm not perfect.
I'm not perfect,
Little by little my masks peeling off,
In between chocolate sunshine moments of utopia,
A strange frenzy to fill rivers with your blood.
A strange frenzy to fill rivers with your blood,
What can I say, with your chrysanthemum fading away,
Simple Phobia overblown into monster clowns,
Ghost towns of my fury populated with thistles and brambles.
aiufdln asdcnuie dfyvb wiuinvcn,
wafuib You are not what you show me,
**No! I'm coming to **** asfduiahnb,
Let me taint the crystals of my insanity with your blood.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
I don't believe in cartoon dreamgirls
Overblown endowments and matching egos
I never sought perfection
Love always seemed a lie
A girl in a bar,
Seems so cheap and cliche
Yet, the truth is what it is
I turned to leave, the door in sight
A spilled drink and a smile.
Where I once ran to escape
Now I linger in the sweetest gaze
Apologies and kindness silent in the beat
I dreamed of blue eyes
Yet these are twinkling in caramel
I dreamed in shades of blonde
Wisps of raven hair reflect the dancing light
A drink and a breath of fresh air
Reveal humor dry enough to rival my own
She gives as good as she gets
And doesn't miss a beat
Behind those strong opinions
Is a hidden tenderness
There is perfection in that crooked smile
I don't believe in cartoon dreamgirls
Vapid and narcissistic
Barbie doll nightmares
But disguised in reality
I have found the girl of my dreams
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
Genuine conversations
were passion's static overblown
through classical lover's eyes.
i.
Confessing unrevealed tries
in variation with grieving cries.
Sighs and moans were touched
and savored everyday, at the same place.
ii.
Unexpected completions
were deviously divulged over
The temptress' despair, while cardboard
arrogance compressed within aluminum kisses.
iii.
Chemical liquids were drawing attention,
fingertips quivering at the sight of your eyes.
Palpable tension cutting through the styrofoam walls,
that we gently established to separate this sweet seduction.
iv.
Demolition began once playful vengeance intervened.
No longer did the requiem delay its flow and crunch,
for its succulent grin was painted on his chest
and carried on his hands.
v.
Cards were drawn to encaustic wax papers,
captivating lover's delight.
With sudden frustration, we searched evanescently,
for a piece of carton to hide from the fiery rains.
vi.
While puzzled Questionnaires were imprinted on catatonic embraces,
we both gnawed on the bone for answers;
barking gently at our feet, we tangled with uncompromising pretenses,
giving ourselves multiple aberrations with heartbreaking waves.
Tonight I cuddle the thorns and the knives,
contemplating lethargic affections,
infected with veracity's confection,
ignoring the ideal that I fell unfulfilled.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
In one of those fogs of London
I boarded the East End train,
The mist was a yellow, evil smog
And then it began to rain.
I found a compartment, only two
To bother my peaceful ride,
And placed my case at my feet, in place
With my gold-blocked name outside.
The smell of the fog was drifting in
And burning my eyes and throat,
I said to the man, ‘Let fresh air in…’
He sat and buttoned his coat.
‘The air out there is as bad as in,’
He said with a scowl and stare,
‘You might be happy to sit and choke,
The window stays up, I swear.’
I leant well back, and looked at the girl
Who sat there, opposite me,
She wore her skirt right up to the hip,
I stared at her stockinged knee,
Her eyes were bright, an emerald green
But tears I saw on her cheek,
‘This fog,’ she muttered, and wiped them dry,
‘I think it was worse last week.’
‘But London’s always suffered from fog,’
I ventured, ‘Back in the day,
The Ripper used it to hide his crimes,
He used it getting away.’
‘Overblown,’ he said, the man in the coat,
‘There’s many was worse than he,
The blood ran thick in the gutters here
At times in our history.’
‘But he’s the one who never got caught,
You must at least give him that.’
The man slunk down in his corner seat,
Then sat, and played with his hat.
The girl just smiled, and said in a while,
I think you’re right, he’s the one,
I wouldn’t like, on a foggy night
To meet him, minus a gun.’
The man reached into his overcoat
And seized the girl with a sigh,
Holding a cut-throat razor to
Her throat, with a smile so sly.
‘I said I’d never do this again
But I must admit, I lied,
I noticed the name on your carry case,
You’re Jekyll, I see – I’m Hyde!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
Fresh back
On the street
From prison
A pumped up
Hilarious Hercules
Forced to sleep
Under a bridge
Along with
The broken
And dead
Wind blown umbrellas
Now, yet another
Up-rooted
Member of the homeless
Flashing his middle finger
At these so called modern times
Not even a bottle of wine
To keep him company
The whining engines
Of passing cars
Echoing off the
Concrete and steel
Ripping and tearing
At his overblown ego
shredding it into strips
He knows it wont be long
Before he returns to a cell block
By his own choice
Not knowing anything
But a life of crime since his youth
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
My lovely daughter Emily
is fighting for her life.
She may not be aware of it
beneath the surgeon’s knife,
admitting of a doubt
for her is never rife.
I wish I might have half as much
courage in my own
meagre confrontations with
the symptoms that I’ve grown
accustomed to and which
are vastly overblown.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
During the day, I don a mask
One I wear to hide my past
There are so many people around, yet I don’t talk
What else am I to do but gawk?
When I look around, everyone is in a herd
I want to join in, but can’t find the words
Every day, I’m lost in thought
Trying to find this answer I’ve sought
They say I’m nothing, they say I don’t talk
They say I’m a downer, that all I do is walk
with my head pointed at the ground
All of these people laughing whenever I’m around
It just ****** me off
All I want to to do is scoff
I’m sick of everything I do being overblown
I just want to be left alone.
But…when I am alone
When I’m left on my own.
I weep.
My tears, finally dripping through the seeps.
And I feel something, through all this grief.
A sweet burst of…relief.
This is the other mask I wear
The one that no one sees, because they don’t care.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
mirror mirror
on the wall
who has the biggest
ego of all
does this person
before you
like to hear
his trumpet toot too
mirror mirror
on the wall
will this egotistical fellow
take a great fall
has he been
full of himself
and is he in need
of reappraising himself
mirror mirror
on the wall
is this chap
an overblown load of crap
is he a pain
in the rear end
and when will
his personality make amends
mirror mirror
on the wall
will he heed your advice
and drop his pretentious vice
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
In the middle of the Roman empire
And under the Cesar's throne
No one thought of a story bein overblown
As Pompeii lost his wife and hated Cesar
Cesar got betrayed, killed Pompeii
That was common tragic teaser
But what unfolded the truth?
As the words came out of Cleopatra
Cesar ****** and hooked
But that was too mainstream no?
She was just bound to love him
Cuz she had no support for her own
Cesar, killed by politics and forgotten
Anthony his commander
Took the survey and went Egypt often
The women that he ****** had no honor
A devil in form of a *****
Just some good clothes and venal
Anthony put on the Egyptian antimony
Found love in Cleopatra
Left that ***** filled with insanity
Then as he was hated for loving foreign
Octavian lost faith
And headed for killing the fallen
Anthony didn't wanna die as a traitor
Stabbed himself
Wore the king's robe as dictator
Cleopatra saw that and cried
She bit herself by snake
And later died
Chaperones picked both up
Sat them on their thrones
Romans came and were blown
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
This bleak existence
reeks
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.
Death is the meaning of life.
Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
irksome,
thirsts on monochrome
bleakness;
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC