"pomposity" poems
128
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps—
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!
Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin’s ecstasy
Among astonished boughs—
How many trips the Tortoise makes—
How many cups the Bee partakes,
The Debauchee of Dews!
Also, who laid the Rainbow’s piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite—
Who counts the wampum of the night
To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who’ll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?
6.5k
The entitled ones:
Snotty, stuck up, rude
Nasty, spoiled prudes
Your misery, their fun
Loosen up your buns, entitled ones
‘Cause I am in no mood
To harbor your attitude
And snooty snippy sayings sung
The desk between us that which divides
Does not right you to be snide
Entitled ones need not apply
Entitled are entitled nigh
The ones who earn entitlement
Are the ones who give respect
Possessors of this enlightenment
Such respect is what they’ll get
Treat your servers as you will with such level of pomposity
But understand that I abide by way of reciprocity
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
There's a virulent disease
inside him. It pervades every
where. It invades him. The
toxic cells exist in every nook
and crevice. He starts wondering
whether his soul and body will
suffice and live through the
brutal treatments that await.
Radiotherapy or chemo. A
part of himself could be lost in the
pomposity and elaborateness
of the machines used to do so.
He lies on the bed, surrounded
by the ostensibly loved ones
who mourn now and who hated
him once. He looks back at
his life and feels that getting
back to his healthy, strong self
is a chimera. Days pass and his
bed is his sanctuary. The reports
from the doctors arrive and he is
all but stationary. He finds the
concept of reports funny. They
determine life and death in a
second and after that, life could
be jubilant or miry with hopelessness.
The reports clearly indicate that
"cancer was not detected". He
scoffs at the elaborate medical
language and sits back and
relaxes, concluding his close
call with death and an emotional mess.
Not letting the intimidation and
sinister nature of the diseases get to him.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Confide in me
the irony
of laughter as a crutch to keep
with self descriptive Bildungsroman
in view of Schadenfreude's Ad hominem
Mask the image, compensate, compensate
Power struggle, shift division, relegate, relegate
Egocentric discharges inhabited by identity crisis
Circumstantial Deus ex machina, plastered on by streams of vices
No wreck, no head on, but a path beset by tolls and diversions
Somehow I must find a way to make these scattered routes converge
Dead and othered language roams the fields of pomposity
More ironic self aggrandizement, an appropriation of ferocity
Paint them a picture in the mind's eye of your blurred forward vision
I want to see the target marked, but attention is a competition
I'm Viable, I'm Jovial, I have the means to take these chances
I'm lying now, it's one or the other, let's hope I make the right advances
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
A jaundiced adaptation
of fillers raucous threats
attempts obsolete mimicking
in a conspicuous pomposity
of disfigured reckonings
slipped us the tongue of your
ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations
Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
' neath the masquerade
of multiplex duplicity
**who the ****** hell do you think you are?**
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
☺☻☺☻
When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…
I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Why does nobody do anything?
Why does nobody do anything?
Live for the weekend
Watch TV
Live for the weekend
Watch TV
Out on the town for the weekend
Watch TV Watch TV
Why does nobody do anything?
Why does nobody do anything?
Escape into your escapism
Get lost in your escapism
Trust in your escapism
Get trapped into escapism
Escape from your escapism
Escape from your self made prison
Escape the acceptance that's arisen
Why does nobody do anything?
Why does nobody do anything?
We're
Drones Robotics
Clones on antibiotics
Zoned hypnotic
Habitually ******
Artificially exotic
Why does nobody do anything?
Why does nobody do anything?
You're watching your *** life on Tv
A package holiday - pretend to be free
Post on Facebook how life should be
Focus your kids on getting a C
Lurching towards you - Hollow eyes
Pale Gaunt - Fed on lies
In systems that we all despise
Because you sat at home on your own
Or In a pub over grub
Or on a phone having a moan
Or a coffee shop pontificating
Or a lecture cleverly debating
Or an artists studio 'creating'
But you didn't ******* do anything did you?
You thought about it
You talked about it
You sat and maybe wrote about it
But you actually DID nought about it
Why does nobody do anything?
Why does nobody do anything?
What if we in our liberal pomposity
Followed up our curiosity
And put an end to a small atrocity
Instead of deliberating the big ones
Stop ******* telling people they're wrong and get off your **** and prove it.
Do something.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
When did hating myself become such an art?
I am the Da Vinci of self loathing
aiding in the rebirth of shame and inadequacy
After breathing, it is the thing I do most in life
I don't quite recall when my childhood ended
Innocence, hope, love and happiness
were victims of it's downfall
I was a passionate child and now a passionless adult
Obliterated by the home truths of life
I see smiling faces and hear joyful laughter
They are content
I ask in a world
with unimaginable suffering and gross poverty
how anyone can be content with being content
It is a perplexing affair
as you see I am not without
my pomposity and hypocrisy
It is hard to live an ordinary life
when you feel you are destined for extraordinary things
but extraordinary is for the others
the rich, the beautiful, the exceptionally gifted
I am none of these things
Yet how come this underlying
undeniable, unrelenting, overwhelming feeling
burns through me
like a match reaching it's cindered fulfillment
that I am destined for those extraordinary things
I feel I am nothing
but I am something
a human being
In this world
with mind, body and emotion
Alas there it is again
emotion, my emotion
my pitiful yet unwavering hatred of the only one thing
I truly have and need,
myself.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
Painted pictures come to life,
Twirling landscapes with subliminal words,
He gestures back and forth with life,
The white canvass transforms into a palette
You stood on the inside,
Wanting to go out,
You watched from the inside,
Wishing you were someone else
He’s driven around in a limousine,
With a stack of green bills to light his cigar,
He’s got it made and does not know you exist,
He dines with pomposity and drinks in gold
You stood on the outside,
Watching him dine and wine,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing you were sitting there.
She was a model, thin and tall,
Brawny and bright with a flair of the fair,
She smiled and danced, gyrating her hips
She partied until she could no more
You stood on the outside,
You wished you had her life,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing someone invited you
To life’s grand celebration
You did not know though,
The model died of drug abuse,
The tycoon was murdered,
And the artist…ahh the Artist!
That was you…that was you first and foremost
You forgot and you deviated!
You re-arranged your priorities
And now…and now
You stand on the outside,
You no longer can watch the world go by,
You no longer can wish,
You in a wooden coffin,
Being laid to rest.
You died yesterday,
Poisoned with affection
By someone who stood by
And watched you from the outside
Vijaya Balan (2009)
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
a shredded bath mat, a Dead Sea salted bath, and a cold root beer
you want vino veritas vignettes,
color commentary, stray dog thoughts
time lapsed into a ****** single poem wood,
ha ha ha you can't handle the falsified lies
that constitute a sad man's disfigured truths
nobody cares that failure contretemps
inhabit every other thought,
his own sounds of silence sung repetitiously,
every severed second a new verse
coughed up and cursed,
emptying your verbal purse,
snorting with disgust
at your own claptrap vetted pomposity,
who gives a ****
what I got is the ability
if you can call it that,
to cerebralize verbalize
every eye picture, inputted impulse,
knowing in the fullness of the unwell
that hash for breakfast ain't
suitable for mass consumption
a shredded bath mat,
a Dead Sea salted bath,
and a cold root beer
begat a poem of knowing nowing
a pretend poet meowing what he seen,
what he got temple pounding
Fogelberg sings Auld Lang Syne,
swig down the root beer,
thinking that is one freaking good song,
a life reviewed on the HP stage,
his lyrics modified
with only a tune he can hear
no one will like this,
as it should be,
don't like it me neither,
double negatives for rule busting emphasis,
the only point, ending circumscribed,
curcumsized by children who don't love,
an ex wife hateful ***** man-enslaver,
this close || to losing your job,
*** is the new ***
ain't it pc
to singalong
standing on a shredded bath mat,
fresh from a Dead Sea salted bath,
and having drunk a cold root beer,
Crosby Stills & Nash chiming in
*teach the children well
their father's hell
will slowly go bye*
and this is a poem
that I didn't write,
just reported the here and the there,
and the nothing in between
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Is she defined by her virginity or her fertility?
Do you deem her useful because of her womb or her worth?
Or is her womb her worth?
If she made the choice to dIe without bringing child,
is she still woman or an unfinished human?
Is the accident of her gender the definition of her life remainder?
Answer this and answer loud.
Selfish you say, when she wishes to live on her own terms.
Unnatural to keep at bay, Nature.
Do you deny her the choices others exercise,
free from pressure and thoughtless in nature?
If she brings life in, she will decide all to it.
For all your pomposity you shall not
induce it or force it.
She does not threaten to extinguish but merely
ask that understanding be in plenty for you do not
can not know or see within.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
She stood atop her balcony and stared,
Beyond the masses fawning at her face.
She raised a stoic chin frozen in place,
A porcelain visage emotions spared.
While all around pomposity adorned,
With brightly colored fabrics, silver sets,
Gold, diamonds, gems and pompous little pets,
All things of which the huddled poor were scorned.
The centuries' tradition well remains,
Ingrained such that even the poor decree,
The rulers rule, the ruled should not be seen.
Yet none the privileged logically explains,
The separation's needed wide degree,
Why God who's blessed should more so save the Queen.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
abjectness is a form of inroads
toil the Woodlands Trust
all hail no coppiced beeches,
my first sighted R.S.P.B Avocet
the perplexed scale comparable
to competing blank stares,
endorphins withstanding,
clueless and unconscionable
instinctual pomposity
suffers Nature's either
way.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
Ostentation or Pomposity
ostentation or pomposity
it doesn't really matter
the self importance in your words
makes your head much fatter
humility and realness
a personality of reaching higher
putting others out in front
are traits that most admire
aloofness or audacity
pretentiousness and vanity
conditions of the ego
shows a loss of true sanity
define it with big words
or make them really small
but your airs or arrogance
will finally lead to your fall
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
The priests could not be bothered to talk to me..
..as the Bishop took them off for tea..in their finery
Eating roast sham and drinking champagne..
..down by the river in the refurbished winery.
And this I felt as I knelt down to pray.
Religion is dead
It just doesn't pay.
And the rosaries become hypocrisies..
..this I understand.
It was never planned but the pomposity of ceremony..
..and the incense they burned
Turned..me cold.
I believe that God does exist..though the richness of the clergy..
..is like an allergy to me.
I want the church to be free for the saint and the sinner
And dinner for everyone.
Let charity begin from the place where it started.
Charity..alas has become so hard hearted..
..and it tightens its belt.
All this I felt as I knelt down to pray.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
My mother named me
for no good reason.
There was no fireman hero,
no reknown global leader,
nor an astronaut Stephen
setting his foot on the moon.
It wasn't even her stylist whom she honored
as he kept her trusted secrets.
The roulette wheel of monikers
whirred uninterestedly past
Michael
David
John
Robert
Mark
Mitchell
Glen
(and thankfully) Carl
and surrendered its last click
on the formal of Steve
with a "ph".
It was haplessly indifferent
in the way it came be.
A last grasp of titles
as they pushed her out
the hospital doors.
I have a friend whose name
was never in question.
He was a fifth,
as in William V.
The Ist was proud,
so proud that he named the IInd.
The IInd an heir,
so he named the IIIrd.
The IIIrd obliged,
and so the IVth.
The IVth weary from fighting
the previous I's
and hence, the V...
as in William V,
as in flavorless,
pomposity faded,
worn like a hand-me-down
dress shirt through five generations
bereft of shape and dignity and fit.
He wished he had his own name -
I did.
And I found my name
free to be
designed to the only son
my mom ever had -
to be as grand or plain
as I constructed it to be.
This one-size-fits-me tag
Stephen Dane Roberson
is the Ist
and only.
A name that I love
because it is filled
with all the stuff I put in it;
and that stuff is me...
a me I wanted to be when I grew up :-)
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Ha ha on me. eye still have a full head, of laughing hair...
eye am vain like you, and though advancing steadily with daily doses of aging, and since I am titanicaly nearer my God than thee, i.e. the finish line...end of days...whatever...having a nice head of hair is a happy happenstance for nothing "ages" an immature person faster than a lack or absence of hair....
some say it is all genetic....could be...but my theory is different...I laugh at myself all the time...my foolish words, my creasing vices, my dastardly prejudices, are absurd in extremis...and am in possession of a willingness to be the **** of my own humor to bring creased smiles in others's to the fore...
though serious, I don't take myself seriously...and this self disrespect means I laugh at my own pomposity, posterior and peculiarly peculiar peculiarities.
So I laugh a lot as I am one of those idiots who reflects on the state of himself and goes, eye eye eye!
the laughing releases a dosed vial of special testosterone which makes my hair grow and since I fully expect much sorrow and to be living homeless, on the streets, in my end of days, the fact that I will have a full head of hair as I go down into my grave makes me laugh which releases....
ha ha on me
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
I hurple t'ward the Wabbit Warren
of pomposity;
a reynard of levity,
lost.
lollop,,,,,,,, that's a good word innit?
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
I want to wake up when I want
And then slowly get to my feet.
I want to have a breakfast
That is very much like a treat.
I want to dawdle over my coffee
And take lazy, leisurely stock.
And, I want to do all of this
Without waking to a clock.
For I hate that awful buzzing
That it takes to shake me awake.
I find the racket ruins dreams
And is too much for me to take.
I want to sit where late morning
Sends its sweet shine in on me
While I sup and sip and dine
Like a member of royalty.
Oh, I am not so snooty myself
That I don’t prepare this repast
With my own two clever hands
And at that, amazingly fast.
It’s almost like my hands want
To hide from my waking mind
That the meal I am having is not
Not the made by Ritz-Carlton kind.
I want to waken to cognizance
In a particularly decadent way.
I find it totally disgusting to
Rush madly into any given day.
I’d sit in smoking jacket and slippers
If I had such magazine attire.
And if it were chilly upon rising
I would magically manifest a fire.
Of course I don’t have a fireplace
To go right along with plain jammies
So instead of brocade robes and such
I very short of mystical whammies.
I can’t witch up this storybook stuff
Of class A, high-class pomposity.
But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wish
To have it all appear before me.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
Look for me in spite of what you see
Stop drifting leeward, keep an eye on the goal
Quicken all your senses and tune me in
I will do my best to soothe your soul
Despite this illusion that is now fooling you
I know you and love coming
to the rescue
The things you’re seeing now
aren’t quite the true
Each event is perfect
from a certain point of view
Way past the spectrum range
that’s audible
Block out the extraneous to get an inner vision
Tune in your ears, this frequency is laudable
My voice will make the fusion; my eyes will make the fission
So before you try to smell the flowers from underneath
Before you take that J. Urbonas rollercoaster ride
Visualize your picture of the spirit with the wreath
And try and try to follow
sans pomposity or pride
Illusion has within it, a glimmer of the real
An imperfect model of what’s there when we break through
Don’t be guided only by the feelings that you feel
Nor by the coldness of the calculating you
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
"Perhaps, Martin Luther King never had a dream,
but he had seen a dream.!!!"
This is a description of my theme;
Rhemes of his speech gathered steam,
which stimulate and create a remembered stream,
" I have a dream.!"
Nowadays, dreams are not the ones you get from a slumber steep,
but are those that deprive you of sleep.
I hope that one day our countries will no longer appoint leaders again, based on their individual gain.
Apart from their political parties, they come from,
but due to one single universal party, we are all going to form
Neither, for the agenda of their race, color nor religions,
But with an organized calendar, and tremendous visions.
The day we shouldn't be interested in their background stories;
popularity, prestige, and their wealthy glories.
not even their power, pomposity storied-houses.
Despite being the lineage of dynamic dynasties,
but just a human being with the visionary eyes for minorities'
One who should not focus on celebrities and Hollywood Stars,
but will celebrate with poverty-stricken, take them as the stars,
well recognized as the sons of the Sun'
helping the country economy shines,
Am looking forward to the election days,
The national quadrennial event, Tuesdays.
our voices will bring impact through our votes.
When we shall elect mentors, role models and not our Idols,
Am looking toward the day the financial crisis will fall through
when our leader's mission comes through.
Focusing on the fact of where they are heading us to,
and where they are taking our dreams too.
The dreams for our country's bright.
Rights and freedom for our countryside,
the ease for our forefathers' long century sight.
I can't wait for that day indeed,
my dreams will no longer be just like a dream,
but actually, film-strip with its factual receipt.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
I hurple t'ward the
Wabbit Warren of pomposity -
a Reynard of levity -
lost
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 11:48 PM UTC
We were at a small
bar, the place only served some
older regulars.
An elderly guy
in an old jean jacket was
talkative, friendly.
“What do girls learn at
Yale?” He asked. “We’re taught things, like
expressions, smiling,
pomposity, snark,
whatevering and stuff-stuff.”
I bragged shamelessly.
“Sure,” He chuckled, “sure
- but it’s worth the money I suppose,”
he gave me a toast.
Limiting yourself
can, in fact, set you free - try
writing a Senryu
Like a martial art,
a tea ceremony or
classical music
They are a tight dance -
controlled, disciplined, focused.
Other styles can drift.
A Senryu is like
a Haiku except it deals
with human feelings
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Im gone
turn me around
succumbed to pomposity
all i think about is success city
life is just a challange
gift from him
i am him
ya
thats right
its all me
give till im dead
thats my plea
hate seeing species hate
im here for progression
whats up with this fake?
replace fear with a blunt
i like it raw
reality is how i draw
any canvas i want to unfold
hold, make glow, and show to every inch of mind in the scene
planet earth is what i mean,
thats the lives.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC