"rancorous" poems
Frost tipped lines of unhappy bliss
Ignorance leaves a rancorous taste in my mouth
Fine spikes of knowledge run through the day
Pieces of hints drop gently within
Deaf ears tune out the loss that it is
Speak of nothing
Step around it
Leave it alone
Time runs fast so remember this
Ignoring it only surprises one of us in the end
cc070311
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
lord
they say
of that home overhead
is beauty rapturous
but the interred
holler a song
showing gold to be lead
for his might is rancorous
thought that allure captures still
for when have the greedy had their fill
not in this life
not in the next
for the fearful are still afraid
and will be still, when down they're laid
despite their fight
the sickly go too
for all their bated breaths
could not help in their deaths
that fed the soil what hungered so
going silently
into that goodnight
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 2:00 PM UTC
*I believe it's time I straightened up
Knocked the dust from off my mind
Make some room for different thoughts
Find which ones I need to wipe*
***Rancorous experiences and sombre days
Or unending expectations of the people around me
Do my utmost to please hearts in different ways
Throbbing particles in my head, no one could see***
*As I feel my way along the fray
The razors edge that cuts too deep
Only in my minds eye can I blink away
All those thoughts that pressure me*
***Yes it is indeed time..
To deterge the nagging wounds in my mind
And cease the harsh ringing when they chime
Breathe them all out while I let my myself unwind***
Mike Hauser
Eudora
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
86 is what they said,
Its time to leave,
I cant take the negativity your spewing at me,
The smooth snide remarks and your venomous heart,
Are poison in my ears,
its time to lance your rancorous heart,
Yes i said I've got to go,
And you can stay here all alone,
So i gather my things,
It time to leave.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
1.9k
drunk dials at 3:30 AM
all you've wanted
is some fun for the night
but i don't really mind it
you know i'm open minded
and i know you feel the way
that i feel for you
when you're finding it hard to take breaths
and we're close against each other
you say it in a whisper
it doesn't matter if you're sober
all i want is for you to come over
kiss me on my neck
and then on my shoulder
i want the feel of your skin on mine
it's like we've collided into a galaxy
no matter what i say i know you can't be mad at me
let's take a walk through the library
walking in silence
but letting our hearts do the thinking
i gaze into you
and your rancorous heart
transforms into a loving one
with only the capability of loving me
i sit in class and write your name upon my skin
i think about you a lot
and the drunken dial is the only thought i've got
i love you so much but you don't even know it
i've got your number
i want to call you
but i don't want to blow it
tell me i'm your little princess
you could be my prince
we can live forever in a castle
since we met, i've loved you ever since
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Rancorous, lethargic, avaricious, psychotic,
Enthusiastic, mystified, serene
Does a planet?
A galaxy?
A multiverse incorporates
Secrecy, security, nine or more parallel universes
Eyes are awake
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
why why?
comes the
world-weary cry,
of a
solitary wolf
with pain
in it's
eyes
as the
cold wind
blows, to
herald the
snows and
carrion crows,
whose rancorous
laughter mock
the alone
without a
pack, the
single wolf
dies, under
grey skies
with none
to bare
witness except
maggots and
flies
and the
carrion crows
chortle in
mirth for
the unforgiving
world, cruel
mother earth
cares naught
for the
wolf who
found no
home
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
*Deliver me from the folly of jealous men . From the mirth of mischievous demons that long to traduce and besmirch , remove all thought of appeasement toward the rancorous and ill intended serpents that crawl the Earth . Shelter me from the disingenuous , the naysayers of good intent and those that portend lies as benefaction , seeking my friendship through groundless merit and frivolous actions ..
Guide my feet across the perilous river of treachery toward my fellow man , directing my ears to the benefits of silence , gravitate my persona into the light of Dharma ..
Bind my arms from receiving poisonous bounty , render my tongue stillborn to boastful atrocity ..
Sharpen my eyes in the confusion of night , grace the helm of life's vehicle with the Angelic aura of pure white light* ..
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Blowing a plume of toxic smoke. Into the nebulous reflection of a pallid wasted face He grinsfrom ear to ear. The blood painted vulpine smile of a lunatic clown. The mirror image confuses the conflicted. Yet it speaks rancorous truths This is a very special day indeed. Fruitcake Day. We have all been released from the cages The human zoo has opened the gates of hell. Party hats are donned by the very special people as they walk about doomed to mortality. Let them enjoy brief moments of light. Placid and placated. Walking in a daze. Give them Thorazine lollipops and free passes. The bat cages are lying in wait
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.
Maybe you consider yourself a god.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried
Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.
An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.
No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
A inkling should never expel it self
Not as a smoking diatribe
Especially not oozing from the cracks
Of a chapped upper lip,
None the less that skull protracting sound will break through
Bursting contemporary bliss from within
It had long spent too much time,
Dying on soggy wood as a mere atrocity
It could not be discarded in the ditch of fools
A call to arms was to be made
Effective immediately
The ****** marry will lay in parcels
Along with the gates to our conscious leanings
You’re destroying the Sistine chapel
And Hitler’s mansion
In one determined swoop
But good god! a slow crumble just wouldn’t do an archetype justice
These ladies must be put down
With rancorous style
Send in their creator
Who better to stomach the redeemer’s stones?
And death was reigned down
In a total collapse of medieval bile
The creator stands in a wicked corner seat
A hand clasped over the shame of his retribution
He would surely hang him self silly
In the afternoon light
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:04 AM UTC
She was gorgeous misery framed
in makeshift bandage corsets
cinched with fall from grace
sutured lace to save face
Her battered life rife with strife
covered in the mock elegance of
a broken wing dress as
the frenzies
in her enigmatic
mascara trail of tears glare
soften slow burn devotions
hastening their hopeless necromantic
insurrection
He was a fatal attractive
midnight black feathered wraith
Modeling trouble need scar heart genes
and a bleedwork tainted warshirt
earned by tethering himself to a mistake on
countless battlefields
his enemies' rancorous fear resonates
in a crippled ripple
across stillbirth waters
With his outspoken outrage accented
by photographic violence
knowledge of immoral history charm and
disguised threat lodge wisdom
luring her into
their surprised allegory demise
In the here and now we find
uncaring torture chamber musicians
singing in the black ground
as these two scar-crossed lovers entangle
in a shotgun wedding
and machine gun funeral
Knowing from the start
it would always be
the two of them
together as one
against the old world
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Rancorous Ole Bullfrog , snoring on a paddy , clear your pipes and carry that voice across the quiet marshland , low country valley .. Start the dandy evening opus with low bass tones , croak a silly song with that golden throat trombone , find a whippoorwill and lay down a duet you 'Old Hambone'!
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
As the day recedes,
and the night envelopes me in her chaste embrace,
The joy of knowing what is new and lucid,
with the sorrow of leaving behind,
what was once - me.
the wind whistles past,
my heart opens up at last..
begotten memories of her innocence,
stirs my alluring essence,
flooded in the light of today's ephemerality..
obscuring the truth of rancorous reality.
What is real, is only so, to me.
Perhaps that is why, Fate wont leave me be,
to carve my own destiny,
from the stones at the bottom of the sea..
..the depth of which is as resonant as her heart.
Her heart,
echoes with the laughter of those lost years,
drowned in the sullen melancholy of her tears.
Darkness recedes, as it always does.
and the warmth of tomorrow shall embrace us,
as we lie on the dewy grass,
as the sumptuous scent of the lilies,
sends my senses spiraling into your arms
And we lie,
with our hearts
bared to heavens above us..
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
How does one begin to write a poem?
First one condenses an entire life down into just one line-
Clouds, dandelions, adoration, revenge; don't hold anything back.
The peaceful smile of death and the rancorous
Death of joy. The bubbles of happiness floating upward
The downward stinging tears of defeat.
The best, the worst, the last, the first:
Embellish that line from your life's story with
All the rarest moments of worship and awe you've ever known,
And keep writing it over and over again, saying it
Millions of different ways till it is firmly ensconced in your soul.
Don't take any magic for granted; it's too rare in this world.
Dreams and visions and nothing sugar coated:
The truth alone rules this kingdom.
Nobody reading this deserves the lie.
Don't forget the startling epiphanies
Seeping out of the souls troubles and careless wounds.
Sometimes you squeeze out every drop and still
The pickings are scarce; other times things bound and leap out-
Wild, prolific hares, carelessly raking each other in their haste.
Always capitalize on the moments you thought might be your last-
Allow the teardrops and sweat to mix freely; swirl your pen in it
And apply to all the reopened ulcers and healed over scars.
Just before you think it is enough, just when the tale
Begins to half conclude, stop there and allow your audience
Imaginations machinery to supply the last vivid details:
Leave some openings; don't sew it up too tight.
Most important of all; read all the poets now alive
Still with the breath of life in them.
They can show you the way.
And never sell yourself too cheaply.
Write only from the particular universe hidden inside;
Staying true to that one.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
Forest lords
Wooden towers crowned with leaves
Ancient ones betrothed in rock
Remember eons of unchallenged royalty
Absolute emerald dominion betwixt heaven and brine
Kings and queens orchestrate all life under the sun with green brilliance
Compress millennia of dominance into rings of rich summers and harsh winters
Verdant barbarians war with infernos cast from clouds and seeped from stone
Challenged
Petrified
Rebuilt
Arisen from ash
Battlefield turned nursery
Vicious children come out to play
Plagued with newfound armored titans
Crawling clawing flying biting gnashing slashing
Tooth and nail, premonitions of horrors yet to take flesh
Blossoming beauty arises amid clashing chaos, disrupting destruction
A union of war
Marriage
Symbiosis
Giants shelter
Scurrying furry fiends to be
Refuge for ancestors, home where none could be found
Paid back with destruction and hewn for survival
Hacked down by rancorous iron axes, severed into fuel
Posthumously burned, breeding cruel apparitions with glinted memories
Stirred in the funeral pyre of deep-seated old gods battling against hell itself
Chopped
Scorched
Brought to knees
Roots
G r o w
D
E
E
P
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise
crucified
crucified
by the venom of a viper's bite
crucified
crucified
there wasn't any scrap of respite
crucified
crucified
in a rancorous mean spite
the pack of detractors
wanted the dyad beaten down
so they served up a caustic vitriol
to claim an undeserved crown
crucified
crucified
savage the meter's punishment
crucified
crucified
ever vile this scathing torment
crucified
crucified
none being fair in treatment
the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 7:26 AM UTC
*tonight I can write,
of a disorder so monstrous,
I intermittently cannot tell,
if I want to laugh, cry, or die.
this wretched disorder is like,
being stabbed by your favorite person,
and laughing instead of crying.
everyday is a struggle to seem normal.
it's just so sorrowfull,
when your emotions are being juggled,
at the circus in your head.
my mind is like a battlefield in WW1.
but unlike the casualties,
the perpetually changing emotions live on.
tonight, even as I write,
my feelings will not stop bouncing around,
like children when they,
consume too much sugar.
the way I feel towards everything,
never stops changing.
everyday, every hours every minute,
my emotions never rest.
the brain within my skull,
commands me one moment to be euphoric,
and within 30 seconds,
says to be rancorous.
but tonight while I've written this,
these forever changing emotions,
did not win.
despite the war in my head,
I have kept the same mood.
this disorder will not end me.*
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Henry Kissinger
is a man
of great diplomatic skills
he could quite easily
obtain a job
working in them there
rancorous hills
with Henry doing
the negotiations
there would be
an outbreak of peace
within those hilly
elevations
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
The love we made was enervating,
you rancorous pooch!
I cannot suppress my deleterious desires!
Oh! How I hold your face in my disdainful mind!
When I was waiting to be vindicated from your legal pressings,
upon the cold, stone floor of my cell, I wrote an anecdote
of the pain you caused in my chest
(with that knife).
Mundane human, you posses spurious desires!
You have given me false hope,
which has led to many adversities!
I may have been impetuous to leap upon you with that knife,
but you were the one who walked away unharmed.
Let us proceed with our impetuous plans...
x x suicide pact
will write later
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
The summer wind brought a chill down my spine,
My sloppy walk with the sound that my flip-flops made faded as we jumped in the lake,
We gazed at the willow tree where you had kissed me the previous summer and acted like we didn’t remember,
We walked through the soft grass barefoot and laid down on a sunflower filed,
The leaves tickled my toes and you laughed at my sudden shriek when the odd looking bug climbed up my leg,
This was the way it was before you left after that year’s autumn.
I spent Thanksgiving Day grateful that you ever crossed my path,
But I was bitter when I thought of starting a new year without you by my side.
The sunflowers we used to love to stare at were all dried up and dead,
But I missed your presence more than any silly flowers.
The cold air hit my face and I became rancorous as I thought of the warmth your body created next to mine.
I felt the nights grow older and I only became colder.
When snow started falling, the only thing I seemed to think of was the way you hated the cold and that if you were here, you’d probably wish you weren’t,
When fireworks struck the sky at midnight on January 1st, I couldn’t help but think of how much you would’ve loved the view from the lake we swum on every summer day.
Eventually snowflakes stopped falling over the once green grass,
The ice on top of cars and houses melted and the Christmas’ songs faded.
The wind became warmer, the grass became greener, and the flowers started growing,
I walked to the lake you loved so much and sat under the willow tree hoping that someday I’d find you swimming in it like you always were,
I waited, and waited,
But you never returned.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC