"retorts" poems
The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.
I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.
I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.
And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
The artist is the one who is up all night,
The artist is the one who looks lost,
The artist is the one who fears no tyrant,
Because it just becomes the next piece.
The artist is the one who cries out with a pen,
The artist is the one who finds safety in a brush,
The artist is the one whose enemy is the blank spaces,
Because that's where there is uniformity and potential.
The artist is the one who retorts injustice,
The artist is the one who rips at the seams,
The artist is the one who screams at the world,
Because it seems no one will listen.
But never does that stop the artist,
For the artist is one of persistence,
A never ending fire that burns inside,
A passion that will never die.
Without the artist our world will crumble,
Without the artist our life will go gray,
Without the artist our days would be lonely,
Because that's when the blank spaces win.
It's the color that bursts from the mind,
It's the thought that paints the sky,
It's the music that gives us hope,
Because it's only with the artist we see reason to be alive.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
"No! No! This cannot be happening"
The words stumbled out as I tried hard to keep the sogged eye from draining
My vision became blurrer
And blurrer as I turned and run out of the house
Grabbing my stiletto as I did
Under the pear tree in the garden I stopped
And allowed the now heavy eyes
To drain the burning water
They flow on like pain from broken heart
Bitter and hurt
Bitter from the disappointment and forlon
From a mixture of shock, disbelief and loss
Served in a glass of betrayal and a tray of painful regret
I raise the dagger in a drunken cognition
For my sob now has become the cry of a damage soul
A disfigured spirit
I can barely hear them from without in the midst of the caos
Those little voices in my heard
Screaming out at me
Hitting hard on the walls of my mind
Pushing my conciense
"Do it!" one says
"It wouldn't solve the problem" the other retorts
"But it will end it!"
"Leaving bigger problems"
The blood in my head boils
The heat rising in exponents
The tension now causes my whole body to trob
To ache
My mind cannot hold it any longer
The quicker the better
I opened my mouth to say my final words
But all the came out
Was a scream.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Even if I get hate messages saying imma dumb geek,
My favorite thing to do in Rainbow 6 is spawn peek.
I choose not to reinforce any freakin' walls,
Cause I'm the best on my team and pre-fire the halls.
They call me sweaty boi cause all I play is Ela,
But hey man I got news for ya--you're a noob lil' fella.
If ya boi be attackin', ya know I be using ash,
No one can hit me when I use that 3 speed dash.
I breach the wall and throw some stuns,
I run on in and fire my guns.
At the end of every round I end up with an ace,
My stats have basically broke the R6 database.
So yeah you can just call me wuhbzz, or just god for short,
Cause I'm the best you'll ever see, T don't need any retorts B)
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
Sitting alone under a darkened sky
Oft leads to meandering thoughts
Of things both blithely blissful
And bitterly biting.
Like the time we held hands
On a road trip across the country
That ended in sour silence
And restrained rhetorical retorts.
Like the time we warmly watched
The sun set over an orange ocean,
Only to go home feeling colder
Than the biting breeze that rose with dusk.
Like the time I said "I love you"
To your goofy grinning face
And in the same breath, "Goodbye"
To your vanishing visage.
Two sides of the same coin--
That's just life.
I guess this is why it's called
Bittersweet.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
Everyone’s peddling something, she complains...
And I a bicycle for two, I reply.
You’re so short-sighted, she retorts...
But I may have missed you were I not, I say.
You’re too happy-go-lucky, she quips...
But I think I’m lucky-to-be-happy, I grin back.
You poets are so unrealistic, she says...
On the contrary, love, we breath life into realism.
You’ve got your head in the clouds, honey...
But I was just looking for you, my angel.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Watching life’s play,
From the nosebleed section.
If I die today,
It’s natural selection.
I hear what people say,
But don’t make the connection,
The past fades away,
To a vague recollection.
99 problems,
No retorts or solutions,
Trying to pay my bills,
Without resorting to prostitution.
Losing is a life lesson,
Hard to learn,
It’s a truth I mention,
In no uncertain terms.
They say if you get knocked down,
Get back up,
But sometimes when I’m knocked out,
I’ve had enough.
My drive and ambition,
Is out of gas,
But I’m stuck in my position,
Can’t change the past.
They said, “It’s okay chum,
There’s a future to make.”
But no, it’s okay son,
I choose not to partake.
I’m on the road of life,
Just taking a jog,
But I can’t run right,
Cause I’m an underdog.
I know I’m not perfect,
I’ve made mistakes,
But I really do deserve it,
So give me a break.
Girlfriend told me,
I’d never succeed.
I choked at her,
Cause I forgot to breathe.
I was told to walk,
Off the beaten track,
I talk one step forward,
Then whisper two steps back.
I’ve been made a fool,
I’ve played the clown,
I never broke the rules,
But I still broke down.
When I look in the mirror,
To examine my features,
It brakes when brought nearer,
So I pick up the pieces.
You know I don’t deal,
In self depreciation,
So what you find here,
Is honest estimation.
I’m not clever as Copernicus,
Or strong as King Kong,
Even when you’re learning this,
You knew it all along.
I’m on the road of life,
Drifting through the fog,
But I can’t see tonight,
Cause I’m an underdog.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques
some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced
like their critics.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I'm having a drink this here
at Space Bar in Pluto
and Martian Pete comes in
and sits beside me
and we talk, and we drink
Full of loyalty
and pride, as a human
(and patriotism included)
I tell the Martian:
*"In 1969
We humans put a man on the moon"*
"Pish! " says the Martian
*"We sent a team
to the Sun
Earth Year 1959"*
"Oh, " I say to the Martian
*"The Sun would have burned
your team of Martians! "*
"Pish! " retorts the Martian
*"You stupid Earthlings!
We sent them to the Sun at night"*
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
I shaved away the edges until there was nothing left, but a dream of what could have been, and so with frustration i accepted the jagged.
A common law of common flaws, as my face morphs into mask.
I still wonder, when it all will collide, building up inside ...
So much.
Too much.
Electrified in the the allure of my ruthless retorts, as i struggle in futile resistance to the inevitable.
The feeling is incredible, when you let all just go.
As it gently flows from the empathy into ecstasy, learning to love thy enemy, even as they are metaphorically stabbing me in the back.
Euphorically to react to the sensations in my lap when shes next to me.
Hexing me in a shellacking smack to my mannerisms
Her summer dress to address my cynicism, as it flows back from whence it came.
Detained in her image.
Restrained, in questioned worth.
Worth a thousand words.
Words never heard but seen in synesthesia.
Synesthesia saving my amnesia from forgotten verbs that be-heave us, in forgetful stumbling of the loving mumblings before the kiss.
The kiss dismissing the winded blue lips from the fumbled wits of love.
Love drown the fires ablaze as it spirals away.
Away from the journey.
Journey of the uninterrupted.
Uninterrupted in the hunting of my comforts.
Comfort in the squiggled lines.
Lines that pack a little comfort.
Comfort in the blinds, as i sacrifice my obedience for a little bit of expedience on the smile that awaits, this toothless face.
Bludgeoned stupid, as i pace at half mass, blinded in the tall grass of empty lands amassed in colors unseen with tunneled eyes that refuse to defy gravity.
Gravity in your roads chosen.
Chosen in the glow of abodes ablaze.
Amazed in starlit eyes.
Eyes to dream.
Dream of better ways.
Ways to clean the bad away.
Away with my wayward words.
Words observed in zero.
Zeros the point in which i met her, blinded in the blur, as im pulled to her.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
Behind the house with the fragmented windows
and the corroded pipes
and the cobwebs and ages under the stairs,
she buried herself
under the earth and grime
until the roots contained her decayed soul
and encased around her brittle scarred limbs.
Until the dirt crept down her windpipes,
until her tarnished lungs were suffused
with ashes and dirt.
Until roots replaced her veins and
smothered her cracked ribcage.
Behind the house with the fragmented windows,
under the grass and gravel,
that was rougher than
her mother’s dispirited retorts,
where she once capered and skipped, and never thought
would become her grave.
By the ethereal creatures she played with
in her younger and more susceptible years.
Dig up her bones but leave her soul.
Who would ever want cruel contaminated beauty
as a periphery for such a fouled soul?
It was when she stopped falling asleep on the way home,
when her nightlight ceased to make her feel safe,
when a lover’s unlawful kisses replaced her family’s amity,
when a lover’s lethal passion parted her lethal loneliness,
when home became a person and not a place,
was when she buried herself
behind the house with the fragmented windows.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
there's almost always
an ambiguity
between what my words mean
and what my mind intends them to mean.
like, with loving intention, i tell her
i can't praise you enough
she smells a ploy in praise and enough.
she interprets them as
she hasn't done enough to deserve my praise.
then, when i tell her
with age you're maturing in beauty
she takes them to mean
i'm digging at her age
and her beauty is in doubt.
last, but not the least
when i compliment her thus
you've made my life full
she retorts
no more fooling.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
prey tracked
relentlessly pursued
mass of zebra
whacked
pulverized
to the ground
powerful jaws of lion
employed
in the gruesome ****
throat of prey
exposed
oozing scarlet ****
lion consumes
a bloating portion
for himself
deference shown to lion
an uninvited hyena
joins in
snarls and snappy retorts
go between the two
hyena knows
the borders
at nature's table
with
lion king
both delight
in the zebra's
ample flesh
and its sweet
warm entrails
they savor
every morsel
above in stark
glared filled skies
anticipating crows
circle
frenzy intense
hungering craw
needing
needing
squawking
to announce
arrival
descending in unison
blanketing the zebra's carcass
beaks tearing
the meager scraps
from the bones
welcome
sustenance
at natures
all too sparse table
each creature know its place
crow has a place reserved
scavenger on the rim
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
He was the perfect height for her.
Tall enough that her head fell
Right tight under his sculpted chin
But not so tall that he was called "giant".
She was the perfect shape for him.
Not so skinny that he worried
About breaking her bones with a hug,
But curvy in all the places
That made him say a throaty "whoa".
She was a bookworm who loved TV.
He was a chef who loved Mac and Cheese.
They both adored animals,
Though he might have loved reptiles just a little too much.
And they both hated politics,
Though she might have set fire
To one too many campaign signs.
They argued about music, money, and kids.
They debated the merits of dancing in the rain.
They held hands in the moonlight,
And kissed at midday.
They grew old together and never strayed
Too far from the home they had built.
Then one day his chin wasn't high enough
For her head to fit snuggly below.
Her dresses, though comely,
No longer made him say "whoa".
But they still held hands and kissed
And remembered the days of their youth
When they were still learning
What being perfect for each other meant.
It wasn't until the night her heart gave out,
That she realized how he was perfect for her.
It wasn't his charm and dashing good looks,
Or his witty retorts and clever touchés,
But the simple fact
That through all of the years,
He loved her,
And that made him perfect for her.
It wasn't until she took her last breath,
That he understood how perfect she'd been.
She was perfect not because of her curves,
Her smile, her laugh, or her intelligence.
She was perfect for him because she loved him.
They'd been perfect in each other's eyes
Because love is blind.
And sometimes that's not a bad thing.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
The Fool
The grass bows in respect as he passes,
A fool so very unruly,
Spits vengeful passion,
Sets the bowing grass on fire,
Destroying nature with his smile,
Raucous,
Lashing feelings,
Eyelashes flutter in mortified shame,
Curling of their own accord,
In harmony of discord!
Disputed by speech in truth!
Love songs live ,
Castigated fool,
This lyricist,
Chastised for lack of care,
Beaten down,
Darkened magic mind,
Riling by inspiring,
Cauldron bubbles,
Images evaporate,
Eternal gossamer magic,
This fool's a clever fool!
He is such unruly fool,
Will never admit it,
Uncool fool,
Will stand in attendance,
To whims and things,
Main retorts in nonchalance!
Founded in chalice,
Full,
This fool,
Well,
He's no village idiot!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
*This bird
of duality
distinct black
and white..
but then:
a high perch
seeing all..
in swooping flight
separates join and
one body soars..
Mr. Magpie retorts
I'm two in one...
Then this from
a friend:
you are forgetting
the thievery..
How about thievery
Mr. Magpie..?
collecting and
hoarding of
shiny objects..?
Mr. M. once more:
black is thievery
shiny is white..
I'm two in one..!*
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Mid autumn’s eve
Dancing dust and flickering campfire alive
The slumbering women
With narrow waists
Fan the white-hot humidity
Rising in our *****
We are torn by a peculiar ***** pain
And an Ancient Whisper tells us to take them
But a Hollow Echo retorts our hammering heart
To be patient in our sleepless heat
As a watcher in the woods
Until the women’s voices
Are darkly wet with desire—
But we cannot wait . . .
An impish grin then pulls our lips
When the sinister silence
Drapes over the desirable women
We span their length with our imagination
Full bosomed and tawny skin—
Musk and wildflowers lavishly call us
And we, carefree with the flames
Take them with a Ruling Passion
Fast dance and star fire
Clawed and kicked fought and spit
Struggling dearly to save their thighs
Against the Velvet Night
Blood smell becomes the campfire
Dancing dust dies
And we return to our sleepless side
Our Eternal Hunger satiated for the moment
And the narrow waists
Lying spent and used were Murderously Furious—
But we could not wait . . .
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
Mistakes are like fists full of firewood, waiting to be struck -
We light up like saffron fused matchsticks,
draining with tears the color of grinding lightning.
Every time things get heated, I get lost
in the mist of not knowing enough
Everything we know gets lost in the distance
because the distance casts spells of mist that
Climb up all my windows and screens,
my view becomes pigeonholed bleak.
Your cowry-shell smile is now cast away in waves of doubt
Our mouths are now perpetually filled with
retorts soaked in vinegar, heavy breathing and static squabbling –
this is what it feels like to be the one who loves more from a distance.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Gazing into nothing
With my ghastly swollen eyes
Amazed I'm so emotional
And that takes me by surprise
Tired of being crowded
With people and my thoughts
I sneak into the shadows
And try to unscramble your retorts
At no given moment
Was I aware of the pain
Until I was alone once more
And reunited with disdain
It's the feeling of grey
A vision blurred with a cloud
A taste so greatly rotten
A silent scream, unplugged, aloud
As I melt into reality
The figure is much more clear
Much more potent to my memory
So ugly as it starts to veer
I don't know what to do with it
So I poke it and conceive
It's something I can get past
Just a time wasting little peeve
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.
Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.
4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.
Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.
Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?
What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.
False Saffron leiter
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.
A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Does it matter if it hurts?
Pain or not
it must be done
cause you and I together,
No longer left
is there any fun.
When the smiles fade,
And tongues cut
Sharper an any blade
When one of us
always feels dis-obeyed
When our bed
somehow seems better
with the covers always made.
Does it matter if it
Still hurts?
Never mind...
I require no retorts.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Are you to rid of my senses?
displeased by your efforts. . .
how careless to tell me, nothing. . ..
to rid of my senses with vigor efforts with your ********
You are as you are, you have the senses to find out even so.
But how is this displeasure in me, I feel to be targeted by such blasphemy, to tell me to take on this world that I cannot do without the consent of so many others.
How can I not do without the consent of the others, when they are upheld by a system, consented by others?
I am no system, nor feeble triumph, I am just in reason observant of sorts, to see over walls and blinded retorts.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:28 AM UTC