"satiric" poems
Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts
I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace
Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please
Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Burnt adolescence, the smell of survivors
The satiric regime beholds.
White-gloved landlords, picking at grapefruit
By what means was this chapter told?
By a pigheaded guerilla lad
In a trench coat and top hat
With an ego to the distance of the sun
Alcohol is flammable
To the ones with sharpened mandibles
For myself, it was all jolly good fun
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
heads turn
and minds churn
as the old white knuckle
brings life to the board
facilitation (and procreation!)
become heavenly fit
for the
paradigm day
jitter men
and podium seniors
sit cocked
in the back row
front runners
bust a brain box
(their lines frayed
and edges portrayed)
truth makers tread
the center stage
(with a new and improved
product portfolio)
an evolution
of human spirit
mobilized
in apparent
perfect form
sound bites
and titillating calls
echo from
the main hall
a wise man
cringes
on a poorly
timed exchange
mind sets moving
quid pro quo
intuitions
and convictions
viewpoints
and revelations
all fun
and fundamental
(or so they say)
depth charts
and zodiac principles
speak to the masses
abbreviations
refreshers
and timeless
lifelines
*we’d like a peak
inside of you*
a glimpse
of your point of view
the turks and talking heads
speak of
grand design
and inclusion
class complete
(interpreted at the 7th sneeze)
please check those thoughts
and insights
the final answers
are coming
(satiric)
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
Terracotta heart baked to finesse
Terracotta heart made of all things fresh,
Terracotta heart a juvenile delinquent,
Terracotta heart born a ****** quaint,
Braised in warmth, seared in passion,
Sautéed in a cruel satiric humour,
Garnished red, to a near perfection,
Served scorching hot or a blue surrender,
Terracotta heart an agile quill,
Terracotta heart as strong as the will,
Achille's heel ageing to extinction,
Alas! Never mend this fatal habitation,
How often a day by vows endowed,
How loftily by lust ensnared,
Barmy Merchants’ failed affair,
Quit here or quietly endure,
Terracotta heart chasing fleeting dews,
Terracotta heart braving the brutal rues,
Terracotta heart, a broken souvenir,
Dare gently cater or beware,
Terracotta heart a nomad of time,
Terracotta heart an unholy shrine,
Terracotta heart baked to imperfection,
Terracotta heart never braised in affection,
Terracotta heart scattered never dead..
Terracotta heart never learned to love…
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
An ill-motioned groove drowned me, driving
Like the sick puppy I am, halfway out of my car window
Eyes starving, high and unorthodox
The foliage watched
Each sapling in fact
Covertly whispering to the other
Snide and volatile
“He sure fell out of the nest”
“He must be Mad”
I drove by with a hint of my satiric
Showing my teeth
They were looking back, un-teased
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
how have there been nights creating space
a vault of valued silver neck---lace play button play to me
toy tutorial: how to choke me and it is hours after midnight
i am alone in my room uncloaked my pictures upon tiny tiny windows i like to lick the blood out of the slits
grow slimes after midnight like a snail click click the right things and sadden
can i sink my fangs and hydrated as it is
a wet house all of the wallpaper ruined of bottles and of men
i hate that feeling when i put my head down and that is the last thing there is nothing nothing no struggle no bodies and legs
all anger aside i must admit
me all nails and fury me all small fit below the waist die gaily then
has anyone read anything on free will or has anyone stayed or left or has anyone survived can i lend out my own copy of free will two pages high look up the line across my back have you tried to follow me before foresting in motion
**** me in my feelings i have been begging the new moon for a new moon but IT HAS NEVER APPEARED BEFORE ME
IS THERE ANYONE I CAN HIGHLIGHT IN PURPLE AND OR IS THERE ANYONE I CAN PUT MY BACK AGAINST WHO IS WILLING TO LAY A FINGER ON ME
AND I FEEL BETRAYED should i always be banned
me me in shadows i am aware i have gotten dark i have not given permission for deep-rope-denied-roulette-gratuit-whir-phantasma
EVERYONE ON THIS SLUMP STAGE IS HIDING THEIR FINGERS IN MY MOUTH ONE TO ONE TO ONE I CAN NEVER SEE THE FACE THE FACE HURTS TOO MUCH IT IS THE RED FILTER THE EXPENSIVE ONE AND I CANNOT USE TOO MUCH OF IT IT FALLS BEFORE ME I BREAK MY KNEE-CAPS THANK YOU THANK YOU IT WAS WONDERFUL
my name is ssssss-sweetness all of a sudden
i stand before you and i am so mad i want to break your face-jaw neck-jaw your everything-jaw my name is pinky pinky and mutilation is satiric and narcissistic GO BECOME SICK OF IT AND I WILL SICK AND **** YOU AND THE HINT IS IT WILL CHANGE NOW THE SMELL IS AWAITED and the blood will be beautiful
and will be replenishing i give me another three months do you like my invention please jealous you until you open again
the demon does not possess me and does not wish to thus i received
in a letter from hell thank you thank you it was miserably ethereal
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
I'm fresh out of material so I guess I'll copy me
Pull out that notebook paper and begin a parody
I'v got to start with something both satiric and so nice
Like a fresh-cut rose
That only grows
In the flowerbed of our hearts
Immature ramblings from an unsecured mind
Rolling on waves of emotion like a boat of some kind
I'm so simple to copy, yet an imitation of this crap
These rhymes are ****
And just won't quit
To disappoint the audience, all
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
owls pick clover leaves so that their disorders are detected, remarkable
power of being, peripheral parts of their existence, satiric reality
quotidian and cynical, disorders represent internal struggles, passive
owls' reductive and holistic approaches to heavy squalls ships madly
run into, ships shaken in confusion, captains gone, crew members
thrown into the sea, owls recognise a woman does not have anything but avid
interest in men, her husbands offending each other, a pervasive pattern
of dysregulation making life doubtful than uneasy, a commitment
to passionate detachment dependent on innocent identity
impossible, nothing is possible because owls' holy life is precisely
mapped out, grave consequences of sanctification and glorification, mythic
characters not remembered only because of their relation to dead
figures in Orpheus' old legend, speaking about a Jew sacrificed
at Auschwitz, events revealed with overtones existentially psychic
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 5:24 PM UTC
They have all signed their names in the register,
they are figures in a satirical play
the city is veiled with smoke
It’s 5 o’clock.
Rapunzel is in her tower
which she built it up herself
without doors or any window
above
beneath there’s Orwell’s world;
Merida is still running through the forest,
She wants to find a brigand
To go after the gargoyle’s register,
But the forest is burning.
And the Little Mermaid,
No longer came from the depth;
Though Peter Pan is still flying,
To find a curious
Sleeping Beauty
*
It’s 5 o’clock
and they have signed the register
they are people in a satiric world
they have covered the city
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 5:51 PM UTC
Contemporary poetry
does not have allure for me.
It is full of adjectives,
but at the end I ask, “what gives?”
No meaning, point, or moral clear,
no joy or anger, love or fear.
Words are crafted carefully,
but in the lines I do not see
any interesting story.
It is boring, I am sorry!
What happened to imagination?
Ecstasy and indignation?
If Donne or Longfellow wrote now,
editors would not say “wow!”
Verses passionate by Blake
publishers would not take.
“That Poe guy’s maudlin, Yeats pretentious;
Allen Ginsberg is tendentious.
Tennyson’s an epic bore;
his lengthy rhymes of days of yore
are not to our liking,” they’d say.
I would like to see the day
when poetry regains emotion.
I even have the novel notion
that we’d welcome the returning
of passionate and lustful yearning.
Of rhyme and meter, song and lyric.
Or of verses bitterly satiric.
If I read more sterile free verse
I’ll toss the magazine and curse.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
Ah ! The peaceful blanket of death !!
How alluring can you be?!
Ah ! The fatal omen of chaos !!
How benevolent can you be?!
Ah! The gruesome slit that grows within !!
How satiric can you be ?!
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC