Best Absurdly Poems
She denied him ...
her first true love, yet she would not speak him
the reason so absurdly trifling that
it was gone from her memory ... completely
still, she clung to it like a bible
not a thought given to
his name or care or visage
in many a year ...
death danced before her now
its countenance mocking her age and illnesses
husband of fifty-something years
and three children
all about her, smiling ... putting on "the face"
of expectancy and acceptance
almost as if it was her obligation to make them feel better
about her own death ...
she giggled quietly at the irony
a full life of love and family and travel and ...
and yet ...
the only thing she could see now was his face
all their voices were his voice
the air was filled with his cologne
his hand holding the perfectly-matched spaces in hers
the taste in her mouth, his tender bow of lips ...
"My sweet love" she said softly, her husband smiling
(though it was not him she was speaking to)
"Forgive me ..."
a puzzled look creeping onto her family's faces ...
at this, she gently closed her eyes
letting the darkness wash over her, a warm blanket
dreaming of the life she might have had
and one more gaze ...
her lost love's shining eyes.
~ Poem Of The Week ~ on Poetry Soup, from September 20, 2020 to September 26, 2020 - thank you, Admins!
An overweight lady named Annie
Has got an absurdly large fanny
Since she boarded a plane
That is destined for Spain
She's wedged in the seat in Miami!
Thanks to Andrea for helping me with the meter for this one
Jan Allison
12th April 2016
I challenge you to a rhetorical
to prove me wrong else be unconventional
‘bout a problem that’s gone systematical
everyone’s so radical and cynical
once burnt all swear to now be rational
petrified to be poetical and get physical
relationships always problematical
they start off superficial hardly practical
usually nonsensical and contradictional
end up analytical emotional or psychological
enigmatical fanatical or plain lethargical
sometimes as wild as satanical
yet sure enough it’s almost typical
it’s really absurdly comical
the inevitable becomes the eventual
you go and fall and it’s unconditional
starts off all angelical and sensational
turns out illogical and territorial
often becomes tyrannical
immoral and unethical
then cryptical and diabolical
there has to be something remedial
it’s just too tragical
how we now prefer to be online virtual
we might as well be asexual
because there’s no sense being sensual
we’re all too freak’n skeptical
to believe in the magical and supernatural
do you have a comeback what’s in your arsenal
or are you just too visceral
or too darn busy being metaphysical
AP: 2nd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted ton March 5, 2018 for contest QUICK FIRE RAPID RHYME sponsored by BRENDA CHIRI - RANKED 4TH
sigh ...
there is no shortage
of gloom and doom these days
we are in the midst of something unseen in our time
and the fear and hysteria is palpable
that said, I'm not taking the blue pill ... no way
reality is important, as are fear and caution
those darker things keep us safe
they temper our decisions and guide our courses
still, choice comes down to line-of-site ...
every time I say or do or affect anything
remotely encouraging or positive or optimistic ...
a thick, cold, wet blanket is thrown
the "reality", I am told ...
here's the thing -
I've been in pharmacy and
medicine and science my whole life
and from the beginning of this viral monster
I've been extraordinarily aware of the "reality" of this rabbit hole
odds, numbers, percentages, statistics
trials, results, vaccines, treatments
sobering, to say the least
but HOPE is a reality as well, just as sobering
and while these aged-but-wise
lungs of mine can still push gases
I'll choose to take the hopeful, encouraging, OPTIMISTIC tack
bring on the darkness and gloom
I have been to hell and back a number of times
I know the darkness well
and therein shine the most glorious of suns
oh, I absorb and process and consider all the dark
and cold and discouraging elements of this horrible pandemic
(anyone would be foolish NOT to know the weight of this disease
or understand the deadly seriousness
of all that comes with it)
but sunlight can peep through a wee hole
and it is THOSE rays that will always draw my gaze
life IS hope, from where I sit
and as long as I can type -
as long as I embrace this gift of mine for crafting words
I'll consider it my duty to use that tool
at least in some part
for the promotion of all things shiny
bright, optimistic, encouraging
happy, joyous, hopeful, halcyon, uplifting
heartening, upbeat, inspiring
and absurdly sunny
call me delusional - I've been called MUCH worse
it won't bother me ... much, lol
but ...
this is no fantasy land or careless dream I'm living in
it's simply the brighter reality
that I CHOOSE to see ...
the more hopeful future
I choose to anticipate.
Some people like keeping up with the Joneses
I do not know any Joneses who could keep up with me
So I have elected to keep up with the gnomes
How absurdly difficult could that task be?
I like wearing leggings, and I have no height
I love gardens, faerie houses,and toadstools you see.
I am pretty confident I can keep up until FFFT!
They begin rapidly disappearing in front of me.
I scrunch up my face, and concentrate ridiculously hard.
What about keeping up with faeries? Fairies begin to giggle.
I have not giggled in a long long time, annoying my own petard.
How about a dragon fly, I think as I begin my wing-trying-out wiggle.
So glad, so happy, enthralled to have a job! Chortling as I choke back words. The verse part of my garden absurdly lacking. But so thrilled, tickled, absolutely agog.
bouquet of part-time
bloomed into three full days -
my garden suffers
3/20/2019
While waiting for my brainy date
My ignorant friend cried "Oh great!
Now everybody's dead!"
He so absurdly said,
Upon seeing Hamlet did berate.
Walking at night bathed in the non-light
Of the New Moon, artificial street lights
Marked safe passage along dusty streets
To the central square fountain, half-way home
To the bungalow’s comfort, mosquito
Net shelter of repose. Suddenly, the
Witching hour descended and the lights
Were cut off. Blackness like the iron-rich
Pottery, Bidar-ware, absorbed us
Absurdly stumbling. But again, soft
Filigree, like inlaid silver shining
Soft-glow, whisper-like illumination
Made plain every step. God’s Heavenly
Host star-kiss’d us home to safe slumber.
Pushed off a cliff,
Down a flight of stairs,
Lying shattered,choking,
In a pool of my own blood.
Defiled and degraded,
Knowing nothing of myself,
Other than my name.
I lay on the cold marble floor.
Absurdly,I thought that I,
Had achieved a state of grace.
Though trampled and gasping,
For I had obeyed my vows.
I castrated myself for my other.
Even sending him other women,
When my maturing femaleness,
Was not ripe enough for his seed.
A quarter of my life was spent,
Not in a blessed union,
But in self imposed imprisonment.
This man was my warden.
Kept confined by his passions,
Illusions,and masterful cruelty.
I had turned the key in the padlock,
And would never use it to flee.
My fate was sealed.
First by my wounds,
Then by the executioner.
Who would be called me.
There are signs everywhere.
But even "signs" imply there is space
Between the signs
That might mean less than the signs.
All is a sign, a signal.
We are oarsmen of fluid time,
Delusional in our reaction to the dimness of fear,
The darkness of the waters of our minds.
As oarsmen,
We choose motion and purpose and reasons
Over the senseless radiance of seas.
But there is no paddle, no boat, no water.
And there is no muscle, no face, no strain.
There is only all-devouring light.
And a fearful mind
That pushes and pulls, absurdly,
Against the newness of infinite rebirth.
So do not fear
If you were to wake-up tomorrow
With a new name. A new focus.
This is the world of the man of the future.
TIDES OF TIDINESS
If I was God, the geographic world I would bless:
I’d start by tidying up my world map for it’s a mess.
First let’s examine the ideal - man-made edges can’t be beat.
Look at places like the USA -Canada boundaries - wow they’re neat.
Saskatchewan and the Four Corners - geometric perfection.
Australia’s states too, and Africa, especially the northern section.
It’s the instinct of all poetic geography teachers
To want to tidy up the world map’s ragged features.
The British Columbia coast needs sweeping with a big brush and
All those islands pushed till they’re joined to the mainland.
Same goes for the chilly south coast of Chile:
So many islands and peninsulas - it’s just silly.
And also the fjorded Atlantic coast of Norway:
Smooth? Neat? Geometric? No way!
The Canadian archipelago too might as well be joined up together
Cos it’s one frozen mass all the time in wintry weather.
Of those messy lakes of Canada and Finland we have no need:
With God’s giant blotting paper I’d make them recede.
And don’t get me started about the crazy course of a river.. . .
Pure logic and efficiency I can deliver:
The Amazon rises only 60 miles from Peru’s Pacific coast
But clearly it felt the need to have something to boast.
It should have gone west instead of 4000 miles east to the Atlantic
A wasted effort, silly choice - it ended up being absurdly gigantic.
And I have bigger complaints, such as South America
Being fitted back where it belongs into the coast of Africa;
And the Red Sea’s coasts, moved apart like edges of torn paper all raggedy:
Dunno whose idea that was, but it ain’t foolin nobody.
Obviously they should be stuck back together jigsaw fashion
To satisfy my geographical neatness passion.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
*This is the latest in my series of Nutty Geographical Poems.
Take a glance at your bedside atlas to see the places mentioned.
An insane System by any other name
Should still be considered simply insane
A prison by any other name
Could well be the throne
Of a primitivist's brain
A lifestyle by any other name
Would prefer to be called a "subculture"
A truth by any other name
May well be an early grave
After passing around
A bit of the blame
- Do we really wanna play this same game?
Again and again?
Just for the sake of its colloquial name?
Wait-Wait-Wait!
Don't shoot me yet!
I request a fancy blindfold and a pre-lit cigarette:
I want to look super cool
Without a single regret,
When the firing squad executes me
For being such an absurdly passive threat;
Otherwise,
Honestly,
It will feel like I've squandered
Another golden opportunity...
...And obviously,
I couldn't possibly try to live
After something like this...
Once having it fun it crawls back from the shell,
Making decisions a true living hell.
'For every action there is a reaction's,
Always here to take away satisfaction.
Had enough beer, right time to find a dame,
One singing on stage seems to not know my name.
Seems nice enough for adventure tonight,
Her accent ain't fine, but the face looks alright.
Now stop, hold on, take a breath and listen.
It's time for a break and for some revision.
Don't pick on her looks or the way that she talks,
You're no perfect man and you have your own faults.
Once having it fun it crawls back from the shell,
Making decisions a true living hell.
'For every action there is a reaction's,
Always here to take away satisfaction.
I can't believe this witch brags with such pride.
Talking like she has achieved something in life.
Can't she comprehend I just want to get laid,
Not how much for her trips her parents have paid.
Assumptions, presumptions, insane expectations.
Every idea you express is absurdly fallacious.
Why take an issue with her self-esteem?
Maybe to travel is her personal dream?
Once having it fun it crawls back from the shell,
Making decisions a true living hell.
'For every action there is a reaction's,
Always here to take away satisfaction.
Remember the darling I've been with and ditched,
Because love made you unable to think?
Now you're complaining about me being rude?
You know what brain? I dislike your attitude.
Now you're blaming me for once dropping the ball,
Using it to justify every bad call.
Who am I kidding, she's waving her keys,
Cuddle her gently and do what you please.
kelly anne conway
one might ask why she has not yet gon'way
absurdly, her flowing Wagnerian locks
still titillate the aging yet juvenile jocks.
Rest
Ice
Compression
Elevation
It doesn’t work for a heart.
I rest it –
Make it lazy.
Deprive it of any exertion.
Force sleep on it.
Like a little baby confined to its crib.
Where I forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I ice it –
Make it cold.
Deprive it of company or care.
Expose it to the elements absurdly.
Unguarded and uncossetted out there.
Where I forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I compress it –
Make it small.
Deprive it of acknowledgement.
Squeeze it into a little nook invisibly.
Where I disregard its existence
And forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I elevate it –
Make it forgetful.
Deprive it of silence and reflection.
Fill its days with spectacles of distraction.
I entertain it.
And it forgets me;
as broken things do to us.
Rest
Ice
Compression
Elevation
It doesn’t work for a heart.