Writers of GLP: post the best poem you have ever written! [CONTEST for 1 month full subscription] ~1 day left

Joe Biden sniffs kids
Joe Biden stole election
Fuck you Joe Biden

If this post doesn't get any submissions I will declare myself the winner using this simple limerick submission:

There was a poetry contest on godlike
The trolls and ACs never wrote write
They were shills most the time
And barely could rhyme
Which is all that they thought poetry was like because they were uncreative souls that get all of their ideas from George Soros talking points and from the Democratic Party who feeds them MSNBC they watch all night.

Last Edited by BoatyMcBoatface on 09/13/2021 08:50 PM

I don't know if this really qualifies as a poem but, fuck it.

Alone In The Universe

Trees bending and swaying at extreme angles from the weight of the worlds breath.

Weakening every fiber of every trunk and limb until it exhaled the longest, loudest and heaviest sigh of discontent and sorrow it and we will ever know.

An all encompassing palm laying itself upon the face of the earth.

The trees of every root split into two and fell into many pieces among all lands, until it made unto itself a giant bundle of tinder waiting for a spark.

At last having strewn the remnants of mankind among the earths splintered ruins and along with it their flame, the clouds gathered in unison.

The rain clouds did not weep, lightning tended the fire and the winds howled until all the earth wore the image of the sun.

i'm bumping this with another poem

Achilles' Next-to-Last Stand

Dawnie is one of the regulars
at Mr. Lucky's,
a dive-bar down
on Mooney Pond Road,
a one-lane blacktop
that runs along
the southside of nowhere
in particular.

"Hey, Dawn-zilla!"
I shout,
"You got my money, bitch?"
She shakes her head
but buys me a beer
and sends it my way.
I gulp it down.
"You still owe me,"
I call across the bar.
She blows me a kiss and
I turn back to my drink.

Now, the guy standing next to old Dawnie,
he's there scowling at me.
"And you tell Quasimodo
to mind his own
business,"
I say, swirling
the ice in my whiskey
as I bring it to my lips.
"It ain't easy being King," I say on the side
to the bartender
and then I pour it down my throat.

I put the glass on the bar
and feel a tap on my shoulder.

I look up.

It's Dawnie's pal,
the hunchbacked
motherfucker,
aka
the fat-chick hunter.

"Whatcha want?" I ask.

"I don't like you," he says.

"That's too bad," I say,
"because your mom,
she loves me.
Would you like to
step outside,
son?"

"Right now!" he barks, standing up.

"When I finish my drink!"
I bark back.
And then I knock it down
and head out
for the door.

I walk out to the parking lot
and there he is,
jumping up and down,
moving his
feet around,
loosening up.

Getting ready.

"Happy Hour is about to start, son," I say,
"so let's make this quick."

I crack my knuckles
and roll up my sleeves,
show him my fists,
and then

overhand-roundhouse-uppercut-hook
slashing ring flashing out shredding skin
unzipping forehead
spurting—

blood.

My blood.

"You fuck!" I scream,
as the blood
spills
down
my face
into
my cupped hands.

Quasimodo closes in,
coiling to strike
what will surely be
the killing blow:

My balls pull up into my belly.
I close my eyes,
grit my teeth,
and wait
for the flash
and the pain.

But
instead
I hear
a howl,
a hooting
howl,
something
like
the hunting cry
of a hawk.

I open my eyes
and see
Big Mike,
one of my drinking buddies,
come flying from out of nowhere
in particular
like some sort of one-man mounted white-trash cavalry,
hooting and whistling as he joins the charge.

Big Mike and Quasimodo fight
briefly,
but it is no match:
Big Mike beats
the hunchback down
to the asphalt.

"That's right!" I scream.
"How you like it?" I say,
as I do the taunter’s dance around
the fallen hunchback.

"How you like it now?" I say,
"how you like it now?” I say,
challenging him to get up.
"That's what you get
for fucking with me!"

Big Mike puts his
big arm around my shoulders
and shuffles me back into the bar.

"Are you OK, Kid?" Big Mike asks.
I nod
and I
run my
bloody hands
over my bloody face
and my bloody bald head,
the blood
mixing with sweat,
streaming
down
my cheeks
over
my lips
past
my chin
onto
my clothes.

The regulars gather and disperse.
Drinks go around
and around.

I look at myself in the
mirror on the wall
behind the bar:

I am
as a warrior
back from battle,
a hunter
fresh from the kill,
a brawler
yet unbowed.

I am
a bloody mess.

"That's what you get,"
I say,
"that's what you get,"
I keep saying
over
and over
to no one
in particular.

This is a poem. My bumps don't count.

I posted mine here 6 years ago, but with no paragraphs/stanzas.

If I won't be ridiculed, I'll post it. It will be a link.

Fuck it. I'll post it anyway.

Last Edited by last one on 09/13/2021 09:00 PM

Thread: A poem for a place I love. Gone forever. The House On the Hill

So...uhm...what?

Links to threads don't count. Post the poem.

Beautiful

Well....fuck you. It was my thread.

You'll read it. I can pay my own way for another month, I think.

And, too lazy to retype it.

Last Edited by last one on 09/13/2021 09:05 PM

You're already upgraded, so why the hate?

No hate at all. Just delete my posts.

copypasta city...

i'm not in the race. I'll just post some poems...



***************

early winter

the house
is colder
than it should be
and so
i pull
myself
out
of bed
and put on the
coffee
and then
i put down
food
for our old
cat.
she
used to
come running
as soon as
i cracked
the can
but now
she doesn't
anymore.
the coffee pot
makes sounds
like it is
clearing its throat
and then
it starts to drip.
i take my cup
out of the
cupboard
and look
out the window
and see that
last night,
the first
snow
of the season
fell
but now
the sun
is up
and the snow
is already
beginning
to melt
down
into the
still-green
grass.
i pour myself
a cup
and go downstairs
and see that
last night
my wife
forgot
to close
the door.

it is wide open.

our cat
is there
sitting
in the
cold
foyer.

my wife
calls out for me
to come back to bed.
i'll be in soon
i say
over my
shoulder.

the cat
turns her
head
to look
at
me

she
blinks

our eyes
meet

and then
she returns
her attention
to the
outside
world
and the
gray squirrels
she is
too
old
to
chase.

No, it's not copy and paste.

And, that^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ain't much of a poem.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
There always will be,
A Biden more fucked up than you.

Sorry brother, I didn't think through all of the possibilities of the contest like already upgraded members can't really participate because they're already upgraded.

I liked that poem. My 2 year old cat has brought in a variety of live (and dead_ animals I wish he would never bring in at all. I may write something about that... with less line breaks.

It's all good, Boaty.

It meant a lot to me, and just thought I'd repost my poem.

No worries. Good thread. No upgrade needed nor wanted. Bringing up old pain by posting.

The Freedom Limerick


There once was a disease so awful
It employed fake tests to make you unlawful.
Any item of flu,
Or a lingering achoo
It could take all your rights by the clawful.

If you trust the NEWS,
And the doctor, you chose.
There isn't much hope,
For you tied your own rope.
And your bronchial tubes they will bruise.

For its not the disease.
It is really the "cure",
That leads so many astray
It's the propaganda war,
Of 1984.
And they don't want it to go away.

There is still hope.
But, it lies in defiance.
For a good day on the boat,
Or the right to buy an appliance.
Don't fret or dismay.
Take your freedom anyway.
We can beat them with
UNITED NON-COMPLIANCE


Robinj Hood

LATER

My Secret Garden

In my secret garden, I see colors
I laugh out loud and skip and run
Shall I take the road on the right
Or the one at the left
Or direct my steps whatsoever ahead.
I would like to stop
And smell the flowers
Is anything there better than the other?
I would like to pick some
But someone might be watching.
I see some bees and bugs
And a little farther a pond
Where I can hear the croak of a frog
I am glad they are still around
For they are the ones that play the sound.
It is my wish to be summer again
That time I long to see
This secret garden that invites me
I guess good things happen
To those who wait
In the secret garden that blooms for me.

*I could have posted a garden photo but maybe this is fine. I was just inspired by a pretty garden that I saw, although I do make a pretty garden, too.

Just in case, I am just sharing my simple poem.

I smoke crack, it's pretty wack.
5 dollars rocks, I just sold my socks.
High like a totem, looking trash and bum.
The pipe is my friend, ignite the chemical blend.

Tasty smoke, have yet to croak.
Sloppy thirds, slurring my words.
Sex for crack, hit the road jack.
Bad dollars worth, smoking crack with a nurse.

Crackhead daydreams, high like a kite.
Tossing on the street, over crackhead fight.
Gimme crack right now, I need my fix.
I smoke crack, look at my burnt lips.

A sonnet-


Late Fall

Two days ago the ground was barren, brown
surrounded evergreens of life like pews
seclude the praying; undone chores infuse
the view, in beauties absence they had grown.
Then, hardly warned, change came , soon snowfall coned
all open to its touch, sublime bestowed
the draw of eyes from melodies too toned
by fall, they rose to brilliance; birch bows bode:
late season gifts of future drifted woes
from old. Now, presents melt to meet the past
lifts winters cold to come, much less the blast
for those who must await times march; winds blow

the Autumn leaves like Summer, put to shame.
I see the end of me, no worse, its blame.

I posted two, edited to remove one. The below is my best.


Reaching
May 8, 2011

Reaching within I search for the words, that I wrote once before, that were never heard.
Reaching within I see all the pain, it is different this time, for now it is tame.
The fears that before did tear me apart, are chained to the wall of my unbroken heart.
Touch them I do as I pass each one by, they recoil from my hand, they whimper and cry.
I remember the darkness of this place I call home as I walk up the dais and sit down in my throne.
I gaze over all of the fears in my hall until my attention is caught by an empty space on the wall.
All of a sudden there's a terrible shriek then the clinking of chains as my fears interests are peaked.
I stand up and march to the spot on the floor, where I find a lost key that opens a lost door.
Panic it rises within me so fast that I fall back with shock into fears waiting grasp.
Hungry the fear drives into my soul, no longer tame, taking control.
I fight back in anger and seize hold of its chain, I will not succumb, not in my domain.
Quiet it goes, save for whimpers of shame and my voice as it echoes sounds twisted in pain.
Then, that cry again, one that saps all your might, my fears, heads bowed, try to hide their delight.
That door that I lost, or decidedly forgot, is the source of the cries. Doubt, I do not.
Before me does appear by way not of my design, the door that I so fear, in this home that I call mine.
A person lays broken before the great door, sobbing and crying please no more.
Then there's a cry so vicious in sound, screaming my name from the darkness around.
Rises he does from the cold stone floor, the person who lay there, sobbing no more.
Turning about, only darkness I see, in the eyes of this evil reflection of me.
When I look closer the darkness writhes with delight, it remembers that last time I ran from the fight.
Lock onto its gaze, the same as before, I fight with the panic that rises once more.
Petrifying fear pins down my soul and darkness consumes me, I lose all control.
But instead of the torture I expect to see, the reflection reaches out and takes hold of the key.
As he approaches the door there's a curious change, and when he opens the door no darkness remains.
It would be best to say that the dark became light when I realized the truth and gave up the fight.
This darkness I forgot in the depths of my heart, is not really darkness, but an unaccepted part.
All of a sudden I am holding the key, no longer does fear have a grip upon me.
There's a feeling that I haven't felt in so long, coursing through my veins, making me feel strong.
There's a light in this place that somehow empowers, myself and I feel it, in this heart we call ours.
Returned to my throne on the dais in the hall, I see no sign of the fears that I had chained to the wall.
Instead I see mirrors, as tall as can be, and in them the only reflection is me.

Last Edited by Fizban on 09/13/2021 11:08 PM

A Canadian Lament

Justin Trudeau, you fucking cunt.
You slimey nasty commie runt.
You, the spawn of Fidel Castro.
You. you fucking goddamn asshole.
You got voted in to legalize pot.
You piece of garbage, crackhead snot.
You burn the charter like your 20 rocks.
You're swallowing down the globalist cocks.
You make me sick you piece of shit.
You call us racist but you're blackface bitch!
You, you're no fucking feminist.
You're just a bloody pedo purist.
Lying so ever so deliberately.
She was 14.
She experienced it differently.
Sophie, she has had enough.
Sophie would rather the black cock nice and rough.
As opposed to you, you fucking faig.
With your "special socks" and fake India rags.
She only comes out at election time.
She is usually cucking your snatch,
On taxpayer dime.
You love the sound of aborted kids
Too bad Maggie didn't choose that or SIDS.

I'm a Christian, but not a practicing one.
I believe in the father the ghost and the Holy Son.
I'd break all the commandments, every one
Just see you pay for your sins.
You despicable one.


Robinj Hood

I buy my beer from gas stations
mostly
The ones where the pumps are dry and they sell
do-rags and blunt wraps and twenty-dollar shirts with
2pac's face on it


If I have to work that day I show up around noon
otherwise I'm there at seven oh five in the
morning


"Good morning," I say. Maybe chat about the weather:

1) Hot
2) Rainy
3) Humid

or maybe I ask the clerk about her dogs
She doesn't drink beer and neither do they
but that's alright


One time I bought a Coca-Cola and she
asked me what was wrong? "Are you feeling okay?"
I said yes, I just have a lawn to mow


I buy so much beer
from the gas station
they round my bill down to the next lowest dollar
$17.33 equals seventeen bucks
It's nice to be appreciated
even if they've never
asked me my name

Sticks & stones may break my bones but words will turn me into a triggered, querulous lil' biatch with no wit or grit, just a lot of bullshit...

Last Edited by J-Bird on 09/13/2021 11:48 PM

This is a poem of mine called "Traces of the Beast", in two parts:



I. “Unto this Last”

Unto this last, the die is cast,

Serenity thusly life in the spirit;

Unto this last, the past is not even past,

Angels shall sing, and we shall hear it.



The age is indeed paradise lost,

The wine of youth unto winter frost.



Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo

The hour is now well spent

Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo

Who shall be saved? Who shall repent?



Unto this last, a light doth shine,

Into thy heart

Unto this last, seek Heaven fine,

Witness the evil one depart.



There was none beside me in the end but Him;

And thus I learned that all of the light was in me.



Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo

The hour is now well spent

Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo

Who shall be saved? Who shall repent?



Thou shalt be saved, if ye endureth to the end.



II. “Traces of the Beast”



Traces of the beast, in every glance,

Save the righteous eyes like glittering jewels;

Traces of the beast, withered askance,

In exile sacred, sharing our tools.



I am a slave of solitude,

Nocturnal tears, a soul dimly hued.



Deus culpa,

I must be still, though;

Deus culpa,

I must know.



Traces of the beast, it to come,

This is close enough for me.

Traces of the beast, it hath been done,

This satanic epic snatches up the ones once free.



Shadow has become reality;

I would know, He leadeth me.



Deus culpa,

I must be still, though;

Deus culpa,

I must know.



Lord, I must know.

Last Edited by 7/11 Was a Part-Time Job on 09/13/2021 11:48 PM