Category: Poetry


Clowns on Parade

Circus lights enkindle these clowns,
a pie to the face, and pants pulled down.
All fun and games to giggling, juggaling clowns.

Kids run, kids laugh, kids jump on the security staff.
Leaping, sneezing, wheezing, jumping, thumping;
Rowdy kids love the giggling, juggaling clowns.

Their baloon animals go POP!
But the fun can’t and won’t stop.
It’s always fun with the giggling, juggaling clowns.

As I close my eyes, the circus goes on.
It’s like a smiling, white faced marathon.
In my mind it’s just the giggling, juggaling clowns.

I beg for sleep but I hear the laughter.
They play with my brain, their pool of pleasure.
These are the giggling, juggaling clowns.

I wonder of the consquences of this,
To think of only clowns, it is not all bliss.
These are the fake, self-aware clowns.

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The Rose

Tribute to Beauty and The Beast

The Rose

That rose. How I hate that rose.

I hate the blemished rose; with an unsightly mark.

All my might, I wish that vase would enternally close.

This rose, holds magic that is midnight dark.

With April showers, its petals birth new flowers.

I gaze up at the graying sky,

I wait, with minutes that seem like hours.

Will this rose ever wither and die?

It can’t. We’re connected by an unseen pulse.

We share eternity, endless stagnation stage.

I hate this rose, it holds no age!

It has secrets, memories that it never discloses.

I hate this rose. But it’s the last of the magic roses.

Just Another Victim

Years spent in cognito,
walking this Earth with a lesser soul.
Wasted years in this insitution of lies,
They build a new palace of false acceptance,
Countless flock like indoctered flies.
Promises of knowledge become defiled.
Using unsolitary confinement they teach,
Hate the individual, conformity they preach!

Wil I be just another victim?
Victims they play you to be.
Hiding the truth before you even see,
Clipping your wings so you won’t fly free.
Just Another Victim.

Empty promises are made, but no attention is paid.
Knowledge is a war, a war of infinite casulties.
Most never know of these atrocities.
Keep the masses guessing,
Intellectual Vietnam is the only blessing.
Am I just another victim?

Arrogant Through Talent

With grace I breathe in the air,
As if I’m a royal heir.
I look stunning, hope you will stare.
Though I’m arrogant, I still hope you care.

I’m arrogant through talent,
No reason I should be humble and silent.
Let my voice range like a bell tower,
I’m sweet a tad sour,
God has given me gifts with each shower.

Words expel from me like beads of sweat
Confidence galore, my ship nowhere near shore.
My heads are in the clouds, it’s the only place
That it can fit in peace.
In the clouds so long I had to get a lease.
I’m arrogant through talent.

 Sorry, who are you again?

Ass

As I walk home, my eyes begin to roam.

Right ahead, my eyes said.

Oh what a day, to watch such an ass sway.

Round, possibly soft. My lust reached a loft.

I did nothing, as I was honor bound.

Her eyes look back, her mind calling me a hound.

My eyes were right to watch her ass sway,

It was after such a long day.

The perfect formula is eighty,

Without touching I would never know.

My eyes look up, gray storm clouds gather.

A warning from a Heavenly, watchful Father.

The sounds of thunder shook,

She kept looking back, afraid of who she might look upon.

I kept my pace home, my eyes switching from lust to the raining dome,

That was the sky.

The formula to the perfect ass is eighty,

Without touching she was there plenty.

She ran across the street, she seemed sweet.

I got home with a smile today,

How I loved watching that ass sway.

Wings and Pills

The bus stalked and stopped right beside me.

I subconsciously got on; my mind on academic things,

My stomach filled with buffalo wings.

My mouth still felt the heated zing.

Hers must have been filled with pills,

For fun and thrills or purpose to kill,

The effect was the same; a small panic.

Her lifeless body torqued with the movement of the bus,

A word wasn’t spoken by any of us.

Her friend quiet in concentration,

I wonder if he wished she’d hurry to her final destination.

A perfect stranger, kind and forgettable

She was the only one who would ask.

Was she okay, what was her task?

Jokes about her illness with the booze came about,

Laughter from humans who should have a snout.

Pigs, the lot of them, uncaring about a strangers fate.

In my minds eye, it was too late.

I saw her into convulsion, her lungs led to corrosion

Why did she take the pills? Were they even real?

Or just an excuse of a different drug of choice,

A needle that sings to them like angels voice.

A pulse was felt, barely there. If her eyes were open,

How those green eyes would stare.

But to where?

What drug knocked her so close to the reaper?

Death never takes a holiday.

“The paramedics are on their way,” I heard the driver say.

I walked home. Will she make it to hers?

Death missed the bus today,

But tonight where will her head lay?

Her own bed, a cell or perhaps a grave?

Will she be on her way home,

Or to the city of woe, by way of Charon?

For thrills, she could have been killed.

For trying to get killed, she merely was thrilled.

I wonder what made her ill

As I stare outside my window sill.

Death missed the bus today.

Empty Dishes

In Creative Writing class today we looked at the painting Groundhog Day by Andrew Wyath. The challenge was to write a poem without using any ryhmes.

Groundhog Day

 
Empty Dishes
by W.G. Cambron
 
The dishes are empty,
as the Autumn wind blows.
The glass has no liquid,
as the tree has no leaves.
The plate is without a meal,
as the stump is without a tree.
The knife lays untouched,
as the hot sun lays to rest.
The dishes are empty,
as the day was fun.
The chair lays on the floor,
like the picture that was earlier taken.
The dishes are empty,
as my birthday party comes to a close.