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Oct 2019 · 124
bejeweled words
ogdiddynash Oct 2019
~as promised~

bejeweled words

no reason you should know,
that one of my peculiarities
is buying jewelry for women

premise: it is one thing man can do
than improves upon nature’s rough cuts

the refractions remind me of those within
the human heart where light of love resides

so I am neither insane,
nor a complaint in a criminal conspiracy,
of which I am criminal, the accused,
the victimized, both of us co-conspirators,
defrauding no one

this weakness is a silliness,
that came about as an accident,
a story not worth telling for its truth yet accurate,
that fool man looks as it works and over jewels
prefers his poems
and those that loved them more

so, in conclusion, be unafraid, be available,
be affected, happily infected, give the jewels you can afford,
to the deserving
give them away, away...away on 10/23/19
Sep 2019 · 89
your honey plenty crispy
ogdiddynash Sep 2019
“Your honey plenty crispy”

nothing in the fridge to eat,
I, Grumpy Mcgrupy, intone
to those responsible for its
fulfillment and my well being

the greek yogurts all have passed
their expiration date, silent assassins,
the cheese bin international emptied
of American and Swiss citizens,
the remainder wrapped in white in
languages not spoken

the produce drawer, naked in its drawers,
except for a sweet Vidalia onion from Georgia,
which is just no good for fresh direct eating,
besides, my tears, copious already
at my state of famination ruination

final recommendation textual arrives,
a solitary fresh honey crisp appe in the fruit bin,
which in desperation I inhaled while
writing poetry in the bathtub

text my pleasure at this last resort,
with a shopping list to which the response comes
in a tone of high moral ground, teasingly defensive,

Your honey plenty crispy!

rendered speechless but her words
added too,
to the shopping list...
True story
ogdiddynash Sep 2019
the permanent shaving cut (why god made humans cut)

~for my father~

in the class of men
who need a scrubbing shave
I am, a twice a day him-hymnal

to keep the face pliant,
the cheeks smoothied,
in case some young children
come visiting, needing kissing,
by a funny-foolish Poppy

hell, I shave before I go to bed
cause I sleep shirtless,
my chin’s scruff cuts my shoulder
that badly, that here I am, awoken,
writing ******* poetry at 5:09am

but the specific cut requesting a poem
all for its lonesome is actually a newlywed pinch,
where the straying, whirring blades grabbed ahold
of the soft tissue flesh beneath the eyes,
where the no-sleep, permanently black stained “circles” live,
those tree rings of the human body

shaving cuts...what’s the big deal!

this one painful, sending out a weather alert to the brain, saying:

“Hello old friend, this red busted blood cell,
that’s me, is now a permanent resident,
a red badge of stupidity (yours),
a forever face fixture that will be
a pallbearer at your funeral,
jump into your grave with you,
for one last final deep dive drive-by screaming”

so now when I shave,
this perfect red light signal of a cautionary tale,
smiling remindingly to stick to the round and fleshy fat parts,,
pale red cheekiness where the only natural indentation are
two **** dimples - the ones no longer visible,
under the stubble of a life now measured in
too many decades

why do we cut ourselves?

(now grow serious)

not for fashion,
a scratcher beards an even greater skin-ny irritant,
this human gesture, this marker of the
daily changing leaves coloring,
this forced to mirror-address
who is that person vision we’ve never before met,
with ridged furrowed forehead,
and every day older markings appliqués,
summarizing a race to some ending,
that pulling weeds from the ground
or the **** grounds of your face,
is endlessly pointless but necessary,
a god given way to say fool!
you’ve been given a mo’ day,
and another night, wake up,
do something useful

kiss those babies too much,
write many short poems,
do a goodun,
this day,

for when you see that red dot mark of living,
it’s just another signage of closer to dying,
no use in denying, use this memory well
to make yourself attractively useful and

some other human apparition might
come along and you’ll be reminded
smooth is better n’ gruff,
and thus shaving
helps perpetuate
the species.

5:51am two days after they came for my moneystream in two naught nineteen
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
“still on the fence
about you being
a mortal man
or a God.”

well thanks for that,
and did I mention
it’s a fence style called
picket you put me on?

which I can attest,
makes me feel both
majestic & definitely humanistic,
cause a picket up one’s ****,
is proof still that this man,
unlike god,
has not lost his “touch”
so to speak...
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...


dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why


jes kiddin’ a leetle
if you don’t follow
you’re an idiot, one of the best on this site says O.N.
sourced from:
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost, at-last,
like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;

that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear,
humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!

I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
no need to cease my puffing,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated out
of course,
by god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times

he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?


chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

the jew in you,
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,

the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like

by the way,
do have the time?

Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...

dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
trust but verify

my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

never mind,
you know how this ends.


man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents

twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
“each according to his own stupidity.”

we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas

ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,


dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why


people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.


words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.

for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”

hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
the end for now
ogdiddynash Apr 2019
a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement

the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:

she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,

nameless and shameless

11:47 28/4/19
Aug 2018 · 306
no limericks today
ogdiddynash Aug 2018
no limericks today
none of my dads amusings

no rhyme no tale no sing no complaining

no dancing no pole
vaulting no dashing yards

blues yes harmonica wailing and the
banjo picking me apart no poems

got it all
got it none
got it in my brain
cause soul n’ heart
all longtime surrendered

the wind whips my t-shirt
and what was beneath it gone
never know what piece of me blew away but for sure it was not a ditty
something cute
for the blues chased away all
the limericks and there’s are just an
all gone
ogdiddynash Aug 2018
Your grandmother wants to be friends on Facebook.  

hey you,
can’t recall where or how i know ya,

but your grannie is very kewl,
(we agree on the proper pronunciation)
boldly asked if that included “benefits,”
she heartily answered “**** right”

“one man is pretty much as good as the next,
but younger is definitely better, and you a spring chickadee,
at age of sixty years and three,
so many years ahead to share,
your social security bene-fits,
making me swoon
and giving me ‘flashes ‘n fits’
and given your life expectancies,
spousal wud be nice,
even ain’t a necessity,
looking forward to pleasuring your company”

remind me again,
where do I know you from?


Jul 2018 · 16.5k
helping the kids with homework
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
helping the kids with homework

no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy

taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself

you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later

the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability

doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much

ain’t exactly his strong suit

sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,

i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes

a home work
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
(thanx all for the great suggestions)

women who wink

drive men to drink

together, glasses clink

tattoos follow in ink

and that ain’t the only thing


the tiller tied & forgot,

the slip knot jinxed

the sailboat nearly sinks


he cries aloud “you minx!”

I’m all done in,

you’ve got me sminked,^

you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink


she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,

“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,

count to cinq, don’t overthink,

join me overboard into the ****,

I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink

where drowning possibilities are next to nothink

promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
^Smink/To smink/Sminking/Sminked...pretty much any context you want.

When you smoke (strictly ****) and drink (alcoholic beverage of you choice) at the same time. Together these two factors get you wicked f’d up and create a great sminked out atmosphere.
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
daily provisioning

wallet  watch  testicles  spectacles
cash (single bills) cell phone
bottle of water   hairbrush with vanity attached,
personal technology baggie
(earbuds, variety of charging cords etc.)
loose change in order to fall from pockets & annoy yourself
sunglasses (idiot! summers half over) and something else...

pocket tissues!

skin and bone, muscle, all flavors and multilayers,
a language of music only you hear,
the pumping station internal, the gaga motion
product of the palette of body following souled emotions,
the antacid pills after that burrito;
and that strangely named thang called


your teeth  your smile, your shyest guile,
to catch that lady’s hopefully.        
reciprocated pearly whites delight,
pen and pad to record being a sad and mad good lad,
a Swiss Army knife if the tube or bus
should (will) breakdown,
your tiny little bottles of
inspiration  perspiration and perspective,
that you forgot to


the list to do and the list
to add to the to do list
and good heavens,
a serious writing utensil
to fool yourself when
thinking serious thoughts like


the last but should be first,
the house keys!!
keys just an enabler
to do it all again


July 11, 2018  10:22pm
Jun 2018 · 449
ogdiddynash Jun 2018
means absolutely solitary  

nearing midnight
turned the night stand light off

using an old TV show,
a Law & Order seen multiple times,
as a pseudo lover,
as a denial of my
absolitary status
which is only lonely


a) absolutely useless stupid cause
who doesn’t know the tv is a lousy lover

b) driving autocorrect insane,
she protesting,
the female voice within me raucously denying that

I am definitely neither


neither absolute nor solitary.


instead I am only
absolutely ready
to give this poem away
and go off solitary
to meet my
lover muses
who are ready willing able
to be refreshed by
refreshing me
with nary a spoken word

but those visions, notions, potions
they plant within next to that female voice
absolitary wonderful
ogdiddynash Apr 2018
God made jeans for nice jewish boys

as I walk down the street
I invoke and bless his name,
my eyes criss-crossed,
cause I am an ecu-man-iacal  
lay man womanizer

be my fellow descendant from
Adam & Abraham

Levi Strauss

who had a
prophetic vision
(of course)
why stretchable tight jeans
were even better
than apples
and started
a gold rush
that will never
ogdiddynash Apr 2018
so many people on
the city streets
on a fine spring Saturday

how can I,
her *** grab,
in a gesture of
genuine admiration,
for its balletic pas de deux
a perfect gyration elation
within a tight jeans artistic

with all these impolite people occupying our space
in the Q train subway station

on the isle of Manhattan
Apr 2018 · 148
dear, dear swatch watch
ogdiddynash Apr 2018
a dear, dear swatch watch

this generous timepiece gives me 31 days in every month
ignoring the papal protestations of one gregory gregorian,
who I remember well from Catch 22

these extra days are part of my own personal poetic
calendar and are like overripe fruit, use them or lose them

WHEN I visit you, expect me a day or two
later than scheduled- but then again, I will
overstay my welcome

ogdiddynash Feb 2018
Thursday to the shopping list did add my tremulous bequest,
Honey Nut Cheerios, great was the anticipation of a marriage with cold milk,
product of the oats and the cows that made this nation really, really great,
but in the Manahattan organic commisary seems this
so called food is strictly verboten,
so she brought me home on Friday some imposter named
Grain Berry?

this pseudo Cheerios tainted with Onyx Sorgum,
intended to give me heavy metal poisioning surely,
and rob life of joy by slowing down my sugar absorption rate,
and the plant fiber contained was purportedly natural,
as if there was another kind!

clearly a plot on my life by the Bannonian alt-right, for it,
this "whole grain toasted oat cereal,"
supplied more free radical protection
by sun activated antioxidants!

I am a real man,
I love my artificial flavors and colorings,
how better to preserve my pickling, briny brain
than in artifical perservatives!

From West Texas came this grain,
surely they will appreciate the insoluble fibered irony,
while I eat cold cereal for Friday dinner,
**SHE is eating steak rare at Gallagher's Steakhouse!
ogdiddynash Dec 2017
oh drat,
you are reading this,
my little kitty ditty,
jinxing my super duper secret plan,  
my walter mitty,
if no one reads this pretty
then the algo-rhythm
sure to pick me out of sympathy
to be the

so thanks for nothing, Jinxy McJinxFace!

do not give me away
with a finger or a heart,
lest the algo smells a rat
realizing that I am artificially intelligent too!

Ogdiddy Nash
Oct 2017 · 308
need a new racquet
ogdiddynash Oct 2017
need a new racquet**

tennis elbow blues
ice pack chill 20 minutes off and on

thinking out loud,
she pronounces maybe, I need a new racquet,

and the diddy man
looks up in terror
shouting way louder

"I am the only racket here,
and I so do not need replacing"
ogdiddynash Oct 2017

she. what are u listening to?
me.  melancholy song writers broken love tunes

she. ugh.  why?

me.  wanted to see how deep into the bed
I could sink,
till you came a looking to
play with me, my spirits to raise,
a game of capture the flag

Aural vs. Oral

her night dress rides up,
I awake to an
undressed waist and thigh,
and take advantage of the pomp & circumstance,
cause i believe whole heartedly in
waiste not

as  tongue performs its repertoire of magic tricks,
i.e. reciting poems,
to the standard whelps and yelps of oh its just you,
keep hearing little tiny whispers but not
those accustomed sweet nothings

turns out she is listening to her book,
quite the mesmerizer,
on her new cordless earbuds which are
tablecloth covered by her blondini tresses

nah. applauded her multimedia tasking,
but took it as a challenge,
efforts redoubled

she didn't seem to mind

now she wakes me up to show me
* she has her cordless earbuds in*  


Ordering Coffee

weekends, get coffee in bed
in my 19 oz. porcelain cup from Toronto,
standing order is:
fill it to the rim, extra cream

she says.  
isn't ironic,
that is exactly what I
charge for coffee

**in advance
ogdiddynash Sep 2017

god gave us little toes so when we are rushing our socks on,
the little toe has something to cling to, and a way to say, hey!
slow down

god gave us powerful pinkies, the littlest of the five fingers,
to give us balance, and reflection, that being upright
is a good thing

god did not give us eyes in the back of the head,
because he forgot to order the integrated circuitry
and was too embarrassed to admit it, but if you look closely,
you can see where they were supposed to go...oops,
no can do


she, a voracious vicarious, reads a new book almost daily
when I dismissed the time spent as an investment
with a finality of no return, she demurred, purred,
au contraire, my dove, every book expands the who of me
and with so many ahead, yet unread, I'll live forever


she inquires why I write so many poems, easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living, it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation of who I am...a miner of the wealth in my veins
ogdiddynash Aug 2017
haggard and black eye circled,
I stood before her,
(in the special silence of the shocked
"I can't believe what I'm seeing")

The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror,

in my awoken normal deplorable e-state,
taking a poll of the the toll
the working years had blessed me with,
crow's feet nests, red eye eggs, and forehead furrows
colloquially called the Mississip-pis,
saggy used as a compliment,
rotunda my unsupine fecund shape,
as in,
"what a nice generous cowling^ you have!"

a nose that looked clown-borrowed and improperly affixed,
looking like the wreckage of a ship
that accidentally crashed
into a harmless oil tanker
a three-times-my-size destroyer
named Life

the bathroom mirror looked upon me
with haughty askance,
imputing and impugning my
raggedy Andy human exterior,
until it at last
laughed so hard,
it cracked into a 1000 pieces

as shards bloodied my hands
and now, in addition,
checker-boarded my scraggled unshaven cheeks,
a voice from the bedroom screeched:

did you ask again the mirror
who's the fairest
in all the land

Warned you,
she hates when you take
advantage of her,
with your white male privilege,
calling her,

The Goddess ***** of the Bathroom Magic Mirror

clearly a simple case of mistaken identity,
upon looking in the mirror at myself
all I growled was
"you one ugly pasty white *******"

^ a cowling is a a contoured housing as around the engine of an airplane, racing car, outboard motor, etc., usually having ducts or vents or
the big shapless robe a monk wears
Aug 2017 · 297
reheated poetry
ogdiddynash Aug 2017
**** coffee won't stay hot,
**** poetry writing
interrupts and the coffee cools
even in my porcelain cup
of Van Gogh's sunflowers,
too **** fast

thinking wouldn't it be better
if the coffee stayed hot and
you could reheat the drafts
as needed

on the tenth trip to the microwave,
it occurs wth a laughter burst
no changing required
it is poetry that keeps him heated
all night long,
and coffee only fills in the ****
daytime spaces
till the poetry comes
to warm his dreams
diddy 8/13/17
ogdiddynash Aug 2017
11:20 am

no luddite me.

no longing for the good old days.

from one oft abused little phone,
while bathing royally
in my cowardly four legged lioness tub

got my music, my reading list, sports pages,
and if so inclined, shoot off a quickie,

a poem for your grateful nation appreciation.

all of which causes me to issue a heartfelt happy cry

of the prehistoric techie avanti,


which does not deserve the opprobrium of

"Shut Up, Please"

from the the galley kitchen where the women are

doing their whatever gossipy kitchen thing.

not to be accused of non-responsiveness,

I reply as the techno Fourth Tenor,

"can't hear you, why don't you text me!"

and happily issue another,

more thoughtful basso,


and whisper a whisker of a self satisfying


*ogdiddy nash
vincerò! I will win/vanquish! (Italian)

last line of "Nessun dorma" which Pavorotti sang at the closing ceremony of the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin

a good educashun is a terrible thing to waste.
ogdiddynash Jul 2017

the unexpected pleasure of a peach

zenith moist, ripened to the exact state
when peaking is a squealing of bite size wet living pleasures,
and all is conquered,
and of course,
you're filled with loss
at the absence of perfection
in important things,
now with despair destructed,
new fear infecting fears
so many forces intersecting,
and one simply wishes to surrender
and then the peach texts the brain

*no way
you may have peaked,
but tomorrow and fore-next,
you'll pick another like me,
and plant my pit beneath
your picture window
and must perforce
live another day
in the shadow of my hope,
the scent of my existence
for the teachers
ogdiddynash Jul 2017
No tengo - Spanish for don't have*


woke up bushy and mushy,
"Siri, get my muse on the line,"
wise *** asked which one,
guess she was feeling feisty
as well as girl-gorgeous,
poem perfect on a July 2 Sunday

fake growled and she said
"alright, alright, just a sec..."

"0 Muse, it's me,
it's not even seven am,
got the urge, ready to cruise,
pick me one of my Natman outfit de-skyizes and
let us write many jive poems
let us write till the sunsets texts us

sire, dude,
just above the horizon,
poems no mas,
unless you will write by
the fire of the maister's grill"

My Muse,
strangely morose, denies replies,

"sorry sire, (she's nice English)
all of the available words
have been purchased until
July twenty tooth"

What, I screamed, threatened and challenged,
must be one of those rude dude tech billionaires,
who think limitless is just another word for more please!

"get me god on the line so I can maccabee end,
this poetic oppression"

He/She an old friend,
an A list star of many prior writs,
would surely insist that a
special rabbinical dispensation,
could be found to squeeze nattyman me,
a few thousand or so

God  (looking straight at him, makes him crazy)

"so many things I do not have such as,
your prolificacy,
making me jealous that all your poets
rain down in greater quantities
than I can manufacture clear crystallinely
but now is the hour of your power,
the minute of my need,
give me some words please"

the disembodied voice's disemboweled me

"sorry son,
gotta run,
if it is words you want,
suggest get an in with
wordvango and betterdays,
me,  no tengo!
their profligacy,
poems by the hour
have drained the list,
and had I not put a stop to it,
they would have taken them all
till Christmas!"

*So made me some future reservations,
selling them likes suns, 3 for a dollar,
which is even cheaper, (Eliot!)
no ifs and ands about (it)
come see the maister natser,
my words are made of obsidian
and specialty Valyrian steel,
and nobody eats my words
they just-wink at them,
then lift some, a nice steal
cause I never read a poem
ogdiddynash May 2017
shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
keeps this wordy would be poet,

all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice


How to Cook Everything

the secret is in the human spices...

all dishes require clear cool scented breaths blown of pure lung oxygen,

hot dishes need heated, thrumming,

stir with skin cells of a clean

stir with skin cells of a garden soil digging

to taste, a dash of salted directly dropped eye

a sprig of mind

spring water to clarify
the recipe,

the sweat of love and joyful

did you think of the kitchen speaking?

nay, the prep of the human mind
swollen with the possibilties of love.
the touch taste of two

how I love to cook!
May 2017 · 232
How to Cook Everything
ogdiddynash May 2017
How to Cook Everything

the secret is in the human spices...

all dishes require clear cool scented breaths blown of pure lung oxygen,

hot dishes need heated, thrumming,

stir with skin cells of a clean

stir with skin cells of a garden soil digging

to taste, a dash of salted directly dropped eye

a sprig of mind

spring water to clarify
the recipe,

the sweat of love and joyful

did you think of the kitchen speaking?

nay, the prep of the human mind
swollen with the possibilties of love.
the touch taste of two

how I love to cook!
ogdiddynash May 2017
Gumby, Wood Woodpecker and Me

somewhere in the mother lode
of a thousand poems scripted,
lies a pen-pained tribulation, an old ode,
to the taming of the shrew,
the shock and awe of my new born,
slept-on hair mode

she says,
rise up quick!
thy self to the mirror dispatch,
see what god hath wrought
upon thy head this brand new morn

blessed am I,
at this late stage,
in posses of a
goodly and shocking amount
of hair au naturel

each of my body's parts has a mind of its own,
my hairs, each one a different opinion and resultantly
an amazing new creation born come dawn

sometimes straight up like Gumby
she quips,
sometimes a shocking tail to one side
in the style of one Woody Woodpecker,
she mockingly cries!

and on and on each daily
a new cartoon characterization proposition,
until one day in feigned wrath I do reply

*just you wait Mrs. Higgins, just you wait,
you will rue the day my do
will be best described and descried by you
as akin to that of one known as
SpongeBob SquarePants
Apr 2017 · 299
Mr. Condiment Man
ogdiddynash Apr 2017
Mr. Condiment Man

he arrives around 10:30am,
after the morning rushers and multiple malingerers
have surrendered to the clocker's red glare stare,
the little dictator of time that rules lands far and wide,
and the lunch crush is but a restauranteur's faraway dream

most days, to the last counter stool, he beelines,
the most least desirable seat in all of diner-land,
adjacent to the noise of kitchen,
and its associated higher risks perilous,
a two way swinging door "entera-ance,"
a residency to be avoided most studiously

though hardly a corner for one to go unnoticed,
by virtue of its iffy existence,
unless one likes the increased chance of
being a  victim of a crashing accident,
Mr. Condiment Man goes in and out, silently unremarked
but very noticed

in our land of spacious skies and amber waves of plastic,
customarily any "regular" is happily accorded a
rousing Sousa welcome, but that mistake now twice made,
is a historical hurry up-to-be-please-be-forgotten incident,
and the Condiment Man's cloaking invisibility second only to the
NYC's Famous Actors seeking breakfast amidst the common people

no words are passed, no pleasantries are planted,
the rule of incommunicado silence, for both sides now,
most happily observed, like a UN peacekeeping boundary

quick appears Cream of Tomato soup accompanied by
ever multiplying handfuls of packages of Nabisco
crackered packets, freshly fracked, with a ketchup Heinz handy,
a soupçon of five iodized salt shakes in the soup then interred,
salt released from the prototypical glass shaker whose universality usage seems to be a Federal law o' the land

the meal in silence arrives,
silently but oh-so-slowly-consumed,
it's extenuating circumstances lengthily enhanced by intermittent deliveries of additional cracking crackers,
and an occasional lip smacking,
and an unrequited unrequested unremarked
  "topping off" soup refillament,
this one act play presented daily
with a free tall glass of water in red plastic also refillable,
as needed

a play with no official ending,
no white topped, green lined, ripped from the ubiquitous diner pad, scribbled, billing ever presented,
but the loose change precisely, scrupulously counted then
upon the counter left, materializes by the hands
of the unacclaimed Mr.  Condiment Man,
which he sources from pockets various
in places where no pocket rightfully  belongs

you can set you watch by his timed departure
at five minutes of Twelve, he is no longer,
the play thus ended, the audience to feet leaps,
relieved and appreciative of the quiet man's drama
and his most excellent silent soliloquy

some strange human need satisfied and pleased
for all parties concerned, when the New York Times
revealed that this C.C. man left a 50 million dollar estate donated
to Meals-on-Wheels,
a fortune amassed by speculation in
condo's (ha!),

there was no shocked groaning,
only some perfunctory observing that frugality has its place,
and that this fantastick show, now closed, would be
sorely missed, for it had become a
condiment itself
a spice in the lives of so many

Mar 2017 · 555
wet bread
ogdiddynash Mar 2017
bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'

an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend

the messenger, me,
recommends  le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping

"I don't like wet bread"

she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...

what other dark secrets doth this ***** harbor?

march 26 2017 10:11 am
Mar 2017 · 735
this little poem mine
ogdiddynash Mar 2017
this little poem mine
sadly, died upon the vine,

tho watered and sun'd,
tended and tendered,
to and from your neglect,
it sadly surrendered,

from which there is
no respite or surviving

three or four sprouts tall,
grounded, now homeward bounded,
from dust to dust,
earth to ash,
this little poem ******,
to the dustbin condemned,
my sweetest, petitest, little trash,,

never to be read again.*

0ggdiddy Nash
ogdiddynash Mar 2017
10:06pm and they're coming at me again
a chorus demanding a chanson,
holding my brain for ransom,
the twenty six against the world's every languages' dictionary,
cacophony of a single voice demanding
provide pleasure of the interior mind's designery
obey obey the elemental electric eleventh finery
write anything that honors the poet's day
write something about remanding
*the world back to where we all belong
bex challenging me one mo' time

World Poetry Day is a time to appreciate and support poets and poetry around the world. It is held on March 21 each year and is an initiative of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).
ogdiddynash Mar 2017
every each born in fluid of the belly of belief*


every each,
born in fluid
of the belly of belief,
surrounded by unique amniotic liquid

one-of-a-kind mixology combination
flavors of a thousand prior drinks,
love makings
of ancestral strangers

what were they thinking
if they were thinking

every each
will be a poet warrior

son or daughter,
doctors or ******,
judges or criminals,
survivors or end-of-liners?

matters not,
each and every,
both or either

which God will they worship
if to one they do concede,
what etching will they mark
on the mental earth
that all will have passed through and shared,
ultimately concede?

i cannot write code
because belief seems unbelievable
and I leave a brutal mark upon the earth surface by refusing to procreate

ogdiddynash Nov 2015

early Saturday morn marked,
looks as if it will be a as-scheduled,
chill fall brisk one, a November blend,
sun wants in, but clouds say,
uh-uh, no way Jose,
yet the yellow star insists, persists

the bed so coy, suggests a ploy

stay with me, stay with her,
ready steady in this hearts hearth,
let this Saturday be an Ogdiddynasherday

*the blonde deep sleeps,
covers up to the nose,
she doesn't know
and never will

that the edges of my eyes filled with tears,
watery from amniotic fluid,
a byproducts of this days first time ever

a moment morning marked, colored by
early morn re-readings of prior poems,
of darling love mended with tender,
writ expressly for her,
over the years of being

soon that other pair (of eyes) will open,
in a new way,
anew the day,
a whole new world,
a seventh day resting,
unaware of my steadfast guardian,
over-watching protection

will inform her of the Saturday menu,
stay in bed with her obedient server-man,
performing continual catch up
on who we are and why we be a we,
with out ever thinking
that's a good idea,
just like this poem came unplanned,
just an unscheduled day in bed,
woman and man,
with a new poem snuggling
in between
November 7, 2015
7:02 am
ogdiddynash Jun 2015

threw out bottles and bottles
of aged liquor mixes and
some liquor too old
for brain risk taking,
tonic water that could
no longer tonic,
margarita mix that might
mix a stomach story poorly,
spirits that had seen better days,

cranky and worse,
twenty plus such  characters
from bottom shelf pulled
all well gray coated covered,
in twenty plus dusty seasons' complainings...

clanked and clanged the plastique bag
of liquid trash to the curb,
perhaps purposely others to awaken,
perhaps the thought occurred,
that no minute or opportunity must go underutilized,
unlike my glassy expired companions,
in happy contemplation
"whatever will the neighbor's think?"

****, those party animals
didn't invite us!


you're never too young to forget
where you left
those critical external ****** appurtenances,
the jangly, yet magically disappearing
into a stony metaled silence when needed,
bunch of keys,
so mission critical to
the sweet savory of
our lives' mission

you think you should write
you're never too
but that would be stale bread,
old news, insufficiently poem-worthy,
coated in stale peanut butter and jelly

no, young
is written tight and right,
for in the days of selfies and tinder,
'tis the season of
easily committing grievous
social personal errors
that it almost criminal,
forgetting those keys
and their locking companion's,
who also serve us
daily, dually

unlocking our hearts
open wide
to all things
kind and wonderful,
love long lasting

yet to intently lock us up,
safe secure from
those that who would predate
their own young,
or noise suppress your own best songs

so don't casual place those keys,
in the bowl by the door,
key kept close upon thy person,
for though they may be
pointy pocket causing misery originals,
keep them forever handy
for they are thy keeper of thy sources,
the third hand that
opens up the treasures of


twelve princes had I,
from the sun king's corona
they were born and derived,
with a "hop" and skip
from Mexico,
they, conquistadores came north quick,
seeking the salutations and praise
of our eastern middle states'
summer breezy kisses

I met then at George's
our island supermarket,
to which they came seeking shelter

our island so small,
that all purveyors,
homes too,
are shtetl nominated by
each owner's name,
even if the first to inhabit,
though long from the island rabbited,
so they are deeded and recorded

one prince, the bravest spoke,

"Let me be the first
and  thru my neck,
you poetic thirst to quench"

and as I tippled the long necked Corona

**into the overheated imagination
of my amplifying belly
their parental sun did whisper,
"**** good thing
there are eleven more!'
ogdiddynash May 2015
I would rather write one good poem
and have it lost
to you and you,
among the waterfall crushing
of trite and rushing verbal droppings
and the infrequent masterpieces

years from now
mediocre and facing  myself,
at a dyed and dying
years from now

admission: confession:
my goal was
glory and fame,
to be celebrated,
recalled and retained,
if only
by myself,
with smidgened satisfaction

my Cain mark,
is not a celebration
of a brother's birthright
thy name
literary adulation

like so, too many
other failures recorded
lost to lol but me,
but one,
this one(?)
to enfold
in my
withering, neatly-voiceless
saying and believing,
with this one,
**I have justified
my existence
ogdiddynash Mar 2015
the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...

as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
poems, my exported
all posted to be
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you

all to
feast on this
when I
hallelujah you...

"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal

but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive

if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....

for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed

there is nothing more
than being
so when I
I praise each and everyone

it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
the words
of our blood

act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
do it
not just now but,
ogdiddynash Mar 2015
Aging Poetry Well (proving the valor of writing poetry)

no more write, post, establish
to your immediate satisfaction,
what you are
what you think
is an amazing piece of
just you,
the world needs it, you,

needy for the
cosplay contemporaneous sharing,
curse of our
instantaneous time

from now on
deep down, gonna let it
casket age,
let memory
of the intensity
rust sufficiently to
get some time~plied
rusted accurate actualized

maybe trash it,
maybe tinker and
spot-check edit,
but if it is going
to stand
time testing,
let it pass a
first Herculean
examination of
fire and forget,
returning later
to collect it,
the wounded
refusing to die,
thus proving proof,
the valor of
red badged courage of
writing poetry

is it worthy long after
the internal commotion
has passed,
just like
an ordinary
but very first

"I love you"

forming and reforming
then blurted in  
a wunderkind awkwardness,
that can't be
taken back,
well, *** and all that

put me aside,
could be weeks,
the thing I love most,
waiting for the day I
need it worse,
a lot less,
so I can
do it better

maybe even go back
look up them
odd old folks,
written in
longing ago high passion,
and come at them
or wistfully,
and like me,
for better
for worse
Mar 2015 · 449
ogdiddynash Mar 2015
you scam me in so many places,
urgently ubiquitous,
contact me ASAP
on gmail,
cause we got so much in common

you want to borrow some bucks to;

ransom your brother,
claim a bank account
you'll gladly share,
buy your own freedom from
a Nigerian pirate,
my oh my
what an imagination,
ever try you hand at
writing poetry?

you so deserve a poem
all your own
Ms. Stephanibaby

we got so much in common,
we both scam the hearts of man,
you profit and for gain
inflicting some pain
free of charge

me, with words,
free of charge,
just hoping they will
charge someone's heart

I see they deleted you account,
no worries babe,
you will always have a place
permanently here
now that
I have immortalized
you girl
in free words of
humorous contempt
ogdiddynash Jan 2015
X-rays of the soul,
Madame Chan proclaims,
translucent we stand,
visible out and inside
before our creator,
but only to that
limitable being

if only there were a machine such,
on earth, as in heaven

perhaps seventeen Frenchman,
one hundred and forty five,
mostly Pakistani children,
or thirty five
no longer alive,
just barely mentioned,
already forgotten,
Yemeni young
police cadets,
two NYPD,
might still be adjudged
innocent by those

who only see themselves in mirrors,
blindly believing
they are created
in the image of
and knowledgeable in the
execution of
his will

if human Justice is thus blinded,
perhaps God is too?

we need much betters cameras...
more accurate selfies...
Nov 2014 · 2.9k
The Intimate MaN
ogdiddynash Nov 2014
here there everywhere.
regular like.
verb and noun,
he, both.
soiled, soiled.
verb, noun.

a stupid~sounding word.
say ***** *****
***** three times fast.

what is a sound of *****?

what is the color of *****?
every color that leaves you,
or even begins you,
soiled, sullied, tainted.

the intimate man did not intimate.

his stains were visible.
no need for polite,
needless the charade,
of legitimizing intimacy,
there for all to see.

they were no longer
he did not know why,
after awhile,
he didn't care.

pretended intimacy,
which was a ***** thing,
a stainless steel cutlery
kind of *****.
a reflection visible only to the
eye of the beholder.

cutlery was never clean,
soiled, after but one use,
in the mouth, with the hands.

such intimacy,
that, they still shared.
an easy pretense.

terror is intimate
and *****.

lived in terror.
not constant which implies periodic spaces.
no breaks.
the terror soiled him,
you did not need even be intimate with me.

see, smell it.
taste it,
even better!

though the terror was deeply intimate,
in the skin embedded,
I told ya,
easy visible.
easy to avoid the intimacy of

clean, silky clean intimates,
changed regular,
changed nothing.

intimacy was a Cain mark.
his private, public.
his public, privy.


shame is intimate.

there are so many kinds too.
the shame of soiled.
the shame of disrespect,
the shame behind closed doors.
the shame of public humiliation.
the shame, the stink, of failure.
the shame we share in ways
we wish not speak of.
the shame of bad grammar,
shame leaves you soiled, *****.

shame on you for having read so far.

but you can boast
you knew me when,
you knew me
bad and well.

you knew
that you did not know
anything about me,
even though,
we had been
at least
this one time,

who is soiled now?
Oct 2014 · 1.6k
Three For Life
ogdiddynash Oct 2014
touch~teach her eyelashes
with my index finger,
her toes ask why
they must, no choice,
my heart answers,
one, one, one


The truths that sway
within my hands,
my body follows,
am music borne,
we each of us
sway differently,
because my hand traces,
my beloved's waist,
soon enough,
never soon enough,
we are
two, two, two


no no not religious,
but miracles observed
quite regular

two becomes one,
emerald melded,
a yellow blonde, how extraordinary,
his blue eyes, lately
gray flecked,
blue and yellow
combined make
emerald melded,
thus two becomes one,
one becomes
a recombinant color,
and new is now
three, three, three

three that rhymes
not with me,
or her,
but the three that rhymes
with me and thee
which makes
three, three, three, thee
for life
Oct 18 2014
ogdiddynash Aug 2014
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?

that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend

that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall

morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell

cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more

begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle

worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
what ifs,
oh goddamnnotagain

because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
cracked door would be open

yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of

brain sneers
like every other
minute, ok,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?

just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******,
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!

you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey

the nagging realization
that when asking

no one answers

when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest

who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered

by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his *******
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
Jul 2014 · 1.6k
he named me after him
ogdiddynash Jul 2014
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us,
Holy Ghost of Rhyme
ogdiddynash Jul 2014
partly cloudy,
partly sunny,
clearly an indecisively
partly day,
bored, the heavens organized
a garden party, sky above,
eclectic crowd,
minted mixed,
party of partly
clouds, wind, sun rays,
summer showers and somehow,
I got partly invited...

but not partly windy,
no, entirely gusty

a workingman's breeze,
all grown up, full strength
has driven the good folk inside,
tho sailboats are entouraging fully,
just me and them in
Red Sea parting, a full blow,
unmistakably encouraging partying,
while under the influence
of white line snorting poetry

what is this partly poem doing?

receiving or bringing,
like the swirly gusts,
empowered but direction unknown,
I am partly confused,
I am partly clarified

lacking the metaphor skill,
he says to himself,
and to the over-hearers,
part with me not!

for I am partly this and that,
looking for reconciliation
of my accounts in full,
and will rely on your guidance
to seal the beams, patch the cracks,
write the parts of me that
you shall connect and declare
in one voice, unified

Will you?

— The End —