"attired" poems
1279
The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.
Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.
Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.
Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away
By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—
By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!
6k
bandanna knotted in your hair,
you are
eloquently attired, and almost
always a little late; it ok.
you aren't
beholden
to standard notions of
punctuality or
Americanized dreams of
mechanistic triumph over the
virus of Nature.
you are more and less and equal to
the sum of your
constituent parts and
you are exquisite.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
**On 2nd Dec 1984
Occurred
World’s worst industrial disaster,
“The Bhopal gas tragedy”
Leaving thousands dead,
Children orphaned and many people with disabilities for life.
Following day,
Cries of help were heard
Amongst the dead,
Lay few children alive
Shone bright, a ray of hope,
Miraculously the deadly effects
Of the gas they could cope.
Taken under the caring wings of an NGO,
With Medical aid administered
And the vital support to grow.
Amongst the children
There was a girl named Ganga
And a boy named Ravi,
together with other such children,
they grew up,
Finding solace in each other’s
Company.
When reached teenage,
the girls had to be moved in a women’s hostel.
Distanced made them closer to each other,
And, the love grew stronger.
Ganga always dreamt of riding pillion on a bike with Ravi .
Ravi, the crazy boy,
sold his house (compensation by govt.)
And fulfilled her desire,
Often they went for long rides.
In the following years,
The love bloomed,
And
With blessings and love,
their marriage was solemnised
By the NGO.
All the women from the hostel
Joined the wedding ceremony,
Bollywood songs were played loudly,
The Haldi, Sangeet and Mehendi
ceremony made it more lively
On the wedding day,
Ganga attired in traditional weaves
And bridal make up,
A beautiful bride she looked
The hostel warden and her spouse
did her “Kanyadan”.
Fortunate was I to bear
the testimony of the union,
As I stayed in the working women’s hostel then.
Ganga moved in to her house
with Ravi to welcome a life anew.**
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 12:28 AM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Magnetizing physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
From sleeps sweet embrace
To become realities eyes
Clouded with a dark imagination
Set forth in a torturous rhyme
Insanity my love
Premeditated thoughts undisclosed
Revealed the prophecy
Attired in woe
Each long night when dreams turned to sand
The delicate soul lay bathed in tears
Doing battle protected by the amour of loyalty
Overcoming the conquests of fear
Nightmares emerged from sleeps sweet embrace
Memories became realities stark face.
Morning comes and ends the assault
A peace that is gained
At a terrible cost.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Concinnity of rapid motion in balance and proportion,
round the ballroom, like the synchronized frequency
of vibration in a crystal quartz. Whirling contortion
of bodies embraced in movement's revealing intimacy.
They are partners. They are dancers. They are lovers
wantonly stoking libido's hot glowing embers;
promenade affirming keen awareness to the vigors
of the steps, footfalls and technique of its pretenders.
Gown and tux attired, passionate accessories to the cult;
merengue, fox-trot, rhumba, abandonment's fertility rites
to gods and goddesses, danced with such elegant result,
they are immortalized in time --- divine service to the night.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
The son of man
Jesus Christ
Headed to river Jordan
True to the prophesy,
To meet John the Baptist.
Opening the sky
Father above
Jesus in
Jordan River
The Holy Sprit
Incarnated in a dove
Were revealed
The 3-in-1 mystery
To solve.
This as a backdrop,
Carrying replicas of the
Ark of the covenant
On their head,
Putting on
Gold-embroidered
Motely religious robes
Priests go to a nearby river
By the laity
Tagged, flanked
And lead.
In white costumes attired
The laity
Who have dressed to ****
Leave no space
On the road to fill.
The colorful procession
Grabs undivided attention.
Melodies hymns
Ear-and-heart-
Pleasing Music
Of harps and many a drum
An electrifying
Effect is the sum.
History has it
That
Ethiopia has been
Celebrating
Epiphany
Keeping originality
As never before
“Ethiopia raises its
Hands to God!”
Is witnessed
In Ethiopia’s Epiphany
Magnified manifold.
Reverberates the song
“Headed to River Jordan
The son of man! ”
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
Today I was accused to being a bad influence yet again,
Simply because I facilitate the forbidden wants/needs of the people I love,
Simply because I give them a place to get high and vent without being judged,
Simply because I create an aura where they feel free to express themselves in whatever ways they like- modest, humble even ******
And simply because the ones they love refuse to facilitate their haram (forbidden).
Haram is bad – we all know this
But being human is about passing through all things good and all things bad.
Being a Muslim, most of my choices are haram;
Not properly attired to the laws of my religion,
My speech is not of a young lady with modesty- rather it is defined with sheer profanity,
I rather laugh from my heart even though it’s supposedly a ****** act,
I refuse to lower my gaze around men; the same men that stole from me
The same men that refused to lower their gaze from me.
I deny myself the potential for love because of the expectation of great dismay
And I drown myself with the 34000 thoughts of what if??!
This poem is becoming a disaster; my thoughts aren’t flowing straight,
I went from bad influence to haram to rebellious to depressing;
What the **** is this **** going on inside my head- it aches with great displeasure.
How do I contain my contradicting self?
Someone help me please, my soul is crying and sobbing for something to fill this void-
The void that is desperately trying to full itself with the acceptance of the people who are hell bent on not accepting me.
Why am I like this? A contradicting ******* disaster
-fir.m
Sep 22, 2020
Sep 22, 2020 at 3:12 PM UTC
Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC
Secretly believing someone is watching
And will benevolently arrive, relieve the pain
When planets collide, lots of stuff goes awry
Every breath you take implicates you deeper
The constant cry of babies being born
Expect monsters worse than you can conceive
There is a dark alley deep in hell
Where strangers go
She was swallowing a horse who
Stomped its hooves
Kicked her in stomach pregnant with you
As soon as you enter
Someone points a finger
Hollers, “Horse child, ****** child!”
Hen-pecked men and angry haughty women
Shame is the only love i know
A murdering mob descends upon
Somebody lynching Christmas tree ornaments
Why isn’t there God?
It’s disturbing to think
We’re all acting out of chump sensibilities
Explain to me again about sociology and greater good
How long can a smell last?
A week? A month? Thousands of years?
What if higher powers exist
Unbeknownst to themselves?
Death fashionably attired without face
The importance in showing teeth
“Caw, caw!” old crow calls, anticipating winter’s squalls
I fire up cigarette, blow smoke in the faces
Of those who said no to my dreams
I’m glad i didn’t know then what i know now
The cost of joy
Tomorrow is magnificent new beginning
If only everything hadn’t happened
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
I was the jubilee runner
You were the southbank stroller
Carried away in your hair
I turn to see you turn,
To turn my steps into
Paused awkwardness
On the platform to my
Heart you stood, standing
Me still dead in my tracks
You were April’s showers
Raining down on my grey
Metro , the girl outside
Waterloo station,
The one sharing my
Thoughts unspoken
Watershed second
I was London’s haze
Set adrift in your eyes
Parted, but closed around
Your boho-chic attired
Kohl hairedness
I see you
Southbank bound
In my eyes forever
Open note to the
Sky you set me adrift
In, in that shy second
You were I, were we,
Were us, less them
All we, paused in the throng
Framed in my clickety
Clacking jubilee my
Train-track love
Story, I was the jubilee
Runner to your
Southbank stroller
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
Magnetising physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
*no wonder i watch *********** it's a moral struggle these days downing a whiskey trying to down america 1930s. al capone would have laughed with me i'm sure, and shouted: cuba! cuba! fiddle castrato! well, there was the violin to mind in tao when the castratos masturbated;. oh look... the pope! where’s my bishop purple and cardinal red? down the toilet, with the goldfish i’m assured: bobs the necktie password concerning the onomatopoeia the bubbles made when appearing: bubbles are called bob... ok?*
it was only an old man attired
in the usual monochrome of gray,
so i walked,
scratched a stone wall,
and by the 2nd gesture similis i
pulled my hand scratching toward my chest
to resemble a stone heart:
equivalent chinese? small is european stone:
writing this i missed six knuckles and felt the rest.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
A deluge of earthly sins,
A waterspout on green leaves,
A hurricane among lull seas,
An equanimity of autumnal eves.
A dilated tale of mundane me.
A million abstruse blocks of C of Co²
A walker among you and me.
A wanderer lost in blue.
Attired by crimson lust of artistry.
A masquerade brew of red wine and dark coffee,
A stark blithe of sanguine comatose,
All drunk and clinging to the thin threads of this unstaged life,
All murdered by the sinical overdose.
The seascape choirs of ocean waves,
Embracing the narcoleptic yellow shorelines,
And evanescent castles
And sail headwind with a mystical concubine.
The iced conundrums of this lost forsaken echoes of winter breeze,
The insanity measured in ones & zeroes,
We're the kings of this deadbeat time,
And praised victories of unsung heroes.
The wanderlust sailors drank the skies,
In mixed cocktails,
And thy heavens sang to this night,
As a melodic madness of wild gales.
Her pale white body declares some love due,
As our lips bled rapture,
And rose a melodramatic cue,
Like words of a closing chapter.
Charged with the flow of adrenal enzymes,
A surrogate from affinity to serendipity,
For in flashback of these forlorn events,
I write this epiphany.
And though these letters are on fire,
And bestowed the bullets over armored heart,
For life exists in the heartache symphonies,
Like a stratagem cliché of painted art.
Call your unfurled knots of wrecked sanity.
A wildfire has gone wild within,
The eloquence thirst of your red lips,
Inked the words of love on this skin.
An audacious lover of seafaring,
Beside the starry onset of a beautiful dawn,
A tide of marvelous mystery,
Whose side are you on?
Its all fiction served with tea,
And through warm sips of this worthy minute,
Change is tempted to render seeds,
That swam through wind, till it escapes and wanders the infinite.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
"Buried in the Sand" by Terry O’Leary
A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.
He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.
"A Rebuttal" by Marshalg
So Hood lied low, despite the show ensueing without help,
One would have thought a British sort would spring forth with a yelp!
Would spring ***** to help deflect contusions which occurred
When beggar Clump adorned the dump confusing all deferred.
Whilst sister Ant, attired in scant, ran forth on spindly legs
And brother Frog with shaggy dog said **** and drank the dregs.
It all became too much, as such, a meelee did ensue,
So all called HALT and as one did BOLT...to the local for a brew!
Phew...that was FUN & hard work!
M.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
For every leaf in Autumn’s fall
A child is lost without recall,
For every song that’s sung for love
A child is whipped by callous glove.
For every latte shared in joy
There’s *** abuse to some small boy,
Each million dollar haul of art
Starvation stills a child’s young heart.
When tears of joy cascade in breeze
A thousand homeless children freeze,
For every morning sunbeam clear
The cloud descends on some child’s fear.
For every excess we consume
Mass underprivelaged children loom,
Blond beauties all attired in red
Unwanted babies left for dead.
Massive plenty for the few
Dispossessed small children *******
Privelaged cold concience clear
Little feet bequeathed the fear.
Global sympathy won’t change
‘Till effete thinking rearranged,
Sanity shall not transform
‘Till WOMAN leaders are the norm.
Marshalg
For the lost legions in our midst.
20 July 2011
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 4:41 PM UTC
*what a love you speak of in sonnet
and in the battle of the Somme!
no wonder Shakespeare is disputed!
only among actor and not poet the two should care.*
free floating lizard akin to the pickle
serpent worth of spine,
she's there, attired in the sun, a biblical
woman hardly a name worth remembering,
why? because she's all *****
and you're all... well... ending up laughing
long after the F.A. cup result is in
and she's lost her daydream...
ooh... 2 nil... i too was into the Faroe Islands
rather than into Craggy Island of: *'drink! drink!
dingy Titanic twin tuck 'n' sunk lucky bet!*
no, really, i was reading an article and started
to laugh... some ***** with a Stephen Hawking
jpeg., i goo my hashish high with porridge...
she said Ibiza was fine with hens but not stags...
she mentions shaggy **** with dispensation
& carrier pigeons of philanthropy or abuse that
fostering advice involves... well, cheap jokes
elsewhere, crucifix over here? what fun to suit
comedy!
NONMONOGAMOUS... ? hey! why not try
a zygote relationship! if trans or bi or hetero
or **** doesn't work? all men around seem
to say the same: i'm not ready for this arson of talk
with a woman tongue replacing both bullet and rifle,
tank, cannon and an arab ******* on holiday...
give me extinction... i'd listen to the lizard man
that hear of mammalian love, that's as much cold
blood with the lizards as i had to learn with keeping
things i worked for being jealous:
it seems it was easier to keep a thief that way than a dog.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Each couple is stopped on the way
this March spring hour
with the city attired at its best
with gulmohar and flame of the forest
in mad bloom of yellow and red
and the hand touches each head
adorned with the season's flower
*blessed be your love
blessed be your luck*
and most of them yielded
to the blessings of the ******
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
They’d crashed the party at midnight
Surely, a motley looking crew,
All of them dressed in the weirdest best
That the Monster Shop could do,
There was Beelzebub, and Astaroth
And the pale Witch of the North,
Ahead of the Prince of Darkness in
A goats-head mask, of course.
They didn’t look out of place, for all
The guests were dressed to ****
One attired as a Fairy Queen
While others were dressed to chill,
Out of the mouth of Frankenstein
The blood poured in a stream,
And though it was only cochineal
It brought the odd party scream.
Most had thought it a great idea
(Except for her folks, who’d cursed),
They’d all dress up in the neighbourhood
For Emily’s twenty-first,
They’d even formed a committee so
They knew what they had to do,
And each would be wearing a different face
So there’d only be one, not two.
They studied the Ars Goetia
And scanned it for demon names,
The butcher had come as Malphas for
He only had brawn, not brains,
The newsagent was Vapula
And his errand boy was Baal,
While the postmaster was Sallos
And he came there, bearing mail.
They all were full of the grapes of wrath
As it chimed the midnight hour,
While Emily surged out like a goth
From the depths of her wardrobe bower,
The house, at 22 Rankine Street
In the ‘burb of Astral Downs,
Was built where an ancient charnel house
Had piled the bodies in mounds.
Her folks had put in a swimming pool
Where there’d been a village well,
Right on top of a demon school
In the seventh circle of hell,
The water began to heave and churn
As Beelzebub drew near,
And it cooked a few of the swimmers there
As their laughter turned to fear.
‘You thought that you could make fun of us,’
Said the Prince of Darkness then,
‘For that, we’re making you one of us,
You won’t bother us again!’
The ‘burb dropped into a bottomless pit
That glowed with the flames of hell,
‘A subterraneaun coal seam fire,’
Said the Fire Chief, Adam Schnell.
Emily’s parents came back home,
Sat in the car, and cried,
‘I told her that Goth stuff wasn’t good!’
‘Too late! Our Emily’s fried!’
They filled it in, there’s a parking lot
Where her parents had sat and cursed,
I’d like to bet, they’ll never forget
Their Emily’s Twenty-First!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
some might call them
mongolian dumplings;
i just call them home;
chewy chow mein, bean spraut
nervous system geography;
oh but aren't you a home away
from home? so welcome,
to be adequately attired..
jolly gee... i better put on my
cowboy hat & shoes as to
just prove the chance of doing a rodeo!
well, you know how the english
just love to talk about travelling to las vegas
and... kentucky... for that juggled fried chicken...
mm yum! i better have me a spare
clown with those wagon tires!
no... wait... israel's coming! dicta dicta,
a non-existent Judah!
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC