"beastie" poems
**I peer at the world
And all I see is
possible impossibilities
fictional realities
counterfeit originality
impotent functionality
locomotive staticity,
and rigid elasticity
beside Beastie humanity...**
*I look at the world
and all there's
are peaceful wars
Less Mores
widely locked doors
criminal laws
a stinking rose
and fragrant "choos"
I look at the world
and sadly I see all those...
I even see stepped on toes
on sand-less shores...*
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
On Turning her up in her Nest with the Plough
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
O what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’:
And naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, oh! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
3.8k
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
he runs across the floor
eight legged little beastie
one of nature's nightmare tools
a necessary evil, clean-up module
I leave him alone, as much right as I
to this lonely landing in moonlight
Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 3:44 PM UTC
The house was always empty
Three roads over, two roads back
Never saw a light on
Windows painted black
Fields were always empty
Never saw a sign of life
The gloom that hung around it
You could cut it with a knife
Haunted, yep...it's haunted
Said the people of the house
In fact they always whispered
And were quiet like a mouse
When talking of the cursed place
Just in case the house could hear
You could feel the hair raise on your arms
When ever you were near
Haunted Houses, ghosts and ghouls
They exist and break the rules
I believe, and I'm no fool
in Haunted Houses, ghosts and ghouls
Every year at Halloween
The house is on the news
They film it from a distance though
Because they're shaking in their shoes
For almost ninety years or so
It's been dark and void of light
And somehow it seems darker
On that one October night
Stories fly around the town
Of how children disappear
It's just a nasty rumour
Based on someone's healthy fear
The house is just a building
Nothing going on I see
But, go and knock upon the door
Ask anyone but me
Haunted Houses, ghosts and ghouls
They exist and break the rules
I believe, and I'm no fool
in Haunted Houses, ghosts and ghouls
Even in the daylight hours
The house has people scared
I've never been out there myself
And I've been triple dared
I turned it down and ran away
I'm not afraid to tell
Because the noises coming from the house
Sound like the hounds of hell
I know there's ghosts and beastie things
Living in the place
And every year on Halloween
I'm afraid they'll show their face
I know the stories that they tell
At least half of them are true
I believe in ghosts and ghoulies ....and
I need to know...do you?
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
wee ribbit, hoppin, daftie beastie
a rebber baind is in tha breastie
thou needs but waindie baindie up
and off tha hop
i *** be laith to rin an chase thee
tha niver stop
wee hoppin freggie tha smal laigs
is baitter spring than sailver stail
but i wud giv ye this advaice:
dinna tak a chance
some think tha laigs a taestie meal
dinna *** ta france
nu laieth flattie en the wa'
laik paice o' paeper gon astra'
nae mair tha hoppin in the aer
sae daft an barmy
the ainly fewture fair thee now
is origami
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:21 AM UTC
*(this poem don't matter much
unless you balk with ***** to essay upon,
thyself, thy valentine failures,
children and ex's who have ex'd you out,
sad love songs
one more time,
even joyous ones,
foolishness human,
then this intro source code,
is an unnecessary winter weather advisory)*
a phrase, song~played, scratches,
brain self-commands
via electric synapse
To: the current in-resident body
extrude denude private places
riff,
get to thy work,
decompose on them words:
in the private places
play with the lowly lowest ranking,
private, who by nature, sees
finer the dirtiest,
privy to the privy,
privilege them
to the most personal,
spit/spill/weep/deep
some or none of it all,
cause the scratch is the
poetic salvation to that
bitch~itch, write
the best you get,
dispossess the beastie best
in the pvt. places,
ain't much/no difference
tween beastie and all the crapper rest
draw from the private places,
cast up to light,
revelations devaluations sensations
impolite,
well kept secrets
if you can say it good,
then draw it up from the well
where the private places
were|where sent to drown,
and if you can't,
no bother brother,
after this exculpation excavation,
I'll go back with you
to adding a rock to the
bottom of the pile,
the mountain of superficial crap
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Keep your fists in the air,
Like the line from my favorite Beastie Boys song, “You’ve gotta fight for your right”
Making sacrificial lambs of your youth
I wish the Dalai Lama would commend you
Young warriors
Keeping your heritage wrapped around the soles of your feet as you march in protest
Crying out for help,
I feel the torment of hypocrisy
I am disgusted,
How can we be so blind?
How can we put our want for economic stability over the extermination of an entire culture?
The Middle Way is no way to go
The 21st century equivalent to the Trail of Tears
The silent “members” of the Chinese society
Fight tooth and nail for the right to speak your language
It is beautiful.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC
Now,
Don't you tell me to chill.
Like the Beastie Boys I've
got a license to ill.
Over-confident for
insecurity's sake.
An ego so big
sudden drops could
cause a quake.
Now,
Shake-Sha-Shake
it up.
A poem so apathetic
it might give a ****
Wanting to rap; also
wanting to write --
don't mistake my words
for something tight.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:09 PM UTC
how is the weather today,
the inquiry semi-formally, mumbly delivered
(in pj's, eyes closed, body turned away)
and I softly smile for somewhere here
the poet-boy once wrote
"all my poems begin with weather"
and the composing begins, which of course,
is the decomposing of me-pieces
into nanosecond emotions
that each becomes a verses
until a certain voice
wise whispers "no mas"
my reply, nano bytes of me,
is a forecast personal and tailored
to our GPS location,
the bedroom
"Swami says
looking inside, outside too,
report and retort
it appears quite nice,"
(quietly semi-whispering,
100% chance of snuggling, followed by severe
love making, its arrival foreshadowed by lighting biting and
foot rubbing, and licking winds of heaving breathing,
conditions, we explorers of the caves and local mounts
so oft encounter on our Atlantic captive isle,
and bravely sally forth to face its bullets of kicks 'n kisses)
from under the covers,
we hear swarming,
warning bolts of
snorting derision
but this fire eating ,
most fearsome
nostrillian, reptilian morning beastie noise,
we hardy sailors hardily choose to ignore
but lack of detail is unappreciated so our response amended:
"looking outside, report and retort
it appears quite nice, with 100% chance
of showers of coffee and kisses"
which earns me a sweetie kick
all my poems, the poet-man once wrote,
"all my poems end with whether"
*apparently, this one as well.
oh well, oh well!*
7/8/17 8:14am
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
I miss you.
I miss the way your eyes shone when they set on ancient stone.
I miss the cadence of your dusky voice when it spoke to those no one else could see.
I miss the glee that drove you deeper to the past.
I miss all the love you once had to give.
I miss you, my tender wild adventurer.
I love you my vicious beastie.
I wish I could find you once more.
Sit and talk for awhile of all of the things that were felt, of all of the things that were said. Of all of the beautiful traumas and the wonderful scars.
You were beautiful in your poetic misery. In your deep blue aloneness. You were a vision on the shores of the Loch. I wonder now and again where you are. Are you wandering round this globe or are you quite trapped, as I suspect you are. Because sometimes I see you beating on the brown bars of your cell, when I look in the mirror.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
Knock knock...
Who's there?
It's the fire in your belly,
just checking you're aware...
Hey, you know... I'm still here...
I'm not going anywhere.
It seems I used to be volcanic,
now I barely singe a hair.
Magmatic in my golden days,
when did I grow dormant?
As you aged you acquiesced,
not living in the moment.
Rekindle my cinders,
your indifference is abhorrent.
You used to fight for your beliefs,
now the white flag is a soaring.
Give me white hot purpose,
give me a voice that roars,
the Beastie Boys fought for their right,
why can't you fight for yours?
You only get one shot,
you chose a pushover to the core?
Don't be the heedless hero,
be an involved...
*******
Tyrannosaur.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
...So They Both Walk in class, sits down and the teacher
Tells them to take out the quiz of math, the class sighs in frustration,
He stares at her from across the room hoping to have some continuation,
Maybe of the little encounter they had in the hall , or the eye contact that
Overwhelmed him for 20 minutes,
Class ends and then they all leave and head out the door, he almost
Tripped , face almost hitting the floor, As kids laugh,
There she goes standing over him again, Rosey red cheeks , so nervous
That she can barely stand,
She says, "Hey think you might need a tutor for the weekend" he replies "um
Mmmmmmmmmmm" Nervously , she laughs and gives him a piece of
Paper "Here's my number , just text me the address and I'll be there in a hurry...
By the way the names Felicia" And she walks off with a smile,
Hasn't had a girl give him her number in awhile,
Except this cute teenage beastie back in seventh grade knowing that cute teenage beastie with no name since kindergarten,
Reminiscent toward the days when they would ride they're bikes to school in a trance listening to mp3's of techno music they couldn't buy , back when he
Lived in Colorado,
He always knew her but she never would reveal her name, he knew that when
He moved that he would see her someday, she use to where a hoodie and a pink
Shoe string around the wrist to hide the cuts, kids bullying her in school and every time she walked home they called her nuts,
Because he was there to witness it all and stopped those kids,
But why they picked on her? Is because of what her mother did,
Her mother is bipolar and has been on drugs forever,
Carrying the burden, he would never ever leave her, but he did,
Thinking back when he would spend nights cuddling her to sleep,
A lot memories don't stay in peoples minds , it just repeats,
So he gets up , walks into the hall and heads to lunch,
There was a person with a hoodie watching him walk and such...
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
sunlight tickles me in the jungle-wood
and smoking men and nice girls find me with eyes closed
i am quickly hungry and irate for blunts and breakfast
unnamed purrs drip down my throat
where the fangs sleep
slick scotches skip skillfully sharp
and beastie boys know how to kick it live
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
Beasties in cages.
Dried up minds
conspiring
newfound finds
of old disillusions.
Unknown sorrow
from silent
retributions.
If only these tears
were just dreams
instead of the women,
and little children's,
stabbing schemes.
Lock you up
for another day,
tomorrow's struggles
unending.
Sleep doesn't cure all
of the mockery bending
the very walls of your cage
young beastie.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
I can see the ***** glass that is sitting on my sill.
All its moulding contents, look dying, dead or ill.
And the grime along the edge,
Of which seems quite foisty
Seems to be crawling
Closer. Simply just to meet me.
I can hear the cries of every rotting, little beastie.
Every shout, every whisper. All sung so sweetly.
And the pleas for a saviour
All of which are futile,
Seem to be crawling
Closer. Simply just to meet me.
I can smell the corpses of the dead, old and new.
Soon one day, those corpses could be either me or you.
Then we pray for a saviour,
As Death draws near and close, He
Seems to be crawling
Closer. Simply just to meet me.
I can feel the dust that covers my skin and my clothes.
Although it has not been long, my time is getting old.
As I begin to decay
And my mind is not my own. They
Seem to be crawling
Closer. Simply just to meet me.
I can taste the bitterness from that glass on my sill.
I was wrong, it’s not the contents, but I, who is ill.
Life goes and life comes but He
Remains. Death still walks the Earth.
As it seems to be crawling. Moving.
Surrounding me. Simply just to keep me.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
I barely got to know you; I never even got to hold you,
But, god, I loved you, baby.
To the moon, to the stars, to wherever you now are, I loved you.
And, believe me, I’m far from the only one.
It’s so unfair that we’re down here and you’re up there but you won’t be alone or forgotten. Because not now, not ever, not for one moment will your memory fade.
Cruel ‘what if’s and ‘could have been’s will stick with us too, for time, poignant and painful as such things can be, but don’t doubt for even a second that you, our little warrior, my little Beastie, were worth every moment of joy and heartache a million times over.
I took a shot for you, you know; I’d take a hundred more, a thousand, or however many it took to get the chance to see you look up at me with big blue eyes that remind of simpler times, noonday skies, and warrior cries.
There are chances I wanted, countless memories I wanted to make, a lifetime of stumbles and laughs I’ll forever long to see and hear. But you’re still there, will always be there, even if it’s not the way I thought. Even if it’s not the way it should be, it’s the way it is, and I find solace in the fact that now, at least, you feel no pain. And if we must hurt so you can have peace, well, it’s a price we’re all willing to pay.
Because you, little man, have been so loved in your short time with us, precious and so special, that there isn’t anything in this world or any other we wouldn’t hesitate to do.
Our little warrior, the little boy who conquered everyone he met without need of a smile. The little boy with the heart of a lion, whose fire burned brighter than the stars above. Whose fight touched people and whose life – brief but shining bright – made them stronger
We’ll never forget you, Wyatt.
And, in the time we have between now and when we see you again, may we all try our hardest to have the strength that you did.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Oh, tim'rous beastie
This wind is too much for me
Do not fly away
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 2:31 PM UTC
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
*** one measly **** sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked
via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons,
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety a plenti
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
"tim'rous beastie...an' fellow mortal!"
slaw...unhurrit
you stare at death...the trap sprung
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
Less any objection with the missus,
versus never experiencing living alone
well...yes during that rough patch,
(sans during early adolescence),
I existed in a bone
huff fied impenetrable cocoon,
and just maybe before
yours truly dies, a clone
can be created from
stem cells of this doggone
melon collie, whimpering
beastie boy finally revelling,
where destiny does enthrone
me rendering unfettered
with round the cluck nymph fone
mani yolk hen pecking, nagging,
and leaching... from blood *******
vampire spouse foregone
as a "bad" dream worse
than getting Rhode
Island sized gallstone
removed subsequently
saving said as gemstone
whiling away hours, days, weeks...
chiseling away at my gravestone,
no matter yours truly will get cremated
ashes scattered, liberated, and dispersed
finally exempt from grindstone,
where thee spirit
of Math Hew Homophone
Scott Harris appeased
as powdery gray flecks
similar to limestone,
that swirl reintegrating with Earth,
this quirky I poetically intone,
and soundlessly utter from jawbone,
perhaps communicating more
clearly by knucklebone.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC