"bemused" poems
.
*Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here
Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced
Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls
A song of honeyed bees' sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose
Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs
Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace
A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume
For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste
What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold
These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose
The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart
Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose*
Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Sorting boxes, packing clothes
Assaulted by the past
When you stood and said forever
You both thought it would last
A jewellery box, a trinket here
A gift they never used
A present from five years ago
You smile, a bit bemused
The boxes fill, the tears arrive
You know it must be done
It's the one part of a person's life
That surely isn't fun
Textures and scents surround you
They take you back in time
To a place before computers
When a phone call cost a dime
You fill one box, put it aside
"Donations" on the side
You can picture every item
That you piled up inside
You put them in there lovingly
You didn't want to let them go
By releasing them into the box
It forced you to....you know
Accept that you're alone now
That your partner is not here
That the life you built together
Is now remembered by a tear
You gave things out to family
Though you do not know just why
They will stick them in a drop box
And that just makes you cry
You picture them inside the clothes
And you hear their laugh as you
Put magazines and tolietries
Inside Box number two
You put aside some things you like
To remember better days
Though you know that in the future
You'll remember through a haze
Time will mar your memories
Keep the good times, wipe the bad
You'll forget about the smile
And this really is quite sad
It takes days to sort the boxes
Fill the others, pack them all
By the time that you are finished
They will almost fill the hall
When complete you think on
What is in the totes
There's clothing, jewellery, memories
And magazines and notes
You don't know where to take them
You balance on a knife
The question here before you
How do you give away a life?
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
♦ ♦ ♦
She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
making love with no love
(kissed her with his freedom)
<•>
a new person in an overnight stay in a strange,
aptly named,
bed and breakfast
and
you do all the same things that just feel good, careless loving
that comes from practiced renewable remembering,
kiss her neck for hours, drink in her crescendoing cooing
rename her Appalachia, bemused, wondering why,
she gasp-asks, when your tongue traces her odyssey body
from her Georgia to her Maine, then no need to explain
it all feels familiarly strange, imbalanced, shaky, loving the thrill
of your first solo bike ride, an invisible hand letting go,
the wow of walking the line of new freedom and
old responsibility that you have walked on both coasts
carry on, love is coming to us all lyric, enacted-recalled,
loving yet another
long cool woman in a black dress with unquestioning
how to explain to her, how to yourself, loving with no loving,
and the best you can stammer is it is like writing a poem
with too many commas or none at all
she laughs you up with one mouth lingering,
then one amazing kiss on your heart
and nose,
grabs a piece of toast and gone girl,
then you are returned to alone, to the dreams that
may or may not have occurred and two hands overflowing with
too many commas
and none to keep
<•>
11-18–17 2:54am, somewhere
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Why I Always Carry Tissues
To My Children:
I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.
There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.
When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.
Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.
It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.
Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.
But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.
These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.
No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.
**When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.**
These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.
That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.
The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...
Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.
If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...
2008
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
the people whose job is to
understand the multiverse
can't figure this world out
rid·dle ˈridl/noun: riddle; plural noun: riddles
1. | a question or statement intentionally
phrased so as to require ingenuity
in ascertaining its answer or meaning,
typically presented as a game;
a person, event, or fact that is difficult
to understand or explain.
"the riddle of her death" [puz·zle
ˈpəzəl/verb: puzzle; 3rd person present:
puzzles; past tense: puzzled; past participle:
puzzled; gerund or present participle:
puzzling
1. cause (someone) to feel confused because
they cannot understand or make sense of something:
"one remark he made puzzled me"
synonyms: perplex, confuse, bewilder,
bemuse, baffle, mystify, confound;
faze, stump, beat, discombobulate
"her decision puzzled me"
perplexed, confused, bewildered,
bemused, baffled, mystified, confounded,
nonplussed, at a loss, at sea;
flummoxed, stumped, fazed, clueless,
discombobulated
"a puzzled look on her face"
baffling, perplexing, bewildering, confusing, complicated, unclear, mysterious, enigmatic, ambiguous, obscure, abstruse, unfathomable, incomprehensible, impenetrable, cryptic
"his explanation was rather puzzling"
antonyms: clear
think hard about something difficult
to understand or explain;
"she was still puzzling over this problem
when she reached the office"
| [ ] think hard about, mull over,
muse over, ponder, contemplate,
meditate on,
consider, deliberate on, chew over, wonder about
"she puzzled over the problem"
solve or understand something by thinking hard;
synonyms: work out, understand,
comprehend, sort out, reason out, solve, make sense of,
make head(s) or tail(s) of, unravel, decipher; informal: figure out
"she tried to puzzle out what he meant"
noun: puzzle; plural noun: puzzles
1. [ ], [ ] ( );
a game, toy, or problem designed
to test ingenuity or knowledge;
short for jigsaw puzzle (see jigsaw)
a person or thing that is difficult to understand
or explain; an enigma:
"the meaning of this poem will always be a paradox"
synonyms: enigma, mystery, paradox,
conundrum, poser, riddle, problem, quandary;
"the poem has always been a puzzle"
late 16th century (as a verb): of unknown origin:
synonyms: puzzle, conundrum, brainteaser, problem,
unsolved problem, question, poser, enigma,
quandary; informal: stumper
"an answer to the riddle"
verb/archaic
verb: riddle; 3rd person present: riddles;
past tense: riddled; past participle: riddled;
gerund or present participle: riddling
1. speak in or pose riddles.
"he who knows not how to riddle"
solve or explain (a riddle) to (someone).
"riddle me this then"
Origin
Old English rǣdels, rǣdelse ‘opinion,
conjecture, riddle’; related
to Dutch raadsel,
German Rätsel, to read
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
Tomorrow is my beloved Swedish Kent's birthday - a day he completely rejects. I do not, writing this birthday poem which I will present to him in spite of all protestations. I'll bet he loves it!
An Icke* Birthday
“I have no birthday” you insist.
Bemused, a bit confused
Reflecting, un-rejecting, I conclude,
“Good for you!
You never need add numbers to
Your written age.
You’ll grow more sage
Without a wrinkle.
Passing years will never sink you,
You who have no birthday,
Never born,
Never gone.”
At any rate,
I celebrate
This date
And will continue every eight,
For February is your birthday.
Enjoy the numberless-ness in your way.
So if I may,
I’d like to take you out to lunch
To munch on something to your taste.
Why waste an eight?
Why wait?
We’ll go to lunch sometime this week,
Take
our big car somewhere
To crunch on something nice to eat.
Peaceful, sweet,
We’ll have a great
non-birthday dear!
Your icke- birthday’s growing near.
An Icke- Birthday 2.8.2020 Birthday Book; Arlene Nover Book
*icke; Swedish for non-
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 6:26 AM UTC
I woke up from a dream, in which I met an old lady, who was such a *****
My grandson, who is two ate fish fingers from a plate, as he sat in the luggage rack at the front of the bus.
The old lady got off chuntering and muttering, that he shouldn't be eating fingers made out of fish, as he was sat on the bus.
****** woman picked them of and stole them straight from his plate,
Muttering, that it was disgusting eating fish fingers while sat on the bus.
"Listen here mate, that's wholly inappropriate", said I.
Somehow resisting the urge to punch her in the eye.
I cursed and cussed and I gave her my worst.
While my grandson, just sat still on the bus, still a little bemused
He's not used to old lady's pinching his food.
She got off the bus, after facing my daggers, just looks, as I don't often cook.
She had the audacity to steal his tea, apart from bits of verbal conflict, got off ****** scot free she did.
My grandson, he just looked up at me, after squishing the remnants into my knee.
My most expensive rain coat is now in need of washing.
I'm wondering now who'll be fitting the bill.
My heart melting grandson looked straight into my eyes.
At the end of this story, he's the perfect prize.
But he's still a little hungry, as she stole his fish fingers.
And this silly bit of prose is just a pack of silly lies.
Made up as the result of a dream, I just had.
Here's hoping you enjoyed my tale.
It's pouring with rain and blowing a gale.
Probably the noise it drew me from sleep.
The times when dreams are prevalent.
When fantasy from dreams be inventive and put to wholly good use.
(c)Livvi
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
I don't remember my Mother's womb;
The biological Apartment I stayed almost
Rent-free (on my part, anyway) for
Three-quarters of an Eternity
The doorway into reality I got to use
Kicking it around my tiny little round flat,
Seeing the scars on the walls from the
Nine renters before me
Three of whom did not make it past the 90-day
Warranty. I do remember hearing about Joseph, taken back
Into God's Loving Arms for reasons He only knew;
Joseph was no more, so the Third Renter was my sister
Cathy, Cacky-Wacky, I used to call her, rousing a bemused
Smile, the ghost of Joseph a mote of brown in her left eye-
But back to me...
Dad saw my little worm and shouted for joy
A boy! A baby boy! I've finally a Son!
Mom, exhausted, yet a "ROOM FOR RENT" sign
Hanging a month and many sleepless nights away
Filled by Dad's amazingly virile and potent
Back-stroking Swimmers-
Me crying at the shouting of the big fuzzy man-shape
Who cradled me in hairy simian-like arms, ham-hock
Hands holding me gently like I was a Precious Gift from God
When I die, I will be
Wombed again, in Heaven's Birthing Room, my Spirit
Exiting from its earthly skin-shell, into the Hands of
God my Father. My Mother will be there,
No longer worn-out from being an Eleven-Room
A Sacrifice standing beside her, herself a sacrifice
Testament of the perpetuation of the Human Race
I think I have much to live for, here;
I KNOW I have an infinite Eternity waiting for me in
Heaven's Womb
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.
21st December 2010
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 3:35 AM UTC
I died before I met you
Only once prior
I recovered, got better, and made it through
Try to believe me, I know I’m a liar,
But I died once before I met you
I died the day I met you
Because my heart stopped beating
Your attractiveness too true
I was afraid to mumble a greeting
But I already died for you
I died the day after I met you
You wouldn’t get out of my mind
I got distracted – couldn’t make do
For someone like me, you were too kind
I died because I withdrew
I died a month later without you
I couldn’t even fight it
The fear stuck to me like glue
I started breaking bit by bit
I died when I wasn’t supposed to
I died a season later when you
Saw I was too broken to be fixed
I had a strong sense of déjà vu
But I was nevertheless transfixed
My death meant nothing to you
I died before I was friends with you
Your change of mind bemused me
Because you never used to
Listen to my sorry plea
I died when the world was no longer blue
I died two more times all because of you
You made me laugh, you made me cry
Until my world was back to blue
You clipped my wings so I couldn’t fly
My deaths were caused by you
I died a last time because of you
After we were long done
I saw you with another and trouble began to brew
While that’s all I ever was
I died because I wasn’t enough for you
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
The reaper always comes for his dues
I know this to be true,
he stole my heavenly muse!
On my knees I begged him not, yet he refused.
No matter my threats he never withdrew.
The reaper always comes for his dues.
Never once have I been more bemused
when the reapers came through,
he stole my heavenly muse!
I was half asleep, just taking a snooze
then he appeared right in front of my view!
The reaper always comes for his dues.
He looked at me and my muse, like he was trying to choose.
His hands reached out, to grab my muse, then he flew!
He stole my heavenly muse!
Out my window they cruised,
I, with shame, never pursued.
The reaper always comes for his dues.
He stole my heavenly muse!
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Im confuddled.
Confused
Bemused
Im in love with you,
So tender and true,
A love as old as time
But still it feels so new
Im learning every day and night
What monsters keep you up at night
I think i know how to hold you right
And keep you so amused
Im fearful that ill loose your attention.
Im terrified of the things i best not mention
But if i do one thing right in my life.
It would be staying with you. My love.
My life
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC
To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a ***** call, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
Come see black night. Black night proposes
more
Than madness in a prophet's dream, sets free
A lean uncertainty, sweet taste of all
We dare not see.
My sweet Kathryn, you were older than me,
Knew all the black mountains--Olson, Creely, Duncan, Morley, Dorn... While I
was learning
Levertov. Your dark, unshaven armpits
Drove me wild. I understood the honor
Of that crazy night--how could feather leave you--
our dance at the outlaw bar,
Your sapphic gaze bemused by coal miners,
In cowboy boots, as the band played Haggard,
Coe, Willie, Waylon, Johnny Cash, Kristofferson
& Emmy Lou. I wouldn't trade it for a date
With Miss Brazil, or Russia as it were--
Some people say you made that up,
Changed heritage and grew the hair to seem more European. I couldn't care
Less. A great dark mystery I loved
Now thirty-seven years ago with me
Just old enough to drink and you come down
From Bingington, I loved the way you said
That frozen town, where your husband lingered,
Teaching English to native speakers.
I know you still loved him. I think you loved
Me, but needed a woman's touch the same
As I. Strange how a night can be recalled
More than years, one drunken naked sunrise,
Pillow talk instead of class. I ditched the speech
At PBK, can't remember what they
Fed us, coming for you in a straight shift
Chevy pickup, red as the night was black.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Frayed and grayed
Oversized and overused
Why you still hold onto it,
has everyone bemused.
Freckled and speckled
Like a cinnamon stick
warm winter stories
Keeping it thick
Pale fingernails, peak through the sleeves,
Tears and holes decorate the wrists.
From between cupped hands
Rise cinnamon flavored mists
Warm memories ride down your throat
Thawed hearts melt with every sip
Cinnamon specked bubbling froth
Settles above your lip
Cinnamon flavored laughs
Punctuate the conversations
Spicy aroma tickles the nose
Sniffing for winter’s indications
Warm memories on cold nights
Fill up the empty holes in your sleeves
Packed with stories soaked in cinnamon
And the sweater becomes fuller with the memories it weaves
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
The Optimist
I wish that I could purchase
A paper of good news
Which didn’t love misfortune
Or laugh when people lose
Which didn’t sneak and pry
Or celebrate a lie
Or gossip, steal and scandal
Then revel while we cry
This new paper’s called The Optimist
And you don’t need to buy it
The first issue is free you see
So you will want to try it
‘What is all this?’ the people say
They look slightly bemused
The happiness inside has made them stop
And they’re confused
It’s been a long time since they paused
To think and look around
And see the joy and beauty
Just waiting to be found
Not in the shops or on the box
This joy is something new
Or old that they’d forgotten
But now recognise as true
They hardly dare believe
As they delve inside again
But the stories are all true
And nothing’s awful or profane
Two sisters reunited
After fifty years apart!
A boy who saved a stranger
And that is just the start
Of all the good that’s happened
And your heart’s about to burst
Because people can surprise you
When you don’t expect the worst
The hunger and the vanity
Are swiftly set aside
As something more important grows
Where bitterness resides
And The Optimist begins
So slowly, it’s effect
The hearts and minds of all begin
To thaw and to collect
The sun begins to shine
Like it never has before
And people start to wish and pray
For peace instead of war
And although this paper’s fiction
It may pay to recognise
The Optimist cannot exist
If we don’t open up our eyes
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
“The Maiden”
Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.
An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.
Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.
Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.
Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.
Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.
Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.
The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
The Zebra smiles at the Lion
Who is wondering when he gets fed
The Rhino looks across at the Zebra
and this is what he said.....
"Why are you grinning my friend
especially at the old Lion over there"
The Zebra replied that he was in a good mood
and to be judged just is not being fair.
"I was not judging just a little bemused
and wondering why the good mood todtay
he saw no reason for it - he wanted some mud
a nice dollop of sticky mud to have a **** good play.
But he knew life was not a bowl of cherries
not that cherries are his overall delight
No rains meant no mud and certainly n o smiles
not unless he put up one hell of a **** fight
The Zebra hated mud could not see the attraction
cherries gave him wind too and at both ends
What a mess I'd be in he thought he started to think
Looking over at the Lion - what a strange signal he sends
The Lion was drooling over Zebra kebabs and Rhino stew
a little carrot and parsley he thought would be nice
drenched in gravy - his eyeballs spun round - they noticed
and ran off fast they dd not need telling twice.
Blast thought the Lion wheres my dinner gone
has the place gone mad and have I gone wild
This time the Rhino understood the Zebra
and this time they both stood and smiled
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.
My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.
I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,
(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.
Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.
He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.
I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.
I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.
Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?
And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
I'm that pretty kitty
Sitting on your windowsill
Leaving dander on the glass
Looking more than my fill
My fur is brown and black
My claws are sharp as knives
My teeth are quite sinister
And I've still all nine lives
You've never paid me much attention
And I ceased attempts to receive it long ago
You go about your day ignoring me
And I stare covetously through the window
I know you can see me
Every blue moon, you'll wave
We actually get along in a way
But not enough to sate all I crave
I wonder if you'll ever notice
My stare is unadulterated jealousy
But you never seem to notice
I also envy that naivety
But I'm just the pretty kitty
Perched up on this windowsill
All I want is to be seen from inside
But no one ever will
I've only eyes for the inside though
I've got my friends on this side of the glass
And they look at me, bemused and disgusted
Because, in all ways and forms, I'm obsessed
But I'm different and I'm on the wrong side
And I'm just the pretty kitty on the windowsill
But I'm not comfortable with my own kind
And with yours, I'm just good for visual appeal
So I'll sit here on this windowsill
Gazing enviously
Because neither side fits me
But it fits them perfectly
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Like starving locusts
they swarm the streets
looking for instant gratification
they'll never afford
Bodies akimbo
****** shaking from AIDS
old men withered and plain
children starved and bemused
all with their palms out
hoping to catch
a little glimpse
of hope
they are the most beautiful people
on Earth.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
I picked up an empty seashell.
Thought I'd find it silent.
I held close up to my ear.
It really was a little queer.
For, from the shell came a lovely voice.
Deep but understanding.
It said I had a choice.
I stopped, then I thought.
My heart was trapped inside I was well and truly caught.
A shell that spoke!
Well I never.
I looked closely into the hollow and there I saw two eyes.
Must have been really tiny.
I placed the shell back on the sand.
Walked away with head in hands.
Baffled if not a little bemused.
As I walked away I heard a crunch.
Felt a hand upon my shoulder.
I jumped somewhat startled.
Jumped near out of my skin.
Turned on my heels.
To see who was there.
Tall dark and handsome.
Before me he stood.
A broken shell revealed something so good.
How he got in there,
I'll never know.
I'll never know or if indeed that's where he's from.
Perhaps he was just the soul of the sea.
He was stood there, next to me.
(C) LIVVI
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
I was once too young for exhausted sleep
So I tiptoed to the window for a peek of excited light
Flickering in the solid wall of insufferable darkness
I wanted to hold that tiny pinprick of moonshine
Twinkling and twirling just our of reach
I was once too young to know what forever was
So I grabbed a mason jar,
Coaxed a bemused spark to the secrecy of a sleepless room
And sealed the lid just a twist too tight
In the morning I found my once glowing prize
Dark at the bottom of his suffocated tomb
And in that moment I learned to fear the darkness
Of tomorrow’s dreaded night
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Lips of velvet pursed and mocking;
Eyes watching, flattered and bemused.
I've never felt so whole before,
just as I've never felt so wholly used.
Chocolate skin and silver lace,
Behind soft whispers, and pretty lies.
lines of worry mark her perfect face,
as she turns to face my knowing eyes.
I've never felt so whole before;
I wish I felt wholly more surprised
not by the fire in her stare;
by the red flowers in her hair;
but by the cologne scented letter
on the floor with her sweater
she thinks I didn't see her hide...
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC