"bewhiskered" poems
Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet
Only needing food and tranquil retreat.
They try to be good and do what is right
But get into mischief from morn till night.
So hard not to adore each furry face
Though pranks may lead to many a disgrace
Fiddling and tearing the household blinds
Until sighing we think we'll lose our minds.
Hearts so overflowing with deepest love,
Sent from God the Father of Lights above.
Sadly few folks to such a good home give.
How can each darling continue to live?
And even though they may growl and grumble,
When time to eat tiny motors rumble.
Furry paws swat many a ragged mouse.
Without them would be a desolate house!
Families adopt babies, fortunes pay,
Yet for these wuss pusses refuse to sway.
More forgiving than us despite sharp claws,
Surpassing mankind's sins and blatant flaws.
Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet!
What have they done to deserve such defeat?
.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting ****** in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
the doughy round of your nose
nuzzle-burrowing as it does
my bewhiskered neck
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
the cottony caress of your yawn broken breath
blowing as it does, midsummer breezy
my threadbare open chest
It is not easy, you know
having to sleep
alone
the butterfly blare of your blinking
beating as it does
my back rubbed
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:17 PM UTC
It’s very nice in Heaven
Very gentle underfoot,
God’s temple is so icy calm
And that’s conservatively put.
There’s three flags at the gateway
They’re there to set the pace,
Hebrew blue and Moslem green
Under Christ’s bewhiskered face.
Hindu’s have got a leg in
And Zen for Zen’s sake’s there,
But the Proddies and the Catliks
Are in dispute as to what is fair.
Amazing how they bicker,
The Proddies and the Micks
You’d think in time they’d sort it out
Take the Irish…Silly ******
Getting back to Heaven…
The golden pathways there
With avenues of crystal gems
To welcome you upstairs.
And high above a shining light
Burning in the sky,
Which symbolizes passion,
I suppose, or pigs that fly?
This symbolic high Heaven stuff
Is very hard to read,
It could be ornamental
Or perhaps, exactly what you need.
One thing’s very certain though,
When you glide into this place,
It pays to have a solemn look
Of seriousness on your face.
They don’t like silly buggers
Who joke and act the fool,
Commitment is the keyword
And the Bible is the tool.
Confusing when you get there
You’re read the riot act
And threatened with damnation
If with the Devil you’ve made a pact.
The heavy condemnation
The steely searching eye
And then the tome of absolution
Because He loves you, so must I ?
So think upon it brother
If you think you cut the cloth,
Then walk right up and wing it
With the Angels, like a moth.
But should you have your doubts
I suggest a quickish about face
And leg it with the villains
To that other warmish place.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
28 April 2009
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
Upon reflecting with misty eyes
childhood days of yore
the mantle of anticipatory
excitement mantle I wore
upon advent of December
twenty fifth not quite threescore
years ago knew nothing
about being dirt poor
yours truly doggedly felt sense
of belonging among k9 korp
versus moody blues hangdog
look resembling Eeyore.
Now fast forward envisioning
gray bewhiskered scraggly
muttering old Unitarian
that would be yours truly courtesy
hyperbole as would be obvious
upon quick visual scan,
who dabbles writing
at least one poem within
twenty four hour
time frame i.e. quotidian
basis, eh not
so much an outdoorsman
these days and definitely not,
nor ever trumpeted
taps as militiaman
within the ranks of Kublai Khan
emperor of China, and
grandson of Genghis Khan
I remain holed up within
one bedroom apartment
unit b44 as iceman,
no, not by choice,
but series of unfortunate events
primarily faulty heater
at the mercy of fate,
a mere dice toss gameplan
always associated as separate
among establishmentarian
forever dreamily fancying
married to countrywoman,
combination platter academician.
Lo and behold days
mein kampf slipped and slid away
leaving faded memories
precious young lad oft times
felt alienated (think) castaway
yet simultaneously unable to flyaway
loosing self from mother's apron strings,
while slipping grip signals foray
into abyss conjured courtesy
thru information superhighway.
Reflection upon tempus fugit
incredulous kick **** lightspeed
precocious age sentimental reverie storybook
happy go lucky idyllic past indeed,
then bound by ignorance,
hence blissfulness no longer doth proceed.
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
I'm a furry little dancer
a sleek bewhiskered chancer,
I wanted to pounce you
bounce you
trounce you with my paw
shiny sunbeam on the floor,
you were here just now,
and then you were gone,
such shame our game can't carry on
Jun 1, 2025
Jun 1, 2025 at 2:49 PM UTC