"brawling" poems
Acceptance of another requires bravery.
Not the loud, brawling courage
brought and left on the battlefield.
Rather the quiet kind of bravery when
she catches glimpses of my personal darkness
and still stays.
Her type of bravery is when
the fractured light fixtures behind my eyes flicker
before going out, plunging me in darkness.
She sits beside me sharing that dark.
She not only sees my enraged monsters
but tries to befriend them, understand them.
At times I’m deathly afraid of myself.
But she never seems to be.
And that is the greatest kind of bravery.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush
Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush
Converses with the Dove.
2
Gently brawling down the turnpike road,
Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream —
The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud
And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,
The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,
And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear
And quite invisible doth take a peep.
6.9k
As I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap.
For I am running to paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to paradise;
A poor life, do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving-maid and a serving-man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to paradise;
And many a darling wit's grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled a old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurty upon my way.
For I am running to paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
2.6k
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Only half watching the Sochi Olympics and
wondering why all of a sudden ice hockey
without brawling gap-toothed players
seemed so captivating as the puck was blocked
effortlessly by a graceful skating illusion
did I realize that behind that face mask and
and billowing raven hair was a bright-red
lipsticked beautiful face that totally shook
my floor. In my state of inattention I found
myself attracted to a hockey player
Scared the hell out if me until I realized that
it was women's competition
r ~ 9Feb14
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.
And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.
But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.
And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.
Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.
The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.
Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.
Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.
There are so many faces.
Voices.
Memories.
All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman **** and go free to
**** again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
2.2k
Depression did drain my existence,
Brawling against sadness for years.
Becoming a hostage to mental illness,
Waging a war to be free of misery.
Battling anguish on a rough trail,
The quest to happiness is vicious.
Determined on my journey for hope,
Seeking a path that will end agony.
Barriers block my lanes to blissfulness,
Resisting each hurdle with purpose.
Combating in the most important cause,
Dedicated to win conflicts verses despair.
The pursuit to fortune has finally arrived,
Satisfied by all pitfalls that were defeated.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
in a dark autumn forest, five creatures
strangely glow, cold peaked ears are blue,
rhythms of thudding, scudding boots
full of youth, synchronized they run,
outlined in neon, nearly covered in fur,
running amok in the hungry dark.
what do they search for in the dark?
all keening, these tempestuous creatures.
what propels them? what makes their fur
stand on end? faces an oxygen-less blue
as arms are locked and strong legs run
with the heavy monotony of feet in boots.
driven by laughter and labored breath, boots
thunder up dewy hills, disturbing the dark
loam underfoot, disheveled as the wind runs
through and into and throughout these creatures,
and the trees, and the strange aura of blue
surrounding a juggling man with hair like wolf fur.
he is levitating, has eyes like a burning fur-
nace, is manipulating boxes of light, wears boots
that make him seven feet tall, his is the blue
of martyrs, of imagination sacrificed to dark
forces, alight like clicking live wires the creatures
tumble on, finding a new reason to run
toward a long, narrow, white hallway they run
across an empty street, a nearby raccoon's fur
bristles as they break all boundaries, these creatures,
all sharp claws and fearless teeth and stomping boots,
assault the stillness of closed doors and early dark
morning eyes just beginning to distinguish the blue
of the sun's prologue, a deep and melancholy blue.
charging the hall doors, they dance and thump and run
down the shadowed interior, adjacent rooms dark
but for the lights of the lonely and static cat fur.
on wooden floors the cacophonic burst of boots
rumble like wild animal's hooves, here come the creatures!
and as the sun illumines dark corners in orange and blue,
through untidy mists these creatures continue to run,
all flailing limbs and matted fur and brawling boots.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
A Parody
Brigitte my love
Our Country suffers of many debts
The people are restless
Whatever shall we do love?
Ah Macron, we must think past the cookies
The solutions are complex, answers evasive
Let me speak with Marie Antoinette, she shall know!
Queen of Navarre, By god we shall be saved!
Marie, Marie Antoinette our people are restless
Our republic is in debt. these are crazy times!
Whatever shall we do?
I am fed up, allons-y
Ah fear not, if they have not bread!
Let them eat Nutella!
Lower the prices
Nutella for the masses!!!
Marie, are you sure? very very sure of such things?
Oui oui, on with it, my father was emperor of Rome
Nutella will calm the masses
Come here Nemo. taste, see even Nemo is tres happy now!
And so France lowered the prices of Nutella
Thus began the nouveau French Revolution
Riots in the streets, brawling in the magasins
The uprising has began, we want our Nutella for free
The masses rose
Nutella for all, Nutella for sans prix
We are all somewhat fou for Nutella you see!
And so the masses fought each other for Nutella's liberty
Nutella one and Nut Ella all!
I swear to your Brigette
We should have given them Macarons!!!
People remain civilized with cafe and cookies! n'est pas?
Emmanuel my love, fret not
The revolution shall be quelled
Qh I have the perfect person for this
He shall restore order to our dear republic
Prey tell Brigette? Who could do such a thing now
Riots everywhere, the masses fight each other daily?
The streets are not safe
There is a shortages of Nutella now, we are doomed cheri
Non non mon amour, I shall call Alizee
She shall sing us out of the terrible mess
She is the mistress of Doug McMillion
This man can save us all!!
Brigitte, who is this man you call Doug?
Why Emmanuel he is the president of Walmart
He has squashed many Black Fridays rebellions
He shall save us all!!!!!!
From these unruly unsavory Nutella shoppers!!!!!
Vive la France!
Vive Alizee
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri
C'est ton droit et ta liberté
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
to suspend
metal gibbet
quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather
whipped
combed and packed snow
ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
an extreme combing exposure
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today
On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
an environment sealed window
wolfing my lunch on a short break
in the warm fire escape
i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind
he drags a heavy kit
mummified in protective clothing
passing my spot and he then heads outward
towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
of the breath stealing
brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 2:07 PM UTC
angel's can shout through demons
if they have to
here in the valley of time slips and air borne rock
land of meteor splash and ufos
sprit friends
a fantasy gift you give yourself
but if you see some of them
its the worst day of your life
those streaking trajectories
as straight as a pencil path
sending a migration of aliens
weird ovoid's with ****** binocular vision
like Helix pomatia
****** crawlers
while eight legged locomoting moss piglets
that look like a thousand blinking
one eyed gob worms
hurtle in decent
perhaps landing in the Yucatan
barbarian headed asteroids, critter ridden
mixed of spirits and denizens of deep space
from the parametric edges of Bals
glittering kingdom
shoot suns down from the sky
far flinging those crater bashed demons
into predatory gardens
elixir's of war and death
wave screaming reveries
through red cities
of nightingale floors
nautilus agents plummet
into brawling plots of ash
shattering a million spines
of **** ***** monsters
in a bulls eye break neck rodeo
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 6:00 PM UTC
It's ok, go ahead and be a hater
hate on me, i'll see you later
lately i have been a debater
debating with the one creator
creating a brand new being
be aware of what you're seeing
see me as your mind freeing
free me from the disagreeing
disagreements of failure falling
fall away and hear your calling
call to you to stop brawling
brawlers always continue crawling
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Friends . . . old friends . . .
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man tells lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before.
And so it ends
With friends.
Friends . . . old friends . . .
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.
Friends . . . old friends . . .
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands,
Which shall be more
As he was before? . . .
What is it ends
With friends?
1.6k
Hurtling to make money
Brawling for the seats
Competing for the fame
Shrieking out loud for religious violence
Selfish and greedy humans
Killing brotherhood using
Vengeance and acrimony
Sharper than the weapons
Earth floating like a paper boat
In the pool of human blood
What do they take with them
To the graveyard ?
Bonehead people not knowing
Nothing but a dead body are they
Leaving alone with no money,
No fame, no seats, no religion
Not even their own body !
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
Loves
meek-mongerers,
calls when there's
no alcohol left:
no more balling
today.
****** on you in the morning
and walks out the bathroom
laughing like a pig.
A response
and a beginning,
now in a blanket,
my blood boiled when we were closer.
Had so much fun,
those times,
when love
asked you to stick a lime between
your teeth
and pour salt on her *****
Cats howling at night, right
outside my window,
and I call and call and call
a whole bunch,
until every single one
asks from the brawling fence:
"you still talking about that ****
"get off her."
"she's not the one."
"no need for all of that."
"keep it chill."
And they still--don't know.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
Your life’s but a shadow
he’s a king of the earth
he’s secure in his place
he knows his own worth.
He‘s lacking all burdens
his smile merits bliss
by the King be commanded
you’re deemed worthy young miss.
The lady‘s so lucky,
as a rose meant for plucking,
this brawling, rough rogue,
- this heir to earths throne,
deems her worth the f—king.
I chuckle demurely,
“Be away drunken sir
- leave me to my studies
- go chase other skirts
with your fraternity buddies.”
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 12:23 PM UTC
Children dressed in oversized jersey's; lined with white stripes,
Are brawling in the street playing out their favorite hockey fights.
And the sidewalk was tucked in under a soft white blanket,
Memories of summer and autumn are falling out of a hole in my pocket.
The smell of fresh bagels filled the britle winter atmosphere,
And The sun blew me a kiss goodbye, for the early darkness was near.
I was choking on my burgandy nitted noose,
Turning the page to the comics, while i pulled my scarf loose,
I stopped to watch A single leaf hold on to that bold maple tree,
Taken by the wind, and into the suburban montreal esprit,
So i pried out a silver flask from my old levis jacket,
While the memories of summer and autumn fell out of a hole in my pocket.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
I fell in love with a girl, she's lemon and lace,
we're spinning through corridors in outer space.
I am nothing but a city-slicker
with a bloodstream of liquor
asking this angelic being to dance.
I don't deserve that kind of chance.
So instead I sit and bob my head,
imagining her inside my bed...
sleeping by my side,
a thought I never tried.
Trust me, I don't want to ****
to know you're safe would be enough.
The ashes of my cigarette
scream the nothings I regret,
for she is made of morphing stars
and I'm brawling in dingy bars.
In my head, she’s just for me...
For her, I’d break reality.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
The world's a battlefield,
Or the battlefield has become the world,
Men brawling under the influence of an obscure boss,
Oblivious of the priceless loss.
Ego is that boss,
The consequences of which can be too gross.
Wars are bad,
The motive is sad,
But still they do happen,
Only to leave several worlds shaken.
None of the parties back down,
All with a frown.
So well armed,
No sight of any fear of harm.
Ego is not worth fighting for,
That is for sure.
Is it not useless, I would say, on the contrary,
To fight for something so temporary?
**Lives are torn apart, amigo!**
Just because of this little seeming word:
Ego.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore;
How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair,
And shook to all the liberal air
The dust and din and steam of town:
He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixt in all our simple sports;
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts
And dusty purlieus of the law.
O joy to him in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark,
To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking thro' the heat:
O sound to rout the brood of cares,
The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed
To hear him, as he lay and read
The Tuscan poets on the lawn:
Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
Or here she brought the harp and flung
A ballad to the brightening moon:
Nor less it pleased in livelier moods,
Beyond the bounding hill to stray,
And break the livelong summer day
With banquet in the distant woods;
Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
Discuss'd the books to love or hate,
Or touch'd the changes of the state,
Or threaded some Socratic dream;
But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
For 'ground in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down,
'And merge' he said 'in form and gloss
The picturesque of man and man.'
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,
Or cool'd within the glooming wave;
And last, returning from afar,
Before the crimson-circled star
Had fall'n into her father's grave,
And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours.
1.1k
I.
brewing and brawling, bronzing
she cries
the mighty blue-tailed
golden hawk of the skies
she screeches and crones
for the souls in her bones
that she hides away
bides away, flies away, souls.
souls she collects,
to tinker and check
to see if their wailing is loud-
loud as it goes
proud as it goes
an ego as big as is tall:
a square of dementia
and a sprinkle of manic
lead you to think she is largely just panic
frantic and tied
the souls she must hide,
to tide away, bind away,
find a way free -
free from the earth,
its land and its girth,
free from the sea,
its waters and needs,
free from the fire,
burning desire,
loosed to the air,
its wings without care
fighting and lighting
the sky in her path
the soul-binding hawk
slowly wanders back
II.
one by one
faintly they come
daintily and faintly
quaintly, they come;
the souls, how they tremble,
quiver and weep
through the slightest of all tiniest cracks do they creep
whining, entwining, smiling they float
burning passion and love,
all on one music note:
dripping and dropping
they dangle and sway
floating, just floating, ever slightly away
III.
souls having *** and souls bemoaning love
wailing and flailing, as soft as a dove;
perfect, he says, are the shape of your *******
lovely, she responds, i'm sick of taking tests -
no one will know, they like to pretend,
but obvious was their means to an end;
switching and curling, lipping they smack
the man over the head, whose head is on crack
and sad they all are, demented instead,
inside of their heads they are missing a *****
brightly, tightly, they hold on to their due
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
if the cloud
exits from the stage absurdly leaving the confusion--?
if the seed
shrivels in the green-room like a meaningless season--?
if no celebration of germination? it is painful -- so, painful
if -- existence of no dialogues, no emotions, no encounters
no colour scheme, no tantalizing episodes, no appeasing music?
the sky and the soil as the actor and spectator
if no purification of souls after annihilating each other--?
if no event of rejuvenation? it is painful -- so, painful
the stage of disdain -- only the disdain
that is the tragedy -- that is the sin !!!
you and i
like the eye and eye-lid
if not brawling and embracing
how the world be a scenic charm ?
you and i
like the cloud and seed
if not flowing like the rivulets in veins
if not raging like the life in grains
how could you and i
split into million future dreams ?
you and i
be the rain of some memories
be the offering of some poems
before planting our mortal frames...
if not----
that is the tragedy .. that is the only tragedy
if you and i cannot offer ourselves to germination----
that is the tragedy ... that is the sin...... !!!
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Here I am hunched over another
stomachache, another mistake,
and all I can do is watch the bruises form and darken.
The first time I met you
was a corner table in a coffee shop
with blackberry water and toes frozen solid.
Mint chocolate chip nights, vandalizing desks,
scrubbing grimy dance floors—
it was my kind of falling in love.
Less like falling, blushing, butterflies;
more like a face plant onto the sidewalk
(unexpected, clumsy, bleeding).
But maybe love isn’t french kissing and slow songs.
It’s forehead kisses, dreaming of Japan,
listening to post-rock.
I think you knew, though,
that our ice cream would melt and our sparklers would die out.
Now I’m the beggar on the street corner:
“’Scuse me sir, do you have any love to spare?”
Or change.
Pennies and dimes jingle in my cup holder,
but change is what cracked my plastic heart and ripped my paper skin.
I’m weaker now, but not poorly made;
There’s been no knock-out punch or final words.
Just bare-fist brawling, searing insults,
bruises,
bleeding.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
you could have known me truly and the selfish promises I have pledged
but I saved you, I kept you safe, I kept you turned away from my edge
safe from me because I'm a dark fall not intended to fledge
I never intended for you to hear the truth in any of the words I said
as clever as you are you don't really know fear and it's reins
because you haven't hurt long enough to understand deepening pain
you wont ever know the corrosion of our own devices until you refrain
for as long as you can, only to feel them come flooding back in through every vein
yes I know the cigarettes are killing me one nail in the coffin at a time
and the ***** that's filling my sail is far too often unkind
and yes, every girl I've laid next to haunts me in the hallways of my mind
and the only blankets I can hide under for warmth have already began to unwind
so now the dollars fill bank accounts and wallets and pockets but not the holes
and they can't ever buy back the days of my fleeting youth I've already sold
the price of living it once is forever after feeling you've grown too old
and deep, painful regret is the last page scribed in every story I've told
but you can never keep close to you what you never really had
and you can't sit down with my heart, the child, and explain sad
and no person or situation will ever cause me to feel I'm truly glad
when every word given has only another misdirection of hope to add
you said you'd whisper love sweetly but you kissed me and I tasted blood
so take another day from me, steal my next breath in the rising flood
make the lowest I can kneel beneath you my bruised hands in the mud
crush the flowers, thrash the stems, poison the roots, clip the buds
angels aren't enough to lift me up from where I'm falling
heaven hasn't promises true enough for what I beg when I'm calling
for help, for sanctuary, for relief from the increasing burdens I'm hauling
and comfort lent is only stalling the demons that being me means brawling
You could have know me to the color of my bone
but I saved you
in every way
that I left you alone
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC