"busily" poems
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you **** breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
17.8k
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
'Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!'
12.3k
My dentist, at the time, was a woman,
a young woman,
an attractive young woman.
As she leaned very close above me,
busily engaged
in repairing my broken tooth,
I, laid back horizontal in the chair,
had nothing to look at but her face,
and more particularly, her eyes.
She, however, concentrating the whole time on my tooth,
was not considering
where I might be looking.
The task at last finished,
once again on my feet,
I noticed what I had not seen before.
My lovely young dentist
had put on some weight
just round the middle.
As I smiled at her
and put out my hand to hers
- in thanks or congratulation? -
she leaned towards me
and returned my smile
most charmingly.
What could I do?
A formal British handshake?
No! A small kiss on the cheek,
and then, in continental style,
another small kiss
on the other one,
a spontaneous, friendly gesture,
nothing more.
If in fact it had crossed my mind at that point
that it might be
a not altogether unpleasant experience
to take the average of the two kisses
I had planted on her cheeks,
and give her a third on the lips
that were now beautifully visible to me,
I resisted the inappropriate temptation,
so swiftly
I might not even have thought it at all.
Except that, on reflection, I probably did think it.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
A bee here
another there
the bee catchers busily chase
enjoy every bit
hit and miss
miss and hit
the urge to live is the sugar
sweetens the grind
keeps death out of mind.
If you keep death in mind
high is the cost
in the momentary dying
life is lost.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
With a wide demographic of *******
There's average, massive or missing
There are ******* to nibble and tweak at
And cleavages perfect for kissing
But I'm of a practical nature
And with just a little persistence
I'll give you a host of good reasons
To justify ******* existence
They're perfect for warming your hands up
When the gas meter's run out of gas
And there's little that's better to look at
When there's no chance of seeing an ***
Elasticity makes them ideal
For displays and arrangements of flowers
And if you find yourself short of your bus fare
Then they radiate magical powers
You can use then for counting in binary
Or a pillow with mild central heating
And they're perfect for holding a bottle
To keep safe while you're busily eating
As a pair of provocative earmuffs
You'll be envied by all of your friends
Just be sure to take optional tassels
In case one of the ******* offends
You can hollow one out for an ashtray
Or a skullcap for cutting edge Jews
You can throw them about like a Frisbee
There are just so many options to choose
But they're useful right where they're located
And not just to tickle and tease
Just give them a couple of decades
And you'll find them protecting your knees
MWAH! x
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
As a child I dabbled in ******
No barbie was safe from the hands of their god
Ran hills caked to the toe
Roughed terrain with neighborhood boys
They called me girl
But I felt boy
Upon later years I learned:
Dress
Skirt
Bra
Flower
Amenities accustomed to this body;
A bustling street of hormones without a
red light
Next were *******
Wild & rambling, I soon
Mastered the art of shrinking
I kissed my first boy & felt it rattle through my bones
His hair an ocean in my hands as I rose up
to the surface
Later I discovered the shared experience of Woman,
Shifting about the world as a silly metaphor
Carved fingers into mace & metal
Ankles clinking busily on a subway platform
In learning to fight
The young boy dwindled into memory and
I couldn’t sense shape anymore
Fell in and out of love with woman and man alike,
Sinking deep into salt & sand
These days I can’t help but wonder if
attraction is a mode of defense
Or that of love
These days I run hills in heels
Caked to the toe in color
--
c
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.
Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.
Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
Mining for nose goo; digging in deep,
plucking, pinching, scraping the meat.
Busily forming sweet salty clumps.
squigging, rolling and flicking off lumps.
Piggy's, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'm mining sweet nose goo; right under your nose.
I'll hide behind a book, a hanky or a rag, slip my belongings in a nose bag.
Piggy's, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'm mining sweet nose goo; right under your nose.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
While many people all over the world
Are busily running to and fro
Engaging in cheerful holiday
Festivities, one thing we know:
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While Saudi Arabia nonchalantly
Covers up its heinous act
Of butchering a journalist,
We cannot ignore the fact
That children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While Congress fails to intercede
And chooses instead to bicker and quarrel
Over whether America should
Keep supporting a war that's immoral,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While the oppressive Houthi rebels
Backed by Iran dig in their heels
And Saudi Arabia bombs the cities,
Intensifying a clash of ideals,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
When ports are blocked and money is scarce,
And fishermen's boats can't leave the shore,
And food and medical equipment
Are cut off in a three-year war,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
A 12-year-old girl weighs 28 pounds;
An 8-year-old boy weighs about 30.
Chances are slim that they will survive.
Who dares to say that war isn't *****
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
The people caught in the middle are certain
What the fiendish fighting portends:
A huge, unimaginable
Catastrophe unless the war ends,
For children are starving and dying in Yemen.
-by Bob B (12-14-18)
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
TOAST
"FIRE. . .FIRE!"
The house was busily
burning down.
"Quick. . .quick!"
Mum screeched .
"Go fetch the marshmallows!"
I dashed back
into the inferno
& emerged
long minutes later
my eyebrows ablaze
my nostril hairs slightly singed
The fire had greedily gobbled up
all the marshmallows
for itself.
**** said Mum.
"Damn...damn...damn!"
slapping me
about the head
with...each...uttered
syllable.
"I managed to save a loaf
of Mother's Pride!"
I cried.
"It will have to go!"
sighed Mum.
And so, we had
some toast
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
I no longer
seem to know
roses busily
bloom
this time of year
bougainvilleas
flaunt themselves
over the fence
I hold my mug
while mulling
over warm cider
a cheap steam
spa
treatment
for my face
is born
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
WE CONSIDER THEM VERMIN--
these visitors
to the rotting corpses of our loved ones.
But what if
they’re only there to say
hello?
And when’s the last time you paid them a visit,
anyway?
Well let me tell you something:
the maggots and
worms
know where we're going.
Billions of years, billions of ancestors,
busily moving
through their lives in
isolated
blips--
They’re just data now.
And did John the Amoeba, feeding on sunlight, ever think
that somewhere down the line
his great-something-grandson
would be a poet?
A doctor?
A teacher?
A football player?
Did he ever think that his great-something-grandson would
sit in his room
and listen to
the Mountain Goats?
To be honest, probably not.
Grandpa’s a stranger.
He got sick when you were young, but you
could never
remember
the name of the disease.
But it all came down to the fact that he never recognized his own grandchild—
he was an ancient basket case whom you loved
because
that’s what
you were told
to do.
You were 13 when he died,
and his passing gave you an excuse
to be sad,
which worked out pretty well because
sadness
was the most stylish emotion
at Marblehead Charter
in 2007.
Grandpa won’t be there on your wedding day.
He’ll be with the vermin,
saying hello.
But you won’t mind—
you still love him anyway.
Because one day
you'll be in his place
and your grandson will be getting married
and you won’t be there,
but he'll still love you anyway.
And somewhere down the line,
you’ll be someone’s—something’s—John the Amoeba.
And you know you would be proud.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye,
Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly.
The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird,
Mom preparing stuff for breakfast,
And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast.
I stare at my room window and take a glimpse
Of people rushing their cars past the traffic.
Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific!
The birds chirping daily without any holidays
And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings.
The gardener has arrived, the maid had come
In almost each person’s home.
People terminated their morning walk
And grabbed the car.
I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily-
The merchants and vendors shouting noisily.
All the work is turning on without distraction,
Everyone at their workplace in attention.
After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm
The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face.
This assures me that everyone left their houses
And reached their respective places.
I take my eyes off the window and sit-back.
No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works,
And timetables on the calendar looks.
No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus
No more books and things at mess.
I see the clock-it’s only eight
Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight.
Spotting everyone at their routine work-
I feel so much desolate and forlorn.
And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work.
At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom
And ask myself-“What have I done today?”
The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!”
I see the calendar-Two more months for school:
Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle
Two more months to shut the windows
Two more months to mess my table
Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble
I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Hands busily stitch patterns in and out,
five sets on each side of a long board.
I, with the youngest hands, watch and listen
with intent to the elder women of my family.
Janie now has her last child; no boys to carry
the family line on to the next generation.
Tom, like his father's father before him,
has survived his first year of the Marines.
Ginny has divorced again, the third time,
with the fourth child for Aunt Gladys to raise.
Their hands, experienced in fine stitchery,
never skip a line, lightly sketched upon satin.
Their eyes rarely know what their hands do.
Like instincts of childbirthing, these women know
when to say this square has had all its stitches,
and then move on the next one.
Their lives are like that, moving in and out,
slowly building one link to another,
holding their children to them with fine thread.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 9:28 PM UTC
for RFG
You told me of your love for London
and I, of mine for Jerusalem.
And we speak of our second homes
and our first loves,
and how those memories
should be left for the archaeologists,
and how we must for the time being
carefully avoid the subject
each of the other
like diplomats
in London or Jerusalem
busily seeking
positive signs,
in one and the other
or those things
we love elsewhere
and wish we could have
here at home.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
kittens chasing string
batting at the moving thread
busily playing
**********
a cicada's shell
left behind on a tree trunk
the back split open
**********
cold, wet, autmn night
I visualize lying
in my warm, dry bed
**********
raindrops falling down
are cleaning and watering
the dusty city
**********
my dog takes biscuits
like Catholics accept holy
communion wafers
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
1.This wheelchair never was a River,
even when powered, it did splutter
yes, it's equivalent in movements,
listening silently it always sits out,
away from the flow to the ecstatic sea.
A wheel chair is a caricature of loneliness.
2.Ever tried to see it for what it really is?
"We don't remember, doesn't catches the eye"
Not like a chair of any other kind easily does,
A chair regal looks up, straight at the face
in the manner it demands what it wants,
"Let me tell you this, listen or leave"
3.A wheel chair keeps on looking at it's
arrested feet apologetically and sighs,
if you have an inner ear sensitive, hear this,
I am not even a chair, an apology
for movement,spoken in a voice stiffed.
It speaks incessantly, in a voice within itself,
wordless to a world, that has closed it's doors.
4.A wheelchair easily forgets things as
it can't keep bitterness alive always.
who cares to speak a few words to a wheelchair?
all it is to be done is push it in silence through aisles .
from a destination of pain to any other, slightly higher.
Stairs of every kind, for a wheelchair is a foreign land.
5.Yet in impeded wheelchairs moves many a dream,
broken before their time or crusted with force.
Or remains of a day, too long and busily spent.
On every wheelchair a heart adamantly beats,
"I would, I would" it beats with a rare grit.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
I watched a rarity across the street,
Walking like an endangered species
On his way to school, alone.
Don't his parents realize,
As ours did,
That single men live on his way,
Looking out windows
With coffee and cigarette;
Married couples are household occupied,
Labourers, professionals and unemployed
Are behind closed, locked doors,
Busily preparing for another day.
Cars drive by, one slows behind him,
To ensure her carrier pigeon fledges along.
The lad in question pays no attention,
Playing catch-up with his shadow.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
The moon cracks and blooms.
Its grey nowhere to be seen,
It shawls itself with a bleak cloud.
The floating pearl biscuit
Busily dictates orions and dippers.
One travels, and people start wishing.
They are hopeless: the people and their pretentious wishes.
The jackfruit tree bears only death: dead leaves, thorned fruits.
Under the nocturnal skies,
It is the great witch.
Silent and black. It is voiceless.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Rita bustled busily,
To decorate each room
With jack-o'-lanterns, giggling ghouls,
And grinning ghosts with dribbled drools,
And moonlight glimmered spookily
On ghastly painted tombs;
She went to fetch her costume
And hoped it wouldn't itch;
She grabbed a strange and pointed hat,
An odd shaped broom, a stuffed black cat,
And in the mirror of her room
She turned into a witch!
A sudden tap-tap-tapping
Came from her green front door;
She opened it excitedly,
A-wondering who it might be
And then she started clapping
And dancing on the floor!
Her good friend Fox was outside,
He wore a long black cape;
With plastic fangs, he danced about,
But when he sang his fangs fell out!
They laughed so hard, then went inside
And had a slice of cake!
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
The brandy just as common
With the daughters
Reassuringly following to feed
The right howled lark
Into worn times.
Carry the jean size that you wore in high school
Since the advantage is not forgotten:
Drifting footmen believed manners
Learn prettier face,
But lean into the interrupted light
of another
gun-shooting hurricane on the television.
Indolent raisings are the explanation;
The snort of adolescent judgment dreadfully happens,
And we couldn’t free the dog’s role
Into the
Gently
Busily
Sulkily
… Oh how you’ve been.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
An army of ants, black, brown, red and white, in disciplined columns,
each one no less than any other,armed to the teeth, ready to ****
on their marauding march,find this giant, not a day too long ago was
too fierce as a man, whose reign of terror was most feared, lying still,
as if all those deeds were incidental,and he in no way is to be blamed.
They are equanimous, the ants, next wave, this is no more than just debris, this relic from the past, for them, something to be dealt with,
the army of disciplined ants, as per their manual, meticulously inspect,
whether the body has some strength left somewhere in the system,
to pull together rise, overcome the fatigue of a life full of misdeeds
not nice to remember, counted all the same as glory by sycophants.
They want to finish the work fast, fearing the return of the nightmare,
busily they went on doing what they are good at,they had their brief,
from the command center ,to clear up the debris from the battle front,
The last of the ants leaving the gnawed white bones, under moonlight,
writes the epitaph on sand,with it's spindly legs,thus:"This fort too fell"
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
I only wish I had a better memory...
Everything just became too monotonous, even with the light glittering on the surface of the water, casting thousands of facets across the pool deck like shattered glass.
So I went out for a bike ride.
All was quiet and seemed to sleep in the sweeping hand of the warm breeze that traveled all the way from the beach, and I can smell the faintest smell of the ocean waves, in the midst of all the jumbled pollutions and crashing smoke of smokestacks and exhaust pipes.
Then I saw.
On the side of the road there was a small black rag, that was not a rag, but a tangled mess of feathers twisted into a grotesque shape like the claws of death. Little threads of raw life all dried up seeping through shining fibers that had lost their sheen, turned into dull blackness, like strings of tar forgotten on the roadside.
So it goes.
And I rode on, into a large expanse of concrete, dotted at intervals down the center with trees covered in purple blossoms, standing out boldly against the dark grayness and stark white lines. A silver car was parked lazily in the shade of a purple tree, with sunlight shining off its streamlined hide. The shiny metal surface was being whisked to even greater heights of polished perfection by a rainbow colored duster, its wispy hairs blown sweeping gently across the Civic as the small lady in the purple shirt that matched the trees dusted busily. With her trimly cut black dress pants and pointy shoes, she moved quickly, half of her face hidden in a pair of expansive brown sunglasses that perched on her nose. What she was doing, no one knows.
Will no one remember?
I will time travel.
Now I am gone, and her existence still is, and was, and will be until it is gone. So will the sorry little rag of feathers by the side of life's unknown road, and the policeman parked across the lot, eating a donut.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
I sew the seams of my life together.
The fingers of my Heart
busily stitching
the patterns of my Mind.
A wondrous patchwork quilt.
It lays upon me like a mantel
with a bridal train billowing along
in the wild Cosmic Wind.
A garment not quite complete.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC