"busyness" poems
In person body language for the quickest returns
and obvious signs of disinterest and distress
Telephones for voices; plain, animated, or faking it
Letters for gesture, or a classic long slow catch up
And texting...
I know you got it
I may even know you read it
What's your excuse for delay?
Perhaps a brain lapse, perhaps some monotonous busyness
Perhaps I'm now an ignored fad, maybe you got better plans
Yet, could it be, our collective muscle memory pines for saying things by other means?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
when you look beyond busyness
what is it that you see?
a world endlessly searching
for what it was meant to be?
a mankind desperately looking
for the answer to its ache,
striving to achieve
some sort of break
from its broken heart
of pain and agony,
hoping to fix this
crippled reality?
when I look beyond busyness
I know what I see
a world waiting for God's return
when he destroys the enemy
a world waiting for the story to turn
to the part where Earth is set free
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
Thanks for the title, Boss.
When I was a kid
my hometown
basked in that
(uncertain) period
of peace and
prosperity between
Korea and Vietnam.
It bustled
with busyness
and it seemed like
everyone knew
everyone and there
was always more.
Even the poor
felt included.
Half a century later,
peace has fled
for good and
prosperity too,
leaving only
vacant storefronts
and neighbors
who do not know
each other.
Perhaps this
was inevitable;
perhaps it is
progress.
But there are
moments when
it feels like
a lifetime is
just too much
to witness,
just too long
to live.
Nobody loves
a corpse.
~mce
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Why is it that every night
I change into my pajamas
Only to remove them
Ten minutes later
As I climb into bed
In my undergarments?
I reckon it is the routine
That calms me from my day,
Shedding the skin of
One day to embrace another.
It is the preparation
For my seven hour
Sabbath where I rest
From my seventeen hours
Of work, play, and relationships -
Responsibilities that keep me
Too busy to take a moment
And enjoy the skin I live in.
So each night,
I must shed that skin
In reflection of the day
That is now gone,
And rest as I prepare
Myself for another day.
Another day of busyness,
Another day of striving,
Another day of trying my best
To be the man you have
Created me to be...
To embrace who I am
In every waking moment.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
All the mothers are working all the time right from their birth.
They are always learning and teaching for the sake of humanity.
They stay in our memories even after they have completed their life.
Whether they realize this or not but yes, they are always busy working.
In childhood they are busy learning basic skills required by human beings.
In teenage they are busy learning how to differentiate between right & wrong.
They then learn cooking and get married only to get more busy altogether.
They get extremely busy indeed if they started working at a service job.
Adding to their busyness are children and their bringing up as kids.
We must take care that they don't get depressed due in their lives.
That's the least thing we might do for our respective first love.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
for Nave
Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful. And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.
(It is always the peach tree.) Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond
to legs and offers of spread cheese. And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,
or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.
I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.
It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in
and the lavender grew instantly between my toes. And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough. And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
*i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.*
as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
So busy so busy.
Getting mine getting yours
What's the sine of this?
Add 9 to that!
Wait. I'm too busy!!!
Busy busy busy.
There's a species said to be associated with this.
They'll bee forever remembered
For their to and fro and their
Back and forth.
But I'm too busy! Too busy to notice.
Bees. Bees. Bees.
Mind our own bees wax!
You're busy alright, busy being an anteater that's what! Hm.
Get your nose out my busyness!!
I'm just an ant. An ant. An ant.
Not a worker. Just an ant.
Busybodies.
Everywhere.
Multiplying.
Duplicating.
Keeping ****** busy.
I'm done. Being. Busy. With the. Business. Of. Busyness.
I can't take it. This Human Nature.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC
surrounded by love
and chaos and busyness
totally content :)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Busyness is rampant every day
Running our lives
No time to play
No time to love
No time to relax
What is the point of going on
When you cannot even dance?
Enjoy yourself
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 1:47 AM UTC
.............busy life...........
I'm gonna write a poem that has to rhyme.
It gotta be about why people has no time
Cuz everywhere I go everybody seems to be busy
With their work devoted or maybe lazy
Ignoring their love ones and making money
But they don't got time for that loving
honey
Some people are afraid of living
Because they're always busy in taking
And giving
Whenever I look around
I Listen people's simple walking sound
Moving here and there
But no one knows where
Forget you,
Is there somebody who is still waiting?
With whom you have to go for dating
People only want good food with delicious dish
To make you happy is not for what they wish
For they're just being selfish
Avoid ignorance and too much busyness
Give your time for someone's happiness
Being busy doesn't make you feel happy
That's why loosing focus and become dappy
I am not against that you will Everything delay
work while you work and play while play
Come on friends let us make a time
So, that can make our future go so bright and shine
So, tell me when we will meet?
To see each other and to greet.
......
......
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
Tonight
there's a
jasper in the sky
the dews rinsing
the dust
the breeze conveying
the sounds of nature
the weary footsteps of birds
like the clock on the wall
and busyness reverted
to tranquility
and tonight
there's a jasper
in the sky.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Monday, August 6, 2018
11:33 PM
Time slips away with hardly a second glance,
it slips silently into the void of forgetfulness and busyness.
What moments pass us by in those forgotten seconds,
hours,
days?
Our busy lives striving for that next dose of the drug called comfort,
Of a sip from the pool of peace and quiet.
Those glimpses into a reality so unlike our own.
We long for one more moment,
We sacrifice so many forgotten seconds on the altar of our discontent.
To survive,
to persist,
we allow our lives to slip through our fingers like sand through an hourglass.
What battles have we lost without stepping foot on the battlefield?
What victories have we forfeited by never entering the ring?
Have we forgotten who we are?
Did we ever know?
That question gnaws at the core of our souls like unrelenting rain on a tin roof.
A tiny pinprick in the armor of our psyche.
Will it grow?
Will our discomfort of stagnation overcome our infatuation,
With that alluring mistress called safety?
Will our quiet hearts break free from the cage of our own design?
What if it did?
Could we rewrite our souls,
To enjoy every moment like it was our last,
What would that look like?
How many people have thought these same thoughts,
And gone on with their lives like they've never heard them.
When we look in the mirror,
And regret our inaction,
Dont worry, it will fade.
To a memory, and be lost in the void,
Of forgotten seconds and hidden regrets.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
Pull down thy vanity.
Woe be unto you. Sighing children. Left behind.
Make the best of it. Stand by your Brand. Freelance.
Start-ups of futility. Write content for six blogs.
Wake up and smell the copy. Serve drinks.
In three bars. Kludge together the rent. Part-time.
Hustle. Hurry. Make of virtue of activity. Be productive.
Convince yourself busyness is productive. Deliver.
Productivity as Divine. Ten steps to improve.
Seven ways to better. Fifteen hacks to boost.
Means of production stolen long before you.
You are cormorants with rings tight on your necks.
The truth shall make you work. Harder and longer.
Believe you are on your way. You are. To getting old.
Old and broke and lonely. To wondering what went wrong.
Your children will disdain you and the world you made.
Same story told with tattoos and piercings. Good luck.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
There is a
buzzing to my
busyness.
My mind refuses
to be at ease.
It happens when I
try to
read or sleep.
Doing Always.
Where did the
playground go?
I think it split for
Brazil with the
squirrels.
We are all nuts.
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
I saw Death today. He was riding a bicycle.
And I was frozen there, struck by his casual confidence as he passed me. I could not stop my gaze, afraid his image would mark my eyes for him.
Further down, he faded into blur, past people task-busy, unaware that Death was near.
Finally I was released. I turned to walk to my own busyness, shaking my head to clear the slow-motion pull that held me.
A smile dared to start in relief that Death did not want me today. Two more steps and I felt the crunch of a busy bug under my foot.
Death and I are companions.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
When did we call become so
Infuriated by the rain
and the sunshine
Impatient to run
and wait in line
Insecure of space
and empty time
In days where the end
was made by the farmer's hand
pinching the flame out
There were only rows
the sun and rain made
over a season grow
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
*These celebrating weeks
Offer the settings
For an overcast
A dark concealing
Of the season's light..
Busyness and buying
Small concerns compound
Webs of chaos attach
As a virus
To the season's light..
Fortunate is she
While boxed and bound
Finds that moment
Unexpected quiet glimpse
Of the season's light..
Perhaps this footnote:
A paradoxical gratitude
For that chaos
Her viral entryway
To the season's light…*
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
And each morning as she slept
I'd take her a tray of poetry
A croissant of commas warmed from the inside out
An ounce of assonance
A cup of freshly squeezed couplets
A bowlful of rhymes
That inside she might find
Our promises of forever
The memories we crafted together:
I’d take her a teapot of
The little things we’d forget
In the busyness of daily life
I’d take her a knife to spread
across the toasts we’d host
To the moments we cherished most
To our victories and our regrets
And every morning as she slept
I’d place a kiss on her head
As I placed beside our bed
A tray of poetry,
The words she so carefully, cordially, candidly
Composed out of me.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
this accidental status, we are all very busy
to be on the lookout for, the odds are not
terrible compared to the lottery, a modest
1 in 300 million, but it’s an easy buy and bust, just a two dollar bill, two lousy singles,
for a legal purchased fantasy that’s
cheaper than a cup of coffee
but finding love is miserable murderous
murmuring mess, can be very expensive, and
exhausting too, physically and mentally,you’re swimming in shallow waters tween razor rocky coral, begging for a slice of your double sized portion of anguish
And yet,
can’t be that hard,
it is a mega billion busyness,
with no cure or satisfactory vaccine,
and the randomness can drive you
mad, make panting to-pack it in,
until your spidey sensnses tingling,
a ketchup and bitter herbs mixture,
and you’re sweating, and it’s 100% anticipation of the well known (!)
unknown risks, this easy
walkway~path in the woods,
leads you on, with marvelous views,
even babbling brooks, till you find
you’ve climbed halfway way up a mountain and to make it to the top,
it’s a rocky boulder strewn,
ankle and heart twisting road that
takes you to the grandest place and plan
oh but, boy,
where the view of the worldscape is only
fantastico, but the only way back down involves throwing yourself into a
quarry pit, full of dangerous chemicals,
that burn scars into your inside parts, invisible wounds so untreatedbly unspeakably bad and incurable
again and again,
and you say stupid things like
I can’t help myself,
what’s a matter daddy,
just want some sugar in my bowl,
and when your neck gets broke,
and it’ll take incredible processing
to just get you to walk again,
and yet
the single
odiferous scent, that amuse bouche on
your lips, and you’ll do it all again for
once monte carlo throw of the dice,
because the odds ain’t that bad,
everbody lives somebody
and given the billions of opportunities walking in just this planet,
even one in a million sounds
pretty good,
even,
very…fair
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC
Why do you scurry along life's unlit byways
Your head bowed, fists jammed in your pockets?
To avert calamity? To guarantee success?
Did you miss the turn-off?
In your busyness and inattention
Did you forget to read the signposts?
Lift your eyes from the ground
Slow your pace and stretch the kink from your neck
Do you know where you are?
Unfurl your empty grasp and consult your inner compass
You will find a map etched on the inside of your heart
Do you see the way ahead?
Yes, I thought so.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:21 PM UTC
My life consists of walk-by smiles
Shallow, lacking any real depth
No burning passion, or even deep regret
Just small ones--here or there
That culminate into something more.
My walk is sometimes slow and sometimes fast.
I love the pretty girls that smile back.
But a smile is only that, a smile
It is here and gone again.
The brief excitement or fuzzy feelings fade
Into nothing but the cold breeze against my face
Reminding me that somethings missing.
It is more than just the smiles
They are only a small piece of the whole
The feelings of an incomplete existence
One lacking so much love and joy
Filled with busyness, addictions and indifference
Feeding the bad with attempts to remove
But lacking the courage to fill with good
Perhaps too much pride, or doubting I deserve
All of it let alone a little
Resolution eludes me even now
So many distractions deepening the disillusionment
Will the walk-by smile life ever lead
To stopping, a hello, even coffee or tea...
I usually make too big a deal,
but I see the problem is probably me.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC