"cautionary" poems
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).
Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.
Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)
Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.
THE END.
(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
The puppy sat by the door.
Near dying to go out.
Crying an abysmal wail
As if a naughty child.
Pawed and clawed the kitchen door.
No-one heard the honey pup.
Everyone was out.
Owner running late for work.
Neglected to let her run.
However could she forget.
It got to six a clock at night.
No-body came.
The tension built up.
Fluid build up.
Exploded sweet pup.
(metaphorically of course)
Owner came home.
Just couldn't be cross.
Cleaned up the muddle-some puddle.
Gave her puppy a hug.
Smiled to herself.
Said to puppy how sorry she was.
Cautionary tale acquired from here.
No matter how ever late you ever may be.
Put your cute puppy out to ***
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
we were deeply in love
my new girlfriend and I
and we sat under the trees
in the open fields in the starlight
and she whispered to me:
"Will things ever change?"
And I whispered back, as I nibbled at her ears:
"Nothing will ever change, sweetheart"
*Then she got pregnant
and everything changed*
I changed my address, my work
my phone number and my email address
my routine and my weekend haunts -
everything changed
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Cautionary visions visit in viciously vivid fashion
I'm dead and my head is missing
Everyone is laughing
But me
And the sky is sorta dreary but I don't know
With no eyes you don't see too clearly
Sew me a new one on,
Attached at the neck
Plastic instead of brittle skin and maybe then
I can exist in some form above the normally gray and grim
I pray to a faceless facade
I made a "God" in my head
An eternal alternative to turn to and blame
And claim to strangers that he works in mysterious ways
My lips are chafed from singing unheard praises
I'm tasteless and it has me thinking that maybe my mouth was only a product of my imagination
**Food for thought I chew and stop
Its too **** hot for contemplation**
Still, I used to think my hands belonged to someone else
Right up until I used them both to **** myself
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
One day my best friend sent me her poems,
And one poem hit far too close to home,
Heartbreak Girl.
In it she talked about a commercial,
A commercial where a man quits smoking,
And being separated from the addiction
Turns him into a mess.
She writes:
"It was on
Heartbreak Girl,
The days when I couldn't eat for missing her.
When every moment was made of fear
That I would see something that would tear me open and make me miss her
Make me re-realize that she was over
(And so was I.)
(The me I loved, whose ghost I still look at in the mirror behind me.)
(The me I never got to say goodbye to before she died.) "
These words, became a cautionary tale...
I know, in a matter of weeks, I will be the Heartbreak Girl.
I will be a mess.
I will not be easy to put back together.
My wounds will all be opened, stinging as I feel the wind blow against them.
And it's gonna hurt like hell.
But there will be a difference between me and the Heartbreak Girl:
I know it's coming.
I watch as the sand falls through the hour glass,
And with every grain of sand, my heart breaks a little bit more.
I try to keep it together.
I try not to look at the hourglass,
But there it sits, in plain sight.
Unavoidable.
It's coming, any day now.
And it will break.
But since I know it's coming,
I use the Heartbreak Girl's story to remind me
That at least I have a chance to say goodbye
To him
But more importantly to me
The me I was when I told him my dreams were coming true...
When I told him I was leaving...
And he picked me up, spun me around, and kissed me...
Because he was struck by a moment of genuine euphoria…
For me.
In that moment, I had everything I had ever wanted.
I was the me I always wanted to be.
I have a chance to say goodbye to her.
And I want to do it right.
That girl is everything I ever wanted to be.
And I'm terrified to leave her behind.
Because I really love her.
But I know it's only a matter of time until I have to.
And I'll be ****** if I don't give her a proper goodbye.
I worked too hard and too long not to give her the goodbye she deserves.
When it's time to say goodbye, I will go to that spot.
I will stand there,
And I will let her go,
She can't stay forever,
Because if she could, she wouldn't be such an enigma,
I would eventually take her for granted,
And I never want to do that.
Because she's perfect.
At least to me.
Once I let her go,
I will make way for the new girl,
Who I'm excited to meet,
And who I'm excited to become,
Even though, a part of her will be broken,
Eventually the wounds will somewhat heal.
Somewhat.
She will be amazing,
And most of what I've always wanted her to be,
Except for the missing piece of her heart...
Because when I say goodbye to the girl I am now,
I will also leave a piece of my heart in that spot.
And it will forever stay in that spot.
In a place that I know he will be.
In the place that he needs to be.
To become the man HE always wants to be,
And to the man I genuinely want him to become.
Even if it is without me: The Heartbreak Girl.
Who I will have to become in order for him to be who he wants to be.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
For him.
After the funeral, eventually I will have a reason to smile.
Because I have sacrificed so much.
So that we can become the people we always wanted.
Even if we don't have each other.
Even if I am
The Heartbreak Girl.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Like a drug taken for a quarter century, this writing doesn't help like it use to...
See,
I'm starting to feel like it's working against me
Holding me here in pain and misery
Cleverly disguised as creativity
I use to lie and say it was a way to get rid of all this negativity
But I've spilled so much blood and tears onto stationary
...and not even purely metaphorically...
I should be completely empty
Hell, I think I might be
I think it's moved onto draining my energy
Can I still call this writing therapy?
Is it healthy or does it keep me from a new me?
Holding tightly but in spite of me
Hiding a different side of a complex personality
A new level of maturity
Is it actually helping any?
Today it's hard to say, but maybe
Unfortunately, it's something I'm good at, a skill I enjoy and I don't have many
So I've begun to notice I look at it differently
It was suppose to help me let go of the painful unpleasantry held in many a memory
But it woke a part of my ego that I didn't know would grip so tightly
It might have been a mistake to rely on it so heavily
It's no longer moving along the story
No cautionary tales to learn from because they never become history
It becomes a bookmark that I don't use properly
I never move it to the page I left off on and now, I must admit openly, I'm doing it purposely
I keep the worst of me right next to me, close as a frienemy
All because I notice I DON'T write when I'm happy
And I like to write so I dance around emotions strategically
I don't know if it's anything worth saying but writing is calling and drawing me in closely
A ghostly presence that when I look closely I see my identity
It hasn't always been but is now a big part of me
But does it want all of me?
Can't say either way with any certainty
No AH-HA moment, no clarity, only a death grip on disparity
So I recklessly walk the line of happy and tragedy
Like a DUI test on the side of the freeway, drunken pageantry
Eyes closed usually
No thought of mine or anyone else's safety
Dangerously close to calamity
And I just worry
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 6:32 PM UTC
The impetus
Of being
Always on the run
Through pinwheel eyes
Those standing by
The mystic roadway : River
Blues yet to be brushed
or in blush
Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
Wonder
Then ponder
Yonder "window breaks"
Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
Umber earth
Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack
Listen now
Pedestrian be
Mindful of the cautionary whales
Old Ahab’s yell
Obsessions
Fears
Or loathing.
If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
widely
Blithely
Down river
Or up there beyond finger's point
Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet
The distance
Now only a line
Coalescing what is beyond
Our ability to see
Far and away
Evanescent
Effervescent
Ever after
River. Life.
Here we are
And proud
The free spirit is fluent
With the rapid rivers loud
Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
does it end ?
Where do we go?
Like most things existing,
Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
We often forget to seek
And mind
the sublimations/
d¬¬rift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
A burst of light
A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
Raging fragility of water
Liquid undulations
Folding itself in / volumes
Or falling from on high
A droplet cry
Then the lightning
(crash or bloom)
From the heavens
like electric rivers
So brilliantly
Festoons
Where do we go (so low)
There and here / underfoot /
Over north / southern sleep
To oceans twilight deep?
Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
Up
Way
Up yonder
There up there
Everywhere
All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
To go toward the sun
A flow /
the beating drum
Always on the run
And
Yet
Still
Here.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
Now here you come again to fetch me from the sea,
Ballast in my bones, this girl was born to sink;
A cautionary tale, I slip between the wood,
Limbs whittled thin and feet stained with soot.
But never-mind the waif; she waxes so pale
Drunk on dejection, I ponder the veil
Leaden and listless, for the sirens will sing:
Amaranthine is the color I bleed for the sea.
So I’ll spit out my sorrows wherever they listen,
Pumped me with pills and said that they fixed it.
The darlings have died off; the dolls are all broken,
Just left is me, thin-skinned and soft spoken.
And I’d rather lick knives than chew on love’s gristle,
Like a dog on a chain, I’d run when you whistle.
Far from it now, yet lost in the maze:
Chasing ways out for the rest of my daze.
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 2:18 PM UTC
I got a hundred shoes
in pairs, of course
and a wardrobe fit for a Princess
I got the bed
carved with gold trimmings
from the best end of town;
and a range of the best wigs -
all human hair,
third world crop no doubt
but at first world cost for sure
that all took me into bad debt
credit card and all
so when debonair James
asked me to marry him
I grabbed him lips to lips -
now he's paying through his nose
MORAL of TODAY'S POEM
so those of you guys
who are naive
you get caught;
those who are smart
you better use your head
before you put your knees on the floor
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
don't fall for their tales,
their trapping words
intended to capture all manner of
literary loving girls...
while they, these mopoets^ are perfectly content
to keep on looking
"for the perfect one..."
to write about,
the greatest love affair in all of
his-story
but only after getting first
a close dose of,
a teeming taste of<
her
*"inspiration"
He tells them that
after the first date,
he'll go home thinking:
"I could drink a case of you"
but usually but a glass,
at most,
a bottle, a month,
a satisfactory suffice,
and it's onto the next write
that's why the FBI labelled him,
a dangerous serial poet,
his mot
to be trusted,
not, no, no...no!
Ah men! Ah poets!
somebody should pass a law....
4:03am
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
It’s astonishing how you knock me off my feet
Enrapture spoken, sentiments we savor as we greet
A relishing secret catered for me, my needs, as we mental feast
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe
Echoes turning, twisting, as they blissfully weave
I wish I could take a journey through your mind
Dine on the emotions you refuse to hide
Cautionary pause, where are you, do you no longer reside
Tempting fate of awakening emotions dancing inside my head
Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread
Dreams of roses, chocolates, wine, a silk covered bed
Beautiful images of a love to be shared
Where feelings could suddenly vanish into thin air
No safety net, no sure bet, hotter than July, to have let
Nurses cannot heal thyself
I need a quick cure from sipping the tale of Sleeping Beauty’s lover’s cup
SOS smoke signals has been sent up
Rescue me Destiny, Fate knows I cannot swim
Horde of feelings have quickly flooded in
Melody of the heart sounds sweeter than the violin
No shore, no dry land
State of mind standing upon quicksand
Tarzan swing me from your vine, refuge needed in this moment in time
I need an escape from this deep ocean of carnal designs
Mind management, intoxicating as sweet wine, softly trickling from off a grape vine
You’ll be the one who brings the pain
Bring the umbrella in the pouring rain
You’ll be the one who makes me cry
Bring me the tissue to dry my eyes
You’ll be the one my heart can’t deny
Sending my body beyond pleasure while entwined in the sky
Whispers in time are arresting, strong
Tarzan embrace me, cocoon me with an escape song
As I tightly hold onto your body as we swing in ecstasy all night long
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
72 hours in
I'm giving serious thought to
drinking the Listerine.
The ***** is it's citrus flavored.
I can't even rinse with that toxic concoction, let alone swallow it,
but I'm running out of options.
I finished my other MacGyvers--
the Nyquil was first to go,
followed by a Dimetapp chaser
(the cherry,
not a refreshing grape-flavored one)
and a shot of Wal-fed
that induced indigestion.
My kingdom for a belt of whiskey--
maybe a snifter of ***
You know you're bottoming out
when you wax nostalgic
for drunken days
when soiling yourself was justifiable
due to your general state of disarray.
I'm the **** that adheres to the bottom of the barrel—
******* in the shower with my shoes on,
pants removed as a cautionary measure.
Not that life can get worse;
nothing trumps waking up miserable,
sore,
jobless,
alone,
queasy,
woozy and
drooling uncontrollably
and lacking ***** to blame it on.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Mike said
I'm the prettiest girl
he's ever met
so I let him
jump in
Carl made me
feel special
he said he'd never seen
anyone so pure
so in the back of his car
I let hm in
Rob said he'd rob
the world, go to jail
do anything I told him to do
so in the garden
I let him plant himself in
George wrote poetry;
he described my eyes
and my face and my walk
and he said he'd love me
forever, it was destiny brought
us together -
could he see more, please?
So I let him do everything
so he could make divine poetry
*Now I can't find any
of these guys
and they don't return my calls -
what happened
to their fine words and promises?*
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
In the intricate tapestry of love,
the adage "once a cheater, always a cheater"
weaves a cautionary thread.
It is a phrase laden with the weight of experience,
a mantra that whispers of broken trust and shattered vows.
When someone treads the path of betrayal,
leaving the fragments of a once-whole heart in their wake,
the scars run deep.
The echoes of deceit reverberate
in the corridors of love,
leaving those who have been wounded hesitant to trust again.
The notion, "once a cheater, always a cheater," emerges as a defense mechanism,
a shield against the vulnerability of being deceived once more.
Yet, in the realm of love,
the narrative isn't always so black and white.
People evolve, learn from their mistakes, and yearn for redemption.
It's crucial to acknowledge the capacity for change
within each individual.
While the wounds of betrayal may linger,
they need not dictate the course of someone's entire romantic journey.
The human experience is multifaceted, and relationships are complex landscapes.
People stumble, fall, and sometimes, they rise anew, reshaped by the crucible of their own errors.
Love, at its essence, encompasses forgiveness, growth, and the possibility of second chances.
So, while the cautionary phrase carries the weight of wisdom,
it is equally important to recognize the potential for transformation.
People can break free from the chains of their past misdeeds,
learn to value trust, and construct relationships founded on honesty and integrity.
Love, after all, is as much about healing as it is about the initial spark.
In the end the tale of "once a cheater, always a cheater"
is not a universal truth
but rather a reminder that love demands conscientious navigation.
It prompts us to approach relationships with discernment,
to treasure the fragility of trust,
and to foster an environment where growth and change are not only possible but celebrated.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 7:26 AM UTC
If men had a curfew lives would change in many ways
But there’s some setbacks to the attempt of fun outside
When I’m not with muscular friends past a certain time of day
I’m told to cover up my bra strap because the boys become distracted
Since “boys will be boys” reigns and girls pretend to be attracted
What if I could eat a burger in a bar without the need to feel guilty about my diet
And when I’m asked if I think I’m fat I say no, because it’s fishing for compliments to deny it
I’m told that I should be complacent and dress nice by a man three times my age
And scolded by society because it’s unladylike to be in a fit of rage
I could go outside and gaze at the dance the stars know so well
But I sing along with the peculiar song of that familiar cautionary bell
What if I could go out with friends past eight PM and explore the bright! Happy! world
Stagger through life in heels with our wit sharpened and eyelashes curled
No, I have to spend my time hidden “safe” inside
From men who think there’s no more to me than what they can see with the naked eye
This has happened ever since I turned the ripe old age of 13
Because there’s some people out there on the streets
Whom it would be an injustice to only be described as mean
I could walk out to my car without my hand poised with my keys as if they were a knife
And not have to worry about how a short low-cut dress could harm my life
(Me too) It could be worse! They say, for some reason with such force.
But since when was my safety
A cause for discourse?
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 8:03 PM UTC
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a cautionary in a coal mine
choking on fumes, next to the garden hose, all snakes and power-lines
entangled in the turbulence of absolute calm , a rarefied catastrophe
an asterix, just to the right
of the meaningless word
you would say
to me.
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a lost tomb.
teensy- weensy bones are polished
very close to microphones.
i would have to be the nothingness,
just for the night
[ followed by the longest day with you. ]
jimmy the lock
and fish out the quills;
we'll write a new desolation in cuneiform and iron will -
throw out your kinsmen
if they be discontinuous...
to shave a few hours off
time wasted
delirious.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
The birds are singing before I’ve found my way to sleep.
I’ve curled myself around my waiting dreams and a purring cat
But something inside me won’t stop,
There are words struggling to be freed from the confines of my skin
And so, I turn on my laptop and dutifully type.
I must let these words write themselves, lest their nagging never cease.
I am a servant to the stories bottled up in my head.
Sometimes they send me on great adventures to amuse themselves.
Sometimes the stories throw me into crazy situations, make me go home
With wild men, or salacious women.
The stories will only be satisfied by excess, rebellion and insanity.
Am I these things? Am I this wild being?
This night sprite?
A slave to the foolish urges of unwritten stories?
Yes.
I have chosen to run the winds and let down my hair, long and luscious
To throw myself urgently into the chaos of living
To be always on the precipice of being and creation.
For I want stories to spill from me like blood from my veins,
Or breath from my lungs.
I want to be the greatest story I’ve ever told.
I want one day to lay on my dying bed, laughing at the things I have done.
I want my memory to be a reason to dance and to scream,
My name an abbreviation of cautionary tale.
I want always to burn with passion
And never deny the heat between my legs
Or the inspiration in my heart
For I am the story of a wild woman.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you
Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,
yes, I will follow you
the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you
the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of
the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet
10/16/17 5:09pm**
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
The Elders Warn Skinny Vinny
Skinny Viiny, eat your meals -
no spitting and no sputtering;
just chew and swallow
everything mom feeds you
Think of the millions in Third World Countries
who daily and nightly can't afford food
Skinny Vinny, eat your food
or when you're asleep alone at night
the cockroaches will gather in your room
and they will nibble and nibble
and nibble
at your arms and your legs
and they will nibble and nibble
all night and all moonlight
and they will nibble away
all your fingers and toes
So if you don't want that to happen,
Skinny Vinny, eat all your meals
all that mom feeds you
But Skinny Vinny Ignores Her Elders
Now, one night, Skinny Vinny saw
that all the cockroaches
did come (only in her dream, though)
and in that dream the cockroaches ate away
exactly as her parents had prophesied -
nibble, nibble, nibble, nibble
at her fingers and at her toes -
and Skinny Vinny was exactly bereft
of all her yummy fingers
and all her smelly toes
Skinny Vinny Learns Her Lesson
And by this dream
Skinny Vinny had the **** beaten out of her
so much by fear
that from then on she ate all; she ate all at hand
she ate all she was fed and all at the table
and she demanded more by platefuls and bucketfuls
and she ate by trolley-fulls and delivery-truck-fulls
and her parents had to bring in
containers shipped in from China daily
all by Double Happiness exclusive deals
And Skinny Vinny ate and ate
and no food went to waste;
and her parents spent all their inherited fortunes
and they worked and worked day and night
even at the time when cockroaches fly
so they could feed Skinny Vinny
who ate all far and nigh -
and when last I checked the Daily Mule
( whose publication motto is:
We swear to carry nothing but unprocessed truth)
the parents are still working in the mines
in order to feed Skinny Vinny
who once would eat nothing
All parents learn your lesson
*And so be warned all ye parents
that threaten harm to your children
because they will not eat -
the very threats will be laid on your heads
and you will be digging in coal mines
to feed your kids*
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
A friend of mine was attacked by
her homicidal cat.
Apparently,
cats are quite toxic.
They are also really evil,
in a naturally stupid way.
Maybe it's about time we
seriously considered them
parasites.
Practically venomous.
This I guess is half poem,
and half cautionary tale.
Your furry friend is an *******
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
.
*Times like these...
Just make you want to get up and run.*
Forget the ache in your knee,
forget the weight on your back.
Forget the problems in your pocket,
forget the secrets in your sack.
*Times like these...
Just make you want to dive deep.*
Forget the myth of what lurks below,
forget the cautionary voices in your head.
Forget the whispers of restraint,
forget the monsters under your bed.
*Times like these...
Just make you want to take off and fly.*
Forget the wings that remain invisible,
forget the winds which refuse to carry.
Forget the bottom that awaits you,
forget the beckoning arms of gravity.
***And take that leap into
the great unknown...***
.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC