"considerable" poems
Sat on a sedan
Spiderman took her hand.
Went down on one knee
And said
Will you marry me?
I cannot face
The rest of eternity
With each generation's
Take on modernity.
It's old fashioned values
I look for and see -
Your confidence,
Common sense,
Your honesty,
Sincerity,
Your quirkiness
And peacableness.
But most of all
Your peerless take on life
Is what does it for me.
Will you be my wife?
Spiderman, Spiderman,
How you do woo!
And you have such qualities
That draw me to you -
Your patience,
Respect,
Your considerable intellect,
Your gentleness,
Strength of mind -
I could go on at length and find
You could be my cobweb?
I could be your fly?
Could you be the man for me
Until the day I die?
What more can I say than
You may have concurred
That I do things my own way.
So can you guess?
Little Miss Muffet Said Yes!
And do you know what?
As they lay there
On that Le Corbusier chair
Without a care in the world -
And you know it's not novel
To be graphic -
They were not afraid at all.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Back in the days of old
when knights were bold
who with a sword or lance
in armour sought romance.
It was the age of chivalry
long ago in man’s history
when to fight for a righteous cause
one did gain considerable applause.
It was mainly for show, love and glory
they deemed themselves being worthy
to capture the heart of some fair maiden
which was the most desired prize laden.
Oh, they would strike heavy blows
on all of their opponents and foes
in a one to one combat defying death
as crowds watched with abated breath.
Yes, it was far back in those days of yore
that courage and strength came to the fore
where there was this life and death struggle;
such issues at hand the knights would juggle.
And in fighting for their country, faith and king
noble impressions on people’s minds would ring
that even through the ages are held in high esteem
those knights in shinning armour do now all seem.
There are many legends based on their heroic exploits
a legacy of tales which have been told with much adroit
highlighting aspects of human wisdom related to virtue and vice
and the lessons to be learnt are those of goodness and sacrifice.
History usually repeats itself time and again
as it often happens a situation comes when
we’re asked to do something for a just cause
and acting with chivalry we shouldn’t pause.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 10:20 AM UTC
Oh sleepless night
What a trick on me you play!
For the reason I cannot sleep
Is because I anticipate the day
We build our day up
To have it elapse at night
But how too often a time I experience
A continuance through the night
Oh how unfair to me you see
For nighttime is a break much overlooked
Because I walk through the day quite sleepily
Which is difficult in a day so overbooked
Sleeping figures
Rejuvenating minds
Your mind is cultivating in peace
While my face is forming lines
Oh how I wish I didn’t get so worked up
I expected this to happen
Which ironically is the reason
My tiredness has been dampened
I lay in bed, ready
Ready to try this out
A pleasant sleep is all I wanted
Without completely passing out
How I get so jealous when
You lay there and drift to rest
While I’m dealing with two polar issues--
Either abruptly collapse into sleep or else from it slowly digress
Oh sleepless night, you tease me so
You fool with me and upset me so
For when thinking of tomorrow I surely know
I’m not going to be as lively as my potential.
It’s like I’m a hobo on Fifth Ave
Looking at the rich not realizing what they have
I get excited over spare change
While you collect your pay checks again and again
So let’s face it, tomorrow I’ll be miserable
And I’ll look forward to when the clock strikes night
But then the hours I have will become considerable
So I’ll lay there restlessly and drift away just before the light.
So I’ll get a taste of what sleeps like
But I’ll never get to experience it right.
Oh you cruel, mean sleepless night!
Where dwells your brother so known as the “Goodnight”?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
There’s no other choice but to wear them,
The drawer offered nothing but these.
An odd pair of socks might be quirky,
Odd sizes don’t normally please.
The one at my ankle was spotted,
The other was striped to the knee
The latter two sizes the smaller,
The former quite large by degree.
This mismatch I thought to keep secret
And cover the dissonant pair.
I chose from the wardrobe some trousers
And shoes, with considerable care.
My ruse would conceal the divergence
From prescribed social standards of dress
And none would be any the wiser
My discomfort I’d have to suppress.
Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure
When physical pain has attacked.
The small sock had cramped my toes tightly
That blood didn’t flow, was a fact.
My colleagues regarded me strangely
For they could see nothing amiss
But I could feel cold perspiration,
Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss.
It was then that I felt a strange itching,
The striped sock began to descend
And round my right ankle it wrinkled
And bulged at the trouser leg end.
Dismayed at my great consternation
But clueless to what was awry
My friends made comforting gestures
Need of which I could only deny.
The moral of this story’s transparent
Socks are always best worn as a pair
Their nature is in the relationship
Which provides a well-balanced air.
And take the trouble to remember
Be congruent in all that you do
For disparity will often bring discord
And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
I s’ppose rattlesnakes can’t be
ninjas. Yes — they got
the striking and the stinging
part right, but they
are not really masters
of subtlety; they make
too much noise and take
a considerable amount
of time to make a **** and
they can never hold katanas and
hurl throwing stars. I guess
rattlesnakes are doomed to
crawl and rattle on, announcing
Hey, I carry venom, as
the rats would thank their ears and
the hawks circle above.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Hello Poetry is a blue place this calendar year
for we have seen many a good poet disappear
their inspiring words not around to delight in
of this expression the site is somewhat thin
Hello Poetry has experienced a considerable loss
gone all of that imagery so beautiful in gloss
the colors they deftly painted faded as they left
which makes the heart feel palpably bereft
Hello Poetry members those of excellent ink
missing from our writing fellowship's rink
we'll not forget the contribution they made
as each one of them showed the finest parade
Hello Poetry our brothers and sisters of the quill
departed us with yet more stanzas to spill
their individual styles we'll not sight again
truly a thought which is so downcast of refrain
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 5:12 AM UTC
I have shared in my time the human illusions,
the muddy foolishness and craving passions.
But something years ago pulled me out of the tide-wash;
I cannot even pretend to be one of the people.
I stand here with open eyes in the clear air growing old.
Watching with interest and considerable nausea,
this time of the demagogues, the shifts of power,
and the pitiless wars that prepare for the fall.
But also the enormous unhuman beauty of things;
rock, sea and stars; fool-proof and permanent.
But as for my children, I would have them
keep their distance from the thickening center,
corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster's feet
there are left the mountains.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
O Chansons foregoing
You were a seven days’ wonder.
When you came out in the magazines
You created considerable stir in Chicago,
And now you are stale and worn out,
You’re a very depleted fashion,
A hoop-skirt, a calash,
An homely, transient antiquity.
Only emotion remains.
Your emotions?
Are those of a maitre-de-cafe.
3.1k
India is the biggest democratic state
The voters always decide her fate
The fate of a political party depends on its popularity
The powerful and tactful party gets the majority
One party discusses the construction of Rama’s temple
Its political, hidden agenda is very simple
The other parties talk about secularity
It always tries to woo the considerable minority
The other leftist parties often talk about the poor
But they never get their votes for sure
Before the election liquor flows like a river
Voters get money notes in a beautiful cover
The luckiest party grabs the power
The elected members try to climb the tower
Corruption seems to be the order of the day
No part is likely to show the right way
In democracy, parties are meant
To be different. But that is not quite apparant
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:00 AM UTC
I cannot fully explain to you
How perplexing it is
To be a 22 year old adult
But to still have the fear
Usually reserved for a young child
The fear of the dark
And not in a way that one is afraid of death
Or lions or tigers or bears
Oh my, my fear is much more irrational
You see I find I have bravery in real things
I’ve rock climbed mountains
Ridden roller coaters
Held a poisonous snake by the tale
You get why that’s braver right?
But what makes the hair on the back of my neck stand
What makes my skin pucker into tiny little bumps
Are monsters born of my own imagination
You see my imagination is wicked
And I use that word both ways
In the slang sense that it is awesome and powerful
And in the literal sense that is it evil
That when I imagine a monster
I give it ten hands with 20 fingers each ending with teeth
And eyes so black they sink into the monsters head
Making them look like empty sockets
So deep, they touch his brain
I am forever afraid
I’ll be honest with you
I sleep with all the lights on
And my closet doors wide open
So I could see exactly what is going on in there
I years ago threw out my bed skirt
Convinced they cloaked crooked
Teeth crawling critters capable of decapitation
And were all considerable stronger than myself
As you can imagine I have a lot of nightlights
Mobile ones I use to walk to the bathroom with in the middle of the night
I have to buy so many batteries
The clerk at Walmart can only reasonably assume
I have deviant private life
Because grown *** adults shouldn’t be that scared of the dark
Because at some point during or after childhood
I won’t assume it happens at the same time for everybody
Your imagination takes a backseat to logic
And you understand that monsters aren’t real
But death is and maybe that’s a better fear to have
That didn’t happen with me though and I think most artists
If they were to be completely honest with you would tell you
It didn’t happen to them either they missed a step
In the development milestone department
Though I think they would tell you too like I’m about to tell you now
The fear is worth it there hasn’t been a single monster
I’ve imagined that hasn’t had an equal
Beautiful thought and I can see them better with all the lights on.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
he wasn't in the right headspace
he wasn't in the wonted circumstance
it happened neither occasionally, but on numerous occasions
however, his surrounding be approaching and expecting his so-called tough shoulders..
..to be cried on, to be leaned on or to be the place they can dwell in for some considerable time.
his heart was made of gold, but it felt like a block of ice.
nodded his head; means acceptance.
tossed a yes; means a welcome.
painted a genuine smile; means he's all about to listen.
he was there for people, and he will always be there.
but where are the people pace their footsteps out while 911 numbers were pressed on his life's phone button?
nought. zero calls back. all dead. stone deaf.
that's how we live in, being a living buttress to people as in fact people won't ever spend their seconds to be your place to go.
aside from the bitter truth,
survive.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 7:04 AM UTC
In Memoriam
What's missing is the eyeballs
in each of us, but it doesn't matter
because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
You let me touch them, ****** the green faces
lick at their numbers and it lets you be
my "Daddy!" "Daddy!" and though I fought all alone
with molesters and crooks, I knew your money
would save me, your courage, your "I've had
considerable experience as a soldier...
fighting to win millions for myself, it's true.
But I did win," and me praying for "our men out there"
just made it okay to be an orphan whose blood was no one's,
whose curls were hung up on a wire machine and electrified,
while you built and unbuilt intrigues called nations,
and did in the bad ones, always, always,
and always came at my perils, the black Christs of childhood,
always came when my heart stood naked in the street
and they threw apples at it or twelve-day-old-dead-fish.
"Daddy!" "Daddy," we all won that war,
when you sang me the money songs
Annie, Annie you sang
and I knew you drove a pure gold car
and put diamonds in you coke
for the crunchy sound, the adorable sound
and the moon too was in your portfolio,
as well as the ocean with its sleepy dead.
And I was always brave, wasn't I?
I never bled?
I never saw a man expose himself.
No. No.
I never saw a drunkard in his blubber.
I never let lightning go in one car and out the other.
And all the men out there were never to come.
Never, like a deluge, to swim over my *******
and lay their lamps in my insides.
No. No.
Just me and my "Daddy"
and his tempestuous bucks
rolling in them like corn flakes
and only the bad ones died.
But I died yesterday,
"Daddy," I died,
swallowing the Nazi-Jap animal
and it won't get out
it keeps knocking at my eyes,
my big orphan eyes,
kicking! Until eyeballs pop out
and even my dog puts up his four feet
and lets go
of his military secret
with his big red tongue
flying up and down
like yours should have
as we board our velvet train.
2.5k
I have spent considerable time engaging with reflections of Narcissus, to no constructive avail,
And I have also borne witness to those very specific colours which parade themselves across public squares of irreverence.
I wish no harm, my friend of diminished insight.
Shall we dance across this planetary genius, where cosmological families are able to expose their tantric beings without reserve?
I bid you farewell, my dear.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
~
5:52am
*The bright morning sun comes out to play,
considerable yawns
and we are all awake,
anchored in the reef,
ready for its mischief*
11:16am
*The children excitedly point starboard
to a school of dolphins
leaping for joy as they go by,
little hands wave hello and goodbye,
'thank you' in their eyes,
etched now in their little minds
as a timeless memory*
3:31pm
*Everyone is napping,
except my significant other,
she slips off her clothes
and enters the afternoon water
for a bit of meditative bathing,
the shimmer of light
reflecting off her beauty
as a siren of Anthemoessa,
I cannot help but somnolently observe
do I dream this belief?
or do I believe this dream?*
9:47pm
*The boat rocks gently to
the rhythms of the sea,
the stars overhead form
a celestial blanket,
sheltering, enveloping,
their far off twinkles
telling us a story
—a time for spindrifting
—a time for bed*
~
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 1:58 PM UTC
This is the fleeing breath that we will remember forever. Our final days that tasted so bittersweet as they flooded from our lips like our laughter that filled a small house on late nights. Right now we are young and we are full of promise. Full of all existence and every being: all connected. Brimming with the life we were gifted and the individuality that shaped our lives into adventures worth living. Tomorrow we will still be seventeen and we will still have our part time jobs, exes to cry over, and classes to wake up for. But tomorrow is also infinite, and we will continue to persevere in committing our respective existences to the preservation of hope. Of what we have in our hearts that burns like our bonfires, like when our eyes first met, like when we ripped off our clothes and jumped into black water. These may be the best days of our lives, but I weep for the souls that endure their days in that state of mind. Each second of your actuality is an opportunity to shape tomorrow, today, RIGHT NOW as the summit of your life. This is beyond a call to action. This is a call upon your passion. An appeal to all that you embody and every imminent prospect you contain. In this moment there is no matter more considerable than you, because we are pushing on the same path in peace for peace.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
*for R.A.
our northern friend*
~
one foot in two countries,
she is enjambment symbolic,
running a single stanza
without a syntactical break,
by standing simultaneous
in two neighboring cultures
causing her dear readers
from near and far,
some, like me,
from across the borderline,
considerable multifarious symptoms
of
well considered verbal confusion
this,
a gifted special talent
from
she
who straddles
all kinds of borders
that divide
her
and
unite
her,
that
can be understood/revealed tho,
when observing the northernmost night skies
eh?
expert in modulating
extreme snowed under bay
winterized temperatures,
counterpointed by
drivingopen highways
on summer plains
where the dotted line is
all there is to see
for miles, thousandths wide
she-poet
oft goes quiet,
expelling her breath
between word roarings,
gentlest of periodic
verbal sweets
genteel
my word version for her
gentle so,
in a way that
makes gentility
deserve the nobility
inherent
that is the
work word
that always comes first
when we need to place her,
another star
in the night
flying frying
firmament
enjambment - her word
means I am
all in,
with both hands,
resting on both jambs
of an arched window
that she architects,
peering in,
Making Sure,
I have come to the right place
where she-poet
builds skylights of
northern lights,
igniting
adore her sweet
confusion,
but better yet,
her poems
of clarification
that explain all in,
why when,
we
all look up,
thru her
window exquisite
that she
meant
for us
we always first
turn our glacé glance
northwards
strangely, seeking, illogically,
but not really,
warmth
in the she-poets
northern way
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
So what if I'm outspoken
My hearts been broken
I'm not jokin,
my mind is awoken
Soul is stolen,
must be an omen
Words unspoken,
open and golden
Not what I would have chosen
***** the heartache,
now I'm awake
Looks so opaque,
you were fake
It was a mistake just to partake
Do a double take,
no more heartbreak
Time to remake and fix the break
Give and take,
now I'm awake
Was so miserable,
unforgivable
It's criminal,
be an individual
So predictable,
you're an imbecile
It's unthinkable,
not unconditional
Unintentional,
you're unemotional
Not original,
be considerable
It's so pitiful,
not traditional
I'm rational and very visual
You ought to not get too distraught
You got caught tied in a knot
Like an afterthought,
you fought
And brought the plot,
overwrought
Maybe you forgot what you taught
But I'm not distraught
Over what you brought
Just
some
food
for
thought...
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Oh sir, with your considerable depth and serious amount of cool
I think i might just like you like you like a swimming pool
The feeling is chlorine, cavorting, blue-green bizarre,
Slipping, and falling, and lengths gone too far
And at the end of the day, when I lay down and dream,
All the people and places have a swimming-pool gleam.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Kissed his student.
Punched his friend.
Accused her lover.
What if China's navy asserts control where our navy also patrols?
Should we concede the South China Sea? Not on your life! Or maybe.
Lives may be lost but so what. There's so much biomass in the
crosswalks.
Lord have mercy on my soul
Which means bring my confusion into an expressible state before it's
too late.
Sal went to jail. I belong to the loved ones. Never may the anarchic
man's thoughts be my thoughts. Not one.
It could be cancer or just a cyst
That killed Frost's considerable speck
Instead of considering its considerable intelligence.
Although bottomless ancient night stretches
From your short life forward, remember
It also stretches backward without measure.
There are few straight lines in nature and only one alternative to
ageing, so **** it up!
Suppose everything's fine and you've wasted your time wearing
sackcloth over your soul?
Start now knowing joy.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Being Invisible
Why can't people see me?
Is the question I ask
Looking at me with their judgemental eyes
That look I despise
Being invisible walking through life
No one recognizes my pain and strife
Not opaque
Not even translucent
Just plain ole invisible–transparent
People look past me, through me
They just can’t see me
Taking my kindness for weakness
Mistaking my smile for meekness
Every single day I pray
God how much more can I take
Am I being punished for my past mistakes
Then, just like that, I open my eyes
Did I just dream I was invisible?
Was it just visual subconscious lies?
Could someone really be invisible?
I mean, is it even considerable?
Being invisible
To the seen it’s unseen
Can a person really be invisible?
Or does that only happen in an invisible person’s dreams?
Mar 4, 2022
Mar 4, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
This actually happened pretty much as I have told it. It happened on a weekday afternoon in summer on 60th Avenue in the Queensboro Hill section of Flushing, NY. The Mister softeee trucks still roam the streets to this day playing the same jingle as in my youth. For some reason they have adopted a sensible pay first policy. The Pioneer was the name of the local tavern at the foot of the street. it now serves bubble tea to the asian elite.
Our ice cream man on Queensboro hill
was a curmudgeon, to put it kind.
I'm pretty sure he hated those
who paid in quarters, nickels and dimes.
Ritchie was a "special " kid
He was a big kid for his age.
To put things gently he was slow,
Half a wit and not a sage.
We heard the Mister Softee Jingle
from a good half mile away
It must haven driven the bald guy mad
to have to listen to that all day.
Ritchie went up to the window
He got a cone then refused to pay.
Mister Softee left his station.
Ritchie made to run away.
It was like a Chinese Fire Drill
Ritchie jumped into the truck
The keys were there, the engine on.
He displayed considerable verve and pluck.
The softee truck rolled down the block
with Mister Softee in hot pursuit.
His bald head gleaming in the sun
wishing for his long lost youth.
The truck crashed into the Pioneer.
Ritchie was cuffed and led away.
Mr. softee nursed his vanquished pride.
His truck sold no more cones that day.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.
He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
now is the time, she says.
she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
now is the time, she says.
I say not much, they say.
not much like a Polaroid
of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
factual information is less than an obituary
telling you that your wife is dead.
my inalienable right to make pancakes
at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
but, ah, what was that she said---
a million things all at once with no simile
(the walls make sound, but
my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
no cohesion, no considerable operations,
no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
my wound grows down the trees like ivy
my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
I breathe I breathe
smaller breathes to not disturb you.
so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
you shift like the moon tossing
on waves of cloud;
what gods have I to curse
when thou art fled?
Little lines can't suffice,
empty is a word not full--
opulence and splendor
like my toes in the damp summer grass.
inhale, please, and take your pulse
out in the cold because
the dryer is broken,
everything beeps at me
and houses shiver in nightmare.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC