"crotchety" poems - Hello Poetry

"crotchety" poems

Magic Read this to yourself. Read it silently. Don’t move your lips. Don’t make a sound? Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything. What a wonderfully weird thing, huh? NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD! SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND! DROWN EVERYTHING OUT. Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper. Now, read this next line in your best crotchety old man voice: “Hello there sonny, does this town have a post office?” Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that? Certainly not yours. How do you do that? How!? Must be magic!!

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Jan 4, 2016

Jan 4, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC

MAGIC BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN

Magic Read this to yourself. Read it silently. Don’t move your lips. Don’t make a sound? Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything. What a wonderfully weird thing, huh? NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD! SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND! DROWN EVERYTHING OUT. Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper. Now, read this next line in your best crotchety old man voice: “Hello there sonny, does this town have a post office?” Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that? Certainly not yours. How do you do that? How!? Must be magic!!

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Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories, and into the windows of, even, the miserable and crotchety - best preacher that ever was, dear star, that just happens to be where you are in the universe to keep us from ever-darkness, to ease us with warm touching, to hold us in the great hands of light - good morning, good morning, good morning, Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC

Why I Wake Early - by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories, and into the windows of, even, the miserable and crotchety - best preacher that ever was, dear star, that just happens to be where you are in the universe to keep us from ever-darkness, to ease us with warm touching, to hold us in the great hands of light - good morning, good morning, good morning, Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.

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Why are librarians always mean? They act like they are the queen of the library scene They are in charge, that is true they make that clear when shushing you if only they actually knew people only go to the library to pass through they ***** and fuss all day and treat children like their prey they all turn into a cliche if only there was another way they are lonely crotchety old ladies who took their dreams and turned them into maybes some of them had wished to write or edit famous books into the night but alas here they are in old schools screamin' and yellin' all day about the rules I think that's probably why they take pleasure in making children cry Forever they'll sit at their desk growing in old age grotesque when you see a librarian make sure to scurry unless you want to feel her wrath and fury

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Feb 12, 2015

Feb 12, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC

****** Librarian

Why are librarians always mean? They act like they are the queen of the library scene They are in charge, that is true they make that clear when shushing you if only they actually knew people only go to the library to pass through they ***** and fuss all day and treat children like their prey they all turn into a cliche if only there was another way they are lonely crotchety old ladies who took their dreams and turned them into maybes some of them had wished to write or edit famous books into the night but alas here they are in old schools screamin' and yellin' all day about the rules I think that's probably why they take pleasure in making children cry Forever they'll sit at their desk growing in old age grotesque when you see a librarian make sure to scurry unless you want to feel her wrath and fury

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Among pelagian travelers, Lost on their lewd conceited way To Massachusetts, Michigan, Miami or L.A., An airborne instrument I sit, Predestined nightly to fulfill Columbia-Giesen-Management's Unfathomable will, By whose election justified, I bring my gospel of the Muse To fundamentalists, to nuns, to Gentiles and to Jews, And daily, seven days a week, Before a local sense has jelled, From talking-site to talking-site Am jet-or-prop-propelled. Though warm my welcome everywhere, I shift so frequently, so fast, I cannot now say where I was The evening before last, Unless some singular event Should intervene to save the place, A truly asinine remark, A soul-bewitching face, Or blessed encounter, full of joy, Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan, With, here, an addict of Tolkien, There, a Charles Williams fan. Since Merit but a dunghill is, I mount the rostrum unafraid: Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask If I am overpaid. Spirit is willing to repeat Without a qualm the same old talk, But Flesh is homesick for our snug Apartment in New York. A sulky fifty-six, he finds A change of mealtime utter hell, Grown far too crotchety to like A luxury hotel. The Bible is a goodly book I always can peruse with zest, But really cannot say the same For Hilton's Be My Guest. Nor bear with equanimity The radio in students' cars, Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!-- Girl-organists in bars. Then, worst of all, the anxious thought, Each time my plane begins to sink And the No Smoking sign comes on: What will there be to drink? Is this ma milieu where I must How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig! ****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig? Another morning comes: I see, Dwindling below me on the plane, The roofs of one more audience I shall not see again. God bless the lot of them, although I don't remember which was which: God bless the U.S.A., so large, So friendly, and so rich.

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Among pelagian travelers, Lost on their lewd conceited way To Massachusetts, Michigan, Miami or L.A., An airborne instrument I sit, Predestined nightly to fulfill Columbia-Giesen-Management's Unfathomable will, By whose election justified, I bring my gospel of the Muse To fundamentalists, to nuns, to Gentiles and to Jews, And daily, seven days a week, Before a local sense has jelled, From talking-site to talking-site Am jet-or-prop-propelled. Though warm my welcome everywhere, I shift so frequently, so fast, I cannot now say where I was The evening before last, Unless some singular event Should intervene to save the place, A truly asinine remark, A soul-bewitching face, Or blessed encounter, full of joy, Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan, With, here, an addict of Tolkien, There, a Charles Williams fan. Since Merit but a dunghill is, I mount the rostrum unafraid: Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask If I am overpaid. Spirit is willing to repeat Without a qualm the same old talk, But Flesh is homesick for our snug Apartment in New York. A sulky fifty-six, he finds A change of mealtime utter hell, Grown far too crotchety to like A luxury hotel. The Bible is a goodly book I always can peruse with zest, But really cannot say the same For Hilton's Be My Guest. Nor bear with equanimity The radio in students' cars, Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!-- Girl-organists in bars. Then, worst of all, the anxious thought, Each time my plane begins to sink And the No Smoking sign comes on: What will there be to drink? Is this ma milieu where I must How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig! ****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig? Another morning comes: I see, Dwindling below me on the plane, The roofs of one more audience I shall not see again. God bless the lot of them, although I don't remember which was which: God bless the U.S.A., so large, So friendly, and so rich.

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She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard. Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings. She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole. She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back. Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die. The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy . Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same- -but that doesn’t make it any easier. Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer- But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now. They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one. She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.

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Sep 22, 2012

Sep 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC

converse, inverse, it can't get worse.

She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard. Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings. She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole. She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back. Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die. The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy . Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same- -but that doesn’t make it any easier. Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer- But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now. They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one. She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.

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The Wicked Witch from Woodhaven, It's quite an obstacle being your offspring. Never have I been so self hating more when I listen to your heart-knifing words and unsympathetic demeanor. Undermining my warm and graciousness as if I am some ant just waiting to be burned by sunlight through your magnifying glass, I pray that some day you will change. But a person so mentally unstable cannot change, As you have passed those genes down unto me. You have me riding some emotional rollercoaster at a carnival that Goblins should attend, And not the normal, lively human soul. Thankfully, I've decided to go elsewhere. But the clowns that you call ailments won't allow me to leave. I vow to change my ways, aiming to stand up to such an evil and love-deviating woman, Yet your words freeze me up like your mouth is Antartica, And your brain is scolding due to your visit to your throne in Hell. I've suffered many tragedies inside my own mind, Sad songs that are on repeat. Carelessness and forgetfulness has brought me to decrease my envy of you. You've devoured the confidence of your once favorite child for more times than he can count on both hands, And both feet, Twice. I can appreciate the fact that you've raised me, As it is nearly impossible to raise such a troublesome child. Though wishing you had never even birthed me in the first, I hold you responsible to why I am subdued. Nurture has been long forgotten, Since I had last treasured it so. A mother's love is all that is good and holy, But what is it worth to Satan? You would know, Since he is in fact, your creator. Wicked Witch, Stubborn ***** How awful these words sound to me. They come out in frustration as you lead me to temptation, And insecure I shall always be. Crotchety old ghoul, You've treated me like a fool, For far too long I've counted. Everlasting therapy is in order, And forever you and I will be separated, Separated by a border, That I have built, In order to salvage some sort of a stable mind. Kindly accept my creed to await, The finalizing version of myself. I've longed for such mortality, Due to your immorality, As guardian of my unnatural life.

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Sep 22, 2016

Sep 22, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC

saint_francis422

The Wicked Witch from Woodhaven, It's quite an obstacle being your offspring. Never have I been so self hating more when I listen to your heart-knifing words and unsympathetic demeanor. Undermining my warm and graciousness as if I am some ant just waiting to be burned by sunlight through your magnifying glass, I pray that some day you will change. But a person so mentally unstable cannot change, As you have passed those genes down unto me. You have me riding some emotional rollercoaster at a carnival that Goblins should attend, And not the normal, lively human soul. Thankfully, I've decided to go elsewhere. But the clowns that you call ailments won't allow me to leave. I vow to change my ways, aiming to stand up to such an evil and love-deviating woman, Yet your words freeze me up like your mouth is Antartica, And your brain is scolding due to your visit to your throne in Hell. I've suffered many tragedies inside my own mind, Sad songs that are on repeat. Carelessness and forgetfulness has brought me to decrease my envy of you. You've devoured the confidence of your once favorite child for more times than he can count on both hands, And both feet, Twice. I can appreciate the fact that you've raised me, As it is nearly impossible to raise such a troublesome child. Though wishing you had never even birthed me in the first, I hold you responsible to why I am subdued. Nurture has been long forgotten, Since I had last treasured it so. A mother's love is all that is good and holy, But what is it worth to Satan? You would know, Since he is in fact, your creator. Wicked Witch, Stubborn ***** How awful these words sound to me. They come out in frustration as you lead me to temptation, And insecure I shall always be. Crotchety old ghoul, You've treated me like a fool, For far too long I've counted. Everlasting therapy is in order, And forever you and I will be separated, Separated by a border, That I have built, In order to salvage some sort of a stable mind. Kindly accept my creed to await, The finalizing version of myself. I've longed for such mortality, Due to your immorality, As guardian of my unnatural life.

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Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes. Scalped trite and malnourished minds. Where am I? What has this land become? My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy. I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me... But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear. Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life. I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces. How did I allow this to happen to you? A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh. The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright. To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show. A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles. Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born. In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow. Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul. Hold steadfast to the testament of our land True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons. Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

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Nov 9, 2016

Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC

Love trumps hate

Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes. Scalped trite and malnourished minds. Where am I? What has this land become? My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy. I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me... But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear. Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life. I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces. How did I allow this to happen to you? A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh. The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright. To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show. A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles. Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born. In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow. Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul. Hold steadfast to the testament of our land True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons. Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

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Maybe this is just me being paranoid or crotchety, ****** or rude Maybe I shouldn’t even write these things down Maybe you’re just not in the mood Maybe I’ve come up with scenerios that are completely out of this world Maybe I’ve done my research and I know there’s another girl Maybe she’s skinnier, prettier and a lot less far maybe she’s calmer, easy going and has her own car Maybe she’s willing to do what I’m not willing to Maybe she fits better into your box you’re trying to fit yourself into Maybe she doesn’t nag or yell or complain Maybe she’s not stressed out and has more time to enjoy life and play Maybe she is perfect for you but you still choose me Maybe she doesn’t even exist and we are still a great possibility Maybe I’m scared and maybe I’m wrong Maybe we actually do belong Maybe I just want you to tell me whether I’m making this harder or easier Maybe I just want to hear you say that no matter what, we’ll always be together Maybe I need you more than ever and I hug myself at night Maybe I want to feel your love before, during and after a fight

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Aug 13, 2013

Aug 13, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC

Maybe this is just me being paranoid or crotchety, ****** or rude Maybe I shouldn’t even write these things down Maybe you’re just not in the mood Maybe I’ve come up with scenerios that are completely out of this world Maybe I’ve done my research and I know there’s another girl Maybe she’s skinnier, prettier and a lot less far maybe she’s calmer, easy going and has her own car Maybe she’s willing to do what I’m not willing to Maybe she fits better into your box you’re trying to fit yourself into Maybe she doesn’t nag or yell or complain Maybe she’s not stressed out and has more time to enjoy life and play Maybe she is perfect for you but you still choose me Maybe she doesn’t even exist and we are still a great possibility Maybe I’m scared and maybe I’m wrong Maybe we actually do belong Maybe I just want you to tell me whether I’m making this harder or easier Maybe I just want to hear you say that no matter what, we’ll always be together Maybe I need you more than ever and I hug myself at night Maybe I want to feel your love before, during and after a fight

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Full of bile and alcohol, You travelled the gables With each up and down Mercilessly mimicking The acidic spew In your esophagus. It was your birthday. Instead, I was recognized, Lolling in the limelight. You sat surely stone-like. A symmetrically sweating schist In October's mild order, Being ignored by our parents Like their arthritis. At dinner you ate wine and salt-water From tepid tears trickling Down the face of your crotchety alter-ego. I had the pork-chops. 'Your present is in the mail', I'd say, in feeble effort To make you dry. That was a lie; One of the many you'd hear Galloping out of my mouth Before I ever was "brother" enough to say 'I love you'.

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Jan 8, 2013

Jan 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC

My Little Sister's Birthday

Full of bile and alcohol, You travelled the gables With each up and down Mercilessly mimicking The acidic spew In your esophagus. It was your birthday. Instead, I was recognized, Lolling in the limelight. You sat surely stone-like. A symmetrically sweating schist In October's mild order, Being ignored by our parents Like their arthritis. At dinner you ate wine and salt-water From tepid tears trickling Down the face of your crotchety alter-ego. I had the pork-chops. 'Your present is in the mail', I'd say, in feeble effort To make you dry. That was a lie; One of the many you'd hear Galloping out of my mouth Before I ever was "brother" enough to say 'I love you'.

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Reset pv4 pin ID add host lvl with my broken concentration, while the reboot computes and command prompt prefers and no I don't have the router, but yes I'm an administrator. Who is in charge, and who is punishing me? Superstition sends me around back into the Ground beef while I'm repenting of my sins to get my hard drive running smoother, like it's a catholic father who just gets crotchety in the presence of gigabits and lil ***** who won't behave and condemns this piece of crap to an early grave. Oh, but maybe it's just I need to unscrew and then pull out and blow off and put back in... doubting it all again and a big circle starts anew.

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Apr 6, 2015

Apr 6, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC

Reset pv4 pin ID add host lvl with my broken concentration, while the reboot computes and command prompt prefers and no I don't have the router, but yes I'm an administrator. Who is in charge, and who is punishing me? Superstition sends me around back into the Ground beef while I'm repenting of my sins to get my hard drive running smoother, like it's a catholic father who just gets crotchety in the presence of gigabits and lil ***** who won't behave and condemns this piece of crap to an early grave. Oh, but maybe it's just I need to unscrew and then pull out and blow off and put back in... doubting it all again and a big circle starts anew.

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I took a trip into my eye and there’s something hiding there It’s a belief which I’ve held all my life and now it’s laying threadbare I want to get my broken fixed and I’m throwing wide the door There’s a deep-down part of me which knows there’s something more More than what can be seen More than what I can reach out and feel More than what can be repeatably measured More than what you might hear is for real I am just a lonely boy with a penchant for dark and doubt And I’ve noticed that I lack the joy that makes the percipient shout So maybe I’m missing a part of the puzzle that makes the devout complete Maybe there’s something behind blind belief that can make a man land on his feet Belief in a clockmaker being… And doing and speaking and seeing And not disappearing right after the blast To a holiday far away skiing I’m ready-and no longer afraid to call things as I see ‘em I’m getting older and more crotchety, ...gonna’ put me in a museum I can feel I’m slowly dying and I’m only thirty-nine I remember a long-ago time when my spirit was doing just fine But right now, my spirit is broken I’ll cover the sadness with joking The bus is about to pull-away And I think that I’m missing my token Speak! Where’ve you been? Is it because of my sin? Is it because of my bent? How do I tune in? Make my blind eyes see Come, oh come & set me free Show all the doubters those footprints you left Oh what are you wanting with me? Peace now, let there be peace Don’t you see I need some release? Surrounded by kind folks, but lonely as hell I’m needing to do something, and do it well, I’m wanting you, needing you, come here to dwell In my heart, in my head, on my knees.

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Jan 10, 2015

Jan 10, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC

Arrogant longings late at night

I took a trip into my eye and there’s something hiding there It’s a belief which I’ve held all my life and now it’s laying threadbare I want to get my broken fixed and I’m throwing wide the door There’s a deep-down part of me which knows there’s something more More than what can be seen More than what I can reach out and feel More than what can be repeatably measured More than what you might hear is for real I am just a lonely boy with a penchant for dark and doubt And I’ve noticed that I lack the joy that makes the percipient shout So maybe I’m missing a part of the puzzle that makes the devout complete Maybe there’s something behind blind belief that can make a man land on his feet Belief in a clockmaker being… And doing and speaking and seeing And not disappearing right after the blast To a holiday far away skiing I’m ready-and no longer afraid to call things as I see ‘em I’m getting older and more crotchety, ...gonna’ put me in a museum I can feel I’m slowly dying and I’m only thirty-nine I remember a long-ago time when my spirit was doing just fine But right now, my spirit is broken I’ll cover the sadness with joking The bus is about to pull-away And I think that I’m missing my token Speak! Where’ve you been? Is it because of my sin? Is it because of my bent? How do I tune in? Make my blind eyes see Come, oh come & set me free Show all the doubters those footprints you left Oh what are you wanting with me? Peace now, let there be peace Don’t you see I need some release? Surrounded by kind folks, but lonely as hell I’m needing to do something, and do it well, I’m wanting you, needing you, come here to dwell In my heart, in my head, on my knees.

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A creaking, crotchety, crooked old man walked down a wide, winding path. He saw a poor pig poised high in a tree, so he let out a cackling laugh. “You sweet, silly swine. How did you get there? My old puzzled mind must know”. The plump, pink pig from his roost in the tree, raised his head and started to crow. The old, crafty codger clapped with delight. “What a weird wild wonder is this!” “To see such sights at this time in my life is surely a cause for bliss.” “Maybe a wicked wind whisked you there.” He laughed as he spun round and round. “Or might Mama eagle, on her way home, dropped you where you are now?” The poor pig peered down at the thin, old man bent in the bold, bright sunlight. When he heard the man laugh, the pig got mad, flew up and popped out of sight. © 2000 Guy Workman

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Jan 24, 2010

Jan 24, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC

A creaking, crotchety, crooked old man walked down a wide, winding path. He saw a poor pig poised high in a tree, so he let out a cackling laugh. “You sweet, silly swine. How did you get there? My old puzzled mind must know”. The plump, pink pig from his roost in the tree, raised his head and started to crow. The old, crafty codger clapped with delight. “What a weird wild wonder is this!” “To see such sights at this time in my life is surely a cause for bliss.” “Maybe a wicked wind whisked you there.” He laughed as he spun round and round. “Or might Mama eagle, on her way home, dropped you where you are now?” The poor pig peered down at the thin, old man bent in the bold, bright sunlight. When he heard the man laugh, the pig got mad, flew up and popped out of sight. © 2000 Guy Workman

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it is early morning at the beach 1:12 am to be exact everyone else has gone beddy bye and I can't sleep yet because this is my time where I live and breathe and think without others doing the same and talking about it all I can see through the sliding glass balcony door is a liberty gas station across the street playing elevator music at the pumps and selling insurance that saves you 415 dollars a year it's too cloudy to look for UFO's and the sherbert has all been eaten so I decided to write something I've reminded everyone what a nut case I am hearing spirits and ripping politicians a new one were pretty much my topics of conversation I will say this...my sister's tacos were amazing they over shop every year but **** they can cook it's almost 1:30 and they will be rattling the breakfast dishes by 8 so I better get my crotchety old *** in bed ******** better get here early in the morning to fix the **** washing machine I only brought 3 pair of underwear now let me get started on this life changing poem it is early morning at the beach...

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Jul 25, 2016

Jul 25, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC

Late Nights in Rodanthe

it is early morning at the beach 1:12 am to be exact everyone else has gone beddy bye and I can't sleep yet because this is my time where I live and breathe and think without others doing the same and talking about it all I can see through the sliding glass balcony door is a liberty gas station across the street playing elevator music at the pumps and selling insurance that saves you 415 dollars a year it's too cloudy to look for UFO's and the sherbert has all been eaten so I decided to write something I've reminded everyone what a nut case I am hearing spirits and ripping politicians a new one were pretty much my topics of conversation I will say this...my sister's tacos were amazing they over shop every year but **** they can cook it's almost 1:30 and they will be rattling the breakfast dishes by 8 so I better get my crotchety old *** in bed ******** better get here early in the morning to fix the **** washing machine I only brought 3 pair of underwear now let me get started on this life changing poem it is early morning at the beach...

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*life has plenty of bad dreams realized and foretellable, predictable, inevitable, typos that go uncorrected or cannot be corrected but from time to time magic appears in an email header, mistakes intended for what would life be without the occasional, surprise from him, a Sirprise apprised.... and her, she, her, knowing his mind occupado by life's laundry, sends him a notice of a Herprize. ----------------------------- *To: Him From : Her Subject: Herprize Please hold the evening of April 25th on your calendar for a Herprize event. Tie and jacket will be required (too bad!). To: Her From: Him Subject: Sirprise Tie and Jacket, no can do, as all my ties were accidentally thrown out by some crotchety person on New Years Day, 2014. Please mark the whole day, May 12th, as busy on your calendar for a Sirprise event. Casual formal (casual formal?) dress attire, please. Popcorn and other refreshments will be provided. Socks and **** stockings optional but recommended for the evening portion of day's events* ----------------------------- the waitress inquires, "theater tonight?" She replies, "oh yes, indeed, an 8:00 curtain," "great, what show are you seeing?" "that I cannot say, yet, for it is a Herprize evening!" the waitress says nothing, but her smile indicates understood, and they stupid grin at each other, at their crazy ways and that the world appreciates their typographical lives .

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC

Sirprise and Herprize (August 2014)

*life has plenty of bad dreams realized and foretellable, predictable, inevitable, typos that go uncorrected or cannot be corrected but from time to time magic appears in an email header, mistakes intended for what would life be without the occasional, surprise from him, a Sirprise apprised.... and her, she, her, knowing his mind occupado by life's laundry, sends him a notice of a Herprize. ----------------------------- *To: Him From : Her Subject: Herprize Please hold the evening of April 25th on your calendar for a Herprize event. Tie and jacket will be required (too bad!). To: Her From: Him Subject: Sirprise Tie and Jacket, no can do, as all my ties were accidentally thrown out by some crotchety person on New Years Day, 2014. Please mark the whole day, May 12th, as busy on your calendar for a Sirprise event. Casual formal (casual formal?) dress attire, please. Popcorn and other refreshments will be provided. Socks and **** stockings optional but recommended for the evening portion of day's events* ----------------------------- the waitress inquires, "theater tonight?" She replies, "oh yes, indeed, an 8:00 curtain," "great, what show are you seeing?" "that I cannot say, yet, for it is a Herprize evening!" the waitress says nothing, but her smile indicates understood, and they stupid grin at each other, at their crazy ways and that the world appreciates their typographical lives .

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milky white eyes pupils searching every time I step over you long frayed coat big ears like the puppy and the black one that greets me after passing through back roads I spent summers with you when you used to sprint before your hind legs started to drag before your mouth and tongue started to sag you sleep all day, taking your pills ‘crotchety old lady’ who doesn’t die you’re a memory now, who eats six pills before dinner you’re here so we can all look into your eyes like crystal ***** foggier with each evening I hope you’re dreaming when you pass that you don’t take for granted the last few months old shepherd, so hard to let go

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Apr 20, 2012

Apr 20, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC

milky white eyes pupils searching every time I step over you long frayed coat big ears like the puppy and the black one that greets me after passing through back roads I spent summers with you when you used to sprint before your hind legs started to drag before your mouth and tongue started to sag you sleep all day, taking your pills ‘crotchety old lady’ who doesn’t die you’re a memory now, who eats six pills before dinner you’re here so we can all look into your eyes like crystal ***** foggier with each evening I hope you’re dreaming when you pass that you don’t take for granted the last few months old shepherd, so hard to let go

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I don't remember the part of my job application that said i'd be bored out of mind. I don't remember being asked to be born in a town where things to do were so hard to find. I don't remember telling anyone to make the fuel of my escape what can only be presumed to be unicorn blood. I don't remember exactly when i stopped being a stud. I don't remember when my bank account shrank. I don't remember when i started to care about what was in the bank. I don't remember what i wanted to forget. I don't remember if I'm lying to keep from getting too upset. I don't remember becoming this much of a cynic. I don't remember turning into the crotchety folks i used to mimic. I don't member what Dante said about Hell. I don't remember quotes too well. I don't remember getting this sad, mad. I don't remember when being this angsty became so bad. I don't remember so why then i can't stop?

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Nov 21, 2014

Nov 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC

In Via Ad Infernum, Quae Principium Habet in Paradiso

I don't remember the part of my job application that said i'd be bored out of mind. I don't remember being asked to be born in a town where things to do were so hard to find. I don't remember telling anyone to make the fuel of my escape what can only be presumed to be unicorn blood. I don't remember exactly when i stopped being a stud. I don't remember when my bank account shrank. I don't remember when i started to care about what was in the bank. I don't remember what i wanted to forget. I don't remember if I'm lying to keep from getting too upset. I don't remember becoming this much of a cynic. I don't remember turning into the crotchety folks i used to mimic. I don't member what Dante said about Hell. I don't remember quotes too well. I don't remember getting this sad, mad. I don't remember when being this angsty became so bad. I don't remember so why then i can't stop?

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Crotchety old men reading year-old, Newspapers and drinking year-old milk, Suddenly assailed me for some frothy beer; Jeering I jest that they don't look their best, Wearing polka dot vests with feathered ******* (Get those naughty thoughts out your noggins) Speaking of noggin, I was jogging With a porch light up Johnson's Hill, And a dog dug a jig from a neon sign, That had velvet written on it, From a German gnome, Born from a dwarf! What a lucky find! I'll index it next to the index finger, But first I'll clean it with Windex. Sleep? Sle3p? Sl33p?

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Dec 18, 2016

Dec 18, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC

Flubber Blubber

Crotchety old men reading year-old, Newspapers and drinking year-old milk, Suddenly assailed me for some frothy beer; Jeering I jest that they don't look their best, Wearing polka dot vests with feathered ******* (Get those naughty thoughts out your noggins) Speaking of noggin, I was jogging With a porch light up Johnson's Hill, And a dog dug a jig from a neon sign, That had velvet written on it, From a German gnome, Born from a dwarf! What a lucky find! I'll index it next to the index finger, But first I'll clean it with Windex. Sleep? Sle3p? Sl33p?

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crotchety, cramped children continuously cloud corners containing combustible corn consequently crouching consensual congressmen came

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Feb 20, 2013

Feb 20, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC

william-rudd-guiliani

crotchety, cramped children continuously cloud corners containing combustible corn consequently crouching consensual congressmen came

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Nationwide Insurance twas on my side yay cuz, earlier this July forth two thousand eighteen ja way windows closed, doors locked, and car keys visibly splayed on driver seat oye vay feel free to call me a horse's *** today utter anxiety compounded, plus unable to locate master key, thence fodder for poem and more to say rifling thru boxes without success, an impulse arose to call road upon learning policy doth include locksmith service, ah felt less doggone snappish, and uttered hoo ray though modest aye, congratulated awesome, fulsome, and handsome self on quick thinking, and automatically became less tiresome pondering for no particular rhyme nor reason (as a getaway) Panama or Paraguay then immediate decided, sans ditto explanation, but no how and nay yet honest to dog suddenly felt like a young lovestruck lad during month of May and without further delay a compulsion arose to putter along, though momentarily gazing heavenward and counting (just beak caws) glistening black crows plus painfully aware a spike in recurrent "senior" moment of forgetfulness grows, thus starkly aware significant rustiness increasingly, frightfully, and chokingly coats lix spit tillage harrows resuming schlepping dishabille crotchety bedeviled aching body electric irksome with fringe benefit (such as momentary lapse of reason) quite aware mettlesome ness of youth nonrefundable, non-reliable, and non-retrievable, and guaranteed continued pricking, viz nettlesome degenerating aging telomeres, sensate perspicuity, and oxysomes leaving a once robust person some what discombobulated and easily toilsome.

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Jul 4, 2018

Jul 4, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Ode To An Oklahoma Locksmith

Nationwide Insurance twas on my side yay cuz, earlier this July forth two thousand eighteen ja way windows closed, doors locked, and car keys visibly splayed on driver seat oye vay feel free to call me a horse's *** today utter anxiety compounded, plus unable to locate master key, thence fodder for poem and more to say rifling thru boxes without success, an impulse arose to call road upon learning policy doth include locksmith service, ah felt less doggone snappish, and uttered hoo ray though modest aye, congratulated awesome, fulsome, and handsome self on quick thinking, and automatically became less tiresome pondering for no particular rhyme nor reason (as a getaway) Panama or Paraguay then immediate decided, sans ditto explanation, but no how and nay yet honest to dog suddenly felt like a young lovestruck lad during month of May and without further delay a compulsion arose to putter along, though momentarily gazing heavenward and counting (just beak caws) glistening black crows plus painfully aware a spike in recurrent "senior" moment of forgetfulness grows, thus starkly aware significant rustiness increasingly, frightfully, and chokingly coats lix spit tillage harrows resuming schlepping dishabille crotchety bedeviled aching body electric irksome with fringe benefit (such as momentary lapse of reason) quite aware mettlesome ness of youth nonrefundable, non-reliable, and non-retrievable, and guaranteed continued pricking, viz nettlesome degenerating aging telomeres, sensate perspicuity, and oxysomes leaving a once robust person some what discombobulated and easily toilsome.

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Ah, cell-phones: I know it dates me and sounds crotchety but oh how I miss the old days when talking to yourself in public meant you were crazy, probably schizophrenic, maybe dangerous or possibly a saint or mystic with a direct line to god. Now it's just a helicopter mom calling her daughter away at college for the third time today to reassure herself the girl can't exist without the eternally present sound of her voice giving advice the kid probably won't follow anyway. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for listening to the disembodied voices that assault us wherever we go, every day. Doesn't Seem fair. I wonder who has that stake? ~mce

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Oct 16, 2015

Oct 16, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC

Give Me Meaning Or Give Me Silence

Ah, cell-phones: I know it dates me and sounds crotchety but oh how I miss the old days when talking to yourself in public meant you were crazy, probably schizophrenic, maybe dangerous or possibly a saint or mystic with a direct line to god. Now it's just a helicopter mom calling her daughter away at college for the third time today to reassure herself the girl can't exist without the eternally present sound of her voice giving advice the kid probably won't follow anyway. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for listening to the disembodied voices that assault us wherever we go, every day. Doesn't Seem fair. I wonder who has that stake? ~mce

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a low grumble and a hard thud as I walk into my abode old man jimmy rolls on his back greeting me after my time on the road— his thick floppy jowls hang free as he looks up me upside-down a bit of the tail wagging ensues and there is no way to maintain my frown – more guttural vocalizations followed by pressing all his weight against my legs looking up into my face wishing I had something to try and beg— I give a few sharp pats on his head and command him to get outta my face more grumbles as he slowly walks to his station even an old crotchety lab has the ability to learn his place –

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Aug 12, 2015

Aug 12, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC

my old dog after work

a low grumble and a hard thud as I walk into my abode old man jimmy rolls on his back greeting me after my time on the road— his thick floppy jowls hang free as he looks up me upside-down a bit of the tail wagging ensues and there is no way to maintain my frown – more guttural vocalizations followed by pressing all his weight against my legs looking up into my face wishing I had something to try and beg— I give a few sharp pats on his head and command him to get outta my face more grumbles as he slowly walks to his station even an old crotchety lab has the ability to learn his place –

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most instances when i initially seat myself priming creative literary juices to flow, an unspecified number hours elapse before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh revelation transpires witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, and madly scratching itchy hairs dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo hook huns hitters hymns elf tubby a generic home er run (hitting) mill (on the floss sing false teeth) common everyday fluky, nippy, nap noopy Joe, whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea (Egg heads, merely scrambled random thought fragments at that stage) scrunching brow activates laser focus, a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate formerly barren tabula rasa, sans, Lenovo external screen once again defying (tomb me akin to some eternal mystery), trucked since time immemorial inexplicable, that sudden ignition asper cerebral automatic catalytic converter kickstarter (hmm...perhaps cogs and gears housed within medulla oblongata) foster fecund fertilization, an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know explanation, but upon advent whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life when there appears just the merest hint of fledgling wispy notions strive similar to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis, via flagellation motility misfits and false starts before this crotchety scribe mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea congeals, expresses, and forms grandiose manifest destiny mentioned above i.e. ** Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis seems like a versatile self determining tour de force whereat fingers of the lefthand move of their own volition spilling forth poe whet tree once expended leaves (of grass) finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull tickled pink with a soft after glow.

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Mar 7, 2018

Mar 7, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

From Blank Screen To Logorrhea

most instances when i initially seat myself priming creative literary juices to flow, an unspecified number hours elapse before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh revelation transpires witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, and madly scratching itchy hairs dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo hook huns hitters hymns elf tubby a generic home er run (hitting) mill (on the floss sing false teeth) common everyday fluky, nippy, nap noopy Joe, whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea (Egg heads, merely scrambled random thought fragments at that stage) scrunching brow activates laser focus, a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate formerly barren tabula rasa, sans, Lenovo external screen once again defying (tomb me akin to some eternal mystery), trucked since time immemorial inexplicable, that sudden ignition asper cerebral automatic catalytic converter kickstarter (hmm...perhaps cogs and gears housed within medulla oblongata) foster fecund fertilization, an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know explanation, but upon advent whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life when there appears just the merest hint of fledgling wispy notions strive similar to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis, via flagellation motility misfits and false starts before this crotchety scribe mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea congeals, expresses, and forms grandiose manifest destiny mentioned above i.e. ** Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis seems like a versatile self determining tour de force whereat fingers of the lefthand move of their own volition spilling forth poe whet tree once expended leaves (of grass) finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull tickled pink with a soft after glow.

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