"crudeness" poems
There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
23.7k
They have now thronged brimful, all the barazas
In their elderly gear, in a move to cut off my thing,
The Maasai chiefs and elders have their fangs now,
More glowing in the crudeness of despotic culture,
Their foul circumcisers’ tools sharply menacing,
All focused on my ****** ******** the only joy of my nature,
They want to maliciously cut it off in their selfish solace
Minus mine consent the right of a young girl,
Chided by evils done in the name of culture,
Kwani? a maasai and culture who creates the other?
Can’t we create culture that is so darlingly to rights of girl?
Other than receding back to crookedness of un-gendered past
Denying I your posterity the rights to self worthiness,
Kindly I beg that you don’t cut of my ********
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Daughters,sisters and brethren in the African womenfolk
Hail you, you are blessed among all the diversities of nature
You are blessed for all peace and love beahviour in all of your times
You are blessed for resilience and spiritual energy to soldier on
By being a woman,wife,a girl , a mother and a grand mother
In the African conditions which have no time for the women,
Daughters of Africa both at home in Africa and the diaspora
In Americas , Cuba,Brazil,or the whole Caribbean
Be blessed for your virtue of love and forgiveness
That swells your hearts as you ever treat to oblivion
Those who **** you whether in war or in peace
Even in marriage and the the offices
On the platter of polygamy, rituals and crudeness of culture
In the selfish farm labour where your spouse
Gives you a remote encounter with brutality of bourgeoisie culture
You always pick up the pieces and go for your stitches
Whatsoever the number, like the appalling one
Of above six stitches for the **** victims of Congo wars,
You have always consolidated poor Africa from
Smithereens of war and terrors of selfish male war,
You have often mocked the cult of dictatorship on its face
You have enticed social inclusions as societal virtue
You have snooked to tribalism,racism and class bigotry on the face
Them the cultic vices that have cemented Africa’s cult of dictatorship,
Daughters of Africa stand up and make Africa the a temple of God
Entice humanity with your wholesome fibre
Restore Liberia to a national state in the song of Sirleaf
Restore central Africa to a national family in the song Catherine
Restore art and poetry to Africa in the arms with Marriama Ba and Micere Mugo
Sire and Nurse African ecology unbowedly in the spiritual realm of Wangare Mathai
Restore and forge Africa forward you dear daughters
For the strength of your beauty my dear ladies
Has a global testimony in the prime of your motherhood.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
1
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
2k
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I am not in pain
but I’m standing in the hard rain.
The wetness makes my feet numb
I succumb to be dumb
a foolish playfulness
hiding my crudeness
- I roam around in happy commotion
A complete illusion.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
Titless!
Ignorant bliss.
Walk through a crowded dream.
Crudeness covered discreetly.
In jovial joshing.
Lewdly.
With fanciful words.
Insufficient in declaration.
Withdraw a smile.
Contact lost.
Little boy mislaid.
Missing his maiden.
Perchance.
Take a glimpse.
A second chance in silence.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
All years leave their mark.
Their darkest marks are their wrongs.
The dishonesty of their leaders,
or the crudeness of their songs.
Every fire has its spark.
Such a miracle is a fire.
But all that is remembered its ashes,
And the flames that climbed ever higher.
The human mind works like a shark.
It judges first without caring.
We always will notice first what’s wrong
so, listen now and always come well Bering.
For, all years leave their mark.
Their darkest marks are their wrongs.
The dishonesty of their leaders
or the crudeness of their songs.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Stay sweet, my love.
And fill the room with kisses, hugs, and cuddlebugs.
Stay sweet, my love.
And end your days with tickle monsters and giggles.
Stay sweet, my love.
Don't let the crudeness of this world corrupt your tiny hands and
your sweet smiles. Don't let it crush the soft pitter-patter of your feet across the tiles, or dull your bright oceanic eyes.
Stay sweet, my love.
Because that's all you have here. Don't allow the harshness of others dull your sunshine- because once it's gone, you can't get it back. Show the world your innocence, and show them how special it is. Help it rediscover it's light.
Stay sweet, my love.
And don't let anyone dull your rainbow. Spread your colors for all to see, and maybe one day they will see-
Just how sweet you can be.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
I've known of the man called Freedom,
His eyes pristine and his hands of good gesture,
He gave to all he ever saw,
Even those who wished he'd be dead.
You see, Freedom is a nice man,
He had given us the chance to be one,
Yet some see him as a hindrance,
That he'd be the one to cut the bridge to their horrid ambition.
It's true Hell's already empty,
The Devils are already here!
And they'd tied Freedom to the podium!
**And they'd ready their flames and *****
"Witness! As this hell of a saint be exposed before your very eyes!"
The Demons wailed and shouted.
"Light the flames! Expose his treacheries!"
As the demons hissed and the ***** lighted.
Freedom speaks.
Friends, my brothers, people of all brethren,
Ramble not, for I shall tell you truth.
Ebb is the fierceness you encounter,
End is the beginning of your hate.
Dawned to me, you have lost your innocence,
On the edge of light and darkness;
Mourning am I to you all.
Never the same are your reasons to fight,
Earnest are you to your reasons,
Vague, yet, are your answers.
Earthbound will be your rationality,
Revolving in wrong, your right.
Demonstrate not crudeness, but kindness,
Ice the hatred and let the good burn within you.
Enough of the foul that has come to be,
Sing the words that are your harmony.
All is silenced.
Freedom opens his eyes.
The flames, gone.
The hissing, deafened.
Freedom, is you.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
Listen to my silent cries.....
Look at my poor swollen eyes...
shedding floods of tears...
My soul is torn in shreds...
Ruin and wretched....
Being so depressed...
how can I tell you
that your one harsh word
often send me in
the depths of despair.....
your crudeness....
your harshness...
shatters me
Your lie tatters me
Ah! In your love,
what i lose and what i gain.....
Sobbing inconsolably,
I'm moaning in unbearable pain......
I've to endure this strain
So don't numb my pain...
Oh you! please don't numb it...
My pain is the only thing
that tells me ....
I'm ALIVE .....
Yep, it tells me...
I'm not dead yet.
I must let it go
I must move on and
strive....
because I'm ALIVE
Yeah, I'M STILL ALIVE...!
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
So many friends surround me when I ask
But, few complete their promises
Like their barren wasteland of a soul
They keep their word in similar crudeness
So into solitude I am forced
Waiting for a true friend to emerge
Out of this inky black pit
In which the world is submerged
Most revealed are covered in muck
The kind caused by our idiotic hatreds
But, a true friend will shine above
And never be decayed by such acids
And thus I wait
Forever hoping for that friend
When suddenly I realize
No one is so alone in the end
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
I
So Often
Lie Awake Too
Regretfully In My
Fat Bed Cooled By The
Cooling Comforts Of Our
Air Conditioner And Bed
With A Much Cozy Sheet
Spread Around My
Toned Strong
Limbs
As I Often Think
About Things So Varied
Mostly I Miss The Labourer
Children Whom I Did Use To
Teach For Almost Nine Months
During My Stay At The Old One.
For This New College Did Never
Feel Like Home Ever And There
Were Just So Many Selfish Folks
That I Even Lost The Count Of It.
Not Even Once Do They Smile
Not Even Once Do They Try
Not Even Do They Care
About Their Attitude
Or The Multitude
Of Their Rudeness
So Is Their Crudeness.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
(spring come
)come spring
spring come wetly
out the freezing serious
hair o' winter come
spring
thy greenest countenance
come lathered
(Spring in
thy poppy and
thy clovered
divine thighs)
O spring i,
in thy many
splendored love, in
thy loose and carefree
shapely plush pocket
,will lay in heaped
crushing wafts of
june bugs and
apples and gods
(the wilting rind
of day will kiss
plummeting eve
upon the tousled
breach of sky andEarth
will sorely muster
russet flecked charming
slatterned trees about
my careful self
)and your *****
pleasant smell
willto meander
in the failing
hues of
unsnowed languid
hillocks
be most a riotous
silent crudeness
and i will love you most
roughly Spring
i'll tear away the careful
pretty clothing
flowers and with
your crudlovely
naked salt
i will
play,
.
'
.
,
'
,
,
.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
After a long stay of depression,
he awoke on his motorbike
beneath a searing rainbow sunset.
The mountains arched silhouettes
as he tore through the highway
in the still-image of youth.
Slow evenings spent unwinding,
numbing himself with changes
and the crudeness of a new tongue.
On the shoulder of Kalasin,
in a nowhere-town province,
he had tasted everything.
Ate with his hands
on decorated tables,
trekked the petrified forest
on Christmas Eve;
somewhere between all of this,
he finally learned to live.
After a long stay of depression,
he rolled away the stone.
Found himself six thousand miles
from anyone he had known.
No one can speak English here.
Today, he learned the word for ‘home’.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
This is not a poem, my dear.
This...
this is more than a code comprised of 26 letters, 10 digits, and a few punctuation symbols.
What you are carrying in your hand right now is more than just a few thousand pixels presented on a glass screen, it's more than just a string of words put together in prose.
What is being graced by those lovely hands and gorgeous eyes of yours is a piece of me; this is a tangible piece of my mind, darling. I give this (and many others like it) to you as a gesture of trust and love, but I just as well give this to you with a warning. I apologize if this seems...foreboding (among other things).
Along with my love, I present this piece of me unto you irretrievably. This is no childish box or chance trinket that needs wrapping. This...this is a glass-shelled grenade, darling. But don't worry, I've secured the pin with my heart-strings. This glass is blown from the grit and salt of my tears and sweat, my burning rage fueled the furnace. Splinters of my bones form the shrapnel, and a carved piece of my ever-beating heart fuels the whole mess.
This is raw. This is crude, it's unfiltered; call me Pandora, this is my box, in a way. It holds my hope, that someone will keep this piece of me safe, that someone like you will look past the crudeness and see the sentiment behind it.
This piece of me, I don't ask of you to string it up and wear it upon your breast, I do not ask you to flaunt it and keep it close to you at all times. Lock it up, shut it away, darling. It is not beautiful, neither am I. Feel free to bury it, go ahead and put it away. It is ugly, it is dangerous. You should not caress this piece of me, it is fragile and will not provide any comfort to you. I wish unto you no harm. I ask of you to keep it safe. Protect it from my demons, save it and myself from my nightmares. I apologize for the burden I have placed upon your graceful shoulders, but your inherent strength inspires me and gives me faith. I know I ask too much of you; you have my most sincere apologies.
I've given you everything I am, I have nothing more to give you.
You are perfect, my guardian angel, I am fragile and flawed...
protect me.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
I’ll never forget.
MiniStop, Intramuros.
2016?
I had long graduated, the mortarboard
now a naked head of hair. The gown
now dilapidated jeans, and an overfitting
shirt. The fancy shoes now knockoffs
caked with mud and grime.
The little store was hot. Small.
On walls: baby cockroaches took chances.
Trash bags dog-eared below snack concessions.
A brown goop spun, the tungsten overhead
made no noise. Was there music? Was there
some commentary about love or crudeness on the radio?
Always self-conscious, I retreat to
the inner racks. Magazines lay there vacuumed, unpurchased.
Outside the picture window, an afternoon beamed its sun kiss.
I think I didn’t end up buying anything, because before I could,
some college boys entered. At the instant, I turned to them
and felt curiously incensed. This odd duality of envy and sympathy.
I was you, I’m me now. I want you, I’m not you now.
To look that young yet mature, to have a schedule.
To saunter inside the store before, during, after class. The
choice to enter, to parade, to be so vital.
The college boys, their plackets, collars,
their image. These hot-blooded men finer than me, stronger
than me. All handsome, winsome, reckless and brimmed with
swagger. Me? I stood examining the force, the association.
We’re all merely similar men, and I’m at a similar age, and I can
be a similar form factor. Mimic their teflon skin; shed my stucco,
leatherbound flesh.
And as soon as I attempted to undermine their specificity,
I lost my own place. I found that there’s no connection at all.
Other than I know nothing about the boys,
and the boys know nothing of me.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
it doesn't take much
to be a true friend
it doesn't take years
to do something right
it doesn't take much strength
to reach out and help
it does take a real villian
to hurt those who care
it takes vile crudeness
to make one feel dead
or long to be
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
This is not a request
It is a demand for the best
Sent on a quest
To find the passion between my *******
Do not quit
Nor throw a fit
My desires remain unsplit
Here I am with all my wit
There I go
With passion in tow
Running like I did years ago
Here I go quickly, although
Awoken by reality’s lewdness
What a serious crudeness
Why does reality have such rudeness
Leaving me with nothing, but nudeness
Naked and confused by reality
The truly cruel world of fatality
Designed to live to die, another mortality
We live without living, Is this really our mentality?
Something needs to budge
So don’t look back holding a grudge
Put our world on trial with a ruthless judge
We need reconstruction here to rid the sludge
Let it out, all that is wrong
Speak it loudly, this may be long
A trial of the world just chugging along
Not noticing we lost all that is strong
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
Pain over rules all
Regretful of my past, present and future
What is it with life?
People talk about ups and downs
Reminiscing your scars only aches
No sign of healing nor strength
Once so equiped with words
So sure of what to say,
Of what to write
Now, no more
It is not only actions but the impact of words
How you get pulled into abyss
How you're forced into isolation
Words are what matter
They compel you to think
They take you to places and touch your soul
Either poignantly or intimately
It is the impact of words
The harsh and crudeness in them
The hurtful things that you hear
They can take away all of you!
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
They are officials of the state religion
They don’t have Muhammad or Jesus in the piety,
But the tentacles of their filthy sink deep
Into the placental matrix of the revolving state
The crudeness and repugnance of their faith
Obviously and deeply funded by the state coffer
From the jeopardized tax payers,
Managed by their blameless adherent son
Nourishing all with absolute power
To put poor sons of the soil on the coffle
In nemesis for their contrasted sanctimony
Down to the common grave of seven men.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
The crudeness of their lies is everywhere,
hurts everywhere.
They write best wishes to everyone,
but deliberately put one in the corner.
Their stares bring rain,
and their glares are what welcome her.
There is no warm greeting on the outside of her door.
Open it and find them there.
Her bed tries to bring comfort,
but then another walking stare marches in,
greeting her with a familiar glare,
the one that watches her as she sleeps.
Everywhere she goes, their glares follow.
She tries to walk away, but a stare finds her trail.
She tries to hide, but is always found by a watcher.
She tries to sleep them away, but the glares rip into her dreams.
Their wide eyes are inescapable.
Too many dilated, dark pupils moving as she moves,
dancing to her rhythm, noting all her moves,
spotting all her trips, recording all her falls.
The eyes of them see her discomfort,
and find their own serenity.
These eyes were once welcoming,
now are forever watching, forever following.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Dear friend,
I couldn't find the answer today, for why the world is turning. A half-dozen lovers in a timeless frame, are now but bridges burning. The coffee makes me feel like hell in the morning, whenever morning is an option. You see, I've fallen for a misery, I have become the local burden. They invite me out to harmonise their doubt, over trends we have seen before; the brief salute from a military brute; the human cost of war.
It's been a misery for days and days – weeks and weeks if I tell the truth, but I have been baying at the nail, and sharpening the tooth. I think money is a postcard lover who promises salvation, but in truth can only under-achieve against cigarettes and meditation. The Bowl has been singing to me, but I cannot understand a word, at times I think I hear the answer, or else the passing of an airborne ****
Forgive me for crudeness, or for my vague choice of tone, I am kissing my pillow in my sleep, but waking up all alone. From that I have decided that I've got to ask for more, so I am slipping up my sentences, to become a well-spoken bore. I hope you find the answer each time you sip on tea, some heat upon your lips and tongue, some red blossoms on the tree.
I am going now I promise you, I'm serving out my time, I am going to hang out with my father, I'm going to chase it down with wine. For all the good I had desired to do, I am committed to this crime, don't drink in bed, do drugs instead, and do not forget to write.
with love.
Jack.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC