"curmudgeon" poems
1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******
2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****
3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows
4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions
5.
But ************ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.
6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!
7.
Cryptic gospels of a ************
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.
8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
The great dialectic remains between fate and free will.
I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand
Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it
The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul
and discover we are not merely posing cameos
directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations,
layer upon layer of archetypes
each of them
prayers and yogas
all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon
hero or *****
As depth accumulates
we give each thing a name
we live and unfurl destiny
both good and evil
This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality,
even beyond the grave
are we melted down like snow in divine rays
of effulgent light, and pure spirit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions
Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******
And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies
Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside
And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.
Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia
Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny
Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.
Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.
Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
I am not reliably informed whether it were
hearsays or rumours, but it feels like an
apocalypse.
I neither relate to gauche nor belligerence
Connoisseur not cynical but I've been made an
adjective,described as a Curmudgeon.
See I have enemies, camouflage had to I, but
then it seems to cloud my judgement like an
eclipse.
These people are all schoolbags
because they said this behind my back.
Unbeknownst to me
I am a Curmudgeon.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:02 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
I won't be on site for some time. I'm writing the story of my father's life. He's 91 years old. In a power chair due to severe arthritis. Almost completely deaf and going blind. He can't read properly now and, being a very bright man, is filled with ennui. He doesn't know what to do with his time. I want to find out about his life. I know parts which I will put in this poem you are about to read...
My father's not a nobleman
Born a farmer's son
He has not the title Prince
In my heart he's surely one
My father is not tall of build
He's not a rugged man
But on his shoulders as a child
I saw the Earth's full span
My father is not wealthy
Has no Goods to share
But in my heart I know his worth
He is a billionaire
He is not a Wise Man
Has not those gifts to share
But he has a high IQ
Is bright beyond compare
Raised in the Great Depression
He ate the slop for pigs
Now he's a survivor
His grave cancer didn't dig!
He saw Okinawa
Eniwetok's grim atoll
Code named "Ivy Mike"
The Bomb landed on it's shoal
He went to MIT
Far 'above his station'
And he did it with a handicap
A 7th grade education
He is not a saint
He is far from 'pure'
But in my mind he's worth it
His tale should endure
So I will write his story
I believe it should be told
He is a curmudgeon
*But he has a heart of gold*
♡ Catherine
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
(First draft)
An authentic smile defeated then deleted long ago, zero chance of winnin' stretchin' all the way back to my beginnin'
It was a genuine expression that slowly melted to an unrecognizable reflection
All pigmentation givin' way revealin' a secondary, ghostly stand in
Granted, it happened in my formative years before I was abandoned due to the mutation
But the impact has been felt through forty somethin' calendars and countin'
A true representation of life's failed mission, I'm guessin'
Not necessarily my opinion but one every other person is holdin', no question
Still wouldn't say it's been a waste but the needles strongly leanin' towards no reason for existin'
An overall lack of position, doesn't seem like I was designed to fit in, that is if my life has been any indication
I manage to make it to and through the proverbial one more day but where's the lesson?
This just feels like non-monetary extortion of a life-sized portion
Take far more than what's given, with or without permission
I'm still in competition with myself, the prize, livin'
The compromise, loosin' myself in a broken system or durin' the transition
The eradication of an inner companion, replacin' compassion with aggression, smooth sailin' with frustration, no direction, no validation
The transition to curmudgeon happened earlier than expected, drawin' parallels from the curious case of Benjamin Button
Not for nothin', the infestation of negative thoughts caused a mutation inside and out, completely loosin' what it means to be human
It's not a lose lose situation, and it sure ain't win win, and any other option, I'm guessin', got lost in translation
But I'm pretty sure somethin's gotta end in order for another somethin' to begin, at least that's what I'm hearin'
Still can't find a reason that justifies the conviction, is what I'm feelin' damnation? Is what I'm seein' my own creation?
It could just be that no matter what I'm not goin' to enjoy the conclusion, not allowed to settle on your preferred endin'
No fat lady singin', just a band playin' as I feel myself sinkin' into oblivion so pardon me for givin' up on salvation
It should go without sayin' but you're waistin' away waitin' for divine intervention, be careful what you use for inspiration
It may not be your intention, but there's no hate like the love of a christian, I'm just sayin'
Pay attention, who you're praying to every day may not be the one listenin'
©2023
Aug 25, 2023
Aug 25, 2023 at 3:45 AM UTC
between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing
cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin
place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted
kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words
her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile
*Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^*
read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,
**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn**
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
And Ennui Go...
our curmudgeon's malaise is strapped to an anvil cloud of distinct mist. He trundles through the eye of a needle in his Eye. He blinks when God says " Nothing ". And the choir in his soul is late for rehearsal every minute of the daze. our curmudgeon's malaise is strapped to an anvil cloud if distinct mist. He trundles through the eye of a needle in his Eye. He blinks when God says " Nothing ". And the choir in his soul is late for rehearsal every minute of the daze.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
the less money I make,
the more I give away...
need to get cured,
need me some cure,
to keep my money in
my Persian silk sow purse,
so when enfeebled,
can pay a nurse to
wipe my drooling chin
need me some
curmudgeon herbs
to get rid of this
happy insanity
cure this ****** mudge,
from giving away his green fudge,
so when doing his
sleepy-eyed sums,
the tallying up,
the counting down
did he qualify,
as a good ole one,
his conscience
busy unconsciously,
anudging, adjudging,
to see if the boyo can
sleep better this night.
So when he meets
the maker,
He won't say
hey faker,
but fakir,
magic maker,
dervish swayer
and
*"you my kind of poet,
let's make us some
smiling mischievous trouble,
give away whatever it takes,
love potions number nine,
winning lottery tickets
for everyone,
you and me,
scheming schematic
crazy man poet and god,
to make it happy-en."*
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
I cannot become this curmudgeon.
a soul
deep fried
torn
blue balled
and bludgeoned
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
I don't know why--but **** tonight
And **** this town
And **** this guy that I'm becoming
And the steel ceilinged sky
that never changes, night-to-night
And why, when streets all run together,
trickling off to asphalt seas,
do nights out wandering get me nowhere?
Some elsewhere's
where I want to be.
I'll try to eat my plate of crow
and try to finish
though I'm full with midnight air
and half-cocked guesses
and a frozen block of messes
Pull it off--that sky-steel-ceiling
Grinds a protest
Rusting clouds
Might flake and rain an oxide winter
Flip the page up, one year down.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
Get drunk any morning you like
or afternoon or evening.
Enjoy unlimited naps.
Never be a wage slave again.
Take up knife throwing.
Don't worry about climate change,
you'll be dead before you have to swim.
Learn to juggle just because you can.
Become a Professional Poet.
Forget the difference between night and day.
Get discounts on **** you don't need.
Squeeze the taxpayers for all you can get.
Never help anyone move again.
Stop worrying about dying young.
Act the curmudgeon; people expect it.
Revel in hypochondria; any pain could be terminal.
Begin every sentence with "Back in the day..."
Remember: there is no 'future,'
only the 'near future.' Act accordingly.
Don't worry about getting drafted.
Constantly forget what day it is.
Say "I'm too old for this **** often as you wish.
I've forgotten: did I mention the unlimited naps?
~mce
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...
how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......
*take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.
the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.
you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.
and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!
there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.
and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.
she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.
and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....
no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ****** sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...
don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.
and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.
what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...
will ya, just sod off,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...*
this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
Acolytes of yon ole Stanstead
Told him he's been mislead
Well tough, ya old curmudgeon
See ya never, has-been's has-been
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Cranky gramps next door’s not well
Unwilling to listen, to mow his grass
Rumination’s ruination’s curb appeal from hell
Miserly, unfriendly, cussing and crass
Unwavering, a prejudiced old goat, jack ***
Doltish Scrooge with no family left
Graying graveside his home unkempt
Eaves and chimneys and curtains closed, yet
Openly racist with his dragon’s breath.
Needs a bit of love to soften such deaths.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
1. Learn forgiveness. Then withhold it from everyone.
2. Avoid making enemies. Leave it to your friends to find you insufferable.
3. There is good in everyone. The trick is not to let it out.
4. Expect the worst. You’ll be right.
5. Never hurt anyone’s feelings. Unintentionally.
6. Command an audience. Then who cares if you loathe mankind?
7. Self-sacrifice ennobles the spirit. But someone still has to clean up the blood.
8. Don’t dance. Then no one will watch.
9. Don’t envy others’ success. Intervene more forcefully to prevent it.
10. Life is short, but otherwise lousy.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 8:44 PM UTC
As if it never was.
Spaces graced.
Erased with linen flannel.
Somewhat harsh.
Erased my heart.
The physical remains.
Burned into ashes.
Smell the embers.
Melting hair.
Charcoal tree stumps.
The metaphoric sword is swung.
Beheaded my love.
Cleft partially by curmudgeon.
A lonely angel.
Ethereal floating as souls drift on
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
Today I got a message
from a friend in poetry
if you get a request to be my friend
i'll tell you it's not me
there's another person out there
who's playing at a game
he's gone and made a copy
of me with the same name
i thought on this a while
our Johnni's not alone
there's a version of him out there
Our Johnni has a clone
Of all the people out there
why did he chose to be
Johnni Stanton esquire
why did he not choose me?
Imagine now...two Johnni's
riding scooters down the street
Giving Johnni Stanton scowls
To everyone they meet
Johnni earned his reputation
Through all the things that he has done
And if you ask me my opinion
I think there's room for only one
So, I'll keep checking for that someone
Who will ask a friend like ne
And will report that cloned imposter
To the powers there that be
There only is one Johnni
There's no room for any more
He's our impassioned, mad curmudgeon
All the way through to his core.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
when all the bells have toppled silence and on the breeze rides a summer of stammering stunnery the likes of the color blue on stilts
snagged in the sun’s corona.
like a fish on a hook of sunshine, thought he saw a worm of real life
but got caught in the vaporous torrent of his weakness.
savoring the dawn like a mushroom mottled in fresh dew
twinkling in the circus of fecundity where the thrum of glory
spoils the view of a curmudgeon and marches on into destiny’s *****
in the clutches of our habits and rabidly
living the dream that’s killing us.
how real can it get?
and is that real enough?
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 1:23 AM UTC
when god heard Lennon sing "Imagine,"
it/he/she filed a complaint
with the Human Rights Commissions,
a grievous hurt claimed,
needing omission,
hurtful words, the spirit opined,
his repute, civlly defamed
a direct attack on his divine permissioning
and though his unverifiable existence,
a poor excuse for such a
sid vicious exercise
re his persistence,
he needed humans
the song to excise,
punishment suitable be arranged,
to assuage his hurted feelings,
canons of political correctness
demanded it be whiteout erased
as if history did not matter,
those visible tracks of his trade
no atheist or agnostic here,
having had too many disputations,
face to face confrontations,
about the damnable ironic games
It plays upon "his" human dolls,
by this manic~depressive curmudgeon,
from up above & his vapored flighty humors,
sans rationality,
for god was supplied with omnipotence
but too minuscule an impotent allotment
of the untold power of the
sensibility of the five mortal sensible senses,
the all-in reasons or rhymes,
the electric grid
making humans superior, the ability
to imagine
Imagine a power
so wonderful,
an all-in everything
I am God of myself,
when I imagine
Imagine I wrote this
and then,
I did
imagined that your crinkly eyes laughed
when your read this,
and then,
you did.
imagine that*
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC