Dahling poems on Hello Poetry

st64 Jun 2013

how he loved his sweetheart queen
she always wore the silver bracelet
he gave when she turned sixteen
now their kids are growing; how time has flit

10 a.m.

Eyes opening, sun comes streaming through the windows. It's so late!

I rise, feel so groggy....what's this weighty load on me...?
I've been sleeping, yet feel profoundly *weary.
Where is everyone?
"Muriel...?"
I get to the bathroom to wash and shave.

My wife appears at the door, "Honey, where have you been? Oh, we haven't seen you in so long... Welcome back! Come down for tea, dahling."
She pours a glittering smile and reaches up to touch my cheek with the back of her left hand, fingernails painted deep red...her nuptial rings still a dazzle after so many years...but she....
"Alright, dahling?"
"Y-yes, dear."

She had never called me darling...or even dahling....before...!
Huh?
And off she goes, to the kitchen.
Welcome back?? did she say?? And her eyes were shining so bright...
Wait a minute....just hold on ....what....??
I shake my head, unable to toss some heavy feeling....a dense cloud in my head.

10:30 a.m.

Now I'm dressed and freshened up, I head down.

Feeling better, I see my warmhearted and humorous son at the pine dinette table.
I smile warmly as he turns to look up...I remember the promise that we'd go fishing this weekend.
"Hey, budd....."
I reach over to touch his hair, but he flinches away..!

"Who's this, Mom?" Kyle demands hotly.
My wife gives a bright smile which doesn't quite reach her eyes and says: "Now, Kyle....behave. It's Daddy.."
"Oh, he's just .....tired, ok."

She waltzes over and politely hands me a steaming mug.
What in the name of....???
Over the cloud of coffee, I watch them all.
Little Jenny, but my jolly toddler...now on her mother's hip...watches with wary eyes and reaches out to scratch me, her pacifier hanging from a blue ribbon, like a noose from her 'happy-smiles' bib.

"But Mom, he's been away so long...for years and..."
I hear him whispering sullen and lizard-like, to his mother....but he's hissed into silence.

What in the heck....?
"Now, children," Muriel says patiently, "go play out in the yard..."

Oh, I'm feeling so frazzled!

11:00 a.m.

I decide I've had enough.

My wife is at the sink, thickly busy rinsing cups and plates; she smiles sweetly, humming.
She never did like doing dishes....
Now there she stands, looking all coiffed and made-up, hopelessly incongruous...

I shake my head; thoughts roll and collide, like mysterious marbles across my mind-floor...
Kyle watches me hostile, from the garden...arms folded defiantly across his chest.
Jenny's on her tricycle, red as a fire-engine.....eyes blankly staring, bent on crisscrossing her scalene triangle trip.

I turn to ask: "Muriel, where's your bracelet, dear? You always have it on."
"Oh, dahling...don't you worry. It's upstairs on the dresser."

And yet.....I was there earlier whilst dressing, and I didn't see it!

Baffled, I step out to the kids.
I prune the bougainvillea and then rake some leaves. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck....
It feels as if I'm being watched...when I look up to see, they are all quickly resume their activities.
Muriel just keeps on that shiny smile for me.

11:30 a.m.

This is it.

As I rake, some leaves make way for a clearing in the yard.
Bending down to scoop some up, a shiny reflection catches my eye...there's the silver bracelet with that beautiful twist of blue as gemstones.
What was it doing here...?

Still pondering, I see my wife's head **** up from the kitchen window...lips curling back...oh, no smile this time...body looking too *****...eyes like saucers, way, way too interested.....

I look down again...move some more leaves.....a curled hand....But it looks like ......

I recognise my Muriel's hand, her clear and pushed-backed-cuticle fingernails....her arm..her face....but.....
she's here.....!!

What the.....??

I turn round slowly to look.....only..... too slowly.....

how I loved my sweetheart Muriel
who always wore her silver bracelet
with that beautiful
twist of blue

S T, 11 June 2013

Partly inspired by movie 'Haunting in Salem'...just some ****** film I couldn't finish....lol
Dozed off and wrote this thing, instead :)

sub-entry: none

Quinn Apr 2013

gorgeous, dahling

being gorgeous
is all a game of
projections and
precision, with a
drop or two of
luck in the gene pool

do you know
how many times
i have stood, ****,
in front of a man
and heard
those words
drip, slippery with
*** and saliva,
through foaming lips?

big headed beasts
who still haven't
figured out where
to find my ****

oh, but desire me, they do
and i'm always the best
****
they've ever known

'oh baby, how DO you DO
that thing with your hips?'

i lay around wondering
why these men
subject themselves
to *******
dead fish

when it's over they
can't keep fingers
from lingering on my
skin, tattooed ribs
draw out long sighs
and desperate whispers,
followed by lingering
on my
'perfect ****'

then it comes, oh,
how *******
gorgeous i am,
with my eyes that
just can't decide
if they want to be
the bark or the leaves

intrigued by my
beguiling mystique
and desire to be free,
but the sad truth is,
fools or not,
each and every one
does the same thing,
they leave

should've listened
when dad said,
'get compliments
for being smart,
not pretty'

Kendal Anne Aug 2013

The Missus of True Misfortune

"My  dahling," ...
That is how she always will begin, with a lilt to her speach
Her words slurring together as if she's been ******* on the bourbon from your private store
For every minute and every second of the three hours that she had been gone away
Doing whatever it is that young damsels, who do whatever they please shall do
Then she will wrap her cold arms around you, reminding you of the wintery landscape outside
Putting her lips close to your ears, she will whisper and she will try to tell you again;
"My  dahhling, my  dearest, dearest  friend,"
She pauses, hesitating a little too much for you to know that it is not something good.
But since when have the two of you been friends?
She was just a women, and you were just a lonely old man who needed someone
To take care of your very sore and achy feet from the arthritis that had evolved over the many decades of your life
So why the hell would she call you her dearest friend? When the hell did this happen?
What did she want from you? More? You had given her everything her little heart could ever desire;
The fur coats, the crystal jewels, even that 1997 baby blue convertable with the velvet seats
That you had proffesonally done, not too mention that as well
****, women always want more. More, more, more. Can never get enough can they?
They whine, they snivel, they grovel, and they chirp like little birds when they recieve what they want
But she, Little Miss Want It All, still seems to be left, and always wanting more.
Turning you face her, you notice the little things that you have never seen before
The way her nose is slightly off center, or that her eyes are an eerie blue tang color
The way her breath feels against your old wrinkly skin when she speaks to you softly
"My  dahling, I  need  to  tell  you  something."
She whispers this as she curls her hair around her fingers from where she is standing
Which is behind your real, and expensive leather couch that she had you get imported from Russia
You roll your eyes, thinking you know what the little **** will say;
That she lost the diamond earings you got her, or she got a scratch on the car you bought
And she wants a replacement. *******. Always. This always happened, practically once a month
Money, **** that women to hell! She seemed to just throw it out the window and forget that she had it
Well enough was enough, you could nolonger take this part of her.
No matter how long her legs were in five inch heels, or how beautiful she looked
She seemed to spend every penny that you had ever earned without noticing
Leaning towards you her hair tickles against your face, the smell of cherries floating out
That was the one good thing about her, she always kept herself in tip top shape
But now as she leans over you, her lips inches away from yours;
This is how she will end, her voice reeking of yes, the bourbon from your private store
"My  dahling, it seems  that  I  have  pawned  off  your  house.  And  everything  else  you  own."

Well  ****.

Sometimes I see many a spiteful man in his lifetime, who is a bit two face with his woman. He gives her everything she wants, but just despises her for it. This is my way of telling a story of the smartest woman alive. Payback is a *****.

Matalie Niller Jun 2012

Jambo

Dahling you tease
you can't possibly be so innocent,
can you?
Those green eyes and lavish locks
oh girl you must have a closet full of rotting corpses,
wrought iron skeletons,
but no?
You don't put out?
You don't go down on the first date?
You don't even kiss?
Well little lady
I don't know whether to pity or help you
and your clean little ******
I bet their white, right?
You say you are only waiting,
only respecting yourself,
or are you afraid?
Too perfect to make a mistake with the wrong boy,
get a bad grade,
a blemish for not removing make up at night
let alone spend one with a male,
all sweaty and attractive, he probably has a tattoo
never been to church in years
but that turns you on right?
Maybe you should loosen up your chastity belt a bit
let the blood flow between your legs
let the possibilities of torrential disaster enter and intrigue,
but you can't do that
can you
control freak?
Can't be happy
only antiseptic and old
counting down the days until retirement
so you can look back and say
**** I never knew fun.

Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016

on la rochefoucauld

we always seem to want or be in want or having something anecdotal, if not witty to say, and we rarely have the opportunity to say it, but more chance to write it, with the allowance of it being by nature synchronised to the least favour of it being said in the first place, and as such not said to the extent it was wished to be communicated; to deal with delaying a saying is the art of aphorism stating, which i'm sure nietzsche greatly borrowed from you: so instead of itemising life for all its empty and emptying poses of the tier tongue filling a righteousness of some sordid familial pedigree given easy sway to decay by modest man's standards defining perversity: speak into the grave, and let us hear the bone rattling ganges incineration maracas shake shake shake urns of defacement: for honour the bleakest of all humours bleaker than scandinavian as that be english, bleakest. i never troubled myself juggling ******* and alcohol problems, i just took to beer, whiskey and coca-cola, so sugar me up dahling... i'm ready to tiger pounce on you and grow a magic fern from my ****-hole for a bouquet of piñiata of halloween trick-or-**** as the fudge packing inverse **** of a baseball baton lubricated into me: circumcise the flares! i think i see titanic sinking! ha ha! all in all too many maxims were written, many of which are untrue, and if true, then they're never written: you only write truths for people to make mistakes to prove them; you never write truths if they're properly adequate chess of senior pieces moving pawns, you keep such truths ****** prone, ****** for a purpose of dark-ethical cloning in the familial bonds of dynasty.

Donall Dempsey May 2016

READY FOR HER CLOSE UP

READY FOR HER CLOSE UP

She spoke as if
she were speaking

...in NEON*

as if her words
were Broadway plays

proclaiming themselves
on first nights.

She looked upon one
as if one were

a to be or...not to be.

Her laughter was pure
theatre

she would "Ah dahling!"
you to death!

I always felt
like an audience

in the cheap seats.

She always "just was"
as if one were lucky to be

here where she

acted her self

out.

Donall Dempsey Jun 2018

AHHH MO IASC BEAG( AHHH MY LITTLE FISH )

AHHH MO IASC BEAG( AHHH MY LITTLE FISH )

Your voice
dashes to the coast

and without taking off
its clothes

its newly acquired
American drawl

dives into the sea
swims and swims and swims

under the wild Atlantic
holding its breath

until with a gasp it
reaches England

whereupon like a salmon
it leaps into my ear

the sudden splash of recog-
-nition

as the telephone sighs:
"Dahling..!"

an ecstasy of "Dahlings!"
so Audrey a la Tiffany's

the telephone swoons
holding its voice in its arms

my mind on the edge of
my seat

taken captive
by your words

conjuring you
out of the air

my heart held for ransom
a thousand kisses more

and now we row over who
has to hang up first

"You!"
"No...no...you!"

"Oh you...ok so
on the count of three!"

"One( my love!)
Two( my love my love!)"

"Three and then
our voices entangled

drowning somewhere
in mid-Atlantic.

Donall Dempsey Jun 2019

AHHH MO IASC BEAG( AHHH MY LITTLE FISH )

AHHH MO IASC BEAG( AHHH MY LITTLE FISH )

Your voice
dashes to the coast

and without taking off
its clothes

its newly acquired
American drawl

dives into the sea
swims and swims and swims

under the wild Atlantic
holding its breath

until with a gasp it
reaches England

whereupon like a salmon
it leaps into my ear

the sudden splash of recog-
-nition

as the telephone sighs:
"Dahling..!"

an ecstasy of "Dahlings!"
so Audrey a la Tiffany's

the telephone swoons
holding its voice in its arms

my mind on the edge of
my seat

taken captive
by your words

conjuring you
out of the air

my heart held for ransom
a thousand kisses more

and now we row over who
has to hang up first

"You!"
"No...no...you!"

"Oh you...ok so
on the count of three!"

"One( my love!)
Two( my love my love!)"

"Three and then
our voices entangled

drowning somewhere
in mid-Atlantic.

Donall Dempsey May 2017

READY FOR HER CLOSE UP

READY FOR HER CLOSE UP

She spoke as if
she were speaking

...in NEON*

as if her words
were Broadway plays

proclaiming themselves
on first nights.

She looked upon one
as if one were

a to be or...not to be.

Her laughter was pure
theatre

she would "Ah dahling!"
you to death!

I always felt
like an audience

in the cheap seats.

She always "just was"
as if one were lucky to be

here where she

acted her self

out.

— The End —