"deportment" poems
"Stoner's Poem"
I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
There was an old person of Bude,
Whose deportment was vicious and crude;
He wore a large ruff,
Of pale straw-coloured stuff,
Which perplexed all the people of Bude.
2.3k
Into the Seasons of my mind I wander.
The gentle laughter that teased my tender ears,
Of my grandmother and her friends meeting,
Like ladies used to do.
The aroma of fresh baked cookies, cakes and pies,
Wafting in the cool Autumn breeze.
Back when women baked and were proud of it,
Back when there was Time...
Time to gather and just be glad to be together.
No harmful gossip, just the joy of friends
Willing to help each other through trials
That Life throws.
The strength of velvet bonds
Tied together for the common good of all.
Leading by examples, not needing to pontificate
On the deportment young ladies should show.
And me, proud to be included.
My Grandma's Shadow, adding my
Youth and exuberance to the occasion.
Learning about Life on that vine covered porch.
My apron was sized for my small frame,
I wore a dress, like the ladies present always did.
My hair coiffed, just because
I wanted to make my Grandma proud.
Oh yes, those were the days.
Before emails and internet,
When we spoke to each other and
Learned how important communication truly is.
Days, when it was good for girls to look like girls
And be proud of approaching womanhood.
Not subservient, but a partnership
That made men proud.
Yes, those were the Days!
Unforced laughter,
Able to face the world without fear,
Because we knew "Good" would win.
I'm grown now, I don't always wear a dress.
I live in a "Man's" world, contrary to my early years.
But I still smell the baking cookies, pies and cakes.
I still sit on my front porch .
My heart remembers my childhood
Though I must adjust to this fast moving Life,
I will always carry in my Soul,
As I long for the days of Poise and Ivy.
Deb Nixon
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:18 PM UTC
across the crystal clear lake
the swans did gracefully glide
their deportment o'er water
calm in countenance
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
**Your radiance shines like a beacon
your virtue, my guiding light
your eyes so bright they sparkle
your laughter bursts out with delight.
Your smile is filled with excitement
your humour, impulsive and sweet
your face, exquisite and glowing
your form, a heavenly treat.
Your flamboyance, attractive and stunning
your deportment, imposing and chic
your poise with finesse is polished, and
your charisma is filled with mystique.
Your allegiance, unswerving and loyal
your elegance, resplendant in grace
your friendship, a lifetime of sunshine
your complexion, the finest silk lace.
Your goodness, adorned in splendour
your kindness goes on and on
your presence is charming and gracious
your carriage is that of a swan.
My esteem for you is boundless
my admiration is yours to the end
my heart is filled to bursting, and
I thank you for being my friend.**
... ... ...
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 3:57 AM UTC
By repetitions vain shall no answer
Come, nor by deportment of manner:
But when in faith it is said, doubting
Thou in thine deepest heart nothing.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Wanna be a part of my pjs
There can be an escapade
Later on can be a propensitiy
I can have a deportment
Because my pjs are in a **** form
You go obstreperous on me
I've been wearing them all day
For you
Just kidding there really only soft blue pants
With a white v-neck t shirt
My best pj for you is for u to be in ur boxers
My fav turn on
Purloin my mouth and heart while ur @ it
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
We are bent on making a good impression
As we try bringing our A Game to the table
Raising germane topics in the conversations
In the hope of displaying a slightly better version
Of who I really am, and who I am in your opinion
Even so, I consistently fall in the same trap
My mind always buzzing and I say what is on my heart
Wrapped in nervousness, I am the same opinionated
But it comes off as if I were completely demented
Or at least that is what I pick up on my deportment
And all of sudden that is when you make me realize
Even in my most unusual state, you are able to recognize
That I have never been more myself than when I have butterflies
You glimpse at my soul as I look into your eyes, and your verdict
Nothing sweeter than me being picture-imperfect.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
In this life of
Galahad again
his wife feels a
rush that ballet
while homecoming
does suggest their
program is done
fullhanded and
with simpatico
that always is
finalist in bra
or cone shaped
whip that Tanzania
and Zanzibar are cleavage
underwire awhile in deportment
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
Horrible, soul-less dissemblers
Who **** children for money
Who starve children to put
More money into their banks
With secret accounts off-shore
And want to make more and more.
Too much money to even even score
Because the books are cooked
To let them **** more children
For money because they think it’s funny
To starve more children and blame others;
Everyone but the mothers themselves.
We let them do it, with no sense to it
Just catastrophic greed, no real need
Because they have more money now
Than they can ever spend but somehow
It drives them like the gold fever of old
In 1849 when gold was more important
ThaN life, or integrity or deportment.
"I get paid to hate you" is a new profession
Coupled with never a single confession
For the crimes they commit, what they have done.
No convictions for anyone because they protect
The archcriminals they elect and applaud
When they buy their yachts and mansions abroad
And laugh at how stupid we are to let them.
And then we go right on and forget them
And they do it all again, the same evil men
We give names like ‘honorable’ and ‘decent’
When we really shouldn’t because they aren’t.
TheY **** children for money and pretend
That starving children is an acceptable end
To their avaricious desires and greed.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
Whenever I allow myself to think of love, my mind runs
To the chambers where secret memories are stored,
In sealed chests, on high unreachable shelves, deterring me
From opening, dreaded Pandora boxes, stripped of hope.
Yet sometimes the endeavour to reminisce overwhelming
Feelings I struggle to repress, commands me to climb the stairs,
Unclose the safes of the unspoken, as I forbid tears
From pouring, out of clouded eyes, still loving.
You are there, with your roguish smile, chivalric deportment,
Statuesque poise, Michelangelo’s David, I compared, giddily
Gazing at your tragic features as if you were, the one
And only whom I could ever love, desire, crave, forgive.
Suddenly though not unexpectedly, intrudes the scolding guardian
Of remembrances, treating me as an impostor in my own mind,
A thief of frames concealed, yelling at me as you used to, reminding me
Of reality, your swinging lunatic humours, mercilessly lashing me with words.
Scars time will never heal, they lie when they say it will,
It has no power over what we were, nor can it erase even the slightest
Faintest flare of what we felt. Whenever I allow myself to think of love,
I still think of you, but that’s the maximum I consent to do.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
There she sat, across me in this train compartment.
She was a lot like I recalled, daunting,
how she almost, besides changes in deportment,
stayed the same. I forever keep on wanting
to tell her the truth.
All we do anymore is say hi,
while we used to talk for hours,
it has become easier to say bye.
There are greater love stories than ours.
It dazzles me to come across the facts,
we care less and less about the acts
so poorly put aside.
I think I lost, my love, so I'll let it slide.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
She came back.
Briefly.
Back from mind and heart.
Back into my
actuality.
The initial shock
of external appearance
immediately
transposed itself
into the feeling of
habitual love.
There was no alteration
beyond the
superficiality
of her changed deportment.
The strength of character,
the courage to face
unflinchingly
the extremities of
physical discomfort
and pain . . .
none of this in any way
differed
from the recalled
determination
that inspires
the admiration
and the adoration
in which she is held.
She is not a survivor.
She is a victor.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
reality collapses
into a paragon of nothing
forming memory
of boundaries like detonating corridors
about primate organization
chemical interventions
and political furors
the mind of earth
forces a mashup
of alternating currents
as the higher sends the temporal
for excursions into whatever the ****
like a dog on a leash
in another clinical metaphysics workshop
for karma farmers
we lick hell's ***
in a greasy crowd with jaundice
for our own god **** good
i cross dimensions
like an alchie with the shakes
where one reality collapses into another
making me ****** again
in a transfiguration
of canvassing beauty
towards deportment for a slow withering
like the astonished refugee
when shipped to a clumsy place
for shattered senses
with every crown
the gift of life
comes the guillotine
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 1:00 PM UTC
Loving someone so much that you turn a blind eye to the fact that ***** can’t do the same.
Exhausted frustration of courting someone every single day with the knowledge that it cannot work out. Getting signs here and there but you cannot determine whether it’s a warning for a dead end or a motivational pill; either way, you ignore it. The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Trusting in something you cannot explicitly prove. A feeling not returned.
Having the behavior that shows a lack of good sense and judgement. Possessing the epitome deportment of the top-notch quality of being stupid; yet, you disregard. Bombarded with voices that complain, disdain of you being hard. Befalling instances that shout JUST QUIT ALREADY; yet, you continue. You stop for their faint of eye, resume afterward.
Loving something so much that you turn a blind eye to the fact that it can’t do the same.
The unrequited sanity, leaving you high and dry.
And yes, this is not a letter about love.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC