"displeasing" poems
There's a silence in the evening,
A silence most displeasing.
It's not the absence of mowers running,
Or bedsheets flapping, motors humming.
Trains still shunt, foghorns blast,
Where are the sounds
From our past?
It's not the sound of contrary laughing
Walking from a parent's lashing.
Something's missing, sounds are gone,
Familiar sounds from our lawns.
The sound of rope slapping cement,
Fantasy games kids invent.
An echoing slapshot before, "Car!"
These missing sounds are so bizarre.
Those yestergames we played in jest,
Like Hide and Seek at dusk was best.
But outside games gave way to screens,
I'd rather hear childish screams.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
What can be believed living in the street?
He could only find peace
From the pages covering his feet
While those with good mothers fight
Over who’s wrong and who’s right
The corner dust forms a memorial
On a vacant Victorian seat
Their words died before they became deeds
Nothing mattered of his past
It could not fill his needs
He tried not think of her
There was nothing he could offer
Through his piercings he bled
But there was no water for his seeds
He looked to the heavens for paintings
But dreams in cloudless skies
Cannot be imagined when it’s raining
The corner was his
But it’s no place to live
Our faces are the measure of his worth
For he knows who he is displeasing
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
she smells (nameless and shameless)
*a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters
the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:
she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,*
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
Indolence always gets the best of me
I feel like a jab
painting images without metaphors,
avoiding the intense visions of the lot
Indifferent, inebriated.
All demons slayed. Spread eagle.
Life seems to be a hassle,
in two ways on the same street
I am the attention *****
who wants to be left alone
Pushing them back only draws them closer
Today is no different,
a muse, a good laugh, a realization
my schedule is full again.
I just want to spend my time
anything else lacks luster
Goal: (noun)
1. aim, 2. end, 3. target, 4. purpose,
5. intention, 6. objective, 7. ambition,
I have none.
You can't force me, try as you may.
What does pique my interest is art
If I ever get over self indulgence,
which I will market emphatically,
I may consider starting a career
Controversies are fun, so is ******
to balance them both in one hand
and collect with the other
that is art.
Form, the world has never seen.
Abstract ambiguity rewriting itself.
Displeasing parents and loved ones around.
The one the perverts idolize
the critics would bow in awe to
Ah yes...
I feel so lazy.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
A face, a form and a surface ready to be scorned. Features, edges, texture, lines- all part of something bright in spite of putting up a fight. Restless, stoic, agitated are words to combine in order to express the world which I call mine.
Sitting, staring or a mere passerby thinks as though I'm a puzzle to entangle and intertwine but rather I am a piece that has paid her lease in order to attain what they call peace.
An art called by hardly any two; strange and displeasing said by a few. Deep down I know I'm remarkable even if the flicker of intensity from my eyes are invisible.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
When the pale Luna, goddess of the night,
Her silver blanket did upon the pond cast,
While gliding along the inky sky,
Near to the milky stretch-mark of stars
(Sign that the Universe is our mother)...
The air was thick with the violin symphony of crickets.
Beneath the knotted hair of a willow tree
A campfire, asked to dance by the breeze,
With sheer joy crackled and sparkled
At the sight of the petal-faced imps.
In a foolish manner, one prodded the other:
"Go you and kiss a frog on the nodding!"
Wanting to impress his comrade,
He sprung up like a grasshopper off the ground,
And like a fox pup disguised himself in the reeds.
There, his torch revealed two sinister gleams,
A low CROAK and RIBBIT RIBBIT came with them.
The boy jumped and caught the wet ball of slime,
It protested in his cherub hands and wriggled in vain.
He moved his puckers closer to the little being,
Nature is the one who likes a good teasing,
He kissed it on head,
Then froze with dread,
The frog was a toad and the taste was displeasing.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
The plough boy wends his merry way
and whistles up the sun today.
Yesterday he made it rain,
and ploughing was postponed again!
Tomorrow if his notes are low
Perhaps we will be in for snow.
But if his tunes are all displeasing
Expect a bitter morn-with freezing!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
Ben Bernanke's hanky panky and
Quantitative Easing is so displeasing
A collapsing economy where no one can afford a meal
Sparks a revolution, with the citizens at the wheel.
And when all is over and said and done,
A new Polis will arise, where all is for none.
But the question still remains:
Are you still in bed with your chains?
Or are you awake with a gun:
A strong militia of and for One?
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
Perhaps
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The cohesiveness between us, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Our solemn oaths of faithfulness, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
If something happened that was not to your liking,
the shrinking away that produces silence, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Listen, the sagas of so many years, the promises you made amid time's onslaught,
which you now fail to mention, you may remember, or perhaps not.
These new resentments, those old rehashed complaints,
these lighthearted and displeasing stories, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
Some seasons ago we shared love and desire, we shared joy ...
That we once were dear friends, you may have, perhaps, forgot.
Now if we come together, by fate or by chance, to express old loyalties ...
Our every shared breath, all our sighs and regrets, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Being
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You are so close to me
that no one else ever can be.
NOTE: There is a legend that the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib offered all his diwan (poetry collections) in exchange for this one sher (couplet) by Momin Khan Momin. Does the couplet mean "be as close" or "be, at all"? Does it mean "You are with me in a way that no one else can ever be?" Or does it mean that no one else can ever exist as truly as one's true love? Or does this sher contain an infinite number of elusive meanings, like love itself?
Being (II)
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You alone are with me when I am alone.
You are beside me when I am beside myself.
You are as close to me as everyone else is afar.
You are so close to me that no one else ever can be.
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Urdu, Momin Khan Momin, love, close, closeness, unity, farness, afar, memory, remembrance, forgetfulness, remember, forget, forgot, time, silence, mrburdu
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
Happiness is not far; yet not too close
The wind whips by, like a chilling ghost
Every thought and every action stands idly by
Until the violent rupture stares me in the eye.
Happiness teases in the most displeasing way
It tricks and alludes in all the common ways
Although your eyes; they cannot see
For it deceives, both you and me
Happiness is a fallacy; this is all that is true
You cannot depend, on anyone but you
You mustn't cry at the alterations
Focus only on, your narration.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.
1.3k
I miss you the way I miss the time we were alive in.
My heart longs for you and my innocence in the same manner.
My stomach twists in contempt for every feeling that you don’t give me.
Don’t you see?
The loss of innocence is
so
much
more
than paying bills and paying for gas.
So
much
more
than taking a pill every night and needing to have a plan.
It’s
losing the ability to hear a high pitch that is both pleasing and displeasing.
It’s
not enjoying an education with the cost in mind.
It’s
knowing.
Knowing your sister is probably depressed
and your mother is, too.
Knowing there’s no safe shot to a simple destination.
And worst of all,
It’s
Knowing that love is something you learned about when you were
innocent
and with the high-pitched frequency.
It’s
Gone.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
I'm not all that different
From doctors and surgeons
I search for sharp eggshells
In brownie batter
It's a grueling task
Yet, one I can't miss
Without my extraction
My dessert is displeasing
My grandfather's surgeons
Are similar to me
They search for the blockage -
A distasteful one at that
Hands search
And scavenge
They use medical instruments
I have utensils of my own
Both certain that sharp eggshells
Harm the entirety
There are times I
Come up short
The pesky shards
Are difficult to find
And I am afraid
Of the doctor's similarity to me
I pray they find the eggshells
Inside my grandfather's arteries
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
It is a sickening word
That most ladies with a conscience,
Would never throw at anybody else.
So why would you use it on yourself?
Do not use it to describe my body.
The media uses it enough to their advantage.
When "Plus Sized" it considered a size ten.
They use it to coerce little girls,
Into buying hair and makeup products.
And they hope to make a role model
Out of some photoshopped Barbie doll.
Instead they soil a child's self image.
We put each other down
And we beat ourselves down twice as hard.
Let us think of this from a different perspective for a minute.
What constitutes in our world as ugly?
Webster's definition would be something along the lines of,
Displeasing to the senses.
But what does that really mean?
It can mean different things to different people, and it does.
It means that words like ugly, worthless,
And especially fat
Should be removed from our verbal vernacular.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
I'm a nice bad guy looking for redemption. I'm the weird guy looking for attention.
I'm the ruin looking for significance. I'm the underground hotshot looking for remembrance.
I'm the dreamer who never lands on the shallow ground. I'm the beast in chains who knows not freedom, always bound.
I'm in the way of pain. I'm the help to the sane.
I'm a lover with a crazy heart. I'm a heartbreaker to all my sweethearts.
I'm the cold and ruthless prisoner. I'm the hero who is a soul healer.
I'm the child in confusion. I'm the adult who has long been chances refusing. I'm the decision when there are multiple options for choosing.
I'm a killer for not living. I'm alive because I push myself to keep dreaming.
I'm the demon who has been bruising mortality. I'm the angel who has been bringing life to this soul that has been dying.
I'm the height that planes fly in. I'm the depth that ships sink in.
I'm the question that stands to reason. I'm the answer that is vague and displeasing.
I'm the life and light at the end of the tunnel. I'm the dimmest darkness before the end.
I'm the human that works with hand. I'm the one blamed when there are helpless children who are not fed. I'm the one blamed when there are poisonous programs on television and children have not gone to bed. I'm the last option when I could've been the first choice instead. I'm the weight at the top, I'm called the head.
I'm the sinner when I've done something amiss. I'm righteous when the good things I do not miss. I'm wise when my ways have no twists. These are confessions of a sinner that are refined in Heaven if on earth they are crypt-ic.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Pamela, I suppose,
Has taken one too many lines
And has given birth to a child
With a few extra mental arms and legs.
Green trees and
Vietnamese agent orange
Fell into her lungs a bit early
As she painted her portraits
And found her ideal of love in mine.
Women, I’ve found,
Have quite the strange way
Of making change.
We can’t all be Elizabeth Stantons
And Sylvia Plaths.
We can’t all be the bra-burners,
The Vietnam-Veteran spitters
That this generation of tetosterone-enticers
Has emerged from.
Pamela, like so many other long-haired,
Nail-painted beauties before her,
Lost herself in an opus of *******
And promiscuity
That brought her down
To a level terribly under
Those of substantial criminals.
As Burgess wrote, “You were not
Put on this Earth just
To get in touch
With God.”
Pamela, I suppose,
Failed at just the same,
Became a Russian spy
And illuminated a flame of displeasing energy
In the heart of my breathless being.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement
the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:
she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 11:51 AM UTC
The air clings to my lungs
Sticky and burdened with grief
Displeasing, shallow gasps where once there was so much life
Once there was laughter.
Once there was happiness
The sweetness of it all now turned bitter and black
The weight sits on my chest
With a pressure
Confining
Unnerving
And yet I breathe
And with each breath clearing the scattered soot
I can see a new horizon
Its golden light peaking from behind the choking pall
And I remind myself:
Let it go.
That was not happiness.
Let go of what you thought was happiness.
It was never real.
It was a dispersion of roses now wilting in the sun
Uncovering the green, vibrant life underneath
Still growing
Reaching for the warmth
Spreading like wildfire
The Truth of Self
Now free
I breathe
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
So out of the ordinary this was
Such a demonic move from me this was
I stole her trust along with him
He whispered mischief and sins to me in the dark
Plucked my heart strings like his guitar
He stole me with the talk of our future
Rolling down grass hills & being stoners
Being in a band & getting interviewed
How fun & ****** up our relationship was
I watched him fall in love with her
While he fell in love with me
We all loved each other
Each individuals' displeasing reason
I demolished boundaries
& take what isn't mine
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
There is something to be said
For a hideousness so potent
That mirrors are perhaps an enemy
Or something to be avoided.
There is something to be said
For a self-esteem so insubstantial
Not even the most excessive false bragging
Can repair a single shamble.
There is something to be said
For a weight so displeasing
That the scale can cause a panic attack
Cheats heaving, troubled breathing.
There is something to be said
For a body so scarred
Not even summer can shorten the sleeves
Or remove the stiff collar.
There is something to be said
For a voice so deep yet not quiet
That it jars the ears, scathes the mind
Until it simply remains silent.
There is something to be said
For a boredom so immense
Not life or love or fun
Can spark a sliver of ambition.
There is something to be said
For apathy of so great a measure
That the thought of suicide
Simply requires too much effort.
There is something to be said
For a face makeup cannot beautify
Not even when applied heavily
Does it become pleasing to the eye.
There is something to be said
For a personality like a punch to the gut
That changes constantly yet remains unpleasant
Mimicking every emotion, save love.
There is something to be said
For a complete waste of space and air; see
Not to be around the bush, it's easier to say:
There is something to be said for me.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
In the paradox of the beginning of time,
God gave Grace green grass.
To fertillize the world and let it grow and shine,
To spread this green fern around the world at last.
Weighing the balance between Heaven and earth,
Green grass for the world as a new birth.
To stir up a feeling for the children to enjoy.
A soft, but yet sharp small short and silky touch,
Hate chose to plant his seed as vanity the world's toy.
But God gave Grace seeds to plant in the springs, and so she planted as much.
Now the generations of Hatred flourished and bloom,
And the descendants of Grace where few.
Because Hate ate the seeds of Grace with their greedy spoons
So Grace had not many gifts for the world, parables so true.
Also as Grace, Hate had gifts to show,
Hate's gifts were many so they hid it in the dirt without water.
Grace's gifts where one, but with drips of love their seed began to grow.
Grace seed raised above the earth and everywhere even in the seas,
Covering Hate's mistakes and displeasing iniquities.
Leaving Hate below the ground to tempt and grow torns.
With no other actions but to stay small in size.
In modern times hate torns pierce the feet of many men,
Causing them to fall in folly and contempt.
But Gods plan is not done yet and Hate time isn't past,
Because of faith God gave Grace green grass.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in
cantankerous philosophy!
Of these lying liabilities,
what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than
named quite unfortunate atrocity!
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility
such that satiated curiosity
be evermore abashed in me?
“. . . but I have admonished thee,”
said he,
this subtle, blackened tenant
with a tin man's tonality.
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then
upends the pores relentlessly.
*“These words will compel a poor
foresight to bleed in the fray
as cascading tears cast their weight
upon cheek in dismay . . .”*
. . . to quash the cypress toxin
of a caustic potpourri—
a dissembling toupee
to one's balding reality.
O lasting opacity
of such poignant translucency,
this flagrant serendipity,
once spawned, must always be?
Possibly; though, I cannot count
how many sets see dawns at sea.
“. . . but I have astonished thee,”
said he
through this Möbius rebuttal
like some soap on TV,
though, it’s ne'er some rerun
what’s cliché wants creativity.
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation
of one bless'ed unanimity.
*“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
one sin was mine to portray.
‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
curs’ed common naïveté . . .”*
. . . and yet, that's cause to bend
reverent knee, not to thee,
but to that which mine
eye's sole endeavor is to see.
“So, leave me be!”
I lament, ostensibly,
“Lest that passage fall paved
by none other than me.”
Perhaps the Second World war
is just my cup of tea.
“. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC