"doff" poems
Oh mindless beings bow low before my superior art
For I did have a poetic ****
In that rippling tearing noise I detected beauty and artistic poise
Because the **** was I and therefore art
Who of thee could even start
To view the art in a morning ****
Thou art lesser beings, an artless mob
Whilst I are a poetic god
Men bow their heads, doff their caps
In the presence of I
Oh Oh Oh
Art in a **** penned by I
Even Shakespeare could not compare with I
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
THEME: INJUSTICE
A Duet by:
Hassan B. Hassan(Mr Sophy)
Opeyemi Fuad (Gemini)
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇
An unsung warrior I am
One that serve his homeland
Now left to wallow in shame
Betrayed, with no treacle -
To my broken esteem
What an injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We doff our hat to them
Rubbing and cleaning it with their hands
We attain them the power
But they all create new edition
No to injustice!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Preserve the nation's flag
Yet, thrown into cell
Never to see the sun rise
merry-ing with Legless rats
An unproved innocence
Government's injustice
👈Gemini👉
The baby cry out when put to bed
The dog cry out when given birth to
But we all cry out when the molecule changed
But no reaction took place
Why?
Let Justice reign!
👈Mr sophy👉
I thumbed down, on the papers
Still, my worth doesn't count
I served the government
With my heart and soul on the platter
Staked to uphold their stand
But wronged, injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We put down our lives to save theirs
Yet they flow us with their power
Oh!what an injustice
fox government with fox Power
Justice reign!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Thou did nothing
Than bruise our humanity
And rub it on our fresh wound,
With pepper of your injustice
Oh, an insolence!!
Despite our sacred deeds
👈Gemini👉
Indigent we are today
richer we are tomorrow
They are to keep the flag flying
Yet they make the flag vapid
No to injustice!
No to fox government
Justice we want!!
👈Mr sophy👉
©Pen of a true Gemini ™
©Mr Sophy ™
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
you said you didnt love me anymore.
yet your face tells everything everytime we steal glances of each other.
how your cheek grazes my eyes, burying every sinful lie within each and every moment.
you try to hide your feelings inside and pushed the love i gave to you
that you denied.
i see light in your eyes, darling.
now why couldn't you just let it be and see how you truly mean to me, see the countless times, the consecutive tries of trying to make you mine again.
now darling, i'm waiting for you. waiting for you to take me back one more time. i just need one try to prove to you that i was worth it all the time.
and i dont know why youre fighting back the truth and burying them with distinctive lies saying that i never loved you and you never loved me too and that we were never meant for each other but deep down you know it wasnt true.
so doff your pride and don a smile,
run to me with arms open wide
and accept me back
with the love
that never once died.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
Ha-Ha, Joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
dances a maniac tango, joking
in the midst of elemental chaos--
giggling at the lava, way hot
watching the castle's mortar dissolve, doting
the cacophonous crumbling symphony akin to Amadeus.
Ha-ha, joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
ignites a spliff with incandescent embers, smoking--
up under falling stars getting higher than the Himalayas
and more enlightened as the midnight parades off
into a translucent, steaming ashy bayou, hoping
there's a bite to eat before the heat waves doff
the darkness completely into blinding, hokey
sunbeams reflecting in snow, that cuckoo tune never lost,
Ha-ha, joker's laugh from that wildcard coyote.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
I much admire, I must admit,
The man who robs a Bank;
It takes a lot of guts and grit,
For lack of which I thank
The gods: a chap 'twould make of me
You wouldn't ask to tea.
I do not mean a burglar cove
Who climbs into a house,
From room to room flash-lit to rove
As quiet as a mouse;
Ah no, in Crime he cannot rank
With him who robs a Bank.
Who seemeth not to care a whoop
For danger at its height;
Who handles what is known as 'soup,'
And dandles dynamite:
Unto a bloke who can do that
I doff my bowler hat.
I think he is the kind of stuff
To be a mighty man
In battlefield,--aye, brave enough
The Cross Victorian
To win and rise to high command,
A hero in the land.
What General with all his swank
Has guts enough to rob a Bank!
2.5k
Rue the unlettered nugatory inequity
of insensate dishabille narcosis and
the insouciant clandestine ravish
perverse of durance's constraint.
AUSTRALIAS CODE GREY IS A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. PUT AN END TO FORCED INJECTIONS
AND THE UNCONSCIOUS UNCONSENTING SEXPLOITATION OF THE MENTALLY ILL!!!!.
NO FUNDING FOR MENTAL HEALTH AND THEIR ****** REGIME!!!
MENTAL HEALTH LAWS ARE MENTALLY ILL!!!
''the pride of women will never be laid in the dust"- Gaelic Proverb.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. LYING ******* ****** DOGS!!!
SAY NO TO BUTTOCKS INJECTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
The Race
An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.
I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean a scholarship for me.
Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.
A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.
I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.
A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.
I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..
I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.
I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.
Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me
I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.
The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains
“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.
“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm in his brain.”
Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
It happened tonight
I dare not clap
Haggis the cat
slept on my lap
watching a film
on the settee
Denise was sitting
next to me
he strolled along
looked at my pants
though "oh well,
I'll take a chance."
A stroke and a pat
I doff you my cap
Haggis the cat
slept on my lap
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
i am a partying in the street ya know
i have got my chips and coca cola that is radical
i want to be happy don’t you ******* know
steve and bill and doff and jill went up the hill
to try to catch a party spirit and really party on
i liked thew mates i had when i was young
they are pretty cool, but i am moving on
and so should they
yeah that is the way of the world
i hate tony abbott that is my opinion, please don’t lock me away
he is just a loser can’t ya see
everyone is partying in the clubs ya see
so mr conservo, get out iof this place
for i am the man to boot you out on your *** mr abbott
everyone says party party party and forget about the little smarty
who come in your life, ***** with your wife
yeah partying is more fun than that yeah,
i wanna rock and roll all night, and drink every day, a bottle of coke
and don’t you doff it down for you to choke
party party party get down and ****** party dudes
let’s get on with the show, even if it shows
partying is fun for people of all ages, yeah mate yeah
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
Vermilion skies pass me by
and into the night the chasm opines
an imagined Ferris wheel at a carnival
turns contra against smothering bindweed,
is this a metaphor for confusion ?
a turnaround of sorts
and with a habitual doff of my hat I bid
to draw this recurring dream to an end,
the naked view now seems surreal.
Should I then hear the adjacent marching feet of others
surrendering their names in juxtaposition.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
In Neverland - never to grow old
never to marry that sweetheart
never to have children and grandchildren
nor watch hair thin and grey.
Full of derring-do - more dash than discipline
lanky and loose-limbed they swank and saunter
not like soldiers at all
no doff the cap humility
to the old rules and distant monarchies.
From a newly stolen world
hardly secured or steady with itself
lodged on the edge of a vast continent
clinging to a rim of turquoise blue.
Now cramped
in the pock-holed sores of ancient lands
richly bone-dusted from time to time.
Waiting for the fight to end
to go ‘back home’ ‘over there’
to farms and factories; schools and stations.
Still there - left behind
in the archipelago of cemeteries
as far as Fromelles, Pozieres,
to Bullencourt and Paschendaele
in fields of beetroot and corn,
fields bleeding red with poppies
beside the Menin Road at Ypres
in bluebelled woods of Verdun
in the silt of the Somme
on the plains of Flanders
in the victory graves at Amiens
Monash’s boys - the lost boys
cried for their mothers
begged for water
screamed to die
hung like khaki bundles on the wire.
Commanded by Field Marshalls
who never went to the fields,
who played the numbers game
in a war of bluff and bluster,
who never touched the dirt and slime,
nor waded through the ****** slush
of broken men and boys,
never waist-deep in mud and sinking,
wounded and drowning in that shambles of a war
Wearing dead men’s boots
and shrapnel-holed helmets
tunics and leggings splattered and rotting
with dead men’s blood and brains
Some haunted boys came home
knapsacks full of secret pictures,
old rusty tins crammed with suffering
breast pockets held their grief
wrapped in shroud-shreds.
They brought their duckboard demons
to the world of peace
Gas-choked fretful lungs still brought
the caustic fumes with every breath exhaled
and from every pore the death-sweat of decay.
But most boys were lost boys
lost forever in that no-man’s land
that Neverland of lives unlived.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
For I understand, now,
That it was not love:
It was merely my mistempered;
Beshrewed list,
For what is só scarce
In this marred world:
She,
Is oft misused and no one descrys thee engrossing forfullment she gives:
Like a mantle of a paramour,
On a flesh penetrating night...
Marry!
My heart feels tossed on the abstract,
For I was overturned with the conceit
Of being Your Thisbe...
Your Trojan princess...
Your right-hand-lady...
But Sir,
My heart, now
Desires but one thing:
To be announced as one's kindred
And be loved as a kingsman
I am content, in faith!
Let us lief love
With a love, greater than love,
And may we build with flint
On the foundation of vestal love.
Let us be one another's bier
When our bodies brine;
Ghostly anchor...
Pilot in the bailful pestilence;
Crotchet in woe;
Behoveful paramour to tell aught to
Without the conceit of neither being cast by
Nor discreet;
Aqua vitae dram in languish...
When thát day abroach
I shall anon be aught...
Do aught for thy...
When thát day abroach
I shall doff
All inadequasies...
And love you
Invariably!
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
He’d go to the Square each afternoon
And sit on a bench, near me,
The one that stood in the shaded gloom
Of a brooding maple tree,
He’d roll his brolly and doff his hat
And scatter his bits of bread,
Then when the Keeper would tut, he’d say,
‘The Starlings have to be fed!’
He’d watch them come in a darkening cloud
And scare the sparrows away,
Then sit and listen to what had risen
At this loose end of the day.
He’d sit and nod, and he’d take it in
As if he could understand,
This Starling patter that passed as chatter
Concerning the world of man.
I never once saw him take a note
Or even record the sound,
He didn’t acknowledge the presence there
Of anyone else around,
He totally focussed on what they’d say
And **** his ear to their cries,
Then nod and smile in the strangest way
And shake his head at their lies.
Then after dark he would walk the park
And head for the studio,
That one dim lamp on the outer wall
Would show him the way to go,
And once inside you would hear him slide
On up to the microphone,
Where he’d tell his tales of success and fails
In a drawn-out monotone.
But you never felt a part of the tale
You were always shut outside,
Peering in from a ledge or bin
With a window open wide,
Then sometimes you were looking down
On the action from on high,
It could be from the bough of a tree
Or a wing in the azure sky.
He must have muttered a thousand tales
Of brooding, joy and despair,
The type of roles that would feed the souls
Of the folk who listened there.
They were light as vim, they were dark and grim
They were sown like seeds in the night,
And at the end, a beating of wings
As a bevy of birds took flight.
He entertains through the winter months
With a new tale every eve,
But stops as soon as the Spring comes in,
As the Starlings begin to leave.
They all return to their northern climes
With their tales to their Viking den,
While he will wait on the same park bench
For the winter to come again.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
wake up
I shed these skins
that are not mine
open your eyes
I doff this mask,
shake loose these subtle facets
break free
I, the marionette
all strings cut
shall here-aft
dance for no one
Judge my masks,
I am safe behind them
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
Come and feed
Opalescent mouth
Come break bread with.
My kith and kin
Seek to join.
You can doff your.
Hat and sit,
yes, they're in
The parlor.
Is the Parthenon
But my clan is borrowed
From the Coliseum.
Come and see 'em.
Ranged in chair by
Height.
To bite,
Now you can go in to
The table but only along.
One side as
Leonardo
Would suggest.
Our featured feast begins with mother's grin.
But ends with wiping father's ****** chin.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
Once upon a millenium
I scrawled in awkward letters
Straining for an undiscovered profundity
Not so different
From an upright creature
Some ages past
Who stroked upon
An empty page
With what he thought
Were poignant truths
And monumental metaphors
Like uprights love to leave
So as to titillate
Their future discoverers
While stretching unabashedly
To be a candidate
Future philosophers will doff
With certain validation
For unique truisms.....
I am recorded here
Wow, I said admiringly
To myself
In my true language
Hey, dat's sump'm
Eat ya heart out, Aris
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 6:39 AM UTC
In Neverland - never to grow old
never to marry that sweetheart
never to have children and grandchildren
nor watch hair thin and grey.
Full of derring-do - more dash than discipline
lanky and loose-limbed they swank and saunter
not like soldiers at all
no doff the cap humility
to the old rules and distant monarchies.
From a newly stolen world
hardly secured or steady with itself
lodged on the edge of a vast continent
clinging to a rim of turquoise blue.
Now cramped
in the pock-holed sores of ancient lands
richly bone-dusted from time to time.
Waiting for the fight to end
to go ‘back home’ ‘over there’
to farms and factories; schools and stations.
Still there - left behind
in the archipelago of cemeteries
as far as Fromelles, Pozieres,
to Bullencourt and Paschendaele
in fields of beetroot and corn,
fields bleeding red with poppies
beside the Menin Road at Ypres
in bluebelled woods of Verdun
in the silt of the Somme
on the plains of Flanders
in the victory graves at Amiens
Monash’s boys - the lost boys
cried for their mothers
begged for water
screamed to die
hung like khaki bundles on the wire.
Commanded by Field Marshalls
who never went to the fields,
who played the numbers game
in a war of bluff and bluster,
who never touched the dirt and slime,
nor waded through the ****** slush
of broken men and boys,
never waist-deep in mud and sinking,
wounded and drowning in that shambles of a war
Wearing dead men’s boots
and shrapnel-holed helmets
tunics and leggings splattered and rotting
with dead men’s blood and brains
Some haunted boys came home
knapsacks full of secret pictures,
old rusty tins crammed with suffering
breast pockets held their grief
wrapped in shroud-shreds.
They brought their duckboard demons
to the world of peace
Gas-choked fretful lungs still brought
the caustic fumes with every breath exhaled
and from every pore the death-sweat of decay.
But most boys were lost boys
lost forever in that no-man’s land
that Neverland of lives unlived.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
Merry Christmas and all that
Do put on your tinsel hat
Humour does not go amiss
To one and all blow a kiss.
Rules are for some - not for all
Well! this is quite a close call
Remember to doff your hat
Aye, the Queen can greet the cat.
Twinkling stars and fairytale
Flying carpets never fail
From all our eyes drop the scales
Re-mix and spare the details.
Living in a "Wonderland":
My eyes can feel grit and sand
Like floating in outerspace
With a mask across my face.
Earth has had a thorough shake
The world is due a re-make
We'll see what lands on the top
For success, failure or flop.
Dec 26, 2021
Dec 26, 2021 at 8:11 AM UTC
We'll bid her goodbye in September
Her time for leaving is our decision
We'll cast a last motion of recission
Twill be first rate blotting out this member
Her team hath been a truly awful crew
Our nation cannot bear their governance
We require a mob with better guidance
She's got all persons in a right old stew
Another three years of her we'll not stand
The polls say she is on an outbound trip
New policy directions will be grand
We'd prefer she wasn't captaining the ship
To a fresh government our hats we'll doff
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
The Seamstresses of Baltimore
had done their Country proud.
Their Flag, upon a staff of wood,
Defied The British rounds.
Fort McHenry and her men
alone stood in the way
of a squadron of the British fleet
in good King George's pay.
All through the warm September night
We saw red rockets glare.
And when the morning sun arose
our banner was still there.
The tale might have been different
One of death, despair and blood-
One shell had hit the magazine
but it proved to be a dud.
A lawyer and a poet
on a truce ship in the Bay
gave voice to the emotions
that filled his heart that day.
So when you stand and doff your cap
and sing his song I say,
let history become memory
in a simple, subtle way.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Loghain is the lyrical artists voice
He has to be the artists choice
His words are read throughout the world
Though they do make the fresh milk curdle
He only has *** with the lights turned off
And never will he his pyjamas doff
Never to his socks remove
As his lover is subjected to poetic abuse
The time then comes in his ecstasy
When Loghain shouts with vervant glee
Enough woman enough of this
It was fine for the thirty seconds that it was stiff
I now must pen about this act
My worldwide following expects more crap
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Cats make me laugh, the selfish gits,
They prowl through life, not taking ****
We humans are just staff, to them,
Our independent feline friends,
Standoffish, surly and downright rude,
Very fussy with their food,
They change their minds just like the wind,
Very often gourmet food is binned,
And then they stalk into 'their' house,
And disembowel some poor mouse,
There is one thing you must never oughta,
Try to wash your cat in soapy water,
The outraged cat will then go wild,
You will then know the devils child,
On the coldest the winter nights,
Cat approaches, purring, right?
Jumps on your lap with kneading paws,
But one false move, you'll feel their claws,
You can never ever own a cat,
They own you, now that's a fact,
Our intelligence they have surpassed,
They've worked out how to lick their ****
One thing deserves a generous pardon,
They at least crap in neighbours gardens,
I cannot help respect these beings,
I'd never wish to hurt their feelings,
And so I for one will doff my hat,
Towards our Royal highnesses , the cat.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
I'm writing too much.
I really don't brag!
I'm on a ******
Full on writer's jag!
I know I should stop
Or at least slow down,
But I'm having such fun!
Why should I frown?
I'm writing so much
I guess it's not fair,
The poems I write
Just don't go anywhere!
But I don't want the laurels
I don't want to trend,
What diff does it make
To me in the end?
There are many times
When my muse doesn't stay
She packs up her baggage
For long holidays!
So should I keep notebooks?
For these wintery ruts?
Store my poems up
Like a squirrel with nuts?
If I kept a notebook
It'd sure get right fat!
Cause, folks, you inspire!
It's as simple as that!
So here I am.
Poets, what should I do?
I certainly don't want
to alienate you!
If I stop writing
And posting them
I'll set aside notebooks
And take the cap off my pen.
I'll just keep up
The ideas seized
I won't be so eager
And wanting to please...
So here I go
My hat I do doff!
I'll be a good site friend...
... and just toddle off!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC