"dotes" poems
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Makeyour best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
6k
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.
We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.
We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
1417
How Human Nature dotes
On what it can’t detect.
The moment that a Plot is plumbed
Prospective is extinct—
Prospective is the friend
Reserved for us to know
When Constancy is clarified
Of Curiosity—
Of subjects that resist
Redoubtablest is this
Where go we—
Go we anywhere
Creation after this?
3.2k
I get sick of cliches, I get sick of the tropes
I get sick of affected twits and how love had them on the ropes
If I let myself breathe the same air as everyone else I'm gonna choke
I can't help but breathe her in and feel I've gone beyond the scope
Of my, simple visions of destroyed inhibitions
and I, can't help but get nervous how she changes up my focus
Can I, convey this handedly while knowing understandably
That I'm leaning on a danger to a core that I've exposed
We've leaned down for contact, she pushed me I push back
The pressure on our hearts has potential for explosion
The languish I had locked inside interior erosion
Implodes, he dotes of notes he'd wrote to quote a query quietly
Distrusting of emotions, just a quiver can inspire me
Fearing no enemy, fearing no evil entity
Fearing only connection and if I'm wasting my energy
Love brought me happiness but it stirred up the cobwebs
Little demons laying dormant til I explored them in every form
in every figure in every norm til they've distorted my performance
But as pandora's box was 1st class special ordered to my doorstep
I dove in straight for signs of hope, a passing look could soon afford this.
She voices her fears, connections lost by the distance
I'll bridge the gap to defend her, no need she says with persistence
She's scared of monotony, she gets scared of the tropes
She gets sick of affected twits and how they leave her with no hope
If she's forced to breathe the same as before she's gonna choke
I leaned in for contact, I push her, she pushed back
We're two shades of the same Wavelength
Our angles just refract.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
When I behold a forest spread
With silken trees upon thy head,
And when I see that other dress
Of flowers set in comeliness;
When I behold another grace
In the ascent of curious lace,
Which like a pinnacle doth show
The top, and the top-gallant too.
Then, when I see thy tresses bound
Into an oval, square, or round,
And knit in knots far more than I
Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie;
Next, when those lawny films I see
Play with a wild civility,
And all those airy silks to flow,
Alluring me, and tempting so;
I must confess, mine eye and heart
Dotes less on Nature than on Art.
1.6k
Interactive poetry: This poem to be read in a stereo-typical Tennessean female drawl
Why Elvis, let me tell you Elvis just loves Cadillac automobiles
And Elvis he is passionate for his sixguns
Why Elvis is simply devoted to his Mama
And don't you know Elvis he idolizes The Colonel
Now Elvis is wild about Harley- Davidson motorcycles
Truth is Elvis worships his fans
Oh Elvis he's quite mad for The Beatles, all four of them!
And naturally Elvis adores animals
I can't begin to tell you how much Elvis dotes over Lisa-Marie
and Elvis just adores animals...Oh heavens to Betsy didn't I just say that already
Oh my oh my Elvis is a peacock for fancy stage wear
Elvis Aaron Presley praises The good Lord Jesus
Oh The President, Elvis truly admires The President
And Elvis reveres The Stars and Stripes
Oh did I mention Elvis is crazy for cheeseburgers
Why Elvis he just loves drugs
Why Elvis just...
Why... Oh Elvis why?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
My girl has this boyfriend,
I simply just don't trust;
When she brings him by the house
He dotes and makes a fuss,
Schmoozing me relentlessly,
Something's in the works,
Just teetering on the cusp.
I've got my keen eyes sharpened,
He isn't fooling me,
I've known the likes of him before,
When I was young and free.
But that was someone else's daughter,
No relationship to me.
Yes, she was someone else's dauaghter,
And I was young and free.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
After the well-know,
charismatic,
extremely photogenic,
wonderfully articulate,
jeweller-turned-gardener,
your mother dotes on,
this cat is named.
He is none of the above
I should say
but I like him.
He reminds me of my late cat
Poppy, a more gauche pusscat
you’d be hard to find.
Poppy was a farm cat
of uncertain progeny.
Monty is certainly better bred
but (as we say in West Yorkshire)
‘daft as a brush’.
And now for the T.S.Eliot bit . . .
**(in the style of
Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats)**
Curled up upon the green chair
With his head against his paws
You can see his body breathing
Up and down
He’s been busy all day long
Doing absolutely nothing
Save a bit of this a bit of that
And washing clean his paws.
Life’s so hard
For such a busy cat,
When you’re asleep in bed
He’s about and out
Networking the side streets
Monty likes to know the scene.
These cats could teach us all
A thing or two.
In the morning he may be dozy
But you should see him after dark
Sharp and bright and really
On his toes.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
I have learnt for myself;
that no one really likes another
without something in it for themselves
This was not told to me
For a price, it was not obtained for free
The true intention of man is not as it seems
From a place of vantage, I stood to see
It seems reserved only for that person that
reflects what they dream of
or portrays their expectations thereof
Sometimes for the sake of true gratitude
or plainly for an outward show of servitude
Sometimes it is for your good books,
your good looks,
or how good your life looks
Who really likes a man that is obscure?
Who dotes on that woman with ugly manicure?
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC
Dear Child,
I hold so frail in my arms,
I look down and wish to protect you from all that harms,
But I know as the years grow more,
It will be harder on your choices to implore,
Your first few years will be a pleasant walk,
Where I teach and you don’t talk,
But as years go by,
A mother can only wonder what’s ahead will lie,
Soon it will be that “I don’t understand you”,
Even though I was a teenager too,
It’ll be that I am uncool,
You avoid me in public, especially at your school,
You will refuse my tender love,
I’ll be told “mom seriously that’s enough.”
We’ll disagree about boys,
Because you love him,
And I have no choice,
I’ll warn of things,
And you’ll just say “Whatever.”
As with every year my heart stings,
Because you think you’re more clever,
Dear child so small so frail,
Trust your mother and the boats she has set sail,
Trust your mother, whom upon you dotes,
She’s your mother, who to you her life devotes,
As time flies by,
So short as momentary as a sigh,
I watch her learn, I watch her grow,
As all who walk by in her soul do sow,
Will I ever be able to always protect my child?
Keep her sweet, young and undefiled,
I know her passion not mild,
Her streaks like mine is so to live wild,
But a good heart in her I did implore,
This young girl a mother does so adore,
A mother only wishes she could be there every step of the way,
And help a daughter understand,
She knows the exact games life tends to play.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:05 AM UTC
From dawn until dusk
To the sweat, dripping musk;
From attacks of musth
To that One Golden month.
Rising solid in the dawn--
As the bronzed Ego of Purpose--
Mustering self-esteem's brawn
Cools my trademark Nervose Verbose
But do appointments, notes,
Lectures, hecklers, and Beckers,
Distract the mind that dotes?
The Heart Desperate for Nectar?
Hah! such defensive thoughts....
Fallacies of Neuroses.
Just polishing my doubts,
Vainly "pleasing" my unease.
Monday's mundanity
Fails my lie of character--
Left with Insanity
Railing lines under pressure
And then, faces--balance blurs
Into downed neurons
Where not nobody cares to
"Think about the children!"
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Economic dangers of home pushed us away
Ripples in time keep us at bay
We live in the new world now
Fighting the bitter cold lovingly
Ripples in time keep us at bay
We miss our homes but here we shall stay
Fighting the bitter cold lovingly
Nostalgia dotes upon our commodities
We miss our homes but here we shall stay
We live in the new world now
Nostalgia dotes upon our commodities
Economic dangers of home pushed us away
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
The distances between
You and I,
my love,
are essential.
And I am truly sorry,
for all the days,
when I never told you,
how much I love you.
How much I love,
the way you hair falls on your face.
The way the sun plays with your eyes.
The way your lips
curl into that smile,
when you say my name.
And this very distance,
makes us love each other,
so much more.
The rush of anticipation,
of meeting each other,
someday,
somehow,
fuels our fire.
Makes us live,
and give meaning to the word
the universe calls
“Hope”
I admire your beauty,
just like the world
dotes on the beauty
of the moon.
See that, my darling?
The distance ,
is the
Beauty.
People may call me a poet.
But I just merely
observe,
what the universe has written;
You.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
Amidst fire, flies cosmic sparks
A sight at which my spirit harks
Through fire cosmic power sung
Articulated on scintillating tongue
The guardian of the divine flame
Who awakens spirits, sleeping, lame
With molten lance, searing spirit
A snake through spine, feeling vivid
The ghostly self is slain
Amidst molten skies, go thunder bolts
On their sound my spirit dotes
The thunderous applause of lightning
Has potency is such it's frightening
A bolt of melody struck my head
When all the sorry world dropped dead
Awakening the tune inside
The salve to my spirit supplied
After it had bled
One ruby Sun my gorgeous idol
Nourishing the flowers bridal
Feeding flowers, tending seed
Giving care in hour of need
Giver of life, I honour you
You are a sacred spirit true
The most majestic of all fires
Worthy to be sung on lyres
For your touch I grew
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Dear Child,
I hold so frail in my arms,
I look down and wish to protect you from all that harms,
But I know as the years grow more,
It will be harder on your choices to implore,
Your first few years will be a pleasant walk,
Where I teach and you don’t talk,
But as years go by,
A mother can only wonder what’s ahead will lie,
Soon it will be that “I don’t understand you”,
Even though I was a teenager too,
It’ll be that I am uncool,
You avoid me in public, especially at your school,
You will refuse my tender love,
I’ll be told “mom seriously that’s enough.”
We’ll disagree about boys,
Because you love him,
And I have no choice,
I’ll warn of things,
And you’ll just say “Whatever.”
As with every year my heart stings,
Because you think you’re more clever,
Dear child so small so frail,
Trust your mother and the boats she has set sail,
Trust your mother, whom upon you dotes,
She’s your mother, who to you her life devotes,
As time flies by,
So short as momentary as a sigh,
I watch her learn, I watch her grow,
As all who walk by in her soul do sow,
Will I ever be able to always protect my child?
Keep her sweet, young and undefiled,
I know her passion not mild,
Her streaks like mine is so to live wild,
But a good heart in her I did implore,
This young girl a mother does so adore,
A mother only wishes she could be there every step of the way,
And help a daughter understand,
She knows the exact games life tends to play.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 6:17 AM UTC
Lying in the mothers lap
After a fun day
Sleep like a lullaby
Soothes the little infant
Fatigued, tanned bodies
Lie on the pavement
Sleep gives solace to them
Magical, sweet sleep
Sleep tender sleep
You ease the pain
Calm the nerves
And appease tired souls
Like a loving mother
Who dotes all her kids
You bring tranquil peace
To thief, saint, beggar and king
Sleep take me on a dream
To a world without walls
Where there is only joy and peace
And one does not belittle another
©copyright skm
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
With a mouth that only breathe lies
And hypocritical eyes that sees
But chooses to be blind
She possesses the grace of a painter
Manipulating the world in grey
But dotes on herself with impressive colours
let my words be the picture embracing her features
Beautifully deceptive; a charming woman; two faced sister; a sheep as a wife; a daughter that disappoints and a failure as a mother.
Nonetheless she is weakened
Sold so much of her strengths
To the wrong buyers and a price that does her no justice
An art she never fails to meliorate,
I'd gladly name
'A befitting Fault'
Foolish as she is loving
My Darling painter,
You're almost, just as bad as the man you married.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
The quiet echoes,
The end of the valley the faint…
“Hear me”.
Voice hindered bequeathed by love.
Squable, gamble, cower.
I hear the whispers.
Loving dotes, another year.
Yet I find myself,
Troubled.
My love,
The moons phases, time itself ceaseless.
Your gaze ever so timeless.
Your embrace ever so stillness.
The winter comes and the wolves embrace.
Hounds howl, and the battle endures until heavenly gates.
Jul 21, 2024
Jul 21, 2024 at 9:17 AM UTC
THE SUPREME SURREALIST
****** has had
too much.
He has passed
his Art Diploma.
He is very drunk
and happy.
His paintings sell
quite well.
He meets a nice
Jewish girl
gets her in
the family way
does the right thing
by her.
He has 7 children
over seven years.
Dotes on his two
sets of twins.
He is happy.
Changed his style
the one Surrealist everybody
knows
he is interested in History.
Devours books.
The Second World War
doesn't happen.
It's an "...a what if. . ."
People thought it was
all going to blow up back then.
How the history books
got it wrong.
"How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be.."
A ****** now will sell
for quite a bit
at the time of his death
oh...a million or more.
He and Dali
the two most recognisable
moustaches
in the world.
He is a big
Alan Ginsberg fan.
****** dead in '68
there isn't a dry eye in the house
It is the day of Atonement.
His son says
Kaddish.
"No more to say and nothing to weep for!"
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
Donald Trump boasts about
A landslide victory in the recent election.
Trump and reality seem to be
Experiencing a disconnection.
Roughly 80,000 votes
Out of millions and millions cast
Determined the winner in the race,
And yet Trump keeps holding fast
To strange and absurd delusions of grandeur
And to a fancy on which he dotes
Regarding his "triumph" over Clinton
And the total number of winning votes.
Even though she received MORE
Than two point five million votes than he,
Eighty thousand in THREE swing states
Won him the presidency.
Eighty thousand. I repeat:
Eighty thousand. That's the size
Of a small Californian town.
That's all it took to win the prize.
As usual, Trump loves to ride
The glory train of Bombast and Bluster,
Refusing to acknowledge that
His victory is really lackluster.
- by Bob B (12-13-16)
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC