"drabness" poems
**Strange how the dank hand of disaster clarifies the thinking,
How all irrelevancies are scoured from the frontal lobe,
How, strangely, should you look into the morning sky, the blueness is of a brilliant, startling intensity.
How biting into a piece of fresh fruit reveals the new mouth watering, exquisiteness of clean sweet,flavour.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster allow us to consolidate our values.
Where suddenly, the drabness of yesterday becomes the brightly,beautiful now.
Where miserable mindedness adopts an abrupt re-evaluation, in that the sour faced neighbour is embraced with passion as being a fellow survivor.
Where the rich and the poor are thrown together to work willingly, cheek by jowel, for a common cause…Tomorrow!.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster brings out THE VERY BEST IN US …isn’t it ?**
Marshalg
A commonality observed In having survived many disasters over the years.
1 November 2012
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Feeling the box I work in closing in on me during winter’s last gasp,
She has dug in her heals refusing to yield to warmth.
Unmerciful and unrepentant in her bitterness,
she taunts and tortures us all.
Yet, spring birds sing of spring as a lover sings of her man.
The sun struggles to break through the dark grey,
melting away the dim cold
and drabness that surrounds all.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.
Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.
I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me ****** rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.
Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
See badness and drabness as signs of unfaltering instability,
Righteous infertility,
Oh the humility.
When the magic of the mind disappears into explanation,
We lose true art,
Art is pure and unyielding.
To howl an unending song to an unmoved matriarch,
Move the wolves to the moon, move the tides too soon,
waters ebb and swoon to their nightly doom.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
Project yourself ahead kind friend
Into a future world
Where attitude’s in-exactitudes
Will leave a realm unfurled,
Where you shall not walk freely,
Where laughter will not ring,
Where authority shall regulate
The very song you sing.
Where every living moment
Shall cloak itself in hell
And monitored controls
Will smother all of it, so well.
Where freedoms be forgotten
For a predetermined choice
And oration be forbidden
By a Leaders leaden voice.
Where people live and walk and die
With eyes downcast to ground
And God forgive the errant soul
Who deems to utter sound.
A greyness permeates it all,
A drabness in the day
And the forecast for the morrow
Determines more to come this way.
Where no highs or lows abound
No life’s ambition met
Where Initiate’s dull suppression
Means all boundaries are set.
The mantra now accepted
The trade-off reconciled,
Your dead tomorrows guaranteed
For Regulation’s Child.
Marshalg
21 September 2013
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"
I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!
Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?
*Original ('Humility') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
respite from the rain
gloomy monday morning blahs
a grayness pervades
stratus covers mountain tops
another storm is brewing
off in the distance
beyond the metro-skyline
beyond the tree line
a break opens in cloud's veil
a pulling of the curtain
in one little spot
a window of horizon
snow and ice shine through
blinding white titanium
on sparkling powdery peaks
rush hour traffic
along my morning commute
through city's drabness
an eye opening vista
of nature's magnificence
Del Maximo
(c) January 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
WRITING (Reflections from My Diary)
A writer becomes a writer not because he wants to write-
he becomes one because he WRITES and never stops writing.
It's only through the sloughs of disappointment and despair
that he finally sees the light which might take years, decades or a life-time.
Skills alone are not enough, nor grit or tenacity.
The other qualities, (indeed I regard these as being more important) he must acquire are patience and humility.
How could I ever call myself a writer? When I read the works of the masters and even those of my peers, I realise that I don't qualify to be among them. Best to regard myself as a student, an apprentice, a beginner and admirer (of all forms of art) and in this realisation I would have no choice but to write, write and write--day and night, if I wish to make any headway.
Yet, I always enjoy what I do--when I write, it's as though I live in another trajectory--I'm lost in time, beauty and wonder, and the external world, with all its drabness and tedium, seems to fade away and no longer vexes me. I become a new being, I have wings, I fly to a realm I've not known before, I am free and exultant, I sing, I dance, I marvel, I LIVE!
22nd July 2017, Melbourne copyright
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Reflections in a shimmering puddle of stagnant water depict the vulgarity of political orchestras.
I dare you to venture into the crypt, where ancient spirits enter souls with timeless agonising and lament for netherworld regions of entrapment.
Trust me, my medieval Knight of notorious reputation – we will conquer the enemy within the dungeons of Hades.
Resolution is laid bare before the echelons of a beautiful and acoustic ballad, where drabness of spirit tantalises the soul with tearful validity.
We have a level of command which is like a classical symphony, where horsemen bring pillage to those who rebel against the King.
This is an omen, my fellow patron of oblivious decorum.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Held in the pens
Of womb, little one
Squirms to see light,
Before the bars of crib
Encroach and bind one
Growing into childhood.
Then to be left off, bounded,
For chaste schools to yearn how
To keep such place whilst learning,
Never knowing that old, bracing sun
Is all around until frightful bell— calls
Recess, for these are the walled gardens
We made for ourselves, the coldest brick
And mortar chambers we place as lambs
Are encased, when finally we are pushed
Into the dark, the drabness, of the drowning
Work a daze whirled, the open prison of our lives.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
.
Held in the pens
Of womb, little one
Squirms to see light,
Before the bars of crib
Encroach and bind one
Growing into childhood.
Then to be left off, bounded,
For chaste schools to yearn how
To keep such place whilst learning,
Never knowing that old, bracing sun
Is all around until frightful bell— calls
Recess, for these are the walled gardens
We made for ourselves, the coldest brick
And mortar chambers we place as lambs
Are encased, when finally we are pushed
Into the dark, the drabness, of the drowning
Work a daze whirled, the open prison of our lives.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
God’s way is hard
Sheila’s big sister said
but that is what
I want to do
and be a nun
Sheila tied her school tie
and let her sister yak
in the background
to her thoughts of John
and pretended he
had been there
in her bedroom
as she had dressed
(not watching her sister)
his hazel eyes
scanning her she imagined
especially after
her strip wash
not sure which convent yet
the sister went on
but one strict
and far from human
touch or noise
Sheila stood in front
of the dressing table mirror
and gazed at herself
pushing her sister’s words
from her as best she could
but if John
had been scanning her
she knew she’d have blushed
and hid her naked self
with a towel or dressing gown
despite one part of herself
thinking it
and boys
the sister said
have to be watched
they are usually after
the one thing
Sheila damped a finger
with her tongue
and slid across an eyebrow
thing?
she said
what do you mean
one thing?
o never you mind
that now little sister
just trust to God
and put boys aside
the sister brushed her hair
and set herself
up primly
with the grey dress
thing though
Sheila said
what thing?
ask Mum she’ll say
I expect
the sister said dully
and went out the room
like some drabness on legs
Sheila sighed
and gazed at herself
in the mirror again
adjusted her glasses
on her nose
and thought on John
being at school
and thought unkindly
her sister the fool.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
You taste the lips of a hundred fragmented men.
Boasting that your divine secularity exalts you a writer of better poetry.
The cries of 12 men are more artistic than the drabness of one.
You forgot to peek in to the kaleidoscope of every angle.
A ravaging between your thighs signals the only sense you have awakened.
It’s bellow so great it drowns out the miraculousness of every other sensation. Stuffing love’s nomothetic void with the resound of the broken cultured man.
Your prowess is not poetry, but the neglect of it.
Your myriad of lovers elicit the lack thereof.
Are you a tormented poet or is this simply a masquerade of whorery?
You drape the silk sheen around your shoulders and dial up the only poetry you have ever come to know.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
Spring semester has started.
We’re all immersed in the ritual of change
and totally committed to that descent into madness
to the relentless drabness, the flatness, the blandness
for the hours, days and weeks of study
and a bone-deep fatigue that’s actually funny
We’ll live at the edge of intensity
near the the corner of drudging
and gather around the printer
at the media center
like a secular rite of passage
I think I need a daily grind—to keep my mind busy.
What’s wrong with me, that when I’m on vacation, I miss it?
What if work/study is one of my bone-marrow-deep love languages?
.
.
Songs for this:
Happy Dreamer by Laid Back
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
(You're Better) Than Ever by illuminati hotties
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 6:32 AM UTC
on this very day
there is a wet weather drabness
on this very day
we do see clouds of rain's display
the air infused in dampness
that feels like a sodden dankness
on this very day
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:27 AM UTC
Never Look Back
It was the poverty of vision that got to me, the drabness of moving
from one home to another. I wanted sunlight, not the dim light that shines from a basement's kitchen window.
Fled, sought other shores.
I was not able to escape the ghost of the past; letters went unanswered.
The uncle of many children and a father of no one
I should have stayed fought my corner from the base of the beginning.
It is a sunny day where I live, up North snow falls, I feel a deep sadness
of the coward, yet have no regrets
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Let yourself embrace the fact you will die one day.
There are only two options.
You become nothing,
or you become more than everything.
Afterlife is possible,
but so is emptyness.
So why choose the gloom and drabness
of empty space?
Unless...
Unless you can fill that empty space with ideas, thoughts, impossibly wonderful things. Then shouldn't you pick something where you are who you remember yourself to be?
I forgot something though.
If our memories define us,
and our thoughts make us..
Are we the ones who can destroy ourselves?
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Are we denying the dying all about us, because we have all but decided to forego contemplations in lieu of more open doors? It's an entire community of individuals and collective mindsets that leap off bridges when it's dark and wet, alone while lonely. I see the darkness in my friends' eyes each time they look into mine, a reflection. Pain makes us remember, it's an indelible instruction on the soul. Forged in blood and tears is a lectern, beaming bright, a beacon. They gather, the lone and lost, souls. Ripped and torn. They look to me for comfort, for solace, finding none they turn their backs and weep, forever rejected and alone. It's still not my fault. I write with all honesty tonight. Pain is a choice, a path the mind consciously takes in response to provocations and stimuli. So, we're troubled, we're neglected and we symbolise our Oedipus Complex which, misinterpreted as other things remains hidden in deeds (endeavours). I'm beginning to regret ever writing this. They make me conform, I'm scared to death and I haven't been doing this for long. Give me some space.
Tears offer good cover. Negligence. Meaningful words, intent. Culpability, homicide and molestation. The difference is in the paper. Someone obviously wanted it that way. I pour my heart out. They deem me insane, weak. I create, they feel me trying to connect, to love. It's not enough. They leave me to die. I'm courageous, I'm envious. Don't encourage me. Embalm me, fluid. We're in drabness, we're playing with it and we're busy existing. You know me, you know her but do you know him? No. Call me in the morning, earliest. I have something to tell you. Sitting in faintness, crimson tides. Draw the curtains, tear off the blinds, see. Lines. The lighting was perfect, she sat and drew. Highlighting my imperfections and anatomy, I was smiling. She had to know me and they would see it. They had to see me and she grew to know me. Her body was a work of art. A grandly majestic one at that. Effeminate features broke loose all over my face and I tried to conceal my gracious side. I was caught. Unaware. Tonight we dine. This night I go to bed with you. Unashamed.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC