"esquire" poems
Bits and bytes over the wire
Kindled the LDR love so far
Poetic verses heart inspire
First meeting feelings unbar
Mind and heart inquire
Intellect wins emotions ajar
She said ain't gonna work esquire
This LDR love flees bare
Then came her note
Hard to let go, you still mine?
May be it ain't over yet
Give it some more time
Listen to hearts plea
Let it be free
Today it's only seven,
Twenty five may beckon
Eighteen days to next date
LDR love will update
Not for good bye
But for two hearts to fly
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,--
''Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
'On that little heap of stones
'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
III
'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
'Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
'Will you come and be my wife?'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'I am tired of living singly,--
'On this coast so wild and shingly,--
'I'm a-weary of my life:
'If you'll come and be my wife,
'Quite serene would be my life!'--
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IV
'On this Coast of Coromandel,
'Shrimps and watercresses grow,
'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'You shall have my chairs and candle,
'And my jug without a handle!--
'Gaze upon the rolling deep
('Fish is plentiful and cheap)
'As the sea, my love is deep!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
'Your proposal comes too late,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'I would be your wife most gladly!'
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
'But in England I've a mate!
'Yes! you've asked me far too late,
'For in England I've a mate,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VI
'Mr. Jones--(his name is Handel,--
'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
'Dorking fowls delights to send,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
'And your jug without a handle,--
'I can merely be your friend!
'--Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
'I will give you three, my friend!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VII
'Though you've such a tiny body,
'And your head so large doth grow,--
'Though your hat may blow away,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy--
'Yet a wish that I could modi-
'fy the words I needs must say!
'Will you please to go away?
'That is all I have to say--
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'.
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle,--
'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me
'On your back beyond the sea,
'Turtle, you shall carry me!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IX
Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
With a sad primaeval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell,
'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!'
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel,
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little hep of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
4.2k
When on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave -
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.
I answer "If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He'd bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out)."
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He's got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!
For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I've found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!
The girls (just like them!) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry "He is so sleek and slim,
It's quite a treat to look at him!"
They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids -
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades -
"Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!"
(I told you he would find me out!)
"My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!"
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's YOURS, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here -
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach!" -
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
2.1k
the forestry rocking,
the love of esquire beats down,
I take to surest heights.
Of that I have confound.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain
That shapes each bushy item of the air
Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.
Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs,
Nor hammer back a season in the figs,
But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country;
Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues,
By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow,
In your young years the vegetable century.
And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre,
Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker,
But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet;
Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir,
High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud,
And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.
Roll unmanly over this turning tuft,
O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift
From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile;
Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift
Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds
Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.
Who gave these seas their colour in a shape,
Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven's ark
In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles;
O who is glory in the shapeless maps,
Now make the world of me as I have made
A merry manshape of your walking circle.
1.7k
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Food for thought
My wife’s voice projected as I came through the door. “You’re just in time for dinner.” The last few weeks I’ve been at the gym hoping to regain the luster I once had when being viewed through her beautiful green eyes. I noticed an envelope on the counter from Esquire magazine. I wondered if it was a Winners Notice or a big “Thanks for the effort but maybe next time,” type of deals. Guess it’s time to find out.
-Alexis J. Meighan-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
Through the
Hills of Spain,
Pink and white
Cortez flowers
Adorning the
Enchanted blue windmills
Underneath this gray December sky
Are Don Quixote and his esquire
Poncho, riding through the Spanish flames
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
a jack of all trades
hard for me to focus
to choose just one
my body is mashed
here i am
a master of none
movements of chicken broth...
as fresh mac and cheese
noodles attached
by my knowledge and memories
but nothing so oven strong
not baked today
a jack of all trades.
if serious a talent.
if forgotten...
talent turns you aside and whispers to you
just one more time
do you make a decision do you choose?
master of one or master of none
a jack of all trades
getting quite weary
linked to motivation
the esquire in me
knighthood approaches
It's the master within thy
a jack of all trades but the focus in none
master a few or master of some
starting now or never again
master just one
a single mad hatter
to crack just one
time keeps ticking and it'll all fold down
jack of all trades
master of all
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 12:55 AM UTC
Today I got a message
from a friend in poetry
if you get a request to be my friend
i'll tell you it's not me
there's another person out there
who's playing at a game
he's gone and made a copy
of me with the same name
i thought on this a while
our Johnni's not alone
there's a version of him out there
Our Johnni has a clone
Of all the people out there
why did he chose to be
Johnni Stanton esquire
why did he not choose me?
Imagine now...two Johnni's
riding scooters down the street
Giving Johnni Stanton scowls
To everyone they meet
Johnni earned his reputation
Through all the things that he has done
And if you ask me my opinion
I think there's room for only one
So, I'll keep checking for that someone
Who will ask a friend like ne
And will report that cloned imposter
To the powers there that be
There only is one Johnni
There's no room for any more
He's our impassioned, mad curmudgeon
All the way through to his core.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Ours is to provoke thought , stir lively conversation , relay life experiences on every occasion , brushed with a tad of fantasy tinted on the mortarboard of creativity and brilliant imagination ...
Quiet walks through country lanes that come to creation before the storytellers keen eye .. Cicada filled trees , blackberry thickets , strawberry dreams and Esquire rabbits ,
June Bugs on shoulders edge telling tall tales , Sir Bullfrog in character at the wishing well !
Relaying truths to conjure hope in the layperson , with austere poetic compilation , guidelines and hardened steel reserve commitment to excellence before my peers !
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Entranced and hypnotized.
Mesmerized & advertised.
Under your spell.
A face you can sell.
But don't want to share.
A covergirl, a diva that's divine & out of her mind. Someone you can never find.
Blazin.
Crazen.
Unphasen.
Desired & admired.
Always tired.
Never fired.
Easily hired.
That's who I'll be.
Bringing society to its knees.
Don't need to say thanks or please.
A career I can steer.
I can see there's no need for beer.
Don't have to be queer.
Cosmo, Vogue, Lifestyles, People & Esquire.
I can't build my own empire.
The sky's the limit.
Strange and bewildered.
Ignored and neglected.
Friendless.
Populated with enemies.
I've lost the battle but I will win the war.
My dreams will soar.
Stars of Destiny.
Fantasy the mystery.
A faith of darkness.
A colorful sunset.
Rainbows and rain clouds.
Doubtful whether.
Predictive mazes.
Webs of deceit.
Strangers you'll meet.
A broken hearts defeat.
Joyful salvation.
Towering castles abroad.
A pond of nightmares.
A waterfall of cares.
A net of insults.
A flock of enemies.
An army of glory.
An endless story.
A poem of hatred.
A secret kiss.
A whirlwind of confusion.
A rainbow fusion.
A pretty dessert.
A mirrored jeopardy.
A double destiny.
A blind future.
A deaf past.
A mute desire.
A broken will.
An evaporated heart.
A broken mind.
An evolved solution.
A shattered pollution.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Forever wisps through eternal black the earth spin topped on yonder starlight, esquire to ballet, exquisite and on time she play in the fragile orbital dance of day, must you bringeth night, I say?
But spin you must and must you spin,a day, then nighttime for the win... You cannot stop the dance of giants politely perched a breast yon star,
You ask they speak, but in a tone to low to hear, but if you be so lucky to lay ear upon the vibrant voices of our home, the voices they will tell, you needn't goeth it alone...
I sweep your feet with every step lay stepped, I soak your tear with every tear thy wept, I kiss your cheek with every wind that swept, I feed your feast with every beast you've kept...
But most of all, when you perish and fall, my breast open widest for l eternally sleep with all..
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
This guy this dude! Making it look hard and impossible. Doubled over and bent in shapes unimaginable were the roots of exposed pixies. Candace walked by and grabbed the bucket that swung above the Walmart wall clock.
All of this happening during the eclipse of evil. Manifestations of the cosmic peanut are now common to the average eye. On the Daily. Eventually coming forth to end all of this is Mr.Brock Sawyers Esquire. He leaned in and imprinted his legacy within the conversation
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC
He’d never read him, understand,
At least not that he’d remembered;
Might have half-skimmed something in Look or Esquire,
But he certainly wasn’t much for novels,
And there were kids to raise to rise, a war to fight
(His platoon had been pinned down at Anzio,
Leaving him precious little time for dispatches from the front,
Save for a singular postcard
He’d bought in Netunno on a rainy April afternoon,
On which he’d scratched Babe, I’m still alive and kickin’,
Worth ten thousand words
To a harried, frightened seventeen-year-old,
With one in the cradle and one on the way),
But then all that was later on, or earlier
Depending on where you stood,
Time being a lazy, molasses-unhurried thing to him now,
Like the leisurely old Owasco Inlet which ran through town,
Seeming to go in no direction in particular,
Running north or south as it deemed fit at the moment.
Once, he’d worked at the typewriter plant on Spring Street,
Fashioning hammers and slugs for Standards and Silents
And, later on, the electric Coronets and Model 250s
Until he packed it in with forty-five years under his belt,
Though all that pretty much the stuff of memory as well:
The factory gone a couple years now,
Rubble carted away, leaving an angry brown patch of land,
The last generation who’d worked the plant
Having up and left, by and large,
In most cases taking his generation with it as well
(Factories tending to be family affairs,
So many of his contemporaries unwilling to be so distant
From children and grandchildren,
Such notions being unknown in company towns)
Leaving the place a touch foreign,
A bit alien to folks who stayed on,
Men without a country as it were, doing their level best
To navigate waters without landmarks, without buoys,
Trying to reach harbors of questionable refuge.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
I am SICK of this ****
The figments of everyone's imagination yet I am the only one in reality.
I get it, you want to live in a big house, have big cars, big things
But yet you are the same person that tells me my dreams of college are not realistic?
I can dream, right?
As long as I live in reality, act in reality, and be apart of reality.
Tell me again how you are going to make it big and that you will have money and girls.
There is a problem in today's society, and this is the mix up of imagination and reality.
Of course, look at that "Esquire" again.
Tell me that girl is the "perfect" image of a girl
One that you can see the ribs of the pain of anorexia, the hips of bulimia, and the fake smile of a man who once abused her.
Look at the "Man of The Year" award.
One that tells boys that you must be the most athletic and have the new. That a teardrop is nothing but a way of saying you are weak. Brittle bones that speak of not standing up for yourself.
I am SICK of this **** I am Done.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
your
majesty
i
place
my
heart
on a platter
to
service
the
royal queen of hearts
who
sits upon
the
golden throne
who wears
the
crown jewels of Knottingham
who
dons the purple robe of royalty
indeed
i
am
your humble and obedient servant
James Esquire Isosceles
always available
at your
expeditious service
if it pleases you
and
the
royal guards
may
i
kiss your magnificent royal hands
before
i
depart your wonderful presence
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:23 AM UTC