"fancier" poems
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
6.9k
It was a hand me down,
An old Chevy that grandpa didn't need,
It was just a little truck,
But it would do,
Blue and silver, with rust sprouting up here and there,
A creaky tailgate,
No ac, but a sunroof,
Comfy seats that held you like a race car,
The smell of dust wafting from the vents
It had a little engine that needed work,
It had old tires that needed to be replaced,
A layer of dust that needed to be washed off.
But I didn't care,
It was my first truck!
New engine,
New tires,
A deluxe wash at the co-op,
And a black ice air freshener,
This truck was born again.
Spinning tires and dust flying,
Rolling down the streets and tearing up the gravel roads,
This truck purred like a kitten.
I didn't care if people had bigger trucks,
Newer trucks,
Fancier trucks,
This was my first truck
And I loved it!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
You know, I never met a Frank I really hated too much,
except for when I was little and I despised
my ******* grandfather for threatening to
nail my ears to a door every forty minutes.
Having said that, there's a hole somewhere where
people vacation from life and I haven't found it,
but the closest I can get is bed.
I woke up with half my *** still asleep.
I hurt somewhere new every day.
But hey, it can't all be **** coffee and half wilted daisies, eh?
I got my copy of "Eaten by Machines; Collected Poems of Austin Heath."
Look at that.
My word in print.
I'm not making a **** cent off of it,
but there it is. I'll call myself a writer now.
At least out in the open.
Among people.
Sigh.
What if further on down the century,
people decide these years were the first
seeds pushed into the dirt that would
start the apocalypse?
Or, what if we are already the post-apocalypse?
This place smells funny.
What if the past heard about the future,
learned about all the wealth and resources we had
at our disposal, and instead built fancier weapons
for the war machine?
Would they even hesitate to call us monsters,
and declare the future the end?
What the **** do you think we're looking down?
We're all going to go insane,
and **** each other in our sleep,
and we'll sleep rarely because we
realize that it is one big
unprofitable blind spot.
We'll die half-narcoleptic, insomniac, lucid dreaming lunatics,
with manic paranoia and no conscience for violence.
In our sleep.
Sleep.
I can't quite remember why I left bed,
I guess I needed more sunshine in my diet.
My phone is off, it's past noon, and I haven't eaten.
Frank is disappointed.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
They are so much cunning and cruel
Yet they possess, intelligence and smartness
Yes, they are filled with over confidence
They are absolutely shameless too
Don’t you feel my dear?
They don't have any sort of fear
They are beating us, hitting us
And we are helplessly watching them
They are neither allowing us to weep
Not they are letting us to cry loud
They are snatching our source of livelihood
They are looting our meagre savings too
They are boring bigger holes in our pockets
By their powerful invisible technological drills
Selling all sorts of stuff they use to produce
Drugs, sanitizers, hand washes and what not
They are asking to keep our ugly mouth fully shut
By putting beautiful, colourful and fancier masks
They are not letting us to meet our friends
They are not letting us to share our meals
They are not allowing us to share our views
They are not allowing us to share our thoughts
With any of our friend, relatives and fellow citizens
They are just telling us to follow whatever they say
They are throwing ******* and garbage on us
In the name of science, health and hygiene
There appears to be not much science
In their so call science and modern science
Shamelessly they proclaim to be our saviours
Saving us from the army of an invisible enemy
Although existence of any such army is doubtful
But their intentions are doubtful and doubtful
If any such invisible army of enemy really exists?
It may have been raised and owned by them only
To **** the lives of all the other fellow humans on earth
And to fulfil their greed and lust for power and money
They are planning to inject in our bodies
Some drugs, chemical or any such thing
They will even charge money for that
And try to fill their everlasting greed
I wonder, who they are?
God, Demi Gods or the Devils
Or they are just a band of inhuman
Resembling a band of nasty humans
Do they really have some superpower?
Or they are just a bunch of ugly parasites?
Trying to draw everything from our lives
Just to feed himself and to recreate his own life
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 6:41 AM UTC
They never had a guardian
no one from birth
they have no one to guide them
to teach them the right things
they don't have a shadow
over them
to protect them from evil
to protect them from the world
they are thrown in these buildings
to rot
to die
to suffer
with people ,unknown
they are treated like servants
taught to be servants
of the rich
if
they free them from that place
and imprison them
in fancier buildings
but still
treat them like servants
they live harsh lives
those who are weak
**** themselves
and those who have no choice
live with the pain inside them
until they can't
they are orphans
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Writing in colors
Practicing the wrong art
Illusions that discover, set me apart
Feeling too washed up, at such a young age
Could I say something real? **** turning the page.
Writing in Fonts
So that I may distract.
Its like smoke and mirrors, you’ll miss what I lack
The fancier this seems, the more elaborate the scheme,
You’ll think you saw talent, I’ll just blind you with bling.
Writing in sizes,
Milking the diversions
Fancy rhyming, bold assertions
Witty one liners, and maybe a clever rhyme
Will I ever give up this job? Oh, maybe in time.
-Taylor
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
*The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints.
We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time;
We have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added years to life, not life to years.
We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.
We've conquered outer space, but not inner space.
We've done larger things, but not better things.
We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul.
We've split the atom, but not our prejudice.
We write more, but learn less.
We plan more, but accomplish less.
We've learned to rush, but not to wait.
We build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men, and short character; steep profits, and shallow relationships.
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but broken homes. *
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
1. You can't finish Spring cleaning
because every old thing becomes
Inspiration for a poem.
2. Instead of planting that garden you
Promised yourself, you write about
Your metaphorical one.
3. Because you're a romantic poet,
You ruined your flowers by plucking
Each petal in a She loves me, she loves me
Not tirade.
4. Every stupid bird is a new poem.
5. April rains bring about the
Melancholic poem inside you,
And you love it!
6. Instead of playing with your
Kids outside, you write about
It instead.
7. Even though you are allergic
To everything, you take that stroll
In the park you write about
So often.
8. Spring's promise is really just like
The New Year's poem you wrote,
New beginnings and all.
9. While digging through your Spring
Cleaning, you find your old poems
And decide to post them on
Hello poetry.
10. The garage is a mess, nothing
Is getting done, but in the poem you just wrote
Is about the hard work it was.
11. You learn the name of
new birds and flowers to make
Your poem fancier.
12. And finally,
You really don't like Spring,
But its a season, and we're poets,
So yeah.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Times New Roman reminds me of a time when I knew that romance was not dead because I got to hold it in my hand
The curve of the characters reminds me of the uneven curve of your cupids bow
The claustrophobic clustering of vowels reminds me of the cringe worthy cling of your foggy glass frames stuck to mine, failing sight feeding failed intimacy
The simplicity of each symbol reminds me of the systematic sufficiency with which you seduced me in so few words,
the straightforward soliloquy with which you struck me and bereft me of my sanity.
The length of each letter reminds me of the longevity of our last embrace
Lanky limbs looped laterally to the length of my body for literal milliseconds
The overuse in overdue essays typed in early hours of the morning reminds me of the overuse of three words and the emptiness and lack of effort behind them,
Submitting those three words for a good grade and a pat on the back, coming up short because professor and princess alike saw through the inability to do
With meaning,
That your words had no feeling.
The fact that though I've faced fancier fonts and fell for them fanatically, I always return to the first, reminds me that though a fair few have found more than friendship in my fragile forearms that the first is the forever
and if at times the former
then always the future
the finest font I've ever found is you
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Bodies moving in the glass
But, alas, the snow falls
Outside the globe
Who knows?
While inside
This side, like flowing tide
Points and pirouettes
Reflect in shapes like snowflakes
More unique
A picturesque finesse
But bleaker in the light
Than under glow of moon
Because they know
The show
Lacks something from
The airport shelf
Becoming
Something greater than the self
Silent ballerinas dance
Underwater glitter
Fancier than windows taller than the sky
And why
Can't they appear
And here
We disappear
In light among shadows
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
I Didint mean to do it!
What Have I done!
Ive corrupted people with my creation
I cant belive what ive done!
Its just some cardbord
A pipe cleaner and Half a paper towel roll!
Its not what its made out of its something more!
They all seem to be ****** into What ever this is
With boxes and bags and streamers they did.
Making them prettier and fancier with every chance they get
They tape anything they can
To trees
to friend drama
Just reporting it all!
Just watching cause happen
And making the call
They surround all the bully's and watch them get beat
No one steps in
There too buzy reporting
All they care is about the videos
Not about what's happening
Not about this evil that grows like fire
And I created it
I started it all
The world is forever doomed
This is the camera man
Sighning off for good
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
Most persons who are ageable
- aren't even adults
They are just grown children
Who have learnt fancier words
more serious sounding expressions
And
new
ways
of
secret
tantrums.
Those imposters. Caught ya.
Spider one. Grownchildren zero.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
The clouds and the sun are always
competing to be noticed
Flying fast in front of each other
to block light or
make it look
much more fancier
Clouds are scattered everywhere
Moving across the ceiling
Slowly
And the sun
There is only one
But it can be seen all over the world
At one time
Even though in some places
It's asleep
No one really wins
But their competitiveness
Makes me notice both of them
A little more
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
If I could
I'd buy you an
ocean.
I'd give it to you
in the biggest bottle
I could find.
I'd put a ribbon around the top
because that would make it
exponentially fancier.
I'd put a sailboat
right on the water
to remind you to breathe.
It would have an anchor
because I know you like those,
and I'd put little whales in it
because whales are cute.
I'd give it to you on a crowded street
in the middle of some busy city
that we'd pretend to hate
but actually desperately want to be a part of.
We'd be wearing dresses
becauses dresses make everything more special
and there would be bikes.
Everywhere.
I'd wear yellow and you'd wear blue.
You just would, okay?
And we'd both have hats on.
After I gave you the ocean you'd laugh
and call me dumb
but then you'd say
"I love you"
because that's what people who need each other say.
And you'd put the ocean in the basket
on the front of your bike
and you'd smile.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 4:02 AM UTC
Can we talk?
She said "Sure, give me a minute"
Wait a few seconds, that minute turned to ten,
Now one hour later,
She was ready to begin?
"What do you want to talk about?"
she yelled from
across the room.
Silence, I was sleeping.
But just then, she was about to hear the boom
So.......
She came at me like a wartime poet,
dropping bombs on my head like
I didn't even know it,
Ripped holes in my shirt
and I couldn't even sew it.
She busted rhymes in my mind
even CeLo couldn't own it.
Words flying so fast,
I coulda swore they were stolen.
She moved one step closer
and boom, I was falling.
Each time my mouth opened
I couldn't even answer,
Each word that I stut t t tered was
like lyrical cancer.
I ran around the room like
a Soul Train dancer.
Side stepping her questions
like I was her little **** prancer.
**** you, *****
my words just got a little fancier.
Whoah!
"Who do you think you are,
are you done spitting it yet??"
You began this little battle,
but I'll be the one finishing it.
My words are louder than gunshots
Cuz, I'll be the one killing it.
I'll just turn my *** around
Cuz you'd be the
one kissing it.
This is only the beginning,
and I'm not finished dishing it
Shhhhit!!
She just broke in with a loud
"OH!! YOU DONE YOUR TIME"
So you can get on outta here with those wasted lyrics,
stupid rap, and busted rhymes.
This is my house, boy,
and you ain't living off this welfare dime.
Now, go cheat with some other hoes
and sip on their Boone's Farm strawberry wine.
Oh and one more thing, you might
want to call 9-1-1,
Cuz I am about to commit
****** on your *** and a misdemeanor crime.
See you were nothing to me
but my little, poor "boy toy"
and when I say "little" ..it wasn't
very much of joy joy.
The only time I got real excited and wet
was when you were walking out
my front door, door.
So, now carry your sorry ***
on over to your ex's house
cuz she was the real effin' ***** *****
Oh, that 65" flat screen is mine, so is that X-Box,
touch one more god **** thing in here or I'll
double tap your ***
with the pair of my triple chromed 9mm hollow point custom made Hello Kitty Glocks.
Your time is up,
so say good bye once and for all
count it 1, 2, 3 or I'll punch your ******* clock.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I know what I mean when I say it
Though you think I'm talking in code
A fancier truth I will forfeit
When I'm in your humble abode
I only delay in your absence
If you are away in your head
But time is the killer of nonsense
So words that are weak can lie dead
I've seen what I needed to witness
A carefully crafted display
And I am no longer a harness
My fibers have started to fray
The process began on the fringes
The very outside of ourselves
And somehow undid all the hinges
To doors binding both of our hells
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
My melody you are...
sweetheart...
the melody which my mind dance with,you are...
my letters' tune,my words,you are...
my poems' melody,you are...
my whispers' melody's life,you are...
sweetheart...
a melodies you are...
play more, give me more...
play a tunes to my soul...
sing poetical chant to fancier dreamy lover...
feel my melodies and sing them to me...
sing them by you imaginations...
in your own style...
to melt all groans...my groans...
and wipe away all sadness...my sadness...
my melodies,you are...
sing them, play on them...
you and i...
a strings you are...
the violin to your strings i am...
lets share together, its poetic tunes...
to play together as one as a great musician...
to create an eternal loves' melody...
and to sing together, the piece to our timeless love...
let my fingers softly touches your strings...
to get your poetic talent tunes...
to play on your melody's breathes...
and to give together,one from the other...
a breathes to our appetites desires...
to create our musical love to all lovers...
my melodies you are...
with every new morning...
i hear your sweet whispers ..
and smell your breathes ...
hazem al ...
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
A world
A big world yet it seems so small
While the fat and the rich indulge
While the poor and the helpless loose cautious
While the churches are getting bigger and fancier
While public schools are getting smaller and messier
While the killers are set free
While the victims die
While critics critique to ****
While critics cry because they can't take the heat
While the ball drops on New Years
While the homeless man looks for another chance
While the big and rich are known for nothing
While the small and poor will never be known
While I look at this world
While I see the destruction of
humanity
When will we get better?
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Welcome to the guide on how to write poetry.
Poems don't always rhyme
well, some of the time.
It's in plenty of children's stuff
but adults have had enough.
They
are
layed
out
weirdly
sometimes
and some are just in a long line similar to this, like you would find in a book
or pehaps with !punc?tuat'ion a^ll* o&ver;
$t"he p(l)£ace%
in CAPITALS or lower case
or perhapps with duhliburut speling misstakes.
They may have words in them
you don't understand
like antebellum or zeugma
or with words that enni yungstur ken get innit m8? Lol!
1. They can have numbers in them.
2. yehT nac eb nettirw sdrawkcab.
3. A bit of repetition did no one no harm harm harm.
Thou canst use the language of old if one wishes,
or use language that is simple, easy to grasp.
Poems
offer
exciting,
marvellous
chances to do things like an acrostic or something fancier.
Write in français, español, deutsch, dansk, italiano, polski, gaelige, cymraeg, ελληνικά, русский, íslenskur, עברית, हिंदी, 中國的, 日本の,العربية
one of those, or English if you choose.
In bold (brackets and italics too) - a dash here; use semi-colons properly as well.....don't over do the full stops or talk about silly things like purple pumpkins playing with pigeons.
L o o k.
You have some choices now.
Stick to my rules
or make your own.
To be onist, it dunt rearly mattuh.
It's a poem. Something like that.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
Not be an fancier of lonesome
for the spark , you crave ;is in
So crawl and rise after an fleeting fall
to be the weaver of your own dreams.
Placing momentarily then you'll see an flight of wisdom changeling away
Fusing down its signature groove
For at least once we deserve to sway
Now since peace is reserved
we' can and will fleet
and bleed the words of wisdom out
till its seed grews enough ,to repeat.
Knowledge and calmness commands off their wings
as love and faith stand above for with the colourful Soul Ring's.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
We all crave that Permanent happiness you know
it can only come from inside though.
Not from eating ice cream,
buying new shoes,
hearing a joke,
Kissing a mate,
Swimming in a lake,
Living in a bigger house,
Or Driving a fancier car.
*The more we rely on the material world for happiness ,
the further we dig ourselves into an endless pit.
For when one thing is gained, example that car,
you are temporarily satisfied.
Then a new want arises ,
a new goal that makes you think
" okay when I get THaT THEENN I will be happier"
And so it continues until you never settle with your idea of happiness.
Thus it is good to realize sooner rather than later- that true happiness is just a misleading term for absolute contentment .
Such Contentment that you learn to take the bad as you take the good. Always remaining in the middle, unaffected by any external matter.
You always looked pleased.
You never desire more.
You take what you get, enjoy it gratefully,
if you get more you are pleased-
if you do not get a single bit more,
would you know it-you're still pleased.
It is brilliant really, and so simple.
The goal is never to be happy.
The goal is be contented.
At least it should be.
Me thinks..
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Like the Beast with his collar
Is Man with his dollar.
The collar, you see, restrains the beast
In his pursuit of a fancier feast.
The dollar, then, restrains the man
From following after his self-centered plan.
Blue collars, white collars,
Dollars dripped in red.
Which collar, for you,
Will they place around your head?
Will you be led to believe that the collar you earn
Is solely based on the knowledge you learn?
Or will you discover that the number of dollars
Determines the number and color of collars?
It is good and well to aid mankind
Upon this noble trek;
But do it for the reasons of progress and love;
And not a collar squeezing your neck.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Smokers the insensible people
They harm themselves
But harm nearby also
Initially they act it as fancier
But after sometime they addicted
Smokers enjoy their life
But decrease their live
They forget the family
Happier personally
Just kick out this habit
Enjoy the life with relative
Get some sense
Kiss the life
Mess up with this
Bad habit of smoking ..
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC