"fawned" poems
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start
Of married flowers to either side outspread
From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,
Fawned on each other where they lay apart.
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
30k
If only I was a crayon drawing
Where each smiling face looks the same
Where stick figures and three fingered hands
illicit the smiles of adults and adoration
of how beautiful the picture is
of how artistic the drawer is
Despite the fact that the people are purple
and everyone has a beautiful smile.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With the sun always shining,
though I hover off of the blob of green grass
Though I am taller than the house beside me
At least I am happy
At least people tell me I look beautiful
though I am a blue colored person
and have no feet or hands.
At least the sun is always shining
at least I am happy.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With no need to worry about how I look.
With my family in a line beside me,
clumsy names written above us, barely readable.
But then I would be tacked to a bulletin board.
Then i would be fawned over, Oh how sweet.
See, look at the smiles on their faces! Look how
happy they are! How cute, how adorable.
See how artistic, how true to life. See the smiles?
If only I was a crayon drawing,
I could never grow up.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
BENEATH the flat and paper sky
The sun, a demon's eye,
Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;
All wand'ring sounds that pass
Seemed out of tune, as if the light
Were fiddle-strings pulled tight.
The market-square with spire and bell
Clanged out the hour in Hell;
The busy chatter of the heat
Shrilled like a parakeet;
And shuddering at the noonday light
The dust lay dead and white
As powder on a mummy's face,
Or fawned with simian grace
Round booths with many a hard bright toy
And wooden brittle joy:
The cap and bells of Time the Clown
That, jangling, whistled down
Young cherubs hidden in the guise
Of every bird that flies;
And star-bright masks for youth to wear,
Lest any dream that fare
--Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see
Hints of Reality.
Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,
Tall trees like rattles lean,
And jangle sharp and dissily;
But when night falls they sign
Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,
His face more white than sin,
Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare
Each cherry, plum, and pear.
Then underneath the veiled eyes
Of houses, darkness lies--
Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer
They cleave the sly dumb air.
Blind are those houses, paper-thin
Old shadows hid therein,
With sly and crazy movements creep
Like marionettes, and weep.
Tall windows show Infinity;
And, hard reality,
The candles weep and pry and dance
Like lives mocked at by Chance.
The rooms are vast as Sleep within;
When once I ventured in,
Chill Silence, like a surging sea,
Slowly enveloped me.
3.6k
As a child, everything was free, real,
like early spring air.
Birds were infinite
and could fly to heaven.
Now air is stiff wood,
and birds only **** on cars.
I took out the dagger to take a stab.
I yawned.
They fawned over the shops on Bond Street.
I yawned
We drank Cristal Brut.
I yawned.
The lights of Times Square dazzled.
I yawned.
The toast crumbs were ******
I yawned.
The people prayed.
I yawned.
I asked God,
“How do I settle this?”
“Give me your sock,” God said.
So I did.
“Sever all your limbs.”
So I did, one by one.
God stuffed the legs, arms,
and drippings into my sock,
blood-soaking it.
And with that cocktail sock
God smacked me
and sat silent.
“Now what?”
God yawned.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Joyful boy bundled in blue,
Nine months and a day mommy carried you,
Nine months and a day when I was due,
Out you came with a purplish hue.
Your twin sister soon followed suit,
However, she came out, pink, plump, and cute.
Beautiful you were, a work of art,
You had my love right from the start.
Perfect little eyes, fingers, nose, and toes,
My heart full of both sadness and excitement,
Thought I might implode.
A few months before,
In two my heart tore,
When the doctor informed me,
A stillborn you'd be,
Your little heart didn't function at full capacity.
But even with your purple hue,
Here, with me just for a few,
Precious Earth angel, mine you were,
I'm sure the Lord God would concur.
Just for me, I felt you held out,
Your tiny little heart beat so rapidly,
The cry let out was quite lively ,
In mommy's arms right where you belonged,
For nine months and a day to hold you I had longed.
Momentarily, the nurses and doctors had fawned over you
Then quickly they whisked my love away to the NICU.
Bundle of blue, your outlook was bleak,
Surprised I was you even let out a squeak,
For you were so very tiny and weak.
So daddy and I packed you up and took you home,
To steal every moment of this precious time alone,
No breathing machines, painful needles, or drugs,
Just you, me, daddy, little sister, and a sea of endless hugs.
My little boy, bundled in blue,
You stayed with us 48 hours plus two.
I listened to every rapid heartbeat, right until your last,
I imagined you'd return to a sea of stars so vast.
We captured every moment in photos and on film,
The entire two days death was at the helm,
My little joy, bundled in blue,
For Nine months, a day, and forever, mommy will carry you.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero? Aye, mibbe. Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."
Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.
Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.
Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.
Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
at age three, my preschool teacher told me,
"Some ships are admired for their beauty,
and such ships will sink.
Ships that are functional,
however,
will never be admired as the other ships are.
I think you have the perfect mix of
beauty and functionality."
since age three,
both my beauty and functionality
have dropped dramatically to depths never explored
by this species.
i am a mess,
too much hate runs through these veins
and somehow i am a very angry person.
but i have a talent very few possess.
i have vision.
not beauty.
not functionality.
vision.
i can see things in ways they have not been construed.
i look at a passage and see twenty different ways to interpret it.
i am a master of metaphors.
i see a flower and see what it was and what it is and what it will be.
but what happens to the ship that is not sat at docks being fawned over,
or the ship that is not the fastest?
what happens to the ship that can see the best possible path?
does it get to its destination quicker?
or does it go off track because of the amazing beauty it's chasing.
what happens to such ships?
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Your Primrose blossomed in the Spring
frothy petals in the light flared
a brilliant hue your season to groom
I stitched a garland to pair
my green blades with your orbit,
blushing from your radiant glare
a satellite garnishing stray beams
My doting shadow, enfiladed
by the waxy glow of your stems,
entrenched around your lurid stalk
Vassal bands nestled below as
the sultry air bore your fragrance
to the tips of each driveling strand
Growing in your rendered space
light years from your radiant estate
milk weeds fawned at your feet,
but my encroaching shadow
and twining sickles
could not seal your comely face
In just a few days, the light
from your bright candle
flittered its last beam
your silky cheeks folded,
not from winter's cold stare
or the wind's shaking reins
Unencumbered by my embrace,
without flair or aplomb,
you cast your gilded parasol
to its shallow, un-dug grave
A decaying, still life brand
now shrouded my sodded feet
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
i trained a bloodhound in my quest
to find the fount of youth
upon its memory impressed
the habits of a sleuth
round every rock and grass and tree
it spied what others could not see
in search of one most abstract hopeful truth
the training ground was in the park
where children roamed and played
the bloodhound, trained to bay and bark
where innocence displayed
it sniffed the scent of every child
with purity not yet defiled
its diligence always duly repaid
by daily treks its efforts grew
enthusiastically
and by the same i surely knew
the end was soon to be
round pools and lakes and finally
a river leading to the sea
the fount of youth would soon belong to me
at last one day upon the dawn
the time was now at hand
it came to me, my head it fawned
its tail most quickly fanned
the hound had licked my head around
it barked and bayed and i had found
the end was quite unlike what i had planned
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
he slipped quite quietly out of his own mind,
roaming free, letting go,
consumed with a curiosity of what he might find,
sliding through shadows into the darkest cascades,
skipping past sancturies,
some hidden, some buried,
like treasures from the everglades,
gregariousness a thing of the past,
as the lightness grew dim,
into himself he became a murmur of a forgotten mask,
scattered and shattering like a flightless fawned bird,
he screamed, he stomped, he wailed,
but swamped in his black anguish,
all he felt echoed thin into the nothingness
and remained unheard
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Benevolence becomes the fanciful
fawned goodwill without price
a myth pursued but never found
pain mistook for sunshine
these lies projected to collect
power gained by those who lie
told by those who were not there
lobbyists with a bullhorn
propagandists of selfishness
invoicing charity to imbue
bank accounts outside of cheer
only cynics would rejoice
the calming smile hides the knife
held out of sight just in case
the doom is spotted by the dolts
look to the leer of friendship
favor given for all to view
while suffering pays the bills
self-sacrifice is assumed
anticipated from the rich
forget this fib if you’re sane
generosity is still there
taxing blood from the stones
this is the truth when fiction fails.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180914.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
I walk through the dark but await a new dawn
for what I feel is right sometimes turns out wrong
It's about where your going, and not where you've gone
I wander this path to find where I belong
Under no circumstance will my resolve be fawned
even though I surpassed the line that was drawn
My soles are worn thin, but these legs still stand strong
If the shoe fits wear it, and walk the **** on.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Hello, Funkey Monkey! Your Orange Arms hang
And Bless those Pea-Eyes your Master do Witness
What Pursed Lips you saw; Or Mellow-Hands rang
For his Sick Clients or Friends with Kisses
My Business, it's not! Though comfy your Place
To chronicle such Pampered Events enjoy
Whispering his name; Beg caress to his face
And Sweet-Marks smear Spices plug to this Boy
Gambled are you to which many Girls sing
On his Rehearsals too fawned for him to Post
We can only guess what Stipend he'll bring
Or the next Meme he'll Admire the most.
Cheers, Oscar Bear. And bring your New Friend
To brief his Rumours; Whose Mood you'll depend.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Looks have become everything in society.
Why?
Just because someone looks good
They are now popular?
Fawned upon?
What about the brains?
It is we who make the world change and work. We are the ones who control it, manipulate it.
Not the ones with *** appeal.
You turn on a tv. You see a commercial for victoria secret models with skinny waists and big ***** and ***** You close it.
You flip open a magazine. You see an ad showcasing a watch with a pale strong faced flawless skin displaying it. You close it.
You turn the radio on. You hear an ad of a guy with a deep **** voice attractibg attention to an online dating site. You turn it off.
Dating website. Shows off pictures of potential people you might want to talk to based on how good looking they are and how good you guys look together. Log off.
What defines "beautiful"?
We can't let society make us conform to their ways and their quotas and definitions. Bend the rules. Be undefined. Redefine everything.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Quite fancy, it was,
How the British call their crush,
Like a friend said,
I do fancy her,
But like, as I say, would be a better term,
But best is her obvious beauty,
Sun-kissed and hugged by her country's pride,
Hugged, was the thing I wish I cold do,
But alas, only a wish was the only thing I cold do too,
Like a common teenager,
I fawned for someone I barely knew,
But with days just passing,
It felt like months and years were due,
With her time was just another word in the dictionary,
Just like fancy,
I wish she did too.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
So giant
God your nose
What gives you the right
to so much impose
All you eat is kibble
and you smell a lot like death
But you find some way to fiddle
With my heart, make me bereft
Your muzzle's cover in some goo
But you don't seem to care
I wake up to a story of
Who happened, happening in the air
I can smell it on you
But that's my own fault
I should've bathed,and fawned you
Would've taken my guilt off
Should've found a way to pawn you
But you're with me every day
And I know I owe you snacks
You make me live the worst life lays
Just joyness you attack
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
i wish i could
remember fondly
all that i have
loved and lost
but i focus on the loss
and become scornful
biting my lips
and my arms
to keep my
silent screams
from being heard
by anyone
other than
the girl
in my head
- - -
she is no
friend of mine
but she stays
there sometimes
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend VIII "
We have thrown many hollow words at each
Other in fits of spite and calumny.
Hitting the mark has been very easy
For both of us. I sometimes try to leach
A fawned approval, and in secret reach
Out to shape you into what i truly
Wish existed. You, can with childish glee
Lie about anything, or deign to teach
Me of your rickety opinions as
If they were life's first law. But these course, bare
Faults that sting do not ensphere and compass
Our union, nor do we gasp unaware
Of just remorse, and blooms one clear thought that's
Held jointly, perfect people live elsewhere.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
Doubted and teased,
all together we had
that time to learn.
That time turned into
war over being the teacher.
The one who knows everything
becomes mistakenly fawned over.
The one who had to hear her name
shouted from feet of distance
had the world blow up in her face.
I had that happen,
I said I was done along with something else,
and I got up.
I left and bursted to tears then later fell asleep.
I woke up,
I felt no sorrow.
I knew what I felt and they did too,
they ignored and kept playing their game.
Some outbursts are the most needed in a situation.
You never know
until you doubt and face
the consequences.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
How can they say what MY nature is?
That what I was born with dictates my temperament.
I must nurture and endure the pain,
Allowing my body to be distorted and bloated,
All for some husband to have a mini-him,
And to add to my constant laboring.
Men socialized to treat a wife like a mother,
Coddled and fawned over by her,
Allowed to come back from work to a home cooked meal,
While their wife's endless work never ceases.
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 9:15 PM UTC