"feckless" poems
So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean
but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.
She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.
She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
Your presence engulf my existence
A fragile instrument I cannot touch
Grasping for air with this essence
The nearness of you makes me want you much
Loving you is bittersweet symphony
Trap in a lifeless agony
I tried to hold on for what it's worth
But then it hit me, oh help me clarity
Adrift in this feckless fray
I have lost you once, strayed the second time
Wanting for you is a curse I have to pay
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Through the rejections and all the hate,
Just before your faith crosses the Pearly Gates,
Though allegedly claimed impossible by the Fates^,
taps you on your weary shoulder - "Hi,
could you help me, no one else is ...” -
the lonely voice of your soul-mate^^.
^Rumour has it those Greek hags have stock options
in the military-industrial complex, the cosmetics industry,
and favour Eris's 21st century avatar called Consumerism.
^^Your soul is not a super-market produce,
For feckless mass appreciation or consumption.
Your soul is a dauntless beautiful sapling, that
'the one' will rescue from its interminable fire,
and nurture it, till it blossoms and glows.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
Lost in the club on the way to the bathroom
American dreamless, existed in a vacuum
Every day, another way for us to consume
Raids on the senses, a general consensus
of the senseless, reprehensible amendments
The armaments by the tenements, diffused
Confused, never used, lonely in the fugue
And you
You who assume, presume, eschew the ruin
of the brewing times, rising tides, the lies
and of ties that bind - us to the times
and to meaningless rhymes
By illuminated rooms when the eye blinks
Think, blink, the pink rink - closed
By the hours that be, powers that see
Subversive naturalism
in a state of debate, compensate the reckless
Feckless and dick-less, compost of the senses
The sexes have wrecked us, ****** of the spectrum
By your septum reset them, mind wiped
Iconic lights gone
The new light's on
Right on
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
I couldn't know you'd need me then!
Just a human with all frailty and much fault....
Do you think the wind blows differently
When it passes over leaves and trees?
That it says: "Wait, lemme stop here a bit
And blow on this one leaf in a special way"
Hardly! Time to get with the manure beneath
And see that sunrays shine on everything
And indiscriminate clouds shimmer on all,
How haphazard, the way the wind blows.
So, don't hang your head and moan so much
Time dawns for you to get over yourself
Don't you see that I'm still here?
Now quit getting your knickers in a knot!
You rant and rave while I pant and slave
Dissect my every move, make me aloof
How can you possibly go counting
And re-arranging all the marbles in my head?
You're so insecure, you make me mad
So exhaustive are your constant jibes
So tiring to soothe your unfounded fears
I'm having to placate you so often of late.
Before it all gets blown out of size
Sit a while in (h)arboured thought
Confront the dreads which cause disquiet
A trove may wash up....but broken, on your shore.
The wind comes not with tardy tidings
For it isn't the what you say or do
But forsooth, the how which carries weight
Let's not over-whip each other so.
My thoughts may be wanton, wild or reckless
Telling tigs bend on a riotous grind
Yet feckless deeds don't follow suit
Pardon my slightly-misbehaving mind.
Patient and respectful, I remain to be
Just guard against esurient whims
Paucity of faith and clockwork trivial'ties
Will lead us down a road of trials.
Fallen martyrs should not feign, see
The wind makes no pretense. It just blows....
Now, I really couldn't know you'd need me then
'Cause, baby, that's the way the wind blows!
S T, 5 April 13
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Downton Abbey’s going off the air.
I’m not through yet, it’s just not fair.
Nothing before that show ever had
That kind of class, that degree of flair.
Life without my weekly Downton
Is too sad and inordinately scary.
What will I do without my frequent fix
Of the elegantly snarky Lady Mary?
And will the feckless Mister Barrow
Ever develop a true human soul?
I am sure this handsome actor fellow
Will never again get such a meaty role.
And the Dowager Duchess herself,
She is not someone easily done with.
She is, after all, tradition incarnate,
And under all that, she’s Maggie Smith.
Bates and his Anna filled my heart
With alternating sorrow and great joy
Almost as much as a lady of nobility
Marrying the handsome chauffer boy.
Dresses and hair lengths shortened
And nobility began to get real jobs.
All this was before ****** flared up
And turned starving folks into a mob.
I never missed that we were seeing
The transition from ‘la belle epoque’.
That time was running out for that
In the worlds ever-changing clock.
It was a yesterday we never knew
We of the age of electric equality.
We got to look inside and see it
In all its grandly overdressed reality.
I had begun to recognize artwork, in
Lovely strolls through baronial halls
And huge family meals at table.
I am sorry that it is over for us all.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
One thing we know about Trump is that
Whenever he criticizes someone,
It's often for something that he himself
Does or previously has done.
When he campaigned, he criticized
Obama for golfing. Such a crime!
Now that he's the president,
Trump is golfing all the time!
He blasted Obama for lack of transparency
And accused him of being feckless.
Trump's own transparency comes
To light only because he's so reckless.
Trump says the media should
Be less hostile and model civility.
Then he attacks the press and others
And carries it out with utmost hostility.
Our national security:
An issue to Trump, yet now it's known
How much the hypocritical man
Loves to use his unsecured phone.
Hillary's emails were often a target
Before and even since the election.
Trump's fake concern and constant
Complaints: examples of his projection.
Emails are now in the news again.
This time daughter Ivanka is using
Her private email account for government
Business! Isn't that amusing?
Oh, you hypocrites! You act as though
For you the rules do not apply.
But if there's any justice at all,
You'll get yours by and by.
-by Bob B (11-20-18)
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
I have held
softly pulsing
newborn heartbeat fluttering
breath of love, dying
arc of a life, trying
not to cling
too tightly
to anything
I have touched
directly to my tongue
felt the jolt
spark my lips
so pure
crystallized
I became
undone
I have fought
with abundant faith
despite knowing
the human continuum
feckless tide
love or hate
maybe it really is
up to fate
I have radiated
divine conductor
electric soul
it flows in me
it flows in you
we are all
pure energy
clean-burning fuel
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Misty Morning, tunnel exit
Radio blaring. Yet more Brexit
Shipyards looming in the mist
Coffee. Top of this checklist
Distantly spied, Golden Arches glisten
Dumbly calling those who listen
Desperate homeless huddled outside
Callous addiction stealing his pride
Inside the feckless locals gather
Of nameless baby dads they caw & blather
No sign of insight, syns nor points
Weight of burgers on their joints
Red-eyed middle management jostle for WiFi
Ketchup spilt upon his tie
Spreadsheets, targets, bonuses forgotten
Awareness at last. This lunch is rotten
Light bursting inside his head
Realising how easily he's been led
A new day. A Golden New Dawn
A middle-management minion reborn
Now with joy. Now with flourish
New skills, his mind does nourish
Never Stop. Ignore what they say
And make this day. Make this day. Make this the day.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
There has to be a better reason
to face each day buzz-less smoke-less sober
than simply not wanting to hurt her.
She tells me I'm a gutless feckless ******
and if I'm not careful, wifeless,
which reiterates my point.
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
I lay on the grass
by the tent
at the San Sebastian
base camp
warm sun
other tents all around
Miriam beside me
hands behind her head
sunglasses
tight curled
red-hair
music on the loudspeakers
some Spanish stuff
how'd you sleep?
she asked
eyes closed
I said
no how did you sleep
good or bad?
she said
not bad
the ex army guy
yakked a lot
about his mother's
new boyfriend
and how they
don't get on
(the ex army guy
and the mother's
boyfriend)
is he jealous?
Miriam asked
no idea
his problem not mine
but he will yak so
I said
how about you?
I asked
giving Miriam
a sideways glance
some Yorkshire girl
she don't say much
but when she does
I can't understand
what she's saying
I asked her
if she had a boyfriend
and she said
feckless can
gerr eur lad
I smiled
which one is she?
I asked
big ***** girl
with blonde hair
in bunches
Miriam said
O her
I said
she's not bad looking
but not as good as me
Miriam said
raising her highbrows
of course not
I said
Miriam smiled
and lay her hands
on her stomach
and turned her head
to gaze at me
(but the blonde
Yorkshire lass
had a nice ***
maybe we should
match up the ex-army
with the blonde?
I said
then we can
share my tent
Miriam frowned
then said
can't see it myself
the blonde
and ex-army together
shame
I said
do you always
think of ***
Miriam asked
giving me
her stare
not always
sometimes I think
of ***** and art
and music
here and there.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
One more creation was abandoned
Neglected by incapable lads
Flocks to clueless herdsmen
Sheep with feckless purpose
Drooling to episodes of their disgusting chivalry
Their gold and silver were made of flesh
Trophies of broken women and promises
- Foolish sons and uncles
Daughters and aunties are creators
They watch the night like fearless combatants
Between the wretch of men and the future
These women stood like guardians
Ready to take every blow, every curse, all the crap
Just because one more creation will survive
- Believing lasses
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Detect emotional obsession.
I confess
I'm obsessed with
Conversational progression.
Agressive, kinda reckless.
Something restless.
Only restless from these
Restless nights...
Depression?
Congregated thoughts don't
Cause emotional recession.
And rejection
Is the only way my pride can be
Deflected.
Forgive me, I am feckless.
My mother gave me life, and yes
I see that she regrets it!
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
This is happening more and more.
It’s ungodly early and we’re tripping on bricks
a pack of feckless teenagers still.
That never changed.
The tall one, skinny with rosy cheeks
and the eyes of a fighter
is holding loosely onto my hand
his nose won’t stop bleeding.
We follow the broad intimidating one
in a red sox hat,
he’s punching every stop sign we pass
and just hollering
how we’ll always stick together
you don’t mess with family
(I’ve known them all for three weeks)
his accent is getting thicker through his swollen lip.
In the rear the shorter one, but still much taller than me,
his hair stuck up in all directions
is still getting his breath back from that sock to the stomach.
We all love that frozen moment, when first punch turns to full on brawl.
Peter says even if you get hit, at least you’re feeling something.
We all taste like bourbon, cause this is the South now.
I’m draggin’ them home in my favorite blue skirt,
two heads shorter at least.
Saying, soon we’ll be home boys, I’ll fix you up then.
Because they’ll fight for me, I fight for them.
Saying stop punching public property, Paul and
Stevie, I’ve got you, don’t cry
The Pats are on tomorrow boys, and we’ve all got work to do.
just a little longer
I find family where I can these days.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:21 PM UTC
O, feckless dart of immeasurable delight!
Wouldst thou direct elsewhere your flight,
And refute my rival’s gentleman claim,
That he be immune to Cupid’s aim.
His smug sobriety remains intact,
His pages blithe and matter-of-fact,
Where my poor pen is inked with woe,
And ****** to hell by quiver and bow.
O, mischievous boy do grant my request!
Whether modest maid or comely *****
His downfall ensured by one bold kiss,
Shoot low, shoot high, but do not miss.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:40 PM UTC
*a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*
high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree.
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily.
we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.
with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.
whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...
there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.
on our faces, we'll wear
those effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious
fun
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.
in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.
and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.
no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist
and to the ground
we do spiral....
into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.
happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.
take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh,
a well earned sigh.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
For here we have no continuing city-
Here the falcons and the herons
Clash overhead, and the dead fall to ground
Like so many feckless soldiers.
For here we have no continuing city-
Wolves and foxes bear young in the caves
And they track the moon till dawn
Like the last worshipers of a lunar deity.
For here we have no continuing city-
When you reach out to touch my hand
Wild goats stumble high up in the cliffs
And the rabbit escapes the trap narrowly.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
chants from red states and blue
and of course the tea partied new
blend into wicked white noise
and with complete lack of poise
we have become a nation divided
not that we were ever truly united
but our rhetoric is now so blighted
that whenever we open our ears
we are inundated with feculent fears
that our country is no longer grand
perhaps we were never number one...
except in matters of money and the gun
but when measured by the yardstick of the soul
did we ever really achieve a transcendent goal
or were we listening to our own lyrical lies?
‘twas not enough to denigrate
-those of foreign birth
-those of color
and the welfare ingrate
now we all chew and spew equal portions of hate
and probably deserve our feckless fate
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
Ugly are your wings so drab and dark
Softly bending against rippled bark
Golden borders with spots of blue
Dreary patterns of somber hue
Mourningcloak you are a fraud
A butterfly severely flawed
Unbeautiful as your name implies
The ugliest of all butterflies
Mental illness makes for fragile wings
Always falling short of better things
A dolorous sight of stark despair
And restless flights that go nowhere
Strange specimen caught in a net
To choose to live is to forget
That life will end but death won’t come
In the killing jar you just go numb
Through rounded glass will life transform
And taste so sweet of chloroform
A soothing bane breathed in real deep
Faint distractions drift fast asleep
Isolation keeps you who you are
Death is endless in the killing jar
Wings held outstretched on the spreading board
Pass deathless moments where time’s ignored
Pins pierce the body and puncture through
To hold you here but you’re not you
Pinned and labeled put on display
Pressed in a box and forced to stay
Immortalized in a private case
In solitude to hang in place
Repulsive feckless Mourningcloak
Now the symbol of life’s cruelest joke
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children. The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 3:33 PM UTC
Imagine then, imagining
-the pigeon in the prism prison-
driven by unfathomed space
to creation's end by feckless wings
The scope of scape, identified,
holds measure of your lucid mind
Beyond world's end, the conquests swell
to amplify the conscious realm
The limits shatter outwardly...
Now exercise the feckless wings
exploring vastness to be understood,
realizing the next level of prism prison
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
i'm sitting i can hear the ocean way out over the moon hangs deftly round in all the fitness of chaste and cool darkness my hands are at my waist i'm sure they are and where are my hands i wonder at the split milken and tenderly dripping sea it whispers my heart is in it deeper than a seagirl their ******* are like cherries popping sweetly with just a crisp flens if pinkness at their tips at their **** i'm feckless staring harder than and harder then a star leaps wholly the blouse of night one unsharp button of her quickly tousled hem i'm tearing to by bit by into her tear and a boy is sitting on his door step he looks thinking one day he will make a boy in a girl spilling her full of him
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
I feet this heavy sensation thats full of dread
I feel it all around, assuming sleep paralysis
4AM that I started planting subliminal thoughts in my head
Specks like vessels, I had consciously felt before
Struggled against the feeling, a feeling from what I did
I loathe my youth, platonic love, and morbid existence
And there's nothing more candid
Waiting for another chance of life is not right
I'm not like the feckless, like the bandits
Covers may bring sorrow from swive and dives
As long as you’ve got something to say then
It doesn’t matter too much how you say it
Lost, I highly recommend you stay alight
Your jawline against mine is was like...
A wave loudly clashing against a long shoreline
The sillage you had left behind was majestic
You're not like the limpid, like your kindred
Getting rid of your oarless secrets that'll befold
And there's nothing more candid
Glowing white lips that fade
Into silver comely light
Away in a padded close
My paracosm lies prostate
Upon the wings of mine
Upon your ditzy toes
Upon your nacreous face
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC