"feisty" poems
Beneath the gulmohar tree
In flamboyant love
A tale of our desires
Coloring each other
A bright vermillion
Under his crimson spread
Shaded in blissful haven.
Reaching for his branches
Clasping, holding
Climbing, swinging
Chasing, laughing
Under a bright shower of scarlet petals
Of hearts and heat, of love and life
Blooms of a scorching Indian summer.
In flames, his vibrant burning crown
His canopy, flaunting festive tangerine blossoms
Crinkled teasing petals
One upright
Of quaint innocence in white
Splashed with feisty passion's red
Celebrating and anticipating
In celebration of us, our love
Anticipating rain..
As his branches reach high for promising dark clouds.
Serenading with the music of the monsoons
Moist leaves of the gulmohar glisten
With wind and water, in gentle rhythm
Raindrops nestle for a moment
Before sliding, slipping
On damp, satiated earth
Strewn bright with scattered orange petals
Of the gulmohar
Drenched and soaked like us.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.
I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.
I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.
I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.
I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.
I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.
I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I was fit and feisty at fifty
It was no big deal,
Because that's how half a century
Is supposed to feel.
In my sixties I'll take stock
Start making great plans,
Ignoring all the "you cant's"
And embracing all the "I cans".
Can I be **** at sixty?
And try all the fashions and fads,
Wear stockings and suspenders
And Joan Collins shoulder pads.
I can deal with **** at sixty
And wear Vivienne Westwood clothes,
Dress up and go out on the town
Wearing all my buttons and bows.
I'mgoing to be **** at sixty
I'll wear Gok Wan lingerie
Find myself a Toy Boy
Then maybe lead him astray.
Swift and **** at sixty
When I get my Jimmy Choos,
Dancing the night away
To the sound of rhythm and blues.
Oh! I want to be **** at sixty
'cause age is a state of mind,
I'm preparing my body at keep fit
So as not to be left behind.
But, first I have to deal with
Old Skin, Bad Teeth and Grey Hair,
Then remove the unwanted growths
From just about everywhere.
Then I'll definitely be **** at sixty
And undoubtedly done it all,
The only problem is that most
of it I simply won't recall...
© Hazel
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
I am drowning in a sea of cries.
The society degrades us with so many lies.
As we stand alone together I’ve yet to realize.
Why didn’t Eva Peron win the Nobel Peace Prize?
I am drowning in oppression.
We are unique in every way.
Strong girls are "Tomboys".
Weak girls are hidden behind words they can't say.
I am drowning in ignorance from the men who call themselves "superior"
I dwell on the fact that to a man, I am inferior.
I am faced with the hardships that come with a female role.
Don’t try to tell me about heart and soul.
I am drowning in a pool of madness.
Number one cause of death: SADNESS.
No one ever dies of a broken heart.
I’m dead because I’ve spent so much time falling apart.
I’m drowning in a sea of grief.
This topic was never really “serious”
They say “A woman can never be a commander in chief!”
And if I defend myself I’m either feisty or “on my period.”
I’m drowning in confusion.
If you’re not a man, you’re weak.
Because you’re the one saying it, it’s an illusion.
It’s not important what you speak.
I’m drowning in SEXISM.
Yeah, you thought I wouldn’t say it.
I’m not backing down!
I’ve got pride, courage, optimism, and wit.
I’m a girl and I’m proud.
But I’ll be called out of my name if I say it out loud.
I’m female and jubilant.
But you won’t understand if I tell you what I really meant.
I’m drowning in . . . PAIN.
I’m drowning in. . .REGRET.
I’m drowning like a rock,
That shouldn't even be wet.
You can’t try to be something that you’re not.
So stand up tall, and be proud of what you’ve got.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 2:26 PM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
*Electric Dreams Of My Radioactive Ex,
Bio-Digital Jazz Tap Dancing Us Into ***
Lucid Infatuations Infused In Whiskey,
Cupid Fairytales Conceiving Frisky,
A Perpetual Beauty Smoldered In Ecstatic Bliss,
Sublime Sins Between Her Rosy Lips With Velvet Kiss,
Romantic Burns Galvanized In Her ****** Desires,
Seductive Stardust Enchanting My Feisty Fires,
Encoded Serenity In Her Decoded Virginity,
Recoding Obscenities Of Her Fragrant Sexuality,
Hazel Echoes Raining Intimate Bouquets,
Rekindling, Her Drug That Fondles In Her Moaning Glaze,
Enraptured Catalysts Animating In Her Cuddles,
Euphoric Elations Climaxing Into Her Satin Snuggles.
- 02:17AM -*
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Dew drops trickling down the grass.
Laying in this field with you and the times continues to pass.
Sun shining on my face.
I love this feeling.
I love the dew drops dripping on your face.
Singing to me softly, making my heart swoon.
Rolling around in poppy flowers, waiting for the moon.
Getting up running to get feisty.
"C'mon baby, get up and catch me."
Chase me. Chase me.
You know you want to taste me.
Beads of sweating glazing down my back and breast.
Rolling in a poppy field.
The sun begins to rest.
Poppy seeds. Poppy seeds.
When were done weak in the knees.
"C'mon baby, get up and catch me."
Moonshine and fireflies.
World's spinning around your thighs.
You make me feel alive.
Baby you are my high.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
They're a funny lot, some of these poets,
feisty feminists, dreamers, anti-money,
and even some who are very self-defecating
about themselves.
And then there's the literary, learned allusion lot,
and some who've got their eye on eternity, that's what,
and others who rub too much turps on the **** of their imagination.
But it's the long-winded poets who make me squirm,
and for god’s sake, give me a bottle of red wine when the ones
with blue-rinse hair get up to have their turn.
They're terribly nice, but they need an echidna
stuffed right up you know where - at least once, if not twice.
And give me another bottle of the red, even if it's rough,
or better still a whole case of that stuff,
just to protect me from those who bleed too much in poems.
Psychoanalytic stuff makes me paralytic
and I have to stifle groans.
But most of all, I like the poets with their tongues on fire,
the ones who lick lightening before they write
and who throw a sizzling poem down
like a thunderbolt from Zeus.
I like poems marsh mellow soft and bitter-sweet, too,
and those oozing with the juice. And if a poem's loud and flash,
so what? I like a bit of swagger, with shameless **** and ***
And sometimes, I just like words that rhyme with licorice,
Dionysius, Priapus, Bacchus and preposterous!
Also, what the **** a poem can even give offense.
Poets sometimes need to do this to stop indifference.
They call this poet's license, but really,
indifference is the only hell from which
us poets need deliverance.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
i feel i am an acquired taste
maybe i'm not everyone's
cup of tea
i am one who will
not always
have the right words to say
but will search high and low
even down the back of the couch
to find ones that will fit
to make you smile
just so i know
you are happy
i won't always have the answers
to life's whys
and wherefores
but if you give me reason
i will believe in you
and follow your lead
to the ends of the earth
my only pleasure
will be in
my giving you
pleasure
i seem to be
wired
that way
it's just how
my heart works
i'm soft
and i can't change it
no matter how hard
i try
i guess most others
want the one
they share their life with
to have spirit
to be feisty
to be strong
but i am very often
none of those things
but
in my own way
i am them all
so
i come as a package deal
complete with fairy lights
a quiet soul
and a sunny disposition
i don't know if that's annoying
probably is
but like i said
i'm not everyone's
cup of tea
but i like coffee
so maybe it doesn't matter
all that much
so for now
i will keep it
to myself
for when the moment comes
and someone asks
to take me out to tea
until then
i will wait
patiently
with hope
behind my eyes
eyes which will always
look upon you
in wonder
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
I remember her from way back. Teasing me, bending back. Gave me a curious look; looking back. She teased me, I teased her; she needed me; I needed her back. She was a naughty girl, her mind one track. Orchid: tattoo, the vine crawling up her side: Lil Red Devil, on the small of her back. Red hair up their, the curtains match; but it’s more like a flame, cause I asked her to shave it like that: burning passion; she smirked when I named it like that. Her fantasies, always seem to be schemed like that. Feisty little thing, hope she keeps it up like that. Even in my dreams, the memories, keep coming back: Her pale skin; looks better covered in black. My ink dripping, in between her white lines; I hope this imagery is blew your mind. Better in person; words just can’t describe. Something about her eyes; the feeling the vibes. Looking at me from the outside, feeling what’s inside- the connection so real; emotions impossible to hide. Started out as just *** ended up with me needing to be inside.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Stupid princess
Shove me by
Stick your golden forks
In my eyes
You are cruel
Belied by your fragility
Know the face of the devil
When you deign to
LOOK AT ME
The chimney sweep
In your court
Will one day **** you
When you pet the sheep
You slaughter
Sick goldie locks
Tantrum queen
Beware the fox
With mind obscene
Cogs inside, turning
Your pretty head burning
Beware the chimney sweep
Sweet dear
The chimney sweep
The overlooked creep
This thing with eyes aglow with malice
She'll hold you near
Your locks she'll shear
Your blood drunk from a chalice
The chimney sweep
Your contrast, sugar
Will eat your liver
And lick her fingers
So pray deliverance!
Pretty ringlets!
Pray deliverance
Pretty ringlets
Don't. . . push. . . me
She squeals
Like a pig
Under carriage wheels
DON'T. . . PUSH. . . ME
She yells
As inside
A demon swells
DON'T PUSH ME!
It comes out like grit
Comes out like stone
A groan -
Burns through like a fiery fist
A fit feisty enough to make you
Envy it
So SHUT UP
AND SIT
Fair darling
Fair darling
SHUT UP AND SIT
SHUT UP AND SIT!
The chimney sweep now has you
The chimney sweep will surpass you
The chimney sweep chops and chops
The chimney sweep won't stop
Won't stop
Till the clock runs nil
Till time does still
Till the chimney sweep has
Bled her fill
The chimney sweep
Sweet doe,
Beware what the chimney sweep
Does know
Better
Think twice
About an attack
Because the chimney sweep
WILL ******* PUSH BACK.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino,
who brings chills down my spine every time.
Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside,
Especially when he leaves me high and dry
in the morning unexpectedly.
He’ll remind me that I’m alive,
And make me feel Zen for a split second,
Then he splits in a second.
Or
The Caramel Macchiato,
Tall with a sophisticated smile
And unrealistically hazel eyes
That read “bello” around his irises.
With a shot of expression—
He’s never afraid to speak how he feels.
But that’s just the Italian in him.
Or
The Pumpkin Spice Latte,
The most popular guy.
He’ll warm me up when I’m cold;
And make me feel like I’m his only one,
He’ll tell me everything I want to hear,
Then he’ll disappear without a sign—
At least until the next year,
Only to continue the same cycle over again.
Or
The Cappuccino,
He’s got a strong mind
like those French roast blends
With a secret soft side.
He speaks with fluidity and is
As charismatic as the rest.
He’s a morning person nonetheless,
And won’t leave me loveless
In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does.
Or
The Teavana Chai Tea Latte
He sounds fancy, does he not?
He’s different to say the least,
Layered with many spices,
And from cinnamon trees,
He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty.
Gentle, yet fatuously energetic.
Soft spoken, yet bold,
He doesn’t have to do much
To have me sold to his trance.
Now for me to decide what I want
As more people file in, deliberating the same
Line up as I, but they have more to
Choose from.
Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go
With last one.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******** history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
if i could pay you in poetry
would you prefer
fiery and feisty
loving and longing
crazy and crafty
scentual and sightful
playful and pranking
guru and gonzo
singing and songing
listening and lightness
softing and sensual
tender and tinder
laughter and limitless
insight and winsight
tell me,
what poetry would you
put in your bank?
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:00 PM UTC
157 Riverside Avenue
I can hear the razz-ma-tazz piano, ah the sound so sweet
lead up to an old thyme rock tune, making me tap my feet
the clubs have come and gone, changing names over and over
but the music has never left, on this south side of Dover
rock and roll star wanna be's, long hair and fancy pants
kickin out the tunes for us, hoping that we'll dance
here's a tune by rocker Lynyrd, or one by Stevie Ray
even some old R & B, like Sittin on the dock of the Bay
we sat around and drank our beer, raising hell till 2 a.m.
had to go to work next day, and survive that crap mayhem
it did not really matter though, we'd do it again tonite
cause we were young and feisty, and the music made it all seem right
loud guitars and crashing drums, a fiddle and a flute
as long as it was in the right key, we didn't give a hoot
every Thursday thru Saturday night, drink shots and smoke **** too
it just didn't get any better then, 157 Riverside Avenue
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC
When we had left the Seamans mission
lugging our suitcases,
Beeston seemed the best place to go
4.6 A.B.V felt like pushing the boat,
but the fillies were feisty enough
to flog off our descendants
into the zeitgeist.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
Sunday Morning blues
RIO DE JANEIRO all nights or LAS VEGAS nightlife
After two-three glasses of twisted Ice lemon
Or was it an Alabama Slammer which cut like a knife
My days and nights felt like a freight train ride
And that no lie!
I remember the Cuban Bulldog who bite me
three years ago, in Kissimmee;
which left me more than a little weak
those feisty drinks
Or was it that wicked, wacky Long Island Ice coffee
Which almost has done me in?
After, watching a news clips of Momar Kadafi
or was it an episode of Friends
Luckily, for me I met my sweet Marlin Brando
And it was hallelujah and amen in Key Largo
So many bartenders, so many smokes filled rooms
So, once again here I am nursing
Another Sunday mornings blues.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
My granny loved Banny hens.
They are small but they can be feisty.
Just as was she.
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.
Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.
John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.
I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!
So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
A single sneeze
And the universe stumbles.
For a split second
Everything is real.
All the little people
Living inside my head
Scurry around hysterically,
In search of sanity again.
And I see nothing.
A sneeze comes bursting out.
My eyes shut tight,
And for a second
I am not there.
What if I resisted
And kept my eyes from closing?
I wonder what I’d see
In the chaos of a dishevelled mind.
If my eyes stayed open
And my skull
Burst at the seams,
Would my mind
Come tumbling out,
Shot from the barrel of a sneeze
Splatter over land and sea?
Would all the little people
Seize the chance
Come rushing out,
And then to run away?
Leave me empty
Of all thought,
And with nothing
Left to say?
Perhaps it would be nice
To lose them
All in one foul sneeze.
I could start my life again.
Like a butterfly
Chase new dreams,
Flitting somewhat recklessly
Upon a feisty, summer breeze.
(Gerry Aldridge © 2016)
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
157 Riverside Avenue
I can hear the razz-ma-tazz piano, ah the sound so sweet
lead up to an old thyme rock tune, making me tap my feet
the clubs have come and gone, changing names over and over
but the music has never left, on this south side of Dover
rock and roll star wanna be's, long hair and fancy pants
kickin out the tunes for us, hoping that we'll dance
here's a tune by rocker Lynyrd, or one by Stevie Ray
even some old R & B, like Sittin on the dock of the Bay
we sat around and drank our beer, raising hell till 2 a.m.
had to go to work next day, and survive that crap mayhem
it did not really matter though, we'd do it again tonite
cause we were young and feisty, and the music made it all seem right
loud guitars and crashing drums, a fiddle and a flute
as long as it was in the right key, we didn't give a hoot
every Thursday thru Saturday night, drink shots and smoke **** too
it just didn't get any better then, 157 Riverside Avenue
Gomer LePoet...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Constantly hot
Like a cigarette
Always lit
Burning up
Like the sun
Trying to stay cool
Like the midnight moon
Fierce and feisty
Sweet yet spicy
A little sarcastic
A little electric
When you touch
When you kiss
It's like magic
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Autumn is the middle child, of Mother Moon and Father Sun
She is less cold and harsh than her sister Winter
Less feisty and forward than her sister Summer
She is less gentle and kind as her sister Spring
And while she is not physically the only middle child
She shares that title with her fraternal twin Spring
She is the middle of all her family,
Occasionally gentle like Mommy and Spring,
Sometimes feisty like Daddy and Summer,
She can even be harsh, on her bad days, like the eldest child, Winter
Do you see now, why Autumn is different?
Special?
In the middle?
She even goes by Fall, a nickname that Aunt Earth gave her
All those years ago
Before Auntie got sick
And Mommy got sad
Because Daddy made the flowers shun her
And Summer came home to visit later each year
And Winter stayed too long
Because her husband Frost hit her
And Spring came to tend the garden and left
And now Autumn is all but invisible
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC