"fetched" poems
Words are hollow.
Eyes are deceiving.
Thoughts are far fetched.
Illusions are broken.
Looks mean nothing.
Expressions can be fake.
Emotions are assassins.
Senses don't work.
Heart stops beating.
Light turns into darkness.
Does this mean I am dead?
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
The emus formed a football team
Up Walgett way;
Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream
But kangaroos would sit and scream
To watch them play.
"Now, butterfingers," they would call,
And such-like names;
The emus couldn't hold the ball
- They had no hands - but hands aren't all
In football games.
A match against the kangaroos
They played one day.
The kangaroos were forced to choose
Some wallabies and wallaroos
That played in grey.
The rules that in the West prevail
Would shock the town;
For when a kangaroo set sail
An emu jumped upon his tail
And fetched him down.
A whistler duck as referee
Was not admired.
He whistled so incessantly
The teams rebelled, and up a tree
He soon retired.
The old marsupial captain said,
"It's do or die!"
So down the ground like fire he fled
And leaped above an emu's head
And scored a try.
Then shouting, "Keep it on the toes!"
The emus came.
Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows
They laid their foemen out in rows
And saved the game.
On native pear and Darling pea
They dined that night:
But one man was an absentee:
The whistler duck - their referee -
Had taken flight.
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It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.
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An Open Letter to my Best Friend
You, dear are the strongest person I know,
And trust me when I say, I know a lot of people.
You stand, rooted as deep as an oak tree in my heart
Your eyes find their way into my dreams, burning with passion and fired belief.
Your sorrow matches the winds of the sea
Constantly badgering you
With the threat of drowning,
I'm so scared you'll take yourself from me.
Your voice is something,
I can only be thankful for
Coming to me in times of need
It has all the power to make my heart soar, suturing the bleed.
Your dreams,
You've been told,
Are far fetched at best
And unachievable at most.
What people don't understand
Is unicorns are shy creatures
Who just don't have the heart
To prove they exist.
Even though they run free,
Jump high
And take great pride
(Their horns are always meticulously shined.)
I think back on the times
You taught me to be strong
Without even knowing
You were consistently adding words
To my life's song.
The melody just a little sweeter
While it plays in my head
Added like you do with sugar to your coffee before bed.
Sparingly,
But needed.
Oh so very needed.
You, my darling, have your roots dug deep
Your dreams being dreamed
Your life, I do believe
Is worth so much more than an amount that any bank could offer,
Is worth more than the english language can explore,
And all I need you need to remember,
The alphabet is composed of 26 letters,
Voldemort wasn't always in power,
take each insult
And pull a Tom Marvolo Riddle out
of the sorting hat.
Believe that the positive outweighs the negative,
And yes that means your scale is wrong.
Tumblr's idea of pretty girls,
Doesn't take place in my song.
So this is an open letter,
To my very best friend.
Darling, please know
You can always depend
and lean
and cry on
and hate
and call
and love
and trust
me.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
Remember, if I claim too much of you,
I claim it of my brother and my friend:
Have patience with me till the hidden end,
Bitter or sweet, in mercy shut from view.
Pay me my due; though I to pay your due
Am all too poor and past what will can mend:
Thus of your bounty you must give and lend
Still unrepaid by aught I look to do.
Still unrepaid by aught of mine on earth:
But overpaid, please God, when recompense
Beyond the mystic Jordan and new birth
Is dealt to virtue as to innocence;
When Angels singing praises in their mirth
Have borne you in their arms and fetched you hence.
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What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
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Each sunday,
the owner's face lit up
as I popped in the neighborhood bodega
in need of paper towels, soap, toothpaste.
Occasionally, when I uttered the word “purple,”
his brown eyes glowed and he flashed me a smile
as he fetched the Trojan condoms behind the counter.
This week,
I came in on saturday,
he looked pleasantly surprised to see me,
earlier in the week.
until I reached the counter
holding tampons, desperate to stop my leaking body.
In my humanity,
I was no longer ****
not worthy of a smile.
Nor the well wishes of a nice evening.
His greetings had always had an invisible price tag,
exchanged for a glimmer of hope.
The hope that his kind words would
earn him a discount in the time it took
for me to live up
to his fantasy
one day.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
shadows cast into clouds of sand as footprints leave their mark
voices so full of fun with not a care in this world
summer sun washed over by the crash of thunder
the sea shouting against the shells to your ears
blue whispery skies feed warmness to the skin
as weeks of a worklife pass to say goodbye
ice cream melted to cheeks as tissue lips from a nan
feed a childs cry
this is what we live for in a world so left behind
donuts sugared a thirst as sticky fingers lay ******
fish from an ocean battered or fried to the best ive ever noshed
sounds of the beach washed over me as grandads snores a snort ..
too much lunchtime pie i guess ..deserving resort
dreams of a past ...dreams of another
football played and dogs all wet scenes from a beach
alive still ...kids gone red
searing sizzles from a sun at its best as rounders run
or frisbee fetched
photo taken a collection booth ..memories made as dreams come true
dreams of a summer
dreams of a summer
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.
At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;
Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch'd, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of
Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady's cheek,
None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,'
Came their answer. "We've all felt
Just like that." They were wrong. And he
Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words --
Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily
Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among
Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.
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Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house
she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?
your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Jack and Jill Remix
Jack and Jill went up the hill
If they didn’t they’d be killed
They had to fulfill a task
On the floor they found two masks
Jack fetched a pail of water
Jill was a naughty daughter
Jill was bad and pushed Jack down
Till this day Jack was never found
With the mask on Jill’s face
The police could not close the case
In fear Jill had to hide
And if they found her, she would lie
She was not very wise
For she had forgotten her disguise
Frantic, she tripped and fell
Accidently into the well
Trapped so there she waited
Boiling all full of hatred
Their mother was full of worry
She stuffed herself with bean curry
The police found out who killed Jack
They had to find Jill at last
After along time they gave up
A man went to the well named, Pup
Jill jumped out, free at last
Hoping people forgot the past
But really she was wanted dead
She just needed to be fed
Mother found her, put her to bed
Next day Jill was off with her head
Mother stayed happily fat
Replacing daughter, got a cat
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
I had a bone, so I threw it in the bush... I guess this ***** doesn't believe in things that are far fetched.
Out of your schoolbag, give me pen & ruler, cause this is where I will draw the line.
Nowadays I get curious... (Like a young boy who never got the answer to the Question, "Where do babies come from?")
Sometimes life and living are completely two different things: Like a young mother telling a biology student that he never had a Father...
I'm a Skinny guy with big fat imagination... Size doesn't matter, Does that make you feel any better?
Nah! We both know where babies come from. But we both don't know which direction babies are going to...
Nine-months later, the truth always comes out... I am Father to Poetry... But I'm not yet ready to be Father, so the EXIT sign is a must...
#Hello, Goodbye.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
I use to laugh at ironic things
No punishment for the bad deeds
The Bible says that good 10 fold
The universe returns to us in gold
That fairytales and nursery rhymes
Exist to scare and keep us in line
But on this day fate stepped in
And karma it seems is a comedian
A lesson weaved throughout every line
Carefully crafted as a warning sign
It was a day like any other
As usual jumped in the shower
Quickly washed and rinsed my hair
Noticed too late that it was NAIR!
Every luscious lock and strand
Fell out completely in my hand
What seems like a sick joke being played
Or demented parts a malicious prank
A plot unfolded my part the lead
The lines straight from a horror scene
Like laws of nature or earths gravity
The rules we bend to suit our need
Like a boomerang’s invisible path
It seems to follow when it comes back
Even the ocean and it’s changing tides
Needs the moon’s persuasive side
We are the keepers of what we seek
And what we sow we indeed will reap
The nightmare that we fear the most
Comes back to haunt us like a ghost
Like Peter Pan and Captain Hook
Just a good story in a children’s book
what if the earth gets bored of us
And decides that we are entertainment
those characters we read as kids
Like Pinocchio or the 3 little pigs
Sleeping beauty or the ogre Shrek
You thought was funny as a sketch
Brought to life would pose a threat
Although to you this seems far fetched
The truth Ive written has not been stretched
I hope you read this and know as fact
What you put out there will soon come back
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,
She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,
She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,
The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,
No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,
The hapless ******* was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,
The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
375
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds—which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—
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I flip through the pictures some are so great
some are just dull and need to be thrown away
The ones that make me smile are of friends
they are not just any friends
They will love you
And support you
always tell the truth no matter how much it hurts
We have different personalities
and we see the good in everyone
With Macy the one who is always there
is not afraid to say what she thinks
With Grace and her Pride so perfect not to stretched
Without her life wouldn't be so far fetched
With Emma and her energy so crazy and wild
The barn is always dull without that child
With morgan and her loyalty thats incredibly fierce
She will laugh and cry with you
What I am trying to say is we have been through so much
we have stayed with each other and comforted each other
through too thick and very thin
Where friends leave us sobbing I will i will always know i will have you.
When i think of you guys you make me smile
I would die for you really
Because I've got your back Just as you've got mine
So while i bring this poem to an end i have one thing to say
after all the friends that have dissapointed me
I don't trust easily
I know i will trust you when i trust know one else
We will go from thick and thin and who knows what else........
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 2:33 AM UTC
#Mastmaula - The happy go lucky little turtle
On the beaches of Konkan
Lived a few families of turtles
For ages it has been their home .
Amongst them lived Mastmaula a young and adventurous turtle
To explore the surroundings he loved, popular and lovable , a friend to all .
Many a times he would stray away and had to be fetched by the elders in the group .
He loved visiting the homes of the fishermen who lived by the sea.
Particularly fond of cabbage fed by the fisherwomen .
Amusingly he was also fond of music .
And loved to dance
The fishermen went fishing by the day
And would celebrate the catch and their life by evenings .
Music played and seafood savoured in almost every home.
Mastmaula was sure to visit, the fisherman 's house when there used to be a party.
One of the evenings , there was one going on in one of the houses , music was loud with party lights on.
And ,the food yes cabbage in colours, purple and green ,
Mastmaula knew would sure be part of the menu.
The fisherman's family had guests coming from afar
The occasion , an engagement ceremony .
As the music went on , Mastmaula went turtle and began to spin.
And sure he did have a few amazing moves , which caught the guests' eyes
And one of them ,fancied carrying Mastmaula to their home.
The host opposed but the guest's 7 year old daughter Mili loved Mastmaula and wanted him to be part of her family . The host reluctantly obliged.
Soon , it was dark and a bale of turtles were out to fetch back Mastmaula home. They knew where to find him.
Reaching the party venue and not finding him there they panicked and soon swelled in numbers.
The fishermen family knew it was time to call their guest ,who had taken away Mastmaula .
The guest hurriedly came back with Mastmaula in a little basket and placed him down .
Mastmaula was overjoyed to reunite with his family and promised them all that he would never stray away and be careful of his visits alone to the fishermens homes.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
I'm not so sure
I believe in fairytales anymore
They're so far-fetched,
Finely etched
Into tombstones of color
My mother used to tell me
I'd be loved someday
But that could never be
I mean, just look at me
Sitting here
All alone
Constantly checking my phone
Knowing he didn't call
Knowing he never will
But wanting it so bad, it's almost real
Prince Charming took one look
At my face full of grief
And decided that was enough to leave
He found another girl,
I'm sure of it.
How could he not?
He's so full of it
Telling girls he's the only one
Their fairytale has finally begun
And they believe it too
Until it ends of course
He gets bored
And leaves
Or finds someone better
And leaves
Either way
Prince Charming ran away
And I'm left with
No hopes
No dreams
Not even fairytales
To put me to sleep.
m.c.c.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Contemplating the dark
With a life neither bright nor stark
Shrivelled and fragile inside
Aiming for wonders of the glorious mind
With the sun peeping out from ominous clouds
Undisguised, yet elusive, towards an onset of doubts
Shrouding any fallacy
Cultivating mere fantasy
And the phantom of a far-fetched imagination
To bring out an electric, yet marvellous sensation
Shut inside a mysterious cage
Grasping poetry like some sage
Aiming for aloofness
While mourning over the senseless
Forever the beauty of words is a myth
Forever superficiality is a filth
The sublime scenery of sunset swish
Warms the heart, treasuring one’s deepest wish
Via the shimmering dawn
The azure sky I so adorn
To sniff the sweet odour of nature
All alone, as solitary as ever, with a hazy future
Nobody can gauge the depth of the imaginary
And taste the splendour of the ordinary
All this simplicity unravels a cosy palace
Where art is sacred; where the aesthetic is a solace
To end up in sensuous poetry
In which there’s no calculated geometry
Where the comfort of spontaneity is soothing
And readiness is but a blessing
For in poetry, a loner like me finds her grace
For via poetry, the solitary is free to embrace
And through the line of a verse, the loner dwells a florid universe…
-07/04/07
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
‘Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
Hence the only prime
And real love-rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that leaves no smart,
Is the purl of a little valley fall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the self-same block;
The purl of a runlet that never ceases
In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces;
With a hollow boiling voice it speaks
And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.’
‘And why gives this the only prime
Idea to you of a real love-rhyme?
And why does plunging your arm in a bowl
Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?’
‘Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone,
Though precisely where none ever has known,
Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized,
And by now with its smoothness opalized,
Is a grinking glass:
For, down that pass
My lover and I
Walked under a sky
Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green,
In the burn of August, to paint the scene,
And we placed our basket of fruit and wine
By the runlet’s rim, where we sat to dine;
And when we had drunk from the glass together,
Arched by the oak-copse from the weather,
I held the vessel to rinse in the fall,
Where it slipped, and it sank, and was past recall,
Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss
With long bared arms. There the glass still is.
And, as said, if I ****** my arm below
Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe
From the past awakens a sense of that time,
And the glass we used, and the cascade’s rhyme.
The basin seems the pool, and its edge
The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge,
And the leafy pattern of china-ware
The hanging plants that were bathing there.
‘By night, by day, when it shines or lours,
There lies intact that chalice of ours,
And its presence adds to the rhyme of love
Persistently sung by the fall above.
No lip has touched it since his and mine
In turns therefrom sipped lovers’ wine.’
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