"fiddling" poems
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
43.4k
Shouting for longevity,
Slamming at the counterers…
- upon your dignified respite!
Would-be detractors without brevity,
Before the wine-dark Sea at night…
A pleading to philosophy of commonly renowned,
Beating sand and posturing, uncouth before a crown;
“Priam please!”
Sun and Moon,
two sons shall plead,
nay, -beg in tandem with the man;
“He serves the seas, trust him please, our father; this priest of Trojan-land!”
Laocoon
“Fear the Greeks, of mind I speak, approval by a van-i-ty; it surely is a death you seek!
An asp this horse, gift no more and tragedy in due remorse,
I beg of you my call to heed, wooden-burnt this crispy steed,
…alight in flame, glorified name; Poseidon shall endorse!”
Priests of Apollo
“Ridiculous! Worship we must, now bring it to the City thus!”
Laocoon
“The actions of accursed Kore,
Need I remind you all Paris caused this war?
For he mocked this god, the abyss it knows, with terror comes a deadly tide,
**** that fool and his fiddling pride!*
Burn this beast we must with haste for Greeks they have a certain taste,
Their acts meant always to confound, wily, since they were unbound.
What harm may do, to rest at shore? Consult the stars of yester-yore.
Assign no chore, one heaven’s night, plus a day, to sit upon our princely shore?”
Setting
(read/spoken at the fastest pace the reader can go)
A horrid hiss above the wave as two doth slither from out the cave…
The creatures from the darkest days, ancient spectacle for the knaves, bear witness to the punishment, commanded by a great trident, hearing screams of bannermen, for King and council a shocking twist, serpents ****** from out the mists, encircling priest and his kin, the howling they had done no sin, never be forgot-ten, as Typhon cried out merrily, serpents and the tragic sea; swallowed up all the three.
Priam
“Farewell dear Laocoon and two sons with thee!” *
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
To my dear sister,
Since you can't read it
And I know I couldn't say this
It's hard to open up at times
But now you should know that I miss,
I miss you.
I miss you
Even though you are so bossy
You always demand random things
When most of the time you are so haughty
And when you tell me to stop when I sing
We still share the same group of blood
And we still played on the same heap of mud.
I miss you,
Even though at times you are selfish
And you never listen to me
And I am not some other pond's fish
We both are kind of same, you see,
All these years, we shared the same room
Although not at the same time,
But we also shared the same womb.
I kind of miss you,
In case if you read this
You're not that special, Binni,
But still you are my sis.
I don't feel bad that you are gone
You're just a few miles away
More than missing you I was drawn
To get the whole room for myself for some days
But being happy doesn't mean
That a little cell of mine isn't aware
Of the absence there has been
Of your annoying shrill voice here.
So sister,
Don't be so high headed now
It's just a formality to miss siblings
You're still annoying somehow
I hope I am not fiddling
With your confidence
You're still not superior
You still have the annoying voice
The poem doesn't mean I am inferior
It's poetry which is my choice.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
Sitting in a foggy haze
Listening to babble
Fiddling with my iPad
Reading some poetry
Watching my kids
Coloring and reading
Not thinking about work
Contemplating a nap
No order no rules
Nibbling on sweets
"Wrestle" with the wife
Watch playoff football
Is this utopia?
It's Saturday. . .
The best day ever.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Everything is about me
I'm the star of a movie
And you're interrupting my scene
You stand there eating, eating, eating
Spitting question after question
Why do you have to know?!
Let me be, let me be
Because everything is about me
Here you come again
Coughing, coughing, coughing
I could care less what you think
You're fiddling in the kitchen sink
Shut up
I'm tired of listening to you
I want to scream
Because I'm not getting my way
And everything is about me
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Contemplating life
over a hot bowl of soup,
my mindful mentor
passed me
the pleasure of oyster
to mix in with
the pain of chilies
stirred together by
chopsticks held in my hands.
There he taught me
the lesson of humanity
and the person's potential,
pointing at me
and then back at the bean sprout,
fiddling it in his chopsticks
as if he were God,
mentioning to me
"This sprout and you have plenty alike..."
"What do you mean?
How am I like a vegetable?"
He smiled and nodded to disagree,
"Life is not always physical.
Think for a second,
open your fragile closed mind.
Imagine this soup not just a bowl
but instead a cauldron,
the mixing of different elements,
sensations seared by heat
to create the luxuries we call
the world where you
are a mere bean sprout."
Looking at the small, colorless
tasteless, inferior plant,
I wondered, confused and asked:
"Am I so inferior in this world
that I cannot compare
to the rich flavor of beef,
to the nurturing noodles,
to the accenting spices,
but instead am no more
than a flavorless root?"
Yet my mentor laughed,
and patiently passed:
"You worry too much young one,
too much on yourself you blame.
Instead, take upon consideration
that the bean sprout is small,
fragile, tasteless like water;
there is nothing you can change
other than size and color,
but lower it into the soup
and patiently stir,
allow it to soak up the world
and obtain its potential."
I repeated his actions,
placed myself in the world,
sat patient and absorbed its essence,
and then removed it,
placed it to my lips.
Surprised that what I later discovered
was not a bland taste of disappointment arose
but instead what lingered to the tongue
was the sweet taste of near perfection.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
A bracelet of blue upon her hand
Made it easier for me to imagine
The way they loved each other;
I saw his eyes in every rock,
In emotions solidified to glistening bits;
I saw his attachment to her soul
Like pendants hanging from her arm
I saw his eyes in every piece of stone,
Now cracked;
In the midst of the serenity in a glittery blue gem
I saw collateral damage.
I saw hope in her eyes
And dry tears accumulated on the side lines
For she decided that, that is where they belong;
She clenched to a cup of tea
Like they were his arms,
Warm as always,
Soothing as usual,
Just the way it was when he was around.
I saw his imprints on her fingers
I saw him fiddling with her words,
Although they weren’t much,
For some words she decided to keep for him
Some words are just between them…
And those were the words that mattered most.
Dear martyr I saw in stone,
They wrote your death sentence
But I wrote you sentences on my bones,
I dreamt of a country for you
I dreamt that you would be in it
But all that’s left of you is stone.
Bracelets cuddling hands;
Hands that wrote on papers
The future of tomorrow.
Dear martyr I saw in her eyes,
You are safe there;
But it is very dangerous in my mind.
You have drowned in her tears
Rested upon her eye lashes,
You swam your way in between
Her wavy hair,
You have held her hands
With mugs of warm tea.
Dear martyr I fumbled on my papers,
My papers will not fade away,
My words will collapse on buildings
Destroying walls they have built to hide the truth
Unwiring bombs they have planted
As they try rewire our minds;
My voice will be ours
And your voice will rest.
For your place is in the vacancies
Between every piece
Of a bracelet
That had you
Written all over.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
3.5k
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
you were downstairs, fiddling with the cobwebs and speaking in Arachnid.
your summer dress, mangled in summer, a tattered fringe of creek stain and acrid
you were there and you were absent.
off in another world, more Victorian than Akron.
you had two black thumbs that killed plants
that never asked for it.
and a plush toy named ' ask again '
you were downstairs, and i was loitering in fictions i could never sell to Olympians.
shred a tear, mend an eye,
paint fences.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
There he was, a-springing
Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
In a market-place;
Sowing turnips over
Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
Adding up the hay;
Shouting through the Spring song,
Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
To a crabbed god.
There I was, that came of
Folk of mud and name--
I that had my name of
Them without a name.
Up and down a mountain
Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
Wringing at a rock;
Devil-gotten sinners,
Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
Kissing for their beds.
Not a one had seen us
Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
Blood of him and me.
How shall I be mating
Who have looked above--
Living for a hating,
Dying of a love?
2.7k
Creeping administration slithers along,
The fascist past comes back...
The winged-devil fiddling his song,
For the corporations are his attack!
And even though they know it is wrong,
The greedy-ones will never turn back.
Risking all with the angering throng,
Congress tightens the noose with their acts!
That dark orchestra revolution in the night,
A sweet attar-tune their honey.
And no one best stand up to their might,
When they're all lechering for money!
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
i see my sock covered feet
that mean so much more than's shown
moving along to the beat
as if they have a mind of their own
*fiddling around
or bouncing to the beat
without so much as a sound*
when the rest of me is still
my feet give away my restless interior
the small part of me no one can ever ****
my feet are it's portal to the exterior
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
Mamie leaned
against a sitting camel
on the beach
at base camp
outside Tangiers
fiddling with her camera
clothed
in her red two piece
bathing kit
and pink framed
sunglasses
her reddish hair
a mass of curls
looking quite fuckable
as you snapped her picture
with your camera
with the Moroccan guy
looking towards you
thinking maybe the same
holding the rope
leading to the camel
and she said
I wasn’t ready
I was trying to get
my camera set
looking at you
through her darkened lens
holding her camera
in her hands
the Moroccan guy
looking bored
wanting his pay
and to move on
well I’ve got you now
you said
something to gawk at
in my lonely hours
you could have waited
she said
the sun’ll go in a few hours
you joked
ha-ha
she replied
she paid the guy
and left him
and the camel
and walked towards you
her bare feet
left footprints
in the damp yellow sands
the camel stinks
she said
and so does he
she steadied her camera
and walked back a few paces
and said
pose yourself
and so you posed yourself
standing there
in your white tee shirt
and blue jeans
your hair windswept
your features set
in a sun blinded smile
hold it
she said
hold what?
you asked
the pose
she said crossly
just like that
and she snapped the shot
and gazed at you
through the dark lens
of her sunglasses
her small plump ****
wanting to escape
her red bathing top
and the sun still there
in the blue sky
the Moroccan guy gone off
down the beach
the camel following him behind
and you studied Mamie
as she walked back
towards base camp
with love making thoughts
in your sun baked mind.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Fastidious future full of fiddling.
Entrusted to erode everlasting evil.
Anchor ambition to alleviate anguish.
Recalled relationship of regret.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Electrics shafts cuts
The bubbling shade shakes
Fiddling all islands
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
Ink drying
as my well self
realizes how much
I mean this
need this -
the weaving,
the bleeding;
the needing
dampening future happiness
each step tripped backwards;
like the sounds you hear
or feel
when there's only silence,
or truth
to settle in
with the mush
or pile
or illusion,
dream
of something that
came too soon -
things I don't need
anymore;
My tear jerking
Prince,
reaching, mmm,
a push too far
without reason
or real love
enough to
set me free -
release me
from these dark clouds
of your little,
play-dream;
plucked your last pedal;
tasmanian devil
fiddling with my grace;
How cruel have I been
in your deepness?
I want you, baby,
but I need you not
to keep this steady pace;
deeperdeeperdeeper
in not being afraid
to sleep in this empty house
we built together -
but dare I
pull myself out?
God be with you, too.
Cold and dry.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
I met the devil many times
didn't drink his beer for free (like Kris Kristofferson#)
or beat him in a fiddling duel (like Charlie Daniels##)
but he wasn't trying too hard to hide
or convince me he didn't reside
in all our hearts at one time or another
Instead, he allowed me to see his (and my) wicked ways
and make me afraid that at the end of my days
if I failed to follow a prescribed and sacred tradition
I would land in the ****** world of perdition
this loathsome chap serves a purpose indeed
and those who have the interminable need
pray fervently each and every day
hoping to keep this imp at bay
but without him and his miscreant acts
we would be stuck with unimaginable facts
like bad things happen without a reason
and nobody is guaranteed a winning season
So if you meet him on some dark and lonely path
(as I have many a time)
fear not you will incur his wrath
for without him there would be none to blame
and we alone would have to feel the shame
for all the woe that is the world
(#Kris Kristofferson wrote a song in which he states he didn't beat the devil, but he drank his beer for free--##Charlie Daniels had a tune where he has a fiddle duel with the devil--I believe Charlie wins in the song)
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
Emotions
Balancing
Shadowing
Mimicking
Multiplying
Looking
Looking for space
Emotions
Darting
Fiddling
Wriggling
Balancing
Swelling with intensity
Looking
Looking for peace
A voice
An outlet
Emotions
Balancing
Teetering
Swelling with –
Unexpressed
Misunderstood
Intensity
Agitation
Looking,
Wanting, needing, creating
Unapologetic apathy
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet
Only needing food and tranquil retreat.
They try to be good and do what is right
But get into mischief from morn till night.
So hard not to adore each furry face
Though pranks may lead to many a disgrace
Fiddling and tearing the household blinds
Until sighing we think we'll lose our minds.
Hearts so overflowing with deepest love,
Sent from God the Father of Lights above.
Sadly few folks to such a good home give.
How can each darling continue to live?
And even though they may growl and grumble,
When time to eat tiny motors rumble.
Furry paws swat many a ragged mouse.
Without them would be a desolate house!
Families adopt babies, fortunes pay,
Yet for these wuss pusses refuse to sway.
More forgiving than us despite sharp claws,
Surpassing mankind's sins and blatant flaws.
Sixteen bewhiskered cats with tempers sweet!
What have they done to deserve such defeat?
.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
I am different
And have always been
Right from the age of four
Whether it be my fascination for trains
And cement mixers, for some reason
Or my peculiar fear of water
Or my obsession with the number of pages in a newspaper
And last but not the least
Playing cricket with myself
I am different
And have always been
I can't make small talk to save my life
Social cues are like Greek and Latin to me
I understand sarcasm
As much as Voldemort understands love
I keep fiddling with my things
Pens, papers, clothes, hair etc.
My room is as organised
As a typical bachelor's den is
And the list goes on and on
I am different
And have always been
Earlier, this always used to bother me
And make me feel inferior
Especially when people advised me
To improve my verbal communication skills
And body language
However, I have realised now
That they could not have been more wrong
Because I am autistic
And autism is not something that can be cured
Rather, it has to be managed
And thanks to therapy
I have been managing reasonably well
For the last five years or so
Let me repeat
I am different
And have always been
If you have a problem with that
You are welcome to leave
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 12:45 PM UTC