"finicky" poems
Allah created the universe
With plenty of beauties
And entities
Eid being a marvel
In His creation.
Its a jubilee a jamboree
Islam golden moments.
Laughter smiles joy
Foods delicacies cuisines
Visits greetings hugs
All in this finicky day
Commemorates agitation
In our islamic entity.
Its surely a jubilee.
Eid a cheerful day
Eid be the morning star
The star that shines,
That shines in a shiny
Shining cloud
Dont you admire this?
Dont you?
I suppose it to be a jamboree.
Eid is here
Embracing do not fear
Eid is a pearl
In the shells of oyster
Rise up and liberate
Jump and hail
'Eid Mubarak'
Eid indeed a regal day
All this is ours
Ours for the taking
Ours for the loving
Ours for adorning
Amid our pride and passion
We shall slogan ourselves
'Eid Mubarak'
Eid a sheen,
Deactivate all forms of sins
Attained in all sorts of scenes
Satisfaction let it be seen
I admit that we do all sheen,
Caution we be keen.
A jamboree I incarnate.
Eid an endeavour
Allah put up this favour
Exquisite and dainty forever
This majestic day never shover
Blessings absolutely covers
Its a jubilee a jamboree
Islam sparkling moments.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
There is hope beyond a papery pharmacy
that is stocked with ink and sheepskin
The clerk is finicky and silent, and elixirs evaporate
as you browse the papyrus shelves
There is hope beyond this paper pharmacy,
so abandon poisons crafted by pen-laden fingers
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
Finger paint my life,
as I painted as a child
Trees now bigger and intricate in style
Do you think that's were we went wrong
To much detail, branches and leaves
Oh Finger paint my life
I could finger paint triangles
Mum knew they were trees?
Aeroplanes had smiles
and way to many wings
Oh finger paint your life
Cats and dogs looked like horses and sheep
But Dad knew what I painted
And all that it ment
So get out the paint and start again
Focus on basic and not over complex
Oh Fingerpaint your life
It isn't the details, the finicky bits
Not how many branches with leaves at their tips
Look to the simple, look deep inside
Then paint with your fingers
A triangle at a time
Fingerpaint your life woo woo oo
Finger paint your life
Mmmhhhhmmm
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
i don't believe in the hypocritical moralistic dogma of this so-called civilized society
everyone is finicky, demanding, and ignorant, like society runs on their selfish need
humanity is unhealthy, diseased, deceived by the smoke and mirrors of propriety
starving poets living off their art, starving celebrities living off their titanic sized greed
and people wonder why we have criminals who will do anything to get away with crime
if everyone saw the real side of people, trust would be another delusional superstition
guilt is like spiders crawling onto your naked skin and onto your famished spine
some people believe they are the bricks to rebuild a home with ammunition
we are force fed trust in these strangers in a extremely vulnerable habitat
like a bird's feathers clipped off, we are unable to fly, unable to breathe
like an army without weapons, we are unprepared for the sudden combat
like a witches cauldron, the brain's contents bubble and seethe
-kra
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Raspberries and ginger ale
Never can I tell
If they end well
Last prairie unsettled
Not claimed yet
From greed
Mechanical rattle comes from kitchen
A power tool dancing
Upbeat digital alarm
Click, juernk, juniper
All noises unsaleable
Fingerless to put on
Fearless finicky me
I'm angsty and funny
And stupid and satiated
Satiated with alertness
Created by newspaper
Hated by voices
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I woke from sleep and looked outside today
to see that spring has sprung from infancy,
grass still wearing some snow like a toupee
and squirrels that are all but finicky.
I try to process all this imagery,
but my emotions are over my head,
so I sit in bed and smile wistfully.
I could be forthright with what should be said
and risk that it is misinterpreted,
or I could keep it in and let it go
and watch the opportunity lie dead.
Each spring a rose must bloom to be full grown
and blossom for everybody to see,
it's time I show the world who I can be.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute
And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute
With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute
Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
Eros
Eros was named after the Greek god
He was large, black, and hairy
He was a Newfoundland
and a new-found love
to everyone he met
He weighed 155 pounds,
half of which surely was heart
There was no creature that displayed more love
or more character than Eros
He loved most everything and everyone
But more than anything,
he loved a cat
He followed that cat everywhere
He would have done anything for that cat
But the cat showed no love in return
She would turn her cold nose up at the sight of Eros
She dreaded his clumsy stride
Always followed by a wet tongue
dripping drool and a heavy tail
But Eros loved her nonetheless
He followed his heart wherever it led him
And the world was a better place because of him
Eros' heart never failed anyone but himself
Because of a heart defect
he died at the age of eight
Seemingly everyone mourned the loss of Eros
Everyone but the cat
The cat went about her business
The same cold, finicky cat
that Eros loved unconditionally
It seemed that the cat felt no loss at all
Don't be fooled
Late at night, once in a while
The cat can be seen and heard
perched atop a window sill
Looking off into the darkness
In the distance,
a dog barks
and her ears focus
Listening for the clumsy footsteps
and swooshing tail
of a big black dog
With a long wet tongue
and a big bad heart
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
**** the things that make you run,
who needs 'em?
And let's be honest,
aren't we all a little more afraid of
staying, anyway?
I'm tired of all the toughness.
It is not pretty or popular or thoughtful or fond
to be a disconnected, dearly contented, apathetic
sack of **** body bag made of
music and stardust and a cacophany of epiphanies
being carried around in a lump of a brain that has
"no ***** to give".
I'm tired of the way that we're striving to live and it's ********
Giving up is not poetic,
and heavy tears are not pathetic when they have been built by
resistance
to the every growing popularity of a
selfish way of living,
as in taking without giving
and being unconcerned with the result.
It's not adult to be so *******
foolish,
and childish,
and finicky
and spineless
and what is this "toughness" anyway but a
generation of ********
who's parents didn't want to have too listen to them cry.
And no silver spoons would ever ponder on why.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Let's offer up our prayers to a finicky Father
who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking
away senility on that rickety chair
with a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets.
Who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking?
Our Father, keeping his heart warm against the gusts.
With a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets
perfectly square (but too small to share with others),
our Father's keeping his heart warm. Against the gusts
and idling time, again he stays busy carving figures
perfectly square but too small to share. With others,
these tokens will help the faithful remain fertile
and idling. Time again, he keeps busy carving figures
on the edges of a pesky map. Mad for expansion,
these tokens will help the faithful. "Remain fertile!"
Father cautions, as he watches a big screen TV.
On the edges of a pesky map mad for expansion,
many errant souls who wander are unable to hear
Father's cautions. As he watches a big screen TV,
the devil's slipping him a low-ball offer to buy
many errant souls. Who wander are unable to hear
news heaven's economy is still struggling, and
the devil's slipping him. A low-ball offer to buy,
our aging Father mulls over hot oatmeal and tea.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
Fittingly meticulous, finicky
Precisely mitigating routine
Tracing excessively
Over cornered mezzanine
Stray penciled lines
Candidly contrived
Archaic dossier
Balanced centers
Unavoidably erase
Guiltily lost the way
Confused compass oscillates
Irregularly unanticipated
Perpetually transitory
Tender heart insecurity
Ego sensitivities in vain glory
Sacrificed arrogance dignity
On the day of defeat
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
Twilight envelops my being
As I gaze upon this banquet.
A banquet to tempt
the strongest of wills.
Philosophers think about it
poets pen poetic verses.
A canvas of impeccable beauty
to satisfy the most
finicky of palates
Therapy for the mind,
like a sanctuary of soft
gentle music to
replenish the spirit,
calm, soothe the soul.
Humbled by all this,
I feel blessed to have
been awarded this
loving garden to enjoy.
I am humbled by
this awesome
majestic kingdom.
Mountain ranges loom large
above the horizon
some with tops of white
snow capped crowns.
Moonlight now replaces
the reddish sunset.
I rise from where
I have knelt in homage.
For I have seen the
beauty of heavens gate.
this blessing I
shall never forsake.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
electric impulses knaw
at nubs formerly known
as finger tips,
worn down to bits by
the desire to drench
this world with one
simple thing that may
or may not be
everlasting
i'm in search of
a replacement for
flimsy false hopes
and finicky heart pokes,
for flat lined finite
chopped up bits
flying up nostrils
in hysterical hits
even escapists smack
walls from which
they can't slither
through silently,
walls covered in
mirrors full of
faces fueled with
hostility
all the faces are
my own and it's
time i find some grace
before i finally
pull my last astonishing
escape from this place
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
lassitude lassoed her
she let her tripod hide in her hatchback
and woke not her camera
from its long nap
instead, she sat, a bowl of popcorn
in her lap, watched reruns of Madmen
and ogled a multitude of mushy moons
on Facebook's finicky feed
some were orange, some ivory
some gibbous, some round, all purporting
to be profound
this rare occurrence, captured copiously
in 2D, for all to see, and wonder, why shadows
on rocks rub us right, while myriad stars collapse every night,
and planets thought to be elegantly aligned,
are but bobbing bubbles
in an infinite sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
It's sad to say this
We live under umbrella terms
On some kind of spectrum
Abiding by Murphy's law
Being read our Miranda rights
Numbers on a scatter plot
In other words it's an open invitation
For one trick ponies
To sideswipe us
Knock us for a loop
Knocking us down a few pegs
Making us a laughing stock
Sieg heil the zeitgeist
Study the hermit's manifesto
It speaks of finicky beggars
And groveling choosers
Honor slayings
Oscar-worthy faked *******
First rate blood baths
Second rate novelty acts
Bending over backwards
And knee **** reactions
Cooking up something abominable
Having it hit the fan
To ensnare and entrap all who are near
Hot off the knock-off stenograph
Tack on another ten thousand years
In other news...
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Have you ever had a candle
that instead of giving bright relief
would not be properly handled
and only brought you luminous grief?
A strain is placed on my eyes
As I struggle to engage in a story,
But for a story it is coarse and boring.
That sleep comes early is no suprise.
Medieval life - could this be real?
I could get used to the nobility,
But I know this rainy night all too well,
It brought me reluctantly back to reality.
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
rickety rackety hickory sticks 10
bundled for the burning 6
finicky syncope, verse that predicts 10
a pleasure twice returning. 7
clickety clackety silver-wrought tongues 10
kittens and cats in cahoots 7
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
I see your soul like it's on fire
Flickering like your inner desire.
It's beautiful and gold
Something for me to hold.
It lashes out at my own soul
Igniting my fire from burnt-out coal.
And in the coal lies diamond shards
That I gamble with my cards.
We roll the dice together
But the game goes on forever.
Your soul binding to mine
Our bodies entwined.
The fires roaring inside our being
Keeping us from fleeing.
And on and on we go
On and on, to and fro.
To the end together as one
Dancing since the fire begun.
Finicky flames, but burning bright
You and I, what a sight.
Liquid love, cold steel blue
Combining, becoming what is true.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC
i. You are lying in a bed with no sheets and you are convinced your friends' parents are alcoholics. You are convinced that your entire life has been woven of slimy, sloppy lies and half truths. And you are convinced that you are a werewolf.
ii. At the chili cook-off two years ago you were wearing red flannel and a bandit hat and you were watching your entire home town get wasted, looking at you like a museum. You are convinced that you have been lied to.
iii. It was a full moon and you wanted to tear your clothes off. Except for the bellbottoms which you wanted to carefully hang up with a finicky crease for next time.
iv. You notice that down the street the Hy-ho has closed and you are unsure how to proceed because you know that normal people do not get upset about such trivial things as midnight blue pies and insomniac coffee. You want to sob, but people will talk.
v. You are convinced you are a werewolf and you have been lied to. Everyone is smoking around you and you want only to make it stop. This is where your mother grew up. You say nothing.
vi. Drinks seem to appear in your hands, unsolicited. You have forgotten your ID, but everyone knows you from the papers anyway, everyone knows your family and they sort of apologize for spilling beer on your boots. Sort of.
vii. You crave pies at midnight and this is a "beautiful city" with a square that does not quit and causes quite a few accidents. This is a "beautiful city" filled with people who will never get over the high school quarterback, people who will never admit they have a problem with Stag, though the cans lie all around you.
viii. You are a werewolf and you are convinced you have been lied to about alcoholism. You are upset about the Hy-ho, more so than you should be. If you took off your flannel now, you would never be able to get your heart back in your chest and Belleville would laugh itself to sleep.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
My drug, my escape
my gravity,
You are what I lean on
when wind beckons
shrilling of the whole world
amassing within
such small confines.
My air would still
upon silent panics
without you
my constant dosage.
My head is the mount,
my ears the hungry mouths
voracious their appetites, finicky
their tastes.
A hungry duet
yields no isolation.
Fuel the diet
or suffer endless
distraction.
My solitude
won't arise
from elusive
silence, only
multiples of white
noises shall supplant
the unknown absence.
Prepare these notes
as artists do
strokes on a painting,
each their own masterpiece for
the uninhibited mind,
deliver me
a melody, and abstain
the malady.
Grace will unfurl
to and from
when the blank that is
limbo besieges.
Remove all, allow
me to nurture my own
joys of rainfall,
sorrows of sunlight
so I may be spared
relentless storms, those
sandy blizzards,
for their pain
is mere
chaos.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
Like my finicky constrictor with one third of his body
Erected up like the Eiffel Tower he looks to the top
Waiting for the next meal to be delivered to satisfy
When the pain becomes too much to bare
On the move he goes searching for the next treat
Around in circles is all he can do confined in a glass music box
When normally even in nature they just lay and wait
I too am like that serpent that suffocates and then consumes
Waiting for that early morning call to start my day off
Too start it on the perfect note don’t matter what side of the bed
Finding myself at the pumps to go the extra mile I see out in the distance
I know of a place, heart is banging ever so hard here I come now
As if a pitcher on his dirt mound flexing before his throw
First pitch makes it a fast ball then I run to the plate to try and hit it
Strike one! Too fast, bases are loaded ninth inning uneven score series at stake
Second pitch makes it a slow ball and uses precision, articulate the words this time
Ran again and missed now Nero’s stadium of the dead is chanting, “Send Us Home!”
You can do it; I’m doing it for the home team that is all that is on your mind
Like my bag of tricks I pull out another, I’ll show them who spits out diamonds when he talks
Last and final pitch I send out a curve ball ran ever so fast and grabbed my club
Looked to the heavens and wacked a GRAND SLAM sending the dead to home, we won!
I know someday later I must follow, till then I’ll take my time rounding the bases
Smelling all the flowers and listening to the melody of birds along the way
For I look at people different now and I take time to look at all of them in their eyes.
(CARSr. 5-16-12)
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:22 PM UTC
i see dead things, they coat the insides of my lungs
the scent of roadkill stings my eyes
the sight of mangled twisted carcass
saps the sadness from my gums
i see things in a red tinge, ever since i began to
absorb the fringes of weeping trees,
and stories of all the things i feared knowing
all scarlet letters that look apple-sweet
and hues of unhinged cringesom nights spent in the bath pooling
forties and bad memories and them stitched in the back seat,
sidewalks singed with a strange bitter heat speckled with white lies
while bruised fruits are dancing 4/4 measures on my concrete cheeks
grass curled, fists rustily sprung, wounds wound tight, see
my heart is beating 3/4ths of the time, waltzing meaty and slowcooked
falling from the bones, down to the knees
clinging to the ground with all my might, i thought of her
taking a lighter to the split ends of her hair in the bathroom
i didn't move, so as not to drag the blood through the streets
i will not let you see, i will not let them see
but there are never any band aids when i need them
and i wear my feelings on my sleeve and you read them
keep up a finicky fight with a world i don't believe in
i wish i knew exactly why we're fighting to begin with
you swallowed whole and chewed on the bones
and i'm getting ****** off so i want to know
if you can just be ******* happy now
everything is slimy and porous and tinged with copper tones of terrible
how can anyone be easy to love and why is love so angry when no one is
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
He walked to the gate while the soft summer wind stirred the oak,
and the sun reflectively smiled in the ruts on the road,
to greet his brother Ted who’d languidly move across
so that Vic could companionably lean and look at their cattle
grazing under the Breckland pine, and reflect.
He drove his tractor and tended his fields,
enjoying the changing seasons but moaned about fen blows,
and unexpected showers which slowed the combine,
good naturedly grumbling with other farmers
about the price of fat cattle, the return on wheat,
and how many potatoes are in a packet of crisps,
when at Bury market on a Wednesday.
He’d sit to the left of the door of the Cricket Club
contentedly watching Lakenheath bat,
and readily smiled when they’d hit a six,
bringing his big brown hands together
to join in the ripple of applause.
He’d bring his prince of a Yorkshire to where
his grandchildren drooled ready for turkey
with all the trimmings, and fresh vegetables,
hearing the microwave hum, cooking the pudding
whose brandy sauce bit, before heading the evening games,
candidly laying a domino, announcing to all concerned
"Another fifteen."
He’d talk about the little black pony he drove as a youth
over top Maiden Cross Hill to Brandon,
with a cart full of produce, hating the finicky woman
who always made him eager for home.
He hoed his little bit of garden, and happily cut a lettuce for his tea,
another to pop round a neighbours' with a hand full of beans,
and a third to lay with the sack of spuds waiting for his children.
He watched the Weakest Link, and commented
on the stupidity of students, and foolish woman
wishing to spend a thousand on a handbag, and reckoned that:
“If there were more men like brother George,
who was straight and true, the world would be a better place.”
He laid in bed in the moonlight, listening
to golden oldies of yesteryear, and Victor Palmer,
the father of five, my dear Father, a gentle giant of a man,
a man of the soil, dreamed of his garden…
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:15 PM UTC