"floundered" poems
When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
Hi, nice to meet you,
I'm Me
And this is Ana,
who is also Me
There was a time before Her,
but it was so long ago
that the memories are fuzzy around the edges
She was so quiet,
I didn't even hear Her come in
I turned,
and She was simply there
She was so soft
Her voice a mere whisper
among the surrounding chaos
When I floundered,
drowning in the dark ocean of My reality
She was there
powerful, capable, calm
I am Her, and She is Me
We were powerful, capable, calm
So powerful, so capable, so calm
victory over oneself
Where She was once quiet,
She became thunderous
once soft,
now unyielding
It happened so fast,
I didn't even notice I was no longer steering
That I'd been demoted by a jury of Me
We live together in this prison of Ours;
swimming endlessly
in the turbulent waters that is Our stream of consciousness
like a boiling ***
The vessel that We inherited
through no choice of Our own
is in a constant state of disrepair
And there is One Thing on which She and I can agree:
I am Her, and She is Me, and She and I will die as We.
Et tu, Brute?
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
*The August Moon saw the rise of a phoenix from the ashes,
In the huts of poverty was she born,
An arrow of peace,
The changing touch of a stranger
She, the one with an old soul
She, the one with joy
She, the one with a vibrant smile
She, the one with a heart of gold
She, the one with selfless love
Born and bred with the tenacity of a lioness, courage did she ooze with her every day stride
A delicate orchid, with the raw beauty of a black rose
A gift amongst the blessed
She, a pillar of strength
She, a beacon of hope
She, a wild heart
She, a rebellious soul
She, a free spirit
She, a phenomenal woman
Floundered the earth for her offspring did she,
Gave wholeheartedly,
Loved wholeheartedly,
Lived fully did she.
Still now, she molds from her final resting place a queen and king
She, my mother.*
**Happy Birthday Mom!!!
12/08/1974--12/11/2008
Rest In Peace**
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.
My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.
But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.
Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.
She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.
The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.
So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.
Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.
© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
reign on my charade, but risk the dapple
the first to kayak to mars. Jester, you say?
Messers Metro, Goldwyn and Meyer shan't have floundered
if you had taken the turtleneck, roughshod
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
reign on my charade, but risk the dapple
the first to kayak to mars. Jester, you say?
Messers Metro, Goldwyn and Meyer shan't have floundered
if you had taken the turtleneck, roughshod
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
The Banker's Fate
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was the fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!"
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half a day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!"
2.1k
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Of course it was never her fault.
So many misgivings, so much insanity
Capacity to care floundered
Dispersed white powder fragments
Blow on broken glass tables
A surrendered white Christmas
Drawn matted curtains keep
Crystal blue skies and
Bright sunshine hidden
In darkness Dr Seus’
“How The Grinch Stole Christmas”
The stealing of innocence
A childhood
A prevalence greater than
Any Christmas
Her imagination only fuelled by
The blinkering television set
Thurl Ravenscroft’s voice penetrating her silenced soul
In a climate of disdain
Christmas spirit in shortage
How she lived alongside Cindy Lou
Her scarred heart, willing and eager
For just one taste
Of a day so sacred.
© Sia Jane
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
An Old Loner...
Let anger replace the yoke of an egg,
Chicks born in turmoil, soon left, to beg;
Shell is damaged with just one evil peck,
The Cuckoo landed,on different deck.
She placed evil eye on this christmas bird,
Made sure it kept him, away from the hurd.
He's the loner, emotional recluse,
The outward bounder, who discovered the truth.
Floundered on falsification and lies
All he needed was truth to devise,
A cup full of natural happy stings
That gifts the hope that church bells still ring.
Bay fronted windows, a mirror on life
Remembers that smile, the last from his wife.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
I have come to conclusion
over sunpierced crust
brittle as tobacco leaf
astride mottled nag
scraggling on loose gravel
sandsoaked
saltsteeped
leadheavy in lid
past dactyled tracks
parallel cobbled macadam
wavering shale
lockjawed lava rock
fractured cobalt
lone juniper
forgotten scrub
open boil of tar and pitch
halfburied bones of leviathan
still shifting in the clouded boom
of stone
through grapeshot hail
adobed pueblos
thatchskinned women
and straw men
all witches
flaying the gila
pestling scale with cornmeal
and fermented mescal
desert sangria
hallucinating sideways in the murk
where coyotes yip
and each star a conflagration
mirrored in the captive eyes
of floundered meteorites
at the terminus
where sun and moon merge
I know the question
and response
from where do you come
to where do you go
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
When sleep deserted me
I crawled out of my bed unseen
To delve into the crevices of the dark
With the curiosity of an explorer
And the near comatose of a somnambulist
I walked up and down the steep slopes of the night
Like a night watchman
Without a lantern in his hand
When my legs grew weary
I sat on a rock
Covered with moss and lichen
Staring at the dark night sky
With no constellation of fireflies
Flashing their torches anywhere
Sitting there, I listened to the song of night birds,
The rustle of leaves,
The howl of wolves,
And the night wind’s rave
Looking into the dark pockets of the night,
I thought of human mind, a deep gorge
With many an uninhabitable corner
Where serpent desires lie coiled
Scorpions crawl with toxic pincers
Predators roam to prey upon helpless victims
The mystery of the night absorbed me
Her muffled sounds, her dark beauty
Her elusive charm, like thick night fog,
Percolated deep into my consciousness
And I floundered in a fathomless sea,
Swirling in her eddies and currents.
It whisked me away to lands far…far!
But on being washed ashore,
I was in a creative delirium
I am now in No Man’s Land
Where everything is in a coma of stillness
Where no light glimmers
No door ajar
And no one in sight!
Here the poet in me breaks open
The somnambulist's comatose
And down way flow my thoughts in indelible ink
Which only I can read
Like a night bird
Roosting among the branches of a tree
I sing of my heart aches,
Of my yearnings and longings
In the barely audible whispers of the night,
My song reverberates in the eyeless abyss down,
And the dark desolate valleys below
People say, ghosts walk the earth at night.
Oh! I am not scared!
I am not eager for the dawn to break,
Nor want to put my pen down!
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
Of course it was never her fault.
So many misgivings, so much insanity,
Capacity to care floundered.
Dispersed white fragments,
Blow, on broken glass tables,
A surrendered white Christmas.
Cartoon shapes form,
A blinkering television set,
With a lowly child meek submission,
Afraid to question a day, date, time,
Just the imagination fuelled by,
Children's laughter behind,
Matted curtains keeping,
Crystal skies bright sunshine.
In darkness, Dr Seuss'
"How The Grinch Stole Christmas,"
The stealing of innocence,
A childhood,
A prevalence greater than,
Any Christmas.
Spirit in shortage,
How she lived alongside,
Cindy Lou, wishing & eager,
For even just one taste,
Of a day so sacred.
Adults circulate, noise polluting air,
Insects festering in,
Corners untouched,
By rancid faeces,
A baby boo striving,
To thrive (survive),
In a climate of disdain,
Unworthy.
Another one bites the dust.
© Sia Jane
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
looking across time
from my etheric perch
or was it a pike
as I sat on my flounder…
as I was perched on a flounder…
perched on a pike I floundered
pike perch flounder
flounder perch pike
pike flounder perch
mike’s rounder peach
like sounder greetings
tricycle ground feet
triglycerides around meat
polymorphic lounge ****
people forget
poetry is expression
silliness for its own sake
nonsensical whimsy
for laze-abouts and lollygaggers
with unicorns and dragons
nothing is more magical than language –
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Bulbous eyes and gaping mouth see splayed flesh
Served on rice with wasabi, bodies naked and fresh
Bash my glass brimming with koi fish swimming
"Am I WINNING?!" he screamed so drunk on saki, a wok he'd
Swept off the counter, I floundered
And so spying asked "Why are you crying?"
Because the waitress with plaited hair quit last week?
Because you're short on rent and you're all out of drink?
Well so am I PUT ME BACK IN THE WATER!
The fodder that expects me to
Always look pretty.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
F-flippantly finding four friends of mine praying
I-in cages bound wrists floundered hopelessness
N-nevertheless, the day after was flaying
E-everything, it was changing, don’t worry, I’m fine.
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
when I grew up I became a writer,
and at the same time all other
pursuits faded and floundered,
crumpling and whimpering like
puppies made of paper thin rose petals.
all my time is spent in thought,
warm wet puffy clouds of insight;
when I emerge in the light
of day with the mere mortals
chewing their complacency
like doe eyed, robotic cows,
my hands shake and my words run together.
I am too busy for the nonsense people call the daily grind,
that 9-5 mentality and the routine, oh the routine,
where we do what we hate so we have ten minutes to do
what we love and who we love.
Can't someone propose that we can do what we love
and get paid to do so, paid horrendously delicious amounts of money,
that would make basketball players blush and drug dealers cry?
For now I will take charge of this joblessness and settle into
my thoughts where I am free to roam
past streets filled with people waving at me and cheering me on;
I'll work your 9-5, and I'll spend a hearty 11 minutes
pouring my soul into my writing.
Sorry I'm late to work again.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
HEART BEAT TO MY SOUL
Sitting there in that all to familiar chair ,sounds all around but not a cheer I could hear
Facing the beginning of that not new feeling ,slumping downward but frozen from reaching outward
Mind in place so far no disgrace,settling in for the unknown to begin, slowly trickling down to an invisible lower tier
Pressures pressing, muscles stretching ,becoming faceless ,unknown to be strong or become a coward
Clenching quickly becoming entrenched warm glow resting as the mind becomes more lucid but without fear
Losing faces or places of all we held dear ,measurement and scales off kilter ,emotions floundered
Clouds forming spaces receding now unable to give that final greeting,simple breathing creating it's own atmosphere
Auras completing their cycles, mindless focus going spacial ,blossoming then building will this be stronger longer than others previously encountered
Drawn deeply into the lair has again left our soul bare ,we are left to hold our own as we drift into that thousand yard stare. R.C.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
I met an eccentric fisherman today
He was five foot five with a beard
Seven foot seven
As gant as the pole in his hands
And more bronze than my shower taps
He had a salty grin and six black teeth
'Ye fancy fish, interior boy?'
S sounds whisled
'Aye got one ere for ye then lad'
It floundered in my tender land hands
It's gills flapped open like window blinds
'Relinquish me boy'
'Wet my skin in the waters of home,
And I'll trade a desire for my freedom'
I gazed at the fisherman
He had disappeared
'Release this fish and I'll grant
The deepest wish for ye, small ant.
For my power is great'
I'm hungry, powerfish
I haven't eaten for days
Could you give me that?
'A simple wish, a gift most easily given
Drop me boy and you'll taste heaven'
It floundered
Water splashed my face as the fish
Swam away from the shore.
Where is my meal, oh powerfish?
'Fool hearted boy, simpleton left hungry
Never trust fish or else ye angry
Enjoy the hunger lad
I'm the tastiest fish you could have had!'
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
My love
Is a poem translated
Meaningless
Between the lines
It germinated
And bloomed
And floundered
In the memory of
The fallen flower
Wounded seriously
Fighting
With the insects
Buried themselves
Between the petals
My poem
Now
Is a morsel of
Crumbled words
Translated by the unknowns
With the pen
Filled with poison
This fallen poem itself
Is my love.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
. . . . . . . .
And I let the fish go.
—Elizabeth Bishop
All the people are old people.
Older than me.
Granddad took me fishing
with one of his friends.
They said we’d catch flounder.
They killed the engine
near the bridge pilings.
The lines stayed slack
until a red and white
floater fell below
the bay’s polluted waves.
I thought I felt a flounder
heaving on the hook.
I reeled it up—
a fish,
cylindrical and silver.
Alert, black eyes peered
at me. He floundered
against the skiff’s side
with a barbed hook inside
his young, unscarred mouth.
The old men laughed:
flounder are flat
and brown.
He was small
and nothing special—
not a flounder.
But they didn't let him go.
They ground my catch up
into a pink paste, spotted
with specs of broken bone.
We threw the pieces off the boat
to chum the water.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC