"fogy" poems
Great morning
In a fogy day
Coldest winds
Pass by
Verdant hills
Green scenery
Shine best
In swirling clouds.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
I've been going right on, page by page,
since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage,
two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out,
double-crossing out lives with doubt,
leaving us separate now, fogy with rage.
But then I've told my readers what I think
and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink,
have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed,
have pasted a black wing over my left breast,
have washed the white out of the moon at my sink,
have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore,
indeed, have loved that eggless man once more,
have placed my own head in the kettle because
in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias,
because this errand we're on goes to one store.
That shopkeeper may put up barricades,
and he may advertise cognac and razor blades,
he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries,
he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy,
he may let such as we flaunt our escapades,
swallow down our portion of whisky and dex,
salvage the day with some soup or some ***
juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall,
let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital,
lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks,
let us be folk of the literary set,
let us deceive with words the critics regret,
let us dog down the streets for each invitation,
typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation,
letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet
they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly,
given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly,
exploding with blood in this errand called life,
dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife,
tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly,
tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises,
wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes,
and unties our bone and is finished with the case,
and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face
or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs
like moth wings for a short while in a small place.
2k
A warm morning Sun
Flickering a ray of light
Making my fogy
Bachelor's heart bright,
A curtain raiser,
Thawing the ice of solitude,
You afforded me
A turn around
That rendered my life sound.
What a surprise
You gave me children—
God's gifts in a human guise!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
Today was another beautiful day.
I don't mean in the form of a bright
blue sky with the sun shining, in fact it
was rather fogy most of the time.
I mean the time I spent with my friends was fun
and exciting. We do, jonathon , Kevin and I
our usual routine meeting up at Newberry
to play soccer and football.
To make it more fun we do trick shots but today
I really looked forward to hanging out
with them for one big particular reason,
and that is the fact that I skipped my morning run.
Johnathon and Kevin are extremely active
which means we play sports usually everytime
we hang out. After I skipped my run, I felt bad
because I give myself something to do but I just
don't feel like doing it.
Running feels mandotory, and that is a
terrible feeling to have. But after I started
to play with Johnathon and Kevin it felt good.
I was getting lots of exercise and I was working a sweat.
I come to realize that I love that feeling
to be out of the house, hanging out with friends
and playing sports with them. It makes exercising
so much more fun that I now do it everyday.
Though I think to myself right now that I need to run tomorrow
morning, I think to myself as well that if I just can't then
I'll just have to play extra hard today with the boys. And
the best part is, I do play extra hard and it feels good.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
It was all a blur,
the fogy nights we spent together.
The numerous stares, everything that led to one of us, me, so much pain.
It all started because two souls were lonely and one was broken.
The other was alive and caring.
The first night was magical. Not like in the movies but how you would imagine it in real life.
Where nothing was perfectly perfect but it was perfect.
The drive back the first night made me only realize how fallen in love with you.
Maybe I was stupid,
I was.
I no longer will love. You left me numb.
When I wake up next to another guy numb is all I feel, all I’ve felt since you left.
You left me.
All of it is a blur, the way I felt, the things we did, the way I feel.
But today, I will focus on the fact that I am alone. That I will always be alone.
Today I will focus on that.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
BLUE VOICE
I am nothing but a boat its wing has a very bewitching tales I can't tell you their secrets. When the blue voice showed me its intangible soul, all the deep whispers dissolved in my dream as a sleepy blue rose. I can tell you another mystic glance; there are fogy seas of the blue voice, and you can feel their fingers touch your depth with calm astonishment. No, I am not a sorcerer, but I am just a passenger has drowned totally in the blue.
SLIVERY VOICE
I was not a chanter, but I could not sit on our tree bough when my grandfather had used to talk about the bright birds and the lucent horses of the sliver voice. There were cities of veiled winds their whispers touch our window with a delightful smile, penetrate our depth without delay and invade our souls with a deep salute. I was just a young child, and you can't expect to find in my pocket silvery fairies but our land is the daughter of the silver voice so you always find my daily chant; "oh the sliver voice, get my whishes on your wings and shelter my dream in the delicious midday. I am just a totally compliant and smooth southern child sits on that bough with sliver chants in his pocket."
PINK VOICE
I am not platonic, but I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice. Do you see the colored vociferous wedding? Its naked soul is a fragrance of the coquette eyelids of the pink voice. When your eyes see the momentary waves of the pink voice, at that time, you will remember my words, and you will feel hardly the remote carnivalesque lands of my dispersed corners. Yes, I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice, but I am a southern farmer knows everything about its dreamy smiles and hidden wishes.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
every day my mind went lose spilling every thing leaving me behind. i haven't slept cause my brain is in a fog of creative writing. the clock is ticking away when i sit at my desk with my pen and paper to write. but my mind went lose an my brain is in a fogy storm trying to even pick letters. i cant even catch my mind but my brain can find its way back. almost 12 am still have nothing. the lights go out and my eyes light up like the cats eyes reflecting back. how long do i have to run till my creative side is going to work. the clock ticks away but i put music on to play drowning this bull **** out.
i know writers block ***** but what can be the trigger object to let my writing flow threw me. its almost 1 am and i haven't even left to sleep but the only thing of words is what i can describe what i feel. vary vary ****** but i still have nothing expt this word in me
**** THIS WORLD **** THIS **** DON'T GIVE A ****
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Oh, love how you flee from me!
like a ghost haunting some sad and tragic place
you slip between my fingers
and leave an icy kiss
upon my lips
as you vanish like a fogy mist
at the breaking of day.
Oh, who has seen love
and who can tell me
of all her pleasures and charms
and her warm embrace.
Oh, my love
my heart has become like a glass flower
and like a glass flower
my heart is sure to break
in its all its longing
and sorrow for you.
Oh, you are the reason
that I am
and my heart beats its rhythm
only for you.
Oh, you are the song that leads me on
like a siren calling me
from some distant shore.
Oh, that call ever leads me on
and on that path I shall ever travel on
till I rest in your embrace
and in your embrace to ever remain.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC