"foibles" poems
Perplexed people of a politically polluted land,
Are uncertain of who they truly are.
Sons supporting freedom's fight, fathers seem lost,
Seeking meager gains with no gain in power.
Subjugation and forced order is in play,
Forgotten the episodes of cold blooded ******
Rapes, intimidation and tormented nights,
All ignored, for they are not
our daughters or mothers.
No concern given to our neighbors strife?
Our humanity we sold, for positions in this land.
Strengthened the corrupted power at play,
Full of anarchy and devoid of mercy.
The foibles in name of government and development,
Oh Lord!Fill our fellows hearts
with compassion.
Open their eyes to the inadequacies,
Bring our nation back to consciousness.
©Perveiz Ali
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
I'm not anti-gay;
I enjoin their parades.
I'm not anti-lesbian;
In truth,
I'm in love with them.
I'm not anti-trannie;
I'm Granda not Granny.
I'm not anti-bi;
But still I won't try.
I'm not a misogynist;
Though I use the word chick.
I'm not Questioning,
Anyone.
I'm Pro-Life,
And Pro-Choice.
A singular voice.
Take it easy.
I've foibles
Shared by
The race.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
So, this is godhood. This is how it works.
It's dreaming up a world and killing it,
Abandoning the foibles and the quirks
Of crushed-together crumblings and bits,
Then sweeping out the wreckage with a curse
And carving out another fever dream.
It's wandering a mindscape universe
And sifting through the crop to find the cream
So you can save it while you burn the rest,
Just for the room to have another try.
The lovelies you've been cradling close to chest?
In time you'll cast them off to wilt and die
But for a while they're almost what you need.
Go raze the field and plant another seed.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Sai Baba is the most Popular Hindu monk
And mother Teresa is the most beloved Christian nun
Both of them almost reached the state of divinity
by serving the humanity And with a lot of religious piety
Some may think Sai Baba is just a magician
And Mother Teresa is merely a nun
Their arguments sound quite fun
because All the nuns and magicians can’t serve the world
on such a grand scale unless they have divine charisma
Both of them have disciples all over the world
They were treated and revered almost like living gods
As humans they might have suffered from some human follies and foibles
But they proved to the world that SERVICE TO HUMANITY IS SERVICE TO GOD
Let us all pray for the two noble souls
Keeping our religious faiths aside
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:56 AM UTC
People, you are pots of paint for my canvass.
With all your quirks and foibles,
And wonderful ways.
The world indeed is crowded
With many pots of paint:
Glorious views.
My brushes are all aquiver,
Inspired by everything.
From India to Iceland,
Russia to sunny Spain.
You folk, I love to paint you,
Though never your actual words.
The universe, a marvel,
Flying through the heavens.
Swirling spiral galaxies,
Pallets for my verse.
Paul Butters
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
in a cave
off the coast of ecstasy
the greed of one man to another
is the perpetrator of death
from god’s ribcage
grow the gardens of eden
his blood flows through oceans
his fingertips write the
garden of verses
surrounding sleepy children
from god’s bones
marrow fertilized
skin becomes soil
clouds, his imaginary friends
fastened from the foibles of our minds
from forth: his creation
from flower woman is born
sleepily blooming, reaching out her
arms to the sun
as life comes to death
and life
again.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
I Am A Rainbow
I come and I go.
Where from where to?
Few know
You think you see me up in the sky
Touching the ground, from on high
In days of old, tales were told
They say at my feet,
Lay pots of gold
If you search, you'll not find any thing
The gold is illusory, just like me
Fondness for foibles, fiction and fable
You've been hoodwinked, I'm unstable
I look down below and what do I see?
People coming and going just like me
They think they're different; they don't know?
We are the same, we're all rainbows
We wear our art, iridescent garb
Like sound in a seashell
We're all special
Hello and goodbye my colorful friend
We will meet again, in the end.
Sean Hunt
Windermere May 2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
The moon wore Janus masks last night,
Winking and nudging at our daily shenanigans;
Our wrong turns, the vanity of our foibles,
The apprehension of non-events,
Poking at our comedy of errors.
Our youthful angst.
The other mask keeps an eye closed
To our secrets,
The thoughts we cannot share;
Our furcht of past to future
Since our first fires,
Since someone said, You've said too much,
Or, What business is that of yours?
I've buried my losses beneath that mask,
With all the irreplaceable loves and deaths
Of my real drama.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
(you are not mine)
I ride this wave alone.
surfboard.
crash.
drown.
up for air.
breathe again.
eyes open.
sunshine.
feet on sand.
i escaped the pull of pain.
within the waves.
of heartache.
i long for you.
to wrap me in a towel.
your arms.
cradle my small body.
strip out of wetness.
step into heat.
water washing away the fear.
i felt in the sea.
------
(and if you were...)
crawl into sheets.
mattress underneath,
you on top.
all your weight.
pushing me into bliss.
rise.
from slumber.
your body against mine.
warmth and wetness meet again.
chew. swallow.
nourished by grains.
tea,
brew.
wake me further.
my day begins and ends.
with you.
i find my way.
back to your love.
troubled.
over-thinking.
you quiet the noise.
crippled.
you caress this soul.
i meet the sea again.
and you pull me free.
from the waves.
of a scarred brain.
that has seen evil.
and monsters.
you love me regardless.
of my foibles.
and.
you set me free.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
aromatic coffee awakens senses
midst the gestured warmth of radiant
smiles's 'tween morning brew,
reverently paused to catch
the awe inspiring poignancy
of sunrise's exhilaration,
whilst cozily wrapped in the delightful unfurl
of captivating poetry's skillful delectation
a rising ritual begun many blue moons afore,
tempting consciousness, feeding soulfulness
enlightening sensibilities as it
enriches the day's appreciation
'pon the keen awareness of poets,
tempests from all niches of the world
coming together amid upheavals and serenity,
ceremoniously dubbed fierce confirmations
of words expressly borne, communing the
artfully spirited of resourceful artisans,
procuring special collective bonds that
only poesy can wholly dictate,
they look upon us as enigmas
rather strange breed of puzzling characters,
as this inexplicable endeavor
escapes their stifled perceptions
of conduit's musing reasonable facsimile,
we're merely cognitive passages for
experiences on common ground
in realizations of all-too-human foibles
eccentricities, yearnings and fortitude,
released deliverance of potpourri
serving up inky joy beyond expression,
intention's distinction deciphering
reflections in meditative affirmations,
breadth of unrestrained beholden visions
conjured notions of paramount significance
wherein lies evidence of life's burnt offerings,
beginnings and endings of hearts' indulgences
wept in resolute celebrations of existence
as only a poet could discernibly translate
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
~for you, girl~
words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,
one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness
frantic is a continuum’s conundrum
and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction
what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,
for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction worthy of
distinguishing
your human value is beyond compare
exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers
you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require
and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a
*** did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are
are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
you know you take
words and some cement and glue
and you make them all stick together
into verse and poetry;
and you gather love like a rolling stone
and you blow wild seeds in the air
and you’ve got fine diction
and refined sentiments
and it’s made into a poem
and it all makes sense
oh baby,
it all makes too much sense
you work like Vivaldi
and make poems about seasons
or you work like Goethe
and pour roaring poetry
to outdo Shakespeare
and you frighten Edgar Allan Poe;
and you have great insight
like the Buddha or some Great Prophet
or Only One Savior
and you give us mighty fine inspired poetry
pure, pure spirituality;
or you just take Revelation
like the countless mindless followers
the Great Being has been plagued with since Inception
and you make verse
and oh, it all makes sense
it all makes too much sense
and you take my foibles, our foibles
and your poems
laugh at them
or you put fine words together and string beads of harmony
like a millions-dollar necklace
Richard Burton might have offered Liz Taylor
oh you know you make poems
that come across time and cyberspace
and they all maketh perfect sense
but
how about
baby
you and me make verse
that knocks out sense and makes no sense?
poetry that takes the mickey out of meaning?
no, not for a change -
but forever?
no, not for entertainment
but for nonsense?
so that senses is knocked senseless
and we escape you and me
to North Caledonia
to Paradise of rhythm and senseless-beauty
and we have a beat
and we have a pulse
and the street gang says in awe:
Oh, hey
see these two babies move
they’ve got the style
they’ve got the swing
Yeah, they’re a fine couple of babies!
so we got no sense
and sense-less is meaningless
so we got no sense in nonsense either
or senselessness for that matter
we got nothing baby
(well, nothing on as well)
but plenty of rhythm and sway
we drop all fine subjects
that determine our lives
so we are all freed of lies maybe
(we don’t know what will happen)
and we got the spirit of poetry
beyond sense and line and word and form and intent and purpose
and that gets all the universe rocking
(no doubt, there’s enough rock already)
baby
in one baby-making sway
how about that, baby?
you and me
abandon sense
and dance naked between planets and stars?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
***Autumn is icumen in,
With all its tricks,
Its treats and whims.***
I can't mourn
Summer's passing;
Those days
Of idle slumber.
Summer suns
And midnight moons,
The silhouettes of June;
Holiday highs,
Mad July;
The robust garden
Lust of August.
I won't.
Autumn air
Affronts my senses,
The Arctic cool
Dips and rules.
The moss has left
The trees;
Arthritic twigs
Let lose
The leaves.
Autumn is icumen in
Autumn,
With its foils
And foibles,
Rakes us in
With harlequin sins,
And all its
Wherewithal.
Embrace your fall.
Winter is icumen in
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
We cannot take
a good, hard look
at ourselves
without help;
our own perception
a fun-house mirror,
twisting our foibles
into grotesques.
We become too big,
thinking we loom large
in the lives of others
who could not care less,
or we shrink into nothing,
disappearing from those
who miss us dearly.
Judge, jury and executioner,
we condemn ourselves
as not worthy of the air we breathe.
We cannot take
a good, hard look
at ourselves.
The look is rarely good,
and often far,
far too hard.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
God took my soul
This morning.
In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.
I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.
All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.
Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.
So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.
*Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,
In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.
You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.
Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.
It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.
Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.
Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.*
~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
*Love and conscience
self image and experience
shape our very being
guide our motivations
freedoms of expression
ability to give ourselves
love with the gift of fun*
so,
decisions made in the moment
leave embarrassment and guilt
ought we to learn and gain
not ponder them for ever
the flood of adolescence
its angst and experiences
cruelty, parenting, drugs
or our very survival
rob us, to shape us
separate - ourselves
so,
nailing reactions
into our days
blanketing some
behind closed
blind eyes
for awhile
or forever
to leave us
with *****
or *****
and needs
more selfish
arrogant and
dangerous
so,
each our foibles and poetry
.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
The Dark Pariah and The Mouth Breather went to go get a jump start on their blackmail and their payback
All the kissup's
All the suckup's
Who think they're the best thing since sliced bread with the crust cut off
Who pick on people's foibles and leave their self-image in shambles
Not to mention all the narcissists who claim to have coined certain phrases we all use, then pucker up to the ***** of those who can keep up with the Joneses
They were going to make this world go belly up
Remove all of the potholes and speed bumps in life
The Dark Pariah wrote his plan in chicken scratch
And The Mouth Breather wrote his in calligraphy
The Mouth Breather's plan was to kick start a new denomination of hero worship
All followers must give themselves rug burn and stick up three banks in thirty minutes then put their plunder in the collection plate on Tuesday mass
The Dark Pariah's plan was to create music to their ears
That would make them hopscotch off a cliff and free fall to their deaths
This was part and parcel for his sham to exact his vengeance
But ipso facto they never followed through with their plans due to sheer laziness
And now they're both dominated by remorse and online FAQ's
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
Pro-
Photo-frame on the wall,
beautifully adorned.
Empty.
Snap your hero in.
-logue
Never mind their foibles;
Every fault is just a small weakness
when found in the otherwise great.
Dying to deify,
we are itching to sanctify;
Castigation unabashed,
but, for the struggling everyman.
What if we will never find
another son of a carpenter
who will die preaching love?
Epi-
In a world starved of messiahs
ready always to worship ever
but be, never,
iconoclasts are icons;
Sentimental impossibilities
in the language of hope
aye, fete-worthy acceptables.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
Aching hearts or burning bridges?
My mind races as quickly as your footsteps run amok in my sanctuary.
No peace of mind resides, so peace, I have to leave you behind. Love is all you need, what a fallacy. Trust builds real love. If it flees then love is but a drug, numbing senses, dulling intuitions, instincts,
If it smells like rotten eggs, it stinks
Pleadings and pleasings,
Return to sender please.
Wrong address because you’re not ready to please my mind, ease my mind. Don’t want to me to see the last seen.
Foibles, fumbles, stumbles,
Reminiscent mistakes are daggers to my heart.
Yet, out of the bloodbath comes no effort made to ease the ache of a heartbreak, only sorrow and pain left in its wake.
The struggle continues, solitary soldiering, destined for a peace longed for to ease a troubled mind.
I find it you know, that peace I was looking for.
But nothing is free, oh no Siree,
Especially, not peace.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11.
Waiting for a change.
Wishes…none remain.
Hoping for a sight of rain.
Soothe my soul with fire and pain.
4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11.
Just eight days in June
And I’m waiting
4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11.
Waiting on a friend to show me Heaven.
I’m still waiting on you.
Why must all hearts be broken by affairs?
Why criticize me for believing? There,
Are so many worse foibles to find when dating.
Like waiting on a friend, patiently waiting,
Or waiting for the end of summer.
Waiting on a chance, or change.
Memories deja vu ain’t helping me find a new lover.
Just one look and things could be brighter.
Just one phrase that means see you later.
All I want is one more smile,
Just one wish,
I need to remind you of just one day more.
I could find you written on the shape of my heart,
If I could find a reason to believe, to carry on,
To accept what you are,
To believe in your love.
There are numbers scratched across my chest again.
4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11.
We only managed to find eight days in June.
I need more of your sweet perfume,
For it’s a godsend.
It drew me to you and I Etch-A-Sketched you away.
I let you break me; I allowed you to stay.
Give me fifteen seconds more, to truly adore,
The Hell that is you; that which makes me cry.
Hurting never says goodbye,
Like you did with a killer smile.
Give me eight more minutes of silence;
Or give me thirty minutes more.
Give me half a second to reminisce,
Before you walk out of that door.
Hurting never takes its time to beat me.
Waiting on a friend to grieve or greet me.
Waiting for another day;
Needing one person to stay.
But for 4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11 days.
For 4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11 days in June,
I was left waiting for you.
Gone to the wind, you blew right through me;
Leaving only memories; ricocheting fragments deeply.
You seep into me like misery.
I was empty when you found me,
But now I am fractured.
Here’s to living…happily ever after.
I wish you had not medicated my heart with feelings.
I wish I had never met you and started believing.
I wish I didn’t have to know.
I’m waiting on a friend, staring out windows,
But there are only ghosts,
All around me like memories.
Waiting for the end to take me.
Waiting on a friend indefinitely.
Waiting for the next lovers quarrel in December.
Waiting on a friend…
Waiting for forever.
Waiting for a time when we are back as one.
Knowing we are already done.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
her heart was at a moribund
as she fell in love despite all his foibles
like a portmanteau
but her half was a deceitful equal
left vexed and nonplussed
forbearing a mellifluous tone
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Abandoned
And befallen - gods
Trespass the moon
So black
- in a fresco of silence
Like a solo drop
Of dusk - godly foibles
As if dying
In lowly fables
- shredded
And camouflaged,
Nocturnal truth
Of infernal desires speaking
At a remove
From the earthly soil
Thus spake
The spell of oracular lies
As the gods fumbled
In celestial fuss to reverberate
In teardrop shadows
- unfettering hundreds of lives
From the fiasco
Of unholy war as lowly
As godly disdain
Forbidden far from the heaven
Thus -
As the fresco of silence
Smacking
- of an epic delusion
Dies a demise
Of godly death
And the fiasco ends there
In godly foibles
And in godly disdain...
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:36 AM UTC
I have always been reluctant for stepping towards the path of expertise because the kid inside my heart laughs out innocuously on my foibles which I prefer over demeaning.
© SPRIHA KANT
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 9:26 AM UTC