"frowzy" poems
Traffic came to a halt as signal turned red again,
I heard a small kid knocking at the window pane.
I looked up suddenly and met his eye,
My face turned frowzy - not sure why?
Begging for a 10 rupee note in exchange of a flag,
Scores of other such items he carried in his bag.
Something about the set of his face suggested a despair,
Maybe he wanted to say something but he couldn't dare.
Maybe his leaders had covertly kept an eye on him,
Thus flagging him down from expressing his whim.
He just pretended that everything is fine,
Was it because otherwise, he would've nothing to dine?
I looked into his eyes, which couldn't hide it all,
Gently I started reading through his eyeball.
The desire to be rescued from poverty and pain,
The outlook over his dreams to start all again.
The delicate and subtle hands were badly bruised,
The plight of his innocence had left me confused.
The tears went unseen and the voice unheard,
Aspirations of flying high like a free bird.
Three, two, one and the signal turned green,
He flashed a gentle smile and passed by the scene.
Throughout that day, my mind was confronted with the thought,
His silence was loud, apparently speaking a lot.
(Shayad uski khamoshi bohat kuch keh gayi thi...)
Who will provide them all the necessities?
And help them with their basic amenities!!
Who will find them a decent vocation?
Food, shelter, clothing and education!!
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
I thought I heard you cry,
From the other side of this crowded room.
Though I could not see you through the crowd,
The sound is more clear and present
Then any other in this frowzy room,
Louder than the half-dozen doltish conversations,
Louder then the raindrops crashing on the window pane
Louder than the wind, as it howls outside threateningly ,
Louder than my own thoughts in my erratic head,
They scream "I did this", and yell " this is my fault".
Your would-be tears make me doubt myself
And question my very nature.
-Jamie F. Nugent
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
When you whisper close,
My hair rises...
I get the chills...
Feel thrills...
I'm in first grade again,
That first crush feeling...
And frowzy-headedness comes reeling...
Delicious ticklings up my spine
Sidetrack me for a little bit,
Like that first glass of wine....
I even lose my place,
My bookmark I can't find...
Should have folded down the tip....
Doesn't matter...
I think I'll let my reading slip...
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
I feel like a frowzy of a freak, I lounge upon a grizzled chair and only joust myself awake to
EAT
I jimmy I jam like a ******** clad scintillating ham always clamoring to find
MORE
I am a syringe of honey; I make love to destitute with campy glamour always leaving the foray smelling like
BEANS
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
I can still hear you laughing in my passenger seat
like you did all last summer in the blazing heat
now my car is but a frowzy mess
no one I ride here I need to impress
everyone used to tell me to just let you go
now they say nothing, its like they all know
its like a song that's stuck on repeat
I know every line and I know every beat
they think its done because your name no longer troubles my writing
the battle of letting go is one i'm still fighting
truth is I disguise your eyes with metaphors of emeralds and diamonds
or the way you breathe with pacifying silence
lemonade cake mix and cream cheese frosting
all these good memories are now just exhausting
trying to move on but i'm stuck in the past
like the ending summer, we weren't meant to last
so i'll end this reign of poems about you
and maybe i'll finally write something new
this ending is dumb, bittersweet and tough
but i think its time, I've put you through enough
i'll end this poem with a goodbye and an apology
if it hurts it still matters its basic psychology
i'm sorry for all the hurtful words and all the fights
for all the lost time and sleepless nights
you didn't deserve it
so its time i quit
you were one in a million and for a second you were mine
i'd be lying if i said it was okay, or I'm fine
its time i let you be happy and new
you don't need to take all our memories, just keep a few
go forward in life with your head high and a smile
i know we cant be friends now but maybe in a while
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:07 AM UTC
I would rather not have frowned at the frau
She was my friend
Slatternly, frowzy, bedgraddled gal
I always wondered how and why she liked me
Like a boy who could be psyched out by bosoms.
I wasn't
I felt it peasant like.
Like a tike feeling in the dirt for flukes and rakes
Rake, she said she thought what I was.
Which would mean I could make her heart buzz
and would mean we could be one another.
Another life left to lonesome fevers in panting fogs.
I matter, so does she.
Dark matter.
Slathered in holes, stolen goals.
God we were the same.
It's a shame we were the same.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
I want nights with you.
I want to shut the door on the world, unlace my armor and take off my masks. I want to leave it all behind, one naked soul meeting another at an oasis of trust. I want your body moving in rhythm with mine. I want racing hearts and gasping breaths and sweaty sheets. I want to learn every inch, every curve, every corner of you. I want to feel you nestle your body into the curve of mine, lay your head on my shoulder, and pull my arm around your waist. I want your fingers to intertwine with mine as if they always belonged there. I want my thumb to trace idle circles on your skin as I lose consciousness, for no other reason than the joy of feeling your skin against mine, no other reason than it feels like the most natural thing in the world. I want to drift off to sleep with the smell of you in my head, the feel of your heart beating in time with mine, the warmth of you against me.
I want mornings with you.
I want tingles in my arm as another reminder of you using me as a pillow. I want sunlight peeping across your face, transforming your hair splayed across the pillow into a radiant halo. I want to see you lying next to me. I want to trace with my eyes every curve that I mapped with my body. I want to see the rise and fall of your breath, and feel each one whisper against my skin. I want to hide under covers, pretending the sun has not come and enjoying the shared heat of two bodies intertwined. I want frowzy hair, wide yawns, and tender sleepy smiles. I want sudden heat in my belly. I want to forget about bed head and morning breath and become so aware of you I can hardly breathe. I want to wake you up with tender kisses, and with scorching ones. I want to untangle myself from you (eventually), and rise to take on a new day and new challenges.
I want days with you.
I want challenge and adventure. I want to hike and climb and swim with you. I want to take on nature’s greatest obstacles together and come out on the other side as champions. I want coffee shop dates and deep talks about life. I want to get inside your head and understand what drives you and what scares you. I want to know where you’ve come from and where you’re going, your hopes and fears and dreams and nightmares. I want to laugh with you until I can’t breathe. I want other people to look at us like we’re crazy, and know that they’ll never understand all the fun we have. I want to sit on park benches and people-watch with you. I want you to curl into the crook of my arm and lay your head on my shoulder like it’s home. I want to point out the old man teaching a young passerby the finer points of chess. I want you to show me the children screaming and laughing as they flee from each other in an endless game of tag. I want to experience life side by side with you.
I want to close the circle. I want to go from night to morning to day, and start all over again.
I want you, and I can’t seem to get enough.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
my neighbor was sick of living until his organs quit and he died.
the only one in the complex I could talk to.
he knew there was nothing special about the sun and the moon.
there was no difference between them.
his sky was a wasteland.
his trash was his treasure...
he would ramble to me and sing to the trees and scream at the cars when they'd go screaming by.
he would explain to me vague and obtuse times- these stories.
-how one of his wives was more beautiful when she had died.
-how he dropped his son off in the middle of nowhere,
and months later the boy had returned a man...a killer of bears in fact.
-how they had made a statue of him.
a tribe somewhere in Vietnam.
and how he could still hear them speaking to him in ceremonies.
How he could taste the offerings sometimes in his morning coffee, or a few times mid-sentence with me.
and he would really go on about the thing he loved the most.
the only thing he had ever loved;
his pet plastic bag.
he would say these things and you couldn't respond..there was no need to.
he composed a will.
comprised of two lines-
the things I own will be burned but
my pet plastic bag I leave to michael
I respected this anomaly. This freak of nature. This neighbor. This man.
so I honored his request.
I wore shoes then and I had a shoebox I kept.
I engineered the burning of his possessions.
sifted through the frowzy living conditions of mostly nothing but a few standard chairs and esoteric books of esoteric things: symbols, dead languages.
Some ancient looking artifacts which were hard to trash because I'm sure they were either valuable or priceless.
a jar of teeth.
early on I had found the only plastic bag in his dry apartment in what looked to be a canopic jar lined with copper and more strange symbols wrapped around a grueome scene of children being eaten head-first by a many headed beast.
I kept the whole unit, figuring it was the appropriate container, and kept it stowed away in my once empty shoebox, tucked away more in the back top right of my sensible utilitarian closet.
Out of sight from me as it made me feel uneasy.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
We’d make the journey, Hannibal-esque in nature,
Either on foot (even on the most dogged of the dog days
When the antidiluvian tar on our side street would bubble up,
Causing our sneakers to make a rhythmic flik-wump
Until we reached those byways deemed worthy of asphalt)
Or in ones and twos on our bicycles,
Our locks, assuming we were not the wards of parents
Who were devotees of the shorn-to-the-skull “summer cut”,
Flying unencumbered in the breeze
As we paid occasional fealty to the rules of the road,
Our destination being the “variety store”
Shoe-horned into one of the narrow storefronts
On our unprepossessing main drag,
A cacophony of canned goods
And candy bars of uncertain vintages,
Novelty pens and girlie mags two-thirds obscured
In jerry-built wooden shelves toggled together
By some former paramour of the frowzy divorcee
Serving as empress of this nickel-and-dime principality.
We coughed up our dimes, hoarded and guarded
With the feigned nonchalance of royal Beefeaters,
In the procurement of Cokes, handfuls of Bazooka,
And always but always trim foil packs of baseball cards,
Which we’d unwrap breathlessly, greedily, hungrily,
Hoping our efforts would unearth an Aaron, a Mays, a Clemente,
But usually our reward would be some utility infielder,
Some second-tier relief pitcher or third-string catcher
Cards perniciously reeking of stale gum,
And one particular summer it seemed every pack
Contained the card of Larry ******* Burchart,
Clad in his full Indians uniform,
Smiling at some untarnished future
Just this side of the horizon, fully visible and all but realized.
At some point, we moved beyond banana bikes and baseball cards
(Our attention turning to pursuits more expansive and expensive)
Giving up children’s things and boys’ games and fanciful dreams)
And looking back, it seems that the smile on that baseball card,
(Ubiquitous as cockroaches at the time,
Now mourned for its absence)
Was more than a touch on the wan side,
That apparition in the distance undefined and indeterminate
Malignant in its very uncertainty.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC