"frugal" poems
In the corner of the street
a man plays an old guitar
Nobody notices him
He continues to gaze at the stars
The city's noise
Is capable of drowning his voice.
He plays without hesitation
Never asking for attention.
He can't afford anything new
The kindest,
give him a dollar or two.
His lifestyle is frugal.
They say he owned a fancy hotel.
His strings are worn out
but the sound is clear
His only love is his beer.
In the corner of the street,
a man plays an old guitar
The same one
who never sang about his broken heart.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
Death you are seen so repugnant.
Death you are sensed so vile.
Death you are deemed so untimely.
“Death can’t you wait for a while?”
But Death, aren’t you Life’s true redeemer?
Making everyone think well of the dead.
Death aren’t you Life’s other half?
Death don’t you tuck us to bed?
When our wanderlust has faded,
your embrace remains unjaded.
Death you are humble in your infamy;
Life the glory claims.
Yet sickness, accidents and war
are all Life’s macabre games.
That which kills you comes from Life.
Life will push to make that sale;
living organs mere currency.
Cannibalistic Life - advertising as a fairy tale.
Death you are left to clear the carnage.
Death – the coloseum’s sand –
innocently soaked in the blood of Life’s cruel hand.
Death you are Life’s psychologist;
motivating each step, each trial.
Making us get up every morning
to make each moment worthwhile.
Death you employ Time’s creation
to set a deadline to Life.
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring
Death you are a scalpel; Life a butcher’s knife.
Famine, plague, disease, beast,
Without glorious survival, why feast?
Death your work with Time is inspired,
for we created it to understand your course.
With Time we can learn Life’s seasons
and record it’s length before it’s divorce
from our fragile clay.
Death you make us frugal with our Time,
yet generous with our Love.
For to each heartbeat’s rhythm and rhyme,
we fervently dance to give.
To make another grief-stricken Death.
For if Life is filled with meaning,
it is Death’s boon to us all.
Life becomes exhilarating –
A race before the fall!
Death remains a wallflower to the very close.
Death only wants to meet us;
a gentle lover with a rose.
Encouraging, yet terrifying.
But if we fear the Darkness, it is Life we fear not Death.
How often has a blinding Light been reported on a final breath?
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Out of the Palace, into the Queen's
Garden. *'One that could rival King
Paul's Luciuscemian Gardens,'* she
thinks as she walks under the high
cream arches and Grecian columns
with ivy vines coiling around them.
She stands on the white marble
steps. *'Truly, this is the Queen
Mother's finest work yet...'*
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The young Queen Lyn spares no
expense in expanding her library,
filling it with leather-bound books
and scrolls, new and old. She spares
no expense when it comes to her
love for herbal teas, near and far...
But her mother?
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The Queen Mother is known for
her keen eye, fast wits, bladed
tongue and for her love for fashion,
gardening and a frugal nature.
*'Like frugal mother, like bookish
daughter!'* Ainhara can not help
but to chuckle.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She watches as the gardeners trim
the mint-green grass, beech hedges
and shrubby. But what Ainhara
marvels most are the flowers.
Pots of lavender and roses,
rosemary and mint are placed
around carefully, by the white
lilies, orange lilies, yellow lilies,
flushing lilies.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She notices that green lilies and
blue lilies; the gifts from Queen Yidna;
plants native to her Puhan Kingdom,
are in full bloom. They remind her of the
colours of the Seas that she, Esshi and Lyn
had sailed when they visited Queen Yidna.
*'Puhan has the calmest seas of the brightest
colours,'* She recalls how her Queen was
happy and relaxed then...
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
1119
Paradise is that old mansion
Many owned before—
Occupied by each an instant
Then reversed the Door—
Bliss is frugal of her Leases
Adam taught her Thrift
Bankrupt once through his excesses—
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23
I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho’ the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye—
That when I could not find it—
I sat me down to sigh.
I had a crimson Robin—
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away—
Time brought me other Robins—
Their ballads were the same—
Still, for my missing Troubador
I kept the “house at hame.”
I had a star in heaven—
One “Pleiad” was its name—
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho’ the skies are crowded—
And all the night ashine—
I do not care about it—
Since none of them are mine.
My story has a moral—
I have a missing friend—
“Pleiad” its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear—
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here—
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind—
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.
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Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
Upon a midnight’s visage airy,
T’was a lake frozen by fairy,
…and weighing on mind’s tonnage bearing?
There for ice’ opaqueness winter’s seized,
…and arms encased in rime; trees.
“Oh my,”
At dark of sky thought the eye of something troubling upon my mind?
And the frosty cloudy glass,
Take to it upon my axe,
…and the sting of shards will pass.
And will I eat at last.
Thusly, thrusting through the skull, wettened, weakened for the cold.
…and burden carry I with me,
So encased in rime is he,
Doth make of fishing’s night a chore,
Something that I do abhor!
…and stare I did into that sea,
…my frory breathe in imagery,
Dismay it did fluster me, when my eye captured by Sea,
...and in whirling thoughts could reflection see?
…and something else came back with me.
Pool with drops, light curves, dark rings; in vapid mind now find nothing...
T’was a misty sheen seen after showers?
A damp muggy place of reflecting hours,
Typhoid strange did make snowing;
The Asteraceae of my wilted flowers,
…and that Wren philosophically sings,
…and at lake a lone be -ing,
Appearing peering my soliloquy, I am therefore I into thee.
…and fixed calm stared back at me,
“What pray tell I Enquiry?”
Did something else look back at me?
...and glaring gaze thus did see, something I had hid from me,
…and gawking in my mind did ogle; a malevolence of thought once frugal...
A gaping, oscillating, pierced Abyss, forced farther back into consciousness...
Deeper in and further still,
Climb atop Old Arthur’s hill,
…and the winged Raven’s nearer, reflected on me in my mirror?
…and time did pass turning frozen dying, icy tears of sadness from my crying,
…so did silent Hume release, all the pain that’s troubling me; whilst frozen frame thus held in peace?
I fell forward and felt submerged,
Both characters, both now have merged.
And that creature which accompanied me?
Found a solace back in wine dark sea.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
543
I fear a Man of frugal Speech—
I fear a Silent Man—
Haranguer—I can overtake—
Or Babbler—entertain—
But He who weigheth—While the Rest—
Expend their furthest pound—
Of this Man—I am wary—
I fear that He is Grand—
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1243
Safe Despair it is that raves—
Agony is frugal.
Puts itself severe away
For its own perusal.
Garrisoned no Soul can be
In the Front of Trouble—
Love is one, not aggregate—
Nor is Dying double—
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1263
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry—
This Travers may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll—
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul.
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Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
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Over the top to sail lips float
Oversweet travel in any sort
Two lips sway back and forth
Have lips we travel
Unravel-Hot lips Brazil
Satisfying-Gratifying
* * * * *
Sugary-Syrupy the sky like
Our lips high
canopy travel shaky
Lips met her rivalry
Lips together acceptable
Reasonable-humble
Lovable-venerable
We travel up
Lips frown to fall
Lips* color* rich* never* to* be* frugal
First class lips diamond- coral
Forever my lips half open
Traveling closed lips
* * * *
She walks and trips*
Museum art
* * * *
Our lips never part*
Jun 15, 2023
Jun 15, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
Whilst strolling in the countryside
I had time to dwell
On deeply profound questions
Like: Do badger farts have a smell?
I pondered as I wandered
On this important thought
And then I found a badger sett
And so I thought I ought
To settle this complex question
That had bothered me all day
I stuck my silly head down there
Boy was I was made to pay
For when a badger thinks he’s trapped
He lets go a tremendous fart
The stench was green and nauseous
And **** near stopped my heart
Trying to withdraw in haste
I ran out of luck
For no matter how I wriggled
My head was firmly stuck
A passer by chanced on me
But he was not a friend
He stole my shoes and trousers
Exposing my rear end
The farmer who dug me out
Laughed until he cried
I had to walk home bare of arse
Whilst covering my pride
So now I've learned a lesson
With experiments to be frugal
I’ll wait until I get back home
And look it up on Google
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
I hear the bugle now,I
see the frugal how they scrimp to save,to
become the slave of lesser gods,to
calculate the weights,though even,odd it seems
that in my dreams all things being equal,
no one prepared for me the sequel to the sage
or wrote homework on the workhouse page, when
poverty becomes all the rage
I shall be rich,
shall stitch in all its finery with golden threads and count my wealth in binary code,
throw digits to the Kings of the road when
poverty becomes of age.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Pertinaciously vituperative irrefragable determinism. Inscrutable axis of spontaneities’ imaginative. Perplexity’s prognosis to prospectus. Elan vital’s preternatural perpetuity. Cohesive coherency’s opaque opulence. Space-time continuum’s natural induction expressed as identity. Exponentially tangential imagination’s immaturity. Entropy catalyst blonds. Spaciotemporal telemetry tactician’s tellurian terrene. Protractive analyses dimensional delineation. Reflectively refractive positional empathy. Prophylaxis protocol. Objectified manifest's self inductive diminutive minutia iotas of interstitial edict. Graspy greedy stingy frugal mingy minions. Manumission’s indentured servant sail.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.
It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.
I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.
Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.
We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Passenger seat, looking through–
dark window, tinted sky,
and black treeline.
Pairs of yellow orbs float by.
We’re almost to New Orleans now.
Soon, the world
and its atmosphere
will have a dance around you and
your money.
Oh happy, frugal dance –
But tonight it is dark,
cold
(bitter cold)
and it rains with the tears of risen demons;
it rains with the things that came back
from a place beyond the grave.
He never should have come back.
I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Mom.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
Karma was a dancer
at the Déjà Vu,
trading fantasies a few days a week
for ***** crumpled bills and
then living the dream on her days off.
That was before I knew her.
Before she faded just a little.
Which is not to say
that she was no longer beautiful
with her mermaid hair,
the color somewhere between
phosphorescent amber and
burning chestnut brown,
down to her *** and falling all around
her painfully sensuous curves.
The faint pucker lines 'round her mouth,
that liver spot,
a slight, barely discernable paunch,
I could see such things, too but
they only endeared me to
the façade of some silly notion
a kin to forever.
We would stay up late,
even on the weeknights,
wine silly and
**** chatty.
She would dance
and I would tell her
****** poems in exchange.
It seemed like a good trade
to me but the truth is,
she was being shorted in the deal.
We said,
I love you
but I’m not sure we knew
that we didn’t really have that
to offer one another.
Both of us had sold more
than we had ever bargained for
long before we met.
When money ran thin and
times grew hard
she split.
Hope still stops by on occasion.
(She was a dancer, too).
But it seems a bit easier to distinguish
differences between the faux
and the genuine these days.
She doesn’t stay long.
I like to blame it all on Karma
despite knowing that I was just never
quite frugal or savvy enough to afford more than a few perfume-drenched moments at the foot of the stage.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
She has decided to grow her hair.
Not for frugal reasons, mind you,
rather, to see the extent of the future.
Or, how tangled it might become at length.
Why do women grow their hair?,
she postures to the mirror.
*It's like deciding to go to market,
when there's already sufficient in the pantry.*
Pouring water through the tresses
to cool like an Icelandic fjord,
trickling bubbles down to a spurious sea.
The squeakings bring enjoyment,
a sense of karmic victory.
Knot it and make mysterious!
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
495
It’s thoughts—and just One Heart—
And Old Sunshine—about—
Make frugal—Ones—Content—
And two or three—for Company—
Upon a Holiday—
Crowded—as Sacrament—
Books—when the Unit—
Spare the Tenant—long eno’—
A Picture—if it Care—
Itself—a Gallery too rare—
For needing more—
Flowers—to keep the Eyes—from going awkward—
When it snows—
A Bird—if they—prefer—
Though Winter fire—sing clear as Plover—
To our—ear—
A Landscape—not so great
To suffocate the Eye—
A Hill—perhaps—
Perhaps—the profile of a Mill
Turned by the Wind—
Tho’ such—are luxuries—
It’s thoughts—and just two Heart—
And Heaven—about—
At least—a Counterfeit—
We would not have Correct—
And Immortality—can be almost—
Not quite—Content—
1.6k
I'm like Alice;
I fell & now I'm sitting
because I can't choose
between the "Drink me"
or the "Eat me."
"Go to sleep," you whisper,
I bite your hand, like a cat
with the arch of my back.
You're a short, stocky man,
barely to 21, already commanding
these things of me.
You spank me, "does that hurt?"
I'm indifferent.
You ****** inside of me,
"is that okay?"
I'm indifferent.
The story unravels, as my body
turns to sand paper.
I become so cold, I cannot sleep.
My words are rusted door hinges.
My skeleton, made up of bruised fruit;
unwanted, and worthless, even
to the most empathetic,
or frugal of shoppers.
You send me ambiguous messages
as if the internet can even maintain
the most insignificant,
unreal relationship that my heart
tricks my mind into believing.
I don't change my sheets,
because I think they smell
of your expensive cologne
and drugstore deodorant.
I'm stuck with sheets
that smell of my sweat,
and of my sour dreams,
our uncommitted relationship,
and my mind completely
tearing at the seams.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
181
I lost a World—the other day!
Has Anybody found?
You’ll know it by the Row of Stars
Around its forehead bound.
A Rich man—might not notice it—
Yet—to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats—
Oh find it—Sir—for me!
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