"frump" poems
There once was an angry orange chump,
Who's ratings went down with a bump,
"I can beat you know who!
Heck, she's barely a two!
A mere woman and also a frump".
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
this is the news: a strange to do with all strange. some other kiwi in the hissing bliss of a fine day.
the spoils of bounty are ludicrous in disarray. a jumble of lumpkin, festooned in prayer-wheels and Tibet.
a fountain of open hands.
on the brink... on the terrace of counterfeit pantomimes
a man of days
darning socks and ultraviolet, with quasars for aspic.
a drunk pirouette -
bereft.
love is the one jungle you know when you're lost, and the last thing that made sense. All day.
the spoils of bounty are numinous, always. a trundle of frump-kin, immune to what feels like a guess.
" i refuse to sell my daddy's ranch! "
if you blink... i might tell you where you lost your mind.
an ace of spades
a Goldilocks and ultra violence, with ****** for aspirin.
a defunct smidgen
of less.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
. Tea with the Pastor, milk and one lump
Visits get regular, leads to a ****
Soon no disguising the growing bump
He's in denial, quite the grump
Deserves a slap and accurate thump
Receives a doorstep greeting-card dump
Church congregation starting to slump
Bishop demands control your stump
Still he claims no sin with the "frump"
DNA evidence gives him a jump
Exposing a less than holy chump
Loving her child hers is the trump
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
A plume should be a thing lovely and light
dancing violet as it's fanned
at the flanks of the blue
bird-of-paradise
who hangs limberly
to solicit a mate
It should curl
blinding white at the back
of the puffy Samoyed
prancing fancy to please a master
who also preens on the oval
of a sawdust track
It should flop
red at the top of gold-painted tin
helmet awry on the head
of an aspiring actor
who plays centurion for tips
outside a mobbed Colosseum
It should spray
as clear and cooling drops out
the copper mouth of a grass-snake
green hose uncoiled by
the sneaky dad who tickles
giggles from sweaty kids
It should flutter
gray at the tail end of a quill
bouncing to the frenzied
jottings of an anachronistic
frump who takes the pain to outfit
himself far too seriously
A plume should not be a thing of plague
riding currents kissed by taint-
sweet crude blasted from a wound
gouged in the crust
of a frigid deep to feed
our shallow lust for eases
It shouldn't choke
It shouldn't muck
It shouldn't tar
It can't help
poisoning that last pretense
we cared about anything,
be it plumed or not, but
the finality of
a bottom line
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
Waiting for the theatre.
Not the greasepaint and glitter kind,
The scary scalpel suction kind.
My costume an open backed frump sack,
Out of it,
Tripping on tranqs.
Thirsty, nervous, needy for love,
Searching in strange places
Reaching out to unknown faces,
Will anyone care if I never come back?
Counting the minutes
In blood pressure increments,
I dig the sedation
Please
Give me some for the rest of this year?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
has never really been my thing.
My clothes sit funny, and frump
in all of the wrong places. I'm
short, and kinda chubby. My body
is so disproportionate, I won't even
go there. I have freckles painted
all over, cursing me to be
forever fair skinned.
I'll look away, and pretend to be
in deep thought. Or I'll act like I
suddenly have something I'm
absorbed in, on my ****** phone.
I run my hands through
my snarly, blonde hair - even though
it looks just fine. Yes, I'm that person
who coughs, just so that I'm doing something
if I don't feel
quite right.
I'm sure you can decipher the difference
between my real laugh
and the fake.
At times though, this is null and void.
It's those days, that i love the most.
Rare, but rewarding.
Standing tall, I'll smile at strangers.
Looking in the mirror is fun, and taking
pictures - isn't torture. Laughter eases
out of me, and I shout.
Sometimes I get really ballsy, and
I'll tell you if I think you're cute
just because I can. Flirting is easier
and not something I worry about.
Confidence is all about the
m i n d s e t .
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
For background - read "The Frumpy Tale of Riley River Duck"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the frigid winters of June
With the snow scattering over the crystal lagoon
Puffy white frost pillows covered the ground
The sunshine making them glitter all around
Riley sat with a piping hot cup of tea
Conversing eloquently with Cecelia the flea
The happy duck sat, blankets covering her slick feathers
Helping her brave even the harshest weathers
Out of nowhere came a huge “thump”
Causing Riley to jump
She waddled to the window
Just to see a cloud of dust and kindle
An avalanche slowly slithered along
The beast heaved, wicked and strong
Flicking up ice, draping the sun with a gown
Speckling, flickering and finally glittering down
Outside came a muffled scream
It could’ve been from a dream
Riley rushed outside
With the sun her only guide
She saw a **** of snow wiggle and grow
How was anyone to know?
That the avalanche had awoken an animal
Cory the angry camel
See the snow and lumber
Woke him up from his slumber
Along with the snow, his temper seemed to grow
And his **** was in a frump
Riley waddled out
To settle this bout
She pleaded and reasoned him to see
That the snow was very fun to throw
All the animals of the Great Oak Tree crowded around the fight
Till the day turned into night
Cory was smiling and laughing, his mood lifted
As his big hooves sifted
He lifted up a snowball, and threw it into the sky
Riley could only watch it fly…
It hit her in the beak
So her mouth was too cold to speak
She looked in shock
As Cory ran amok
The camel had won the fight
Just as the day turned to night
The day came to an end
And Cory couldn’t help but pretend
That he wasn’t happy that he won
Throwing snow was very fun
Riley saved the day
In the late winters of May
She took Cory into her house
Quiet as a mouse….
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
*Words That Rhyme With Trump
Lump: as in ***** grabbing
**** as in ***** grabbing
**** as in his oversized ****
Plump: as in his oversized ****
Frump: as in his long red tie
Clump: as in his vain comb-over
Grump: as in his tweets: SAD SAD SAD
Chump: as in the electorate
Slump: as in his popularity
Stump: as in understanding Unishid Sshtashs
Dump: as in the Mid-terms
Mugwump: as in this word speaks for itself.*
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
I find myself wondering
about young men today
why don't they open doors
for their women?
What happened to chivalry?
Please don't start screaming
about women "burning their bras"
because there's more to it than that
What happened to the generation
of fathers that taught their sons
about respecting ladies
and protecting them?
now it seems most of the
younger male generation
use girls for ****** gratification
and personal idolization
I have granddaughters
they have been taught well
they will not degrade themselves
for some pimple faced ****
with a bad attitude
come on down to Maw Maws house
I'll give a lesson or two about manners
yup me, my sweet tea and my trusty 347
bring it on *******
this old lady ain't no frump
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
****
Chump
Garbage Dump
Grump
Frump
Sewer Pump
Plump
Stump
Malignant Lump
Thump
****
****** up our country
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 3:40 PM UTC
All through the woodwork lesson
and through a double dose of maths,
he thinks of her, the kiss on the sports
field, the brushing of his lips on hers.
He'd almost cut his finger on a saw,
being preoccupied with thoughts of
her, her eyes through glasses, the
innocence of lilies about her, the way
she looked so surprised, he having
kissed her. Not planned, no he didn’t
plan the kiss, he was just going to talk
with her, get to know her more and
better, when the impulse to kiss, over
came him, as if some rarely seen fish
of the sea had drawn him into depths
he'd not known. He sits on the school
bus, got on before she had, looks out
the window, shy of seeing her, now
wondering what she'd say after that
kiss, her reaction. Trevor says softly
something about the Frump, he doesn't
turn, looks at the kids waiting to get
on the bus, excited, engaged in their
conversations, laughing. He is aware,
that she may be on the bus now, he is
so self obsessed, he can hear his heart
beat, thump through his chest. Trevor
next to him, talking across the aisle,
says something about her, but he isn’t
listening, stares out. He feels as if he's
under a microscope, eyes gawking at
him, words around him. Maybe others
saw the kiss? He didn’t think about that,
never gave it thought. The radio is on,
the music blares, some one is singing
about love and missing her. He relaxes
as the bus move off, senses no one is
aware of the kiss, no talk, or chatter
of it. Even Trevor, who is the vanguard
of gossip, says nothing about that at all.
John is aware she sits across the aisle,
a little bit back. He could possibly see
her, if he glanced over the top of his seat,
but he doesn't, he looks at the passing
scene, trees, hedges, fields, cottages.
He tries to calm his beating heart, the
thump seems almost audible, as if
the whole bus can hear its thump.
He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
the lips kissed, the eyes behind her
spectacles, her mouth, the way her
words were stilled by his kiss, were
drenched in her ****** mouth; he had
touched her, too. His hand had soft
touched her arm, drew her body closer
to him. She smelt of countryside, air,
and hay and fields. Her lips there were
feather soft; he could have slept there,
lay there, brushed the lips, as if a red
butterfly had landed, sought refreshment.
He reruns the kiss, in his head, plays
it over and over. She is there just across
the way; he can almost sense her eyes
on him, like feelers reaching over the
seats to touch him. He opens his eyes,
Trevor has football cards in his inky
hands, he talks of this player and that,
that football team and this, but all John
can think on is the butterfly landing kiss.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
John sits
on the school coach
by the window
next to Goldfinch
watching the trees
and fields
and cottages go past.
Goldfinch is talking
of football:
who do
I put
in goal lunchtime
as Potts is way,
who do you think?
Goldfinch says.
Not me that's,
for sure,
John says,
his mind
isn't on Goldfinch
or the goal,
but on Elaine
sitting over
the other side
of the coach.
He looked at her
when she
and sister
got on the coach,
but she looked away,
and not at him.
He guesses she
was shy after all
the rumpus since
Elaine's mouthy sister
told everyone
on the coach
that he had
kissed Elaine.
But it soon
died down
and apart
from a few
How's the Frump Elaine?
When he got on
and later
when Elaine got on,
then it died out.
Now the kids
are talking amongst
themselves or listening
to the music
from the coach radio,
some pop song
about loving somebody.
Need someone
by lunchtime,
Goldfinch says,
whom do you suggest?
Green might,
he ain't bad,
John says.
Green? He couldn't
save a 1p
for Christmas;
someone else,
Goldfinch says.
John doesn't
care who,
he's thinking
of Elaine
and whether she'll
let him kiss
her again
after the rumpus;
he hopes so,
although he's
not sure
he'll be welcome
at Elaine's home now.
Why did her sister
tell like that?
He muses,
listening
half heartedly
to Goldfinch's talk,
it was just a quick
kiss not
too passionate
and it was only
while her mother
was out of the room
briefly that day.
He looks over
to where Elaine
is sitting quickly
to see if she's
looking his way,
but she isn't
she's staring out
the window.
Her sister
glares at him,
so he looks away,
and back out
of the window
and the passing view,
not sure
what to think
or what to do.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Sluggishly you frump to school
passing by people
whose faces you'll soon forget.
They don't matter,
don't waste your time.
tick tock.
You go to practice
your meeting
rehearsal.
Whatever it is
you group yourself in
to feel like you belong.
And for what else?
To look good on a college application
maybe; the motions of it
are the only thing
that matters.
Paying attention, making memories
is not traditional thought process.
How will that look on a transcript?
tick tock.
You mindlessly drive home
not paying attention
to the miniscule details
of the nature around you.
It doesn't directly effect you
so you see no point in admiring it.
what's the need?
tick tock.
You lock yourself in your room
and open the books
that surrounded you
for seven hours already today
and work for two or three more
hours of your precious evening.
You do it because
that's what is expected of you.
Monotonous efforts that someday
you will be unable to recall.
tick tock.
When was the last time you have done something
that you will be able to vividly remember
years from now?
You are
wasting
your
time.
Go. Live.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
RECORD: [FURTHER] DOWN THE ROAD! [WE GO!]
FROGMAN: Cea2Cea
Read the directions,
even if you dare not follow them.
Do not read cr-e-a-utiful societal throughts.
They will only make you feel crippled.
GET TO KNOW YOUR OTHER AND FALLTHER.
You never know when they'll be data for good.
BE NICE TO YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS.
They're your best link to your past
and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that fiends come and go,
but with The Ones that are you,
you should hold on.
Work hard to re-bridge the grasps in body and mind,
because the older you get,
the more you get stung
by the fiends you knew when you were young.
Love in Chaos once,
but lever before it makes your Blue Tail Concrete.
Love in Calm once,
but lever 'fore it makes your Read DeadHead Abstract.
PONDER.
Accept certain un-ion-tame-able truths:
Hatred suns will rise.
Brads and Janets will philander.
You, too, will get told. And when you do,
you'll hypnotize that when you were young,
Hatred suns were reasonable,
Brads and Janets were noble
and Wild Stings respected their leaders.
disRespect your leaders.
Don't expect anyone else to re-inform you.
Maybe you have a true fiend.
Maybe you'll have a tHrealthy Fiend.
But you never know when either one might frump out.
Do mess too much with your mind
so by the time you're Flirty-2
it will look Kinedy-1.
Be careful whose data you buy,
but be patient with those who supply it.
Data is a form of command.
Dispensing it is a way of alifreyinWaISHing the truths from the past,
wiping them off,
painting over the ugly Lies
and RE-CYCLING them for what it's WORTH.
But trust me on the Introflection.
-- Mary Schmich, Frogman
STOP: RECALL'me'SELF
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
1.
Donald John Trump
Just sits on his ****
As his deplorables feast
On whatever he tweets
2.
Donald John Trump
Is wicked and plump
But not nice and fat
Just more an ******
3.
Donald John Trump
Has a **** that's a stump
Women won't take him to bed
So he grabs their ******* instead
4.
Donald John Trump
Owns a golden sewage pump
Except it can't keep pace
With all the **** from his face
5.
Donald John Trump
Is a cancerous lump
On America's nose
That really must go
6.
Donald John Trump
Never gets a fist bump
His hands are so small
We can't find them at all
7.
Donald John Trump
Is a foul putrid clump
Who makes us quite sick
Bragging about the size of his ****
8.
Donald John Trump
Really likes to ****
Women without their consent
And he'll never repent
9.
Donald John Trump
Is a mean old grump
Who tells people they're stupid
But we know who the fool is
10.
Donald John Trump
It'd be best if he jumped
From the top of his tower
Since he's always so glower
11.
Donald John Trump
Is a dim witted chump
Whose head is quite large
Though Russia put him charge
12.
Donald John Trump
Likes to take a dump
On hookers while snorting blow
Many people are saying so
13.
Donald John Trump
Is in a terrible slump
He can't even enjoy his throne
Because the press won't leave him alone
14.
Donald John Trump
Only wants to flump
In a chair with women kneeling
After a long hard day of stealing
15.
Donald John Trump
His voice makes a crump
Like the sound of an engine
Or last breath of a dying pigeon
16.
Donald John Trump
Would never date a frump
Just nines and tens
Preferably ones who're quite dim
17.
Donald John Trump
Has just a cold swampy sump
But unlike humans no heart in his chest
He still says it's the best
18.
Donald John Trump
Is a clownish orange schlump
Who said he'd make America great
But just stoked up a lot of hate
19.
Donald John Trump
Always gives a nasty thump
To anyone who disagrees
Or gives facts to counter lies he believes
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Ante added up
in a slipshod
sweatshop for
Permission to hanker
on some buttermilk
slopwork with
A frump finery of sorts
laundered nicely:
a down gown
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Genevieve is a frump
a big fat lazy lump
walter decided to dump
she really got the ****
and gave him a mighty thump
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-Rump
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?
The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.
A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)
T-Rump is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.
Alas when sizing up T-Rump
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-Rump!
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
*******
There once was a man named Trump
Whose hair looked like a clump
A little bit plump
Never caught looking like a frump
He lived in a home that was no dump
It didn’t even need a sump pump
For some he was a pain in the ****
Yet you would never call him a schlump
Some thought he was a grump
Others said he was no chump
He did like to make people jump
Causing people’s throat to have a lump
Rules didn’t apply to him, no need for an ump
Even when his business was in a slump
Like most he did have the odd bump
For everyone runs into a slump
While there were those that did want him to flump
So along the way he could see a thump
Still others did relay you were a mump
I say so long old friend, Mr. T. Trump
Trump (Ted) 1925-2005
Andreas Simic©
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of
the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I walk with Milka
from the farmhouse
to the fence
where we stop
and look across a field
you were sitting cosy
with my mum
while I was upstairs
having a bath
Milka says
well I did ask your mum
if I could go share
your bath with you
but she wasn't keen
on the idea
I say
so sat downstairs
and she entertained me
entertained you Benny?
you make her sound
like a brothel keeper
Milka says frowning
I can't see your mum
as a brothel keeper
I say
how would you know
what a brothel keeper
looks like
unless there is something
you've not told me?
Milka says
I've seen it in films
I say
seen what it films?
she says
brothels and thingys
I say
I think you fancy my mum
more than you do me
Milka says
what do you mean fancy?
I was only having a drink of tea
and a few biscuits with her
and talking with her
I say
that's how it starts
next she'll be steering you
towards the bedroom
while I'm bathing
Milka says
you're jealous
of your own mother
I say
jealous of her?
she's just a middle-age frump
who happens
to be my mother
Milka says her tone icy
just being nice to me
while I waited for you
to come down
after your bath
I say
too nice
I saw the way
she looked at you
while you weren't looking
and tea and biscuits
that's more than Dad gets
when he comes in
from the farm
Milka says
she stares towards the farmhouse
pouting her lips
I say nothing more
for a while and try
and think of her mother
and if she did look at me
while I wasn't looking
but I wouldn't know
if I wasn't looking
but she did have
a nice motherly
sort of *******
and as she walked
her behind had
a smooth way of moving
it's all in your head
I say to Milka
I am as innocent as a lamb
Milka turns towards me
well be careful
she doesn't cover you
in sauce and eat you then
Milka says
looking at me sadly
baa-baa
I say
she gives a laugh
and I wish I could
have shared her bath.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
I think I might be drowning?
Drowning?
Frowning and crowning myself a queen, because that's what I'm told I am.
I am by all intents and purposes; human in the flesh.
I've seen love and labour lost too many times,
I've seen cost and favour tossed to one side.
I'm a lean, mean regurgitating machine.
I give out party favours like I'm frightened to bite the hand that feeds.
I'm a photocopy of my own originality,
With the PERSONALITY of tracing paper.
I look in the mirror and marvel at myself growing thicker,
My imagination getting thinner,
My appreciation depreciating at the very thought of my dinner.
What can I eat but calories on a stick?
Thick,
thick...
thick.
Each mouthful a new trick conjured by someone trying to tease me, Ease me into a wobbling lump,
A frump,
A place where they can dump their new ideas and findings,
Their light bulb moments so blinding they lead people like me to their deaths.
Because what do I need but another mouth to feed?
The mouth in my brain that's desperate for instruction,
Construction,
DESTRUCTION of its cells.
Each thought more macabre than the last as I dissect the absolute FARCE that has become my identity.
I am by all intents and purposes human in the flesh.
A sack full of bones and DNA,
Of which, so they say, differ from body to body.
And yet I'm a clone of everyone I've known because everyone's left Their imprint on me.
I may not have wanted it but I had no choice,
No voice,
No ability to say no.
Because I couldn't find the right words to dictate what I wanted to say.
My tongue wouldn't move in an articulate way,
So I forgot how to speak.
And now I find myself silenced; a mute of imagination,
A lack of creation,
Practically a crustacean- I'm a mere shell of what I once was.
Which brings me back to drowning.
Drowning?
In waters so harsh but land is so sparse how do I get back?
Because creativity is the building blocks of humanity without we are Lost out to sea.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
Elaine got off
the school bus
following her younger sister
not sure if John
was on the bus
or not
she didn't look
although she had been
tempted many times
to look about her
but she just stared
out the window
at the passing view
listening to others
talking and laughing
wondering if John
was there
and if he had been
looking at her
she walked on
by the school fence
her sister went off
with a friend
into the girls' playground
she looked
at her shoes
scuffed
black
her white
ankle socks
looking
now and then
at the passing feet
of others
not looking
but staring
waiting
for the school bell
to ring
can we still talk?
a voice asked
she looked up
John was standing there
with that quiff of hair
that hazel eyed stare
she blushed
and looked at him
talk about what?
she asked moodily
looking at his
loosely tied tie
anything
as long
as we can talk
he said
she didn't feel
like talking
or listening
but she did
she was in
such a depressed mood
that she thought that
any moment she
was going to cry
and she didn't want
him or others
to see her cry
she looked behind him
at passing girls
their hair
all arranged neatly
you're not going
to kiss me again
are you?
she said
he looked at her
then at her hair
not if you don't
want me to
he said
although at that moment
he wanted to
because he wanted
to make the oddness
of the day before right
to get them back
to some kind
of friendship again
she wasn't sure
if she felt relieved or not
part of her
wanted him
to kiss her
to show others
that someone
did find her attractive
and that she wasn't
just a 14 year old
frump as others
called her
we can't talk now
she said
the bell will soon go
maybe lunch time
at recess?
he nodded
sure
he said
I’ll look out for you
O by the way
I saw a Jay yesterday
she looked at him
there was a small smile
on his lips
Jay?
she said
it's a bird
he said
don't see them often
but it was in
our garden briefly
O
she said
not knowing
what else to say
about a bird
I’ll show you
a picture
in my bird book
at recess
if you like
he said
she nodded
and a smile spread
on her lips
the book of birds
he kept in that
coat pocket of his
she thought
the school bell rang
and he said
see you later
and touched her hand
and was gone
she she sensed
his touch still there
warming moving along
her nerves
like a fire
opening up
a small unknown
deep down desire.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
The sun was still warm
through her bedroom window
her sister played
the Ricky Nelson record
over and over
which came through
the wall
Elaine leaned her back
against the door
and looked at the bed
with the Teddy Bear
her parents had bought her
years before
her mother down stairs
said about bringing
down the soiled washing
she walked towards the window
and looked out
the garden was tidy
her father
had worked hard on it
the green house sparkled
in the afternoon sun
she walked to the dressing table
and stared at herself
was she a frump?
the girls in class
said she was
even some of the boys
who bothered
to talk to her at all
said she was
she pushed back
her dark hair
from her eyes
and stared hard
the boy John liked her
and after the kiss
the other day
she felt unsure
when she was with him
he seemed friendly
he seemed a little odd
when he talked
of birds and butterflies
she sighed and took off
her school blouse
and dropped it
on the bed
then unzipped
her school skirt
and let it fall
to the floor
she was frumpy
she thought
looking at herself
standing there
her reflection
in the mirror
wearing the small bra
and green underwear
she closed her eyes
the Ricky Nelson voice
echoing still
the memory of John's kiss
on the edge of her mind
she pressed
her lips together
pouted
pretended he
had kissed her again
his lips pressing
she ran her tongue
over her lower lip
back and forth
side to side
she turned away
from the mirror
her back to it
she opened her eyes
and embraced herself
her fingers visible
over one shoulder
and at the side
of her ribs
she pretended
they were his
fingers visible
his arms
holding her
she kissed
her shoulder
it was just pretence
she didn't think
she could face
the real thing
not his lips there
not his hands
embracing her
she walked to her bed
and lay down
staring at the ceiling
unsure what she felt
or what it was
her 14 year old body
was hotly feeling.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
John is there
by the fence
arms folded
looking up
at the sky
Elaine feels
very shy
wants to speak
to be near
to feel safe
he sees her
waves to her
she blushes
walks over
you OK?
he asks her
I’m all right
she mutters
looking round
for others
who may see
both of them
together
but none seems
to notice
or to care
that she's there
let's walk on
she tells him
on the field
of the school
they move on
together
she feels his
hand brushing
against hers
electric
sensation
flows through her
beating heart
pumping blood
all around
her body
she stops him
holds his hand
feels his pulse
they tease me
the others
other girls
other boys
she tells him
why is that?
he asks her
they call me
the Frump
the sexless
old granny
you're not that
he tells her
not a frump
(he doesn't
known if she
is sexless
doesn't say)
you are you
a sweet girl
a bit shy
he goes on
talking words
but his hand
is in hers
she senses
the warmth there
the fingers
touching hers
pulsing life
electric
a love feel
running there
not a trick.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Woman, thy nastiness to me
Is like old Nikes on the floor
Where sweat and mildew disagree
And force me to the nearest door
A stench I can't ignore.
Your heart weighs less than styrofoam,
Thy stinking feet, thy scowling face,
Belong in some state nursing home . . .
Free me up some breathing space,
You mean-hair clipped-face gnome.
Lo, in yon dark recliner-chair
How meatloaf-like I see thee slump,
Upon your wide immobile ****
Ah! Harpie of the greasy hair
Unholy Frump!
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 6:23 PM UTC