Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Austine May 2014
i just want to find myself staring
at the bedroom wall with nothing
but your chest as my cushion
revealing nothing but our affection

i won’t even be in sad thoughts way too deep
because you’ll be there as i try to sleep
in my dreams, i won’t even dare to roam
because on your chest is where i’m home

we’ll just lie there in peace
who knows, maybe we’d even kiss
i won’t care, really
because with you, i can be silly

at times, i’ll even take a chance
at you, i’ll steal a glance
i’ll trace the curves of my face
that’s reflected on your captivating gaze

i’ll touch your hair with my free hand
and adore each and every strand
truly there’s not a piece of you
that will ever fail to keep me anew

maybe - no, of course! - we’ll cuddle
oh, how we’ll enjoy the snuggle
then we’ll find ourselves on the floor
oh, darling, you’re the one i’ll endlessly fall for

i’ll listen to your charming snore
that solid sound, i’ll spend time to explore
i might even laugh as you audibly breathe in
you’ve no idea how happy i’ll be within

as i hear your breathing and mine
i’ll know everything will be just fine
we’ll create our own piece of beautiful melody
to the lonely past, it’ll be our remedy

for it’s all that i ever long
our own version of a happy song
just let me hold you once more
and i promise, i’ll never ask for more
Queso Jun 2012
‘Twas but a rare, snowy day in Paris,
a January day, as all the lights of the city
rested, as dancers of the Moulin Rouge
fixed their make up during the intermission

And in the graveyard of Père Lachaise
there stood a solitary figure of an old man,
his hands gathered together politely,
in front, clenching on to a tattered flat cap

The man stood in front of a grey wall,
“a tomb without a cross or chapel,
or golden lilies, or sky-blue church windows,”
but with an equally lonesome little plaque
that read, ‘Aux mort de la commune,
21 28 Mai 1871’

He lit a cigarette, from which he took just one puff,
stuck it upside-down on a patch of dirt,
then notwithstanding the thunderstorm
of camera flashes from Japanese tourists,
he started to sing, with a hoarse yet firm voice,
“Debout, les damnés de la terre,
Debout, les forçats de la faim…”

As the wrinkle on his forehead began to stretch,
the dusty particles of ice piled higher and higher
on neighboring graves commemorating
French members of the International Brigades
and Spanish maquis of the French Resistance
-apparently the 3,400 meters height of Pyrenees
was merely a backyard *****
for ideas and fates to tread over barefooted-

His song was a ballad of unrequited passion;
when he got to the chorus about some final struggle
and the unity of human race in a silly hymn,
a song that was never played on a radio,
for which no cool kid would ever
spend $0.99 on iTunes store,
his voice started cracking in amorous choke

The old man was a lifetime lover
in the truest spirit of a Frenchman,
spent all his life trying to charm a girl named Emma Ries,
and whenever he dreamed of holding
the eloquently bruised hands of that sixteen years old seamstress,
his eyes swelled of nostalgic heart,

And he used to cry joyfully,
dropping tears of bullets back in the days,
whether by the guillotine in Place de la Concorde,
behind the barricades of Belleville amidst the cannonballs,
******* in front of the Gestapo firing squads,
or under the truncheons of gendarme in Quartier Latin

As the expired old ******* moaned wet dreams,
hallucinogic delusions of his bygone youth, however,
the chilly, soggy winter of 20th arrodissement piled on,
the ashen slums of Ménilmontant depressingly ugly as always
with brownish-grey molten snow spattered all over
the streets trotted by drug dealers and wife beaters,
and neither the fiery oratory of Maurice Thorez
nor the sanguine grenade of Colonel Fabien
was around to arson the frost into the proletarian spring

In the same winter that the old man sang
the first, only, and last lovesong of his life,
it had been more than two decades already
since the Berlin Wall had tumbled down
and the ruling parties in Greece and Spain,
both socialists,
had just driven 500,000 workers out of their jobs

-J.P. Proudhon, Marx and Engels, Jean Jaures, V.I. Lenin,
Leon Trotsky, Antonio Gramsci, Leon Blum, Abbie Hoffman-
by the time the old man muttered an old pop-song nobody cared for,
all of those names were as relevant as some Medieval knights,
characters from an obscure chronicle centuries ago,
who died by charging horseback into windmills,
mistaking them for giants that held whom they thought as
a princess of an ugly peasant woman,

Eventually, right before his voice cracked
into an embarrassing fuddle of choked-up tears,
impressive for a seventy something years old,
the man finished the song from his memory,
all the way up to the sixth stanza;
yet the curvaceously splintered palm of a seamstress,
it was still so far away from his hands that’s been pleading
since 1871 for that glorious *******
which once stood so proudly in the face of a Czernowitz magistrate

When the cigarette he stuck upside down on the dirt
burned all the way down, he reached into his coat,
took out a rose, laid it softly, like his own infant child,
in front of the plaque which golden inscriptions
turned grey from unwashed grimes of ages
and as the old fool walked away,
his back turned away from the solemn wall,
there was but one little patch of dirt in the whole of Paris
uncovered by snow, still hoping for the spring to come.
Now we all know the story of the grinch and the who's
So listen quite closely for I have some bad news
The Grinch is back in Whoville and before you make a fuss
The blame for his existence must fall on all of us
We the the Grinch in power, we elected him you see
This time the Grinch has got a name, it's Brian Mulroney!
You're a mean one Misher Grinch
The meanest man alive
You stay up in your mansion
At 24 Sussex Drive, Mister Grinch
The Grinch called for his council to gain some ideas
He planned to discover each persons worst fears
"I've demolished their lifestyles in the time I've been King"
Then he thought to himself, "That has a nice ring!"
"I've sold out the country to whomever would buy it"
"It's such a feeling of power, I wish you could try it!"
"I've taxed all I can  I've cut low cost housing"
"It makes me feel special, in fact it's arousing"
"I'll get them this Christmas, make them regret their decision
"Of voting NO on my Constitutional Vision"
"I;ll leave them no money to celebrate the season"
"And if they speak out against me, I'll charge them with treason"
Now, out in the Provinces the people spoke out
We;ve fot to find someone to knock the Grinch out
We've not much to choose from, It'll be a tough job
We cannot depend on the broad and the slob
Audrey McLughlin, I'm sure isn't up to the test
I'm not sure what's bigger her IQ or her chest
Jean Chretien was good, but his reputation is fraying
And if you're not from Quebec, you don't know what he's saying!
The Grinch was a terror who did not like free speech
Elijah Harper learned this when he put "MEECH" on the beach
We need a strong leader to whom the torch can be past
It doesn't matter what party, we just need one fast.
Back up on the hill, the Grinch started to fume
He was feeling threatened by someone, but he wasn't sure whom,
He called in Joe Clark and they formed a long list
Of all those against him, but there was someone they'd missed!
They listed the Premiers from the West to The Rock
There was not one name among them that was made of the stock
to take on the Country and make it stand strong and free
In fact of 5 of 11 couldn't quite spell B.C.!
But deep in his soul the Grinch still felt a tingle
So he called on hils staff and fave Geroge Bush a jingle
Maybe H. Ross Perot was a citizen up here,
You know who he is, he's the one with the ears!
The Prez told the Grinch that Perot wasn no threat
But, the Grinch was still worried, there was someone else yet...
Now the people waged searches in each nook and cranny
And the leader they'd found had a beard, was named Lanny
He said "I can help you but I'll not thake the reigns"
"But, you'll find your new leader if you'll just read MACLEANS"
The people thought hard and when they broke from their huddle
They remembered a phrase from the past "Fuddle Duddle!"
The leader they sought was Pierre Elliot Trudeau!
But no one was sure if he'd return to the show
They approached the ex-leader and they spoke of their quest
They all spoke of taxes and how he was the best
To come back to The Grits and be saviour for all
He thought on it a bit and then he stood up quite tall
He said "Yes, I'll do it!", and his voice came alive
"What I buggered in twelve years, The Grinch has ******* in five!"
Now, the rest of the story is yet to be told
The winds of change are a blowing and they're blowing quite cold
Please heed what I've written and think for a while
For the Grinch is still here with his chin and his smile
This Christmas think ******* the message I've sent
Let's make it the last he get his seven per-cent
Let's make this a Christmas both Joyous and true
Let's give the Grinch what he gave us, but let's give it times two!
I will probably be writing an entirely new version later this year, once the son of Trudeau, Justin Trudeau, becomes the Liberal Party Leader and is on his way to becoming, hopefully, The Next Prime Minister of Canada. This was originally written in 1992, but with the way the Canadian Political environment is today, it still fits, so I pulled it from my handwritten archives and posted it here. If you are Canadian, you can tell, all you have to do is switch Mulroney for Stephen Harper  and you have the same grinch we had before.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2015
Without speech,
Former lovers meet,
At a party and are reintroduced
To themselves. In that mute
Moment, eyes carry words down
To hands that are unwishing,
Unmoved to join, yet touch
Haphazardly in the cacophony
Of dark party.  The former lovers
Lips are locked in air, unmoist,
Their hearts beat to the tuneless
Drone of old music and stale bread,
Their bodies fuddle in a tortuous groove,
At the reception they could not get out
Of attending.  In a split second, they pray,
It will be unquick, yet soon, just over.
M Eastman Aug 2015
Dusty you pick it up
but it's been too long
and the chords feel strange
and the sounds not right
so you
fuddle with
pegs a bit
and is
still not quote right
so twist them harder
until they
Snap and piercing
note vibration worth it's
Snapping blessed bleeding
fingers to play
cracking oak in
oiled frame ashamed
shamed smashed against
the doorways of discordant sea
there
that's better
Seán Mac Falls May 2016
Without speech,
Former lovers meet,
At a party and are reintroduced
To themselves. In that mute
Moment, eyes carry words down
To hands that are unwishing,
Unmoved to join, yet touch
Haphazardly in the cacophony
Of dark party.  The former lovers
Lips are locked in air, unmoist,
Their hearts beat to the tuneless
Drone of old music and stale bread,
Their bodies fuddle in a tortuous groove,
At the reception they could not get out
Of attending.  In a split second, they pray,
It will be unquick, yet soon, just over.
PK Wakefield Jan 2011
slippery trinket
all splayed a flavor welt
lacquer melted fuddle
the sun was snarling coquettish
as it fizzled frailty mightily
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2015
.
Without speech,
Former lovers meet,
At a party and are reintroduced
To themselves. In that mute
Moment, eyes carry words down
To hands that are unwishing,
Unmoved to join, yet touch
Haphazardly in the cacophony
Of dark party.  The former lovers
Lips are locked in air, unmoist,
Their hearts beat to the tuneless
Drone of old music and stale bread,
Their bodies fuddle in a tortuous groove,
At the reception they could not get out
Of attending.  In a split second, they pray,
It will be unquick, yet soon, just over.
Mike Hauser Jul 2013
Thought I'd start off with a clean slate today
Completely clear my mind
Sit in a darkened room
Give it a little time

See what there is inside of me
Digging deep what I will find
Grab a hold the poet soul
Spend the extra dime

I found I like it better here
Without the fuddle of mankind
Just me, the darkness, and my mind
In the deeper meaning of the rhyme
epictails Sep 2015
I can't make brushes
dance all flamenco—
red, blue, purples
on a peacock's feathery
canvas

Nor can I raise
unborn symphonies
from a string's womb

Instead, I piece
words caught
like fireflies
in the air
stir their light
through and through
in cosmic metaphors
in sea allegories
in flights of soliloquies
in lovelorn colloquies

Really,
I can't dazzle eyes
nor fuddle ears
but I behold
the days to come
with tongues from
yesteryears
as i lay in bed
david mungoshi Feb 2016
when you're bigger
are you any bigger, really
perhaps you're just the trigger
of an assortment of events
when by others you're called small
are you in truth really small
perhaps you like playing the victim
with what lens do you look at things
with what misgivings do you struggle
against all the things that in you huddle
isn't it time to dump it all in that puddle
now that the spotlight is on your fuddle
somewhere within sight of your experiences
then walk forward in keeping with your destiny
revised slightly and enhanced
No
We sully women who think,
unbowed and without corsets
to prop or hide whatever fuddle
we've told them exists.

We need not be told, all
of us. No is not an abstract
concept, it rides no waves
of uncertainty, no great barriers
or walls need of climbing.

Verily he told her she must
cover for not to be mistaken for
impious. Shell-shocked and
sullied she bides her time between
bites to plot her spiritual escape.
Ivan Mihajlovic Oct 2018
WRITER IN THE STORM
Scars on the soul, strange is the side, too much pain inside.
The wind carries the fall of the leaves to the other side.
How much does it price to get to Paradise?
God give some advice. Because of which vice I pay the price.

The street is long, black is the night, the old song is heard, I will start writing.
Time is wrong, nothing me affright.
The thought is like a gong, my shadow is bright.
I am writing in the storm, this is my battle,
The eagle sang that I was born, I have to stay hustle.
I like to see bees and  sworm, a dark fuddle.
The road is misinform, there is some light at the end of the tunnel.

Lightning creates my light in this deep and dark night.
A thunderous voice will soon be heard, I write, it's my choice.
I listen to the storm, I look wide, that's my thought on the other side.
Maybe I'll become a hero, or just a zero,
                                        Heavenly stars and night sky are my mirror.

In addition to the scar on my soul, I also carry an Orthodox cross.
I've crossed the road a long time ago.
I became my warrior, I broke the barrier.
I do not care about fame, I have my aim,
Knight of poetry is my other name, we are not all the same.

Everything is a bit strange on my way, I'm looking for some bay
I do not know exactly what, say: Something like a doorway in the game,
In the kingdom of peace, but somewhere far away.
Today or tomorrow I will make that sway.

While I write my words there is not a single border,
I am my own warrior and warder, I smoke the thought spark.
When I write, I enter completely, many words are dark,
My written words are my trademark.

It's a deep and inexplicable human destiny. He keeps running for you,
And increasing the intensity.
We have God's legacy, nature, this is something bestly,
You're a weird destiny, you create a diverse biography.
CP Walker Apr 2015
Why did you think your opinion should shed?
Some kinda brash lettin words outcha head.
No body said your words should be spoken.
Re-fuddle them fumblin foul things now broken.
You always give up so soon, too soon.
You always relax beneath the full moon.
And you try and you try to socialize more;
But your eyelids resist and you can't cross the door.
And the wispy wisp-wisps float up over brow;
Such peripheral tests in a lofty soft style.
Night time becomes such a strange, sad routine:
Ever in thought sliding ever in dreams.
I sit in my lounge watching night time close in;
My head is laid back, thoughts are stacked, let's begin.
I'm losing my rhythm, my floating on back;
I'm slowly now melting, for buoyancy lacks.
Good night now to consciousness ever in sight;
Good luck to all out there with what's wrong and what's right.
The people over me are having loud obnoxious ***...rude. Nobody want to hear you yelling, grow up. Haha
Mrigank Soral Apr 2020
A girl with spects,
Her innocence and her acts..

What she hide behind the spects,
I have a zeal for find the facts..

Is there the brightest shine??
Which is beyond the thinking of mine..

I think there is the deep calm lake??
Its the natural beauty, rest of world are fake..

I wanna look into her eyes,
Two drowsy cups which are so nice..

Is these more intoxicate than wine??
I’m in fuddle or i’m fine??

Glasses..don’t put off it,
It’s drive me crazy little bit..

Stand against the mirror and see,
the pearls are present originally under a transparent sea.....
Anais Vionet Aug 2021
fuddle, chuckle, cuddle, fumble, subtle-supple-couple, snuggle.
this is a Synecdoche.  =]
And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal,
There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour -
I did grab my last chance at God to finally feel,
But after all those fights and battles, I still was proven dour.


Never - I felt myself winning in Death's game of chess;
Even if, I was sometimes pridefully smiling,
Just as like children feeling proudly after doing a remarkable mess;
I wanted to prove myself on Earth while God has been hiding.


All time - I left behind the ridiculous faces,
Painted with pious spirituality from random rapturous riddles
That might fuddle the painful slaves on his laces
To hear the scream of Death as dance-starting fiddles.


Oh, no - I said: Away with all the physicality,
Give me rather knowledge on my own - at least to know -
Who is God and who is Evil if they are real in reality,
To know, these faked battles against Death were not shallow.


All time, I've been annoyed on my road,
Though, it wasn't Death bothering me but my own emptiness,
While others had thousands of funny wishes implored,
I only wished to fetch up with my boredom and lonliness.


Never, I gave up to call the fate upon suffering fights,
To know, whether I would bear another hit - another blow,
Then, for sure it's my final destiny to hear how it invites:
Come, it's the end. I know you've become so tired for now.


And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal,
There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour -
And God has been silence all since I've been able to hear,
Say, what's the fate of such a terribly deaf and faithless soul?






"S.D.G" (Soli Deo Gloria) — "To God Alone the Glory"
Inspired by Ingmar Bergman's movie, The Seventh Seal (1957)

21.09.2018
sandra wyllie Apr 2021
as snow turns into
a puddle and dissolves
I wouldn't fuddle my head
with alcohol. Paint myself up

as a doll. Spread my legs
as Eagle wings! Pulled as
a puppet on strings. I'm a snowball
that's grown from men that buttered
me up as a scone, greasing their fingers

and licking my bones. I once was
a river. Now I've a river of men that skate
on ice. Some fallen in. That's the vice of
wearing pigskin!
T R S Aug 2019
I'd tried over ten days over, to master how to pick apart a pickle jar.
It's a travesty to see a grown fuddle over glass and cry.

Still, I've had a chance to see my life through brine-stained glasses.
The passage of time is an ******* who steals all your good jokes.

Instead I stay coked up and well-fed.
And I no longer bleed red.
Instead I'm a bleached blanket of white socks and sorries.
It's not how large I am.
And not only how smart.
But my language can be best felt
in all my stories.
sandra wyllie Aug 2023
on my shoulder
is waiting to knock me
over. The cloud above
my head is filling me with

dread. The ground
beneath my feet is naked
and fleet. This air I’m breathing
is smoky and wreathing. The fog

on the horizon is not
compromisin'. This speck
in my eye I cannot pry. My head
is a mountain that is mount

on sky a hundred and sixty
stories high. I’m drowning in
a puddle through a fuddle of *****
and gin. I cannot bear to win.

— The End —