"fusty" poems
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Fusty walls and shadows
Left mice in the lurch
They said „no!“ to Kafka
On that day when a man in pajamas walked
In front of his house
And secretly eated
Fresh autumn grapes.
Boy with a fishhook and pieces of bread
Was hunting frogs near the coast
While Kafka went from door to door
People were offering him a glass of maple juice
Or just watched him in silence.
Shadows were whispering Judge's vanity name
And frogs were moving in the mud
Kafka’s leather bag
Went carried by a river
In searching for peace.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
I am in my beach house by the sea
Sat in the chair with a cup of weak tea.
The cup was cracked some years ago
Maybe I should replace it, I don’t know.
I might give the place a lick of paint I think
Perhaps a nice bright blue or shocking pink.
Oh, and I have to make a trip into the town
The dinghy needs looking at, I will get it down
The place smells fusty when I open up at start of year
And I expect everywhere to be slightly damp when I get here!
To be economical I save my old tea bags for next time
I have a cup of tea, look at that washing line.
The knife is a bit rusty and the milk tends to turn
Toaster’s a bit rusty and the bread’ll burn.
The other day a kid stood outside making fun with his mates
Pointing at me, laughing and swinging on my gates.
But I smiled because I’m proud of what I’ve got set up for me
This is all mine, my beach house by the sea.
I make sandwiches, cheese and pickle on white
Wrapped in newspaper, made previous night.
That’ll do me till it is time for my tea
Which I will enjoy in the beach house by the sea.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Morning was sudden-made as an onwardness of hills,
Meant for donning crusade in chainmail glistenings,
The sun visored in misty slats of cold steel,
To glimmer fusty through the godded grove,
A holy sepulchre, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Where the forest-fall of sunlight shed its rosework,
And a red-breasted bird, its song-flight of dappled gleam,
And in the meadow, where colorful whorled the tale of Saladin,
Wayside flowers shook beneath the destriers' cloth caparisons,
A sunny fullness of vales for the crusaders' forest-heartened lungs,
And when this furthering of sights was sunken from,
Still an onwardness of hills to Jaffa like steppingstones.
Apr 16, 2023
Apr 16, 2023 at 10:11 PM UTC
This river runs wide and free. This river means home to me.
This river I know Caradoc crossed.
Through Catimundua’s vanity his kingship lost.
Arthur a tourist here drunk on local fusty beer.
This river crossed my blood as Galloglass and Saxon
Would.
In the hook of the river the gales give gifts of frowns
Worn in all the northwest towns.
These ****** scowls don’t mean your sad just were you grow the wind was bad.
And by bad I don’t mean wrong.
That it just blows long and strong.
This river drew me near today, like the faithful go to
Pray.
This river will outlive my time and see as dust this mortal rhyme.
This river has now claimed this day as red light low pours out through the gray.
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 5:00 AM UTC
In his final moments
He clutched his sheet in fear
Staring at the wallpaper
He knows his time is near
The unshaded lightbulb
The dust around the room
Black mould in the windowsill
Adding to the gloom
Loved ones stand around him
For their tearful last goodbyes
Forever shall be without him
But he cannot reason why
His thoughts now are desperate
And nothing shall they gain
But to toy with logic, reason
Might help to ease the pain
The universe for him
Is not beyond the sky
For when his time expires
His universe will die
He recalls a varnished box
And now his fears somehow subside
It was stored in an upstairs cupboard
Where he sometimes used to hide
The distinctive smell of varnish
The rusty broken locks
Tins of enamel paint
Occupy the box
Time seems at a standstill
As he revisits his past
A time once thought forgotten
He prays this time to last
He opens up the fusty box
To take a look inside
His father's name inside the lid
Consumed is he with pride
His loved ones weep with sorrow
As he walks his final mile
His body still and lifeless
He exits with a smile
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
The strings are getting rusty,
I haven't played since that day,
my style has turned uselessly fusty,
and I don't plan on changing my way.
The chords, slowly forgotten, will not
be played again.
Concerts will be put on hold, later on
cancelled.
If I had just one fan, small-eyed or freckled.
I would keep going, but I don't.
I'll go back to practicing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
I am in my beach house by the sea
Sat in the chair with a cup of weak tea.
The cup was cracked some years ago
Maybe I should replace it, I don’t know.
I might give the place a lick of paint I think
Perhaps a nice bright blue or shocking pink.
Oh, and I have to make a trip into the town
The dinghy needs looking at, I will get it down
The place smells fusty when I open up at start of year
And I expect everywhere to be slightly damp when I get here!
To be economical I save my old tea bags for next time
I have a cup of tea, look at that washing line.
The knife is a bit rusty and the milk tends to turn
Toaster’s a bit rusty and the bread’ll burn.
The other day a kid stood outside making fun with his mates
Pointing at me, laughing and swinging on my gates.
But I smiled because I’m proud of what I’ve got set up for me
This is all mine, my beach house by the sea.
I make sandwiches, cheese and pickle on white
Wrapped in newspaper, made previous night.
That’ll do me till it is time for my tea
Which I will enjoy in the beach house by the sea.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
If fusty galaxies twirl like Shakespearian poetry,
is astrology a tragedy or a comedy?
Are there clusters of tumbling uppercase in outer space,
the remnants of conceit metaphors that broke up like meteors?
My scattered universe is full of orphaned verse.
Why do terse alien names all have hyphens?
Quatrains swirl in fiery hues across the ecliptic plane,
and sonnets streak by, like sparkling comets.
Argh! Where’s a pencil - too late - the thought’s gone.
Ever lose something essential - cause you couldn’t find a pencil?
It’s ok though, it’s not just me and not just you.
Black holes are swallowing Haiku too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Hypnotized by Fleetwood Mac
Theme for a **** Beach by The B-52's
.
.
I saw a line with something like, “universe of orphaned verse,” in a poem a few days ago. The idea of celestial words rhyming with writing terms ‘mused’ me. I’ve been looking for the author to credit them (hello, computer searches). If you know the guilty party, please let me know.
.
*No, this is NOT a sonnet, it’s just the name
Aug 9, 2024
Aug 9, 2024 at 9:13 AM UTC
modern English
I want to promise to love you, my lover,
I’ll never hurt you for the rest of my days
At this moment I will be your friend forever
I could tell you my love in many ways
But none of them are good enough for you
I will spend my days with the one I love
Because we are the perfect two
I will always be your elegant white dove.
I hope that we can grow old together
Our families may be enemies
But we could be like garlic and butter
When I am weak you are my remedy
With every beat of my heart,
I will love you till death due us part
Shakespearean
I wanteth to gage to loveth thee, mine own lov'r,
I’ll nev'r did hurt thee f'r the rest of mine own days
At this moment I shall beest thy cousin f'rev'r
I couldst bid thee mine own loveth in many ways
But none of those folk art valorous enow f'r thee
I shall spendeth mine own days with the one i loveth
Because we art the p'rfect two
I shall at each moment beest thy elegant white dove.
I desire yond we can groweth fusty togeth'r
Our families may beest enemies
But we couldst beest liketh garlic and buttocks'r
At which hour I am weak thou art mine own remedy
With ev'ry did beat of mine own heart,
I shall loveth thee till death due us parteth
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
the circles still expand...but the fish has gone
people come people go
there it hangs
in a fusty old Charity shop
above a box of battered old LP's.
It was just a normal Saturday afternoon
people come people go
A young man tries it on
smiles as he looks in the mirror
gets the nod of approval from his wife.
His shirt is tucked in, so too his collar
there is no scent of whisky mingled with tobacco
on his breath,
yet he has the charisma of an Easter island statue
compared to the person who had it before
but he's gone now...
like the fish.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC