"gnomish" poems - Hello Poetry

Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.

0

May 26, 2014

May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

VERSES OF CAUTION TO AN AFRICAN GIRL

Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.

36

Alice was walking At the back of her yard when she spotted a gnome well....standing guard she knew she was gnomeless she had a ball and a stone but there in her garden was a short, stocky gnome he knew that she saw him he tried not to blink he stopped all his breathing this'll fool her i think she walked down the garden stopped ten feet away looking close at this person who was dressed in green gray she thought, this is crazy a gnome in my yard it was then that he moved and he held out his card she looked at the writing it did her no good it was written in gnomish and only gnomes understood the stare off continued and then she asked loud who are you, you gnome you standing so proud he said, i am biffles at your service i am in the back of your garden here in East Ham she said, why my garden what is special to you about my dear roses and my runner beans too he said, that a meeting of the higher up gnomes was being held there that night there were elves and some pixies and some twenty odd sprite they were there all around her though they couldn't be seen watching her closely in ten shades of green well, biffles ...young sir what is your job while here you aren't at the meetings what do you do my dear i am sargeant at arms when we're here or at home i guess you could call me (wait for it) yep...i'm a guardin' gnome

0

Nov 2, 2014

Nov 2, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC

roger-turner

Gnome in my yard

Alice was walking At the back of her yard when she spotted a gnome well....standing guard she knew she was gnomeless she had a ball and a stone but there in her garden was a short, stocky gnome he knew that she saw him he tried not to blink he stopped all his breathing this'll fool her i think she walked down the garden stopped ten feet away looking close at this person who was dressed in green gray she thought, this is crazy a gnome in my yard it was then that he moved and he held out his card she looked at the writing it did her no good it was written in gnomish and only gnomes understood the stare off continued and then she asked loud who are you, you gnome you standing so proud he said, i am biffles at your service i am in the back of your garden here in East Ham she said, why my garden what is special to you about my dear roses and my runner beans too he said, that a meeting of the higher up gnomes was being held there that night there were elves and some pixies and some twenty odd sprite they were there all around her though they couldn't be seen watching her closely in ten shades of green well, biffles ...young sir what is your job while here you aren't at the meetings what do you do my dear i am sargeant at arms when we're here or at home i guess you could call me (wait for it) yep...i'm a guardin' gnome

54

Alexander k Opicho (Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected]) My humanity is devoid of piety But time has come for it to beguiled Into green harvesting of inchoate faith That strong in the fibre and the fabrics Is the heart of the racist It has enough force to hate abysmally Without giving chance to voice of reason, The heart of the racist in whatever calibre It is the strong most force that overwhelms time Its current is to and fro in a gnomish prowl Looking for the weakly prey of class To predate on in ruthlessness of the imp.

0

Feb 18, 2014

Feb 18, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

ODE TO THE HEART OF A RACIST

Alexander k Opicho (Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected]) My humanity is devoid of piety But time has come for it to beguiled Into green harvesting of inchoate faith That strong in the fibre and the fabrics Is the heart of the racist It has enough force to hate abysmally Without giving chance to voice of reason, The heart of the racist in whatever calibre It is the strong most force that overwhelms time Its current is to and fro in a gnomish prowl Looking for the weakly prey of class To predate on in ruthlessness of the imp.

14

there are some folks living in my bathroom from the in-between world like a trailer park for toilet home bodies it is where some of the the dead living habitate gnomish broods who feed on the mist of mold and fecundating aberrations of **** and excrement where the difference between objects and souls blur sinks and toilets flapping opinionated vortexes of gloom brooding walls wave and warp like angry water and howling wind they are living creatures animated bodies electric crying mouths without breath fierce undulations animated denizens scowling rattling like bricka bracka used shaking chairs always steaming hysterical daring you to fight them sometimes between sleep and wake i enter their dimension unable to break free of my sleeping self held down paralytic like a narcoleptic slug inching its way through a puddle of warm oatmeal last night i found myself in the in-between world to discover some desperate hollow woman barricading the bathroom i pushed hard against the door and heard her sonorous groan as she collapsed into thin air i think i love her

0

Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC

zebrablack

***IN-BETWEEN WORLD

there are some folks living in my bathroom from the in-between world like a trailer park for toilet home bodies it is where some of the the dead living habitate gnomish broods who feed on the mist of mold and fecundating aberrations of **** and excrement where the difference between objects and souls blur sinks and toilets flapping opinionated vortexes of gloom brooding walls wave and warp like angry water and howling wind they are living creatures animated bodies electric crying mouths without breath fierce undulations animated denizens scowling rattling like bricka bracka used shaking chairs always steaming hysterical daring you to fight them sometimes between sleep and wake i enter their dimension unable to break free of my sleeping self held down paralytic like a narcoleptic slug inching its way through a puddle of warm oatmeal last night i found myself in the in-between world to discover some desperate hollow woman barricading the bathroom i pushed hard against the door and heard her sonorous groan as she collapsed into thin air i think i love her

47

Sonnet: Second Sight (II) by Michael R. Burch (Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.) Wiser than we know, the newborn screams, red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means this close to death, amid the arctic glare of warmthless lights above. Beware! Beware!— encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts? Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts— the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist. Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist— this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense. Why can he not float on, in dark suspense, and dream of life? Why did they rip him out? He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt— and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!, re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, newborn, baby, birth, labor, slap, breath, screams, life, sight, vision, mrbson

0

Sep 14, 2020

Sep 14, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Second Sight (II)

Sonnet: Second Sight (II) by Michael R. Burch (Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.) Wiser than we know, the newborn screams, red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means this close to death, amid the arctic glare of warmthless lights above. Beware! Beware!— encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts? Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts— the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist. Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist— this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense. Why can he not float on, in dark suspense, and dream of life? Why did they rip him out? He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt— and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!, re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, newborn, baby, birth, labor, slap, breath, screams, life, sight, vision, mrbson

20

In the wee hour of a chilly night, Sleep had totally escaped my eye lid, On the scary cooing of the gnomish owl, Outside my house, in the canopy of native flora, Was the owl, officially on duty of harbingering death A short message alarm rang on my cell phone, Idly lying at the head side of my wooden bed, Fear and eerie had numbed my nerves Not knowing to move and take the phone or not, As the owlish humming of fateful music Again is often interrupted by the mew of the cat, A transmogrified Night-runner in perfection of evil art, But rationality washed me sober and clear minded, I picked the phone and viewed the message, I came face to face with a menacing piece of literature; ‘’Dear uncle, your sister Judith is dead, She now lies in a morgue at city hospital, She died laughing and laughing, Laughing away the stupid pangs, Of cervical cancer, the master killer Of the beautifu, the bold and the bright’’ I was discombobulated beyond chance of recombobulation, Pains panged my heart with the fangs of self uselenessness, All else became valueless apart from spark of disillusionment In the pearl that; O death! O death! Why are you ever un-timely? Must the weak fortune be in companionship of the mighty Fate and death when-ever they both pay visit to humanity?

0

Jul 4, 2014

Jul 4, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

IN MEMORY OF MY LATE SISTER

In the wee hour of a chilly night, Sleep had totally escaped my eye lid, On the scary cooing of the gnomish owl, Outside my house, in the canopy of native flora, Was the owl, officially on duty of harbingering death A short message alarm rang on my cell phone, Idly lying at the head side of my wooden bed, Fear and eerie had numbed my nerves Not knowing to move and take the phone or not, As the owlish humming of fateful music Again is often interrupted by the mew of the cat, A transmogrified Night-runner in perfection of evil art, But rationality washed me sober and clear minded, I picked the phone and viewed the message, I came face to face with a menacing piece of literature; ‘’Dear uncle, your sister Judith is dead, She now lies in a morgue at city hospital, She died laughing and laughing, Laughing away the stupid pangs, Of cervical cancer, the master killer Of the beautifu, the bold and the bright’’ I was discombobulated beyond chance of recombobulation, Pains panged my heart with the fangs of self uselenessness, All else became valueless apart from spark of disillusionment In the pearl that; O death! O death! Why are you ever un-timely? Must the weak fortune be in companionship of the mighty Fate and death when-ever they both pay visit to humanity?

27

I wonder if she'll notice I wonder if she'll notice the many bitter black roses that I painted gold with composure when I noticed her little fractured world was soaking, Imploding I wonder I wonder if she noticed The earth's rotation nine degrees to the right when I asked her, "How you doing?" and she replied, "Just fine." then smiled me a goodnight Probably not Coincidental Gravity falls sweep me up Where's the mop?

0

Aug 17, 2016

Aug 17, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC

Bbbbbbbb

Gnomish

I wonder if she'll notice I wonder if she'll notice the many bitter black roses that I painted gold with composure when I noticed her little fractured world was soaking, Imploding I wonder I wonder if she noticed The earth's rotation nine degrees to the right when I asked her, "How you doing?" and she replied, "Just fine." then smiled me a goodnight Probably not Coincidental Gravity falls sweep me up Where's the mop?

17