"grumpiness" poems
They say it is an art
It keeps me quite apart
It's never seen as good
Yet happy me not
understood
My grumpy life is good
I see the roses
Tinted love
My sadness makes me happy
From such a grumpy chappy
It is the way to go
The docs do say
It's so
I'll live a little longer life
More grumps i say as I get
older
I start the day full moan
A grumpiness full drone
It never ever leaves me
My grumpy tree
Pure freedom
So next time I'm about
Expect a grumpy shout
You'll know its from my heart
My grumpy life
This sad old ****
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
I am hopelessly attracted to grumpiness
impatience
poignancy
eccentricity
introversion
stubbornness
anxiety
misanthropy
frustration
hedonism
vulgarity
How, then, do I define 'imperfection'?
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
Worry had never been the cause
of his laughter lines, the kindly crow's feet,
except that moment; the time
we all realised.
Being old had other symptoms
than grumpiness, and white hair.
So, like watching a monument crumble,
we saw the old man shudder and shake.
Then with mouths agape, we knew
he had other flaws, our Old Wise Owl,
and so it turns out,
our Grandfather, placed on the pedestal tall,
was, in fact, afraid of heights.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
I hope you can deal with my grumpiness in the morning
My snoring through the night
Sometimes I even talk in my sleep
I'll want you to cook all the time and cuddle me too
I hope you're warm and smell good
Please be able to take a joke
I love to laugh
Love me with all you have
Kiss me like it's the last time you ever will
Look past my eyes and into my soul
See me for my heart and not the body it's attached to
Love me for me and I'll do the same for you
My future husband, I love you.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:10 AM UTC
Don’t forget to wash
Your hands after you’ve
Been to the toilet
Auntie said and don’t
Talk with your mouth full
Or at the dining
Table during meals
And always stand when
A lady enters
The room it’s basic
Manners Colin just
Basic manners and
If you must share the
Bacon rind with the
**** dog make sure his
Lips don’t touch yours and
Colin nodded his
Head slowly making
No reply keeping
His mouth closed during
The meal stood each time
His aunt entered the
Room from the kitchen
And wondered if his
Auntie knew it was
He who wrote the short
Scribbled poem on
The toilet wall and
If she had whether
She had smiled or laughed
Secretly to her
Self at the humour
Or maybe in her
Grumpiness didn’t
Give a **** at all.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
There is a place within us all where grumpiness makes its home.
It lurks and festers like a sorid disease and waits for the day it chooses to be seen.
Seldom seen by the one who caused it, more ofter let loose on the one who adores you.
But like anger, fear, hate and love, grumpiness is just another part of us.
But always beware for it can mutate and become depression and cause more pain.
So scream and shout and let it rip! Tell grumpiness go pack its ****
Sling your hook and ****** off you're not wanted here anymore.
And while you find another to plague i'll be sat with a cup of Earl Grey
Wondering how you had the gaul to cage my smile you emotional fraud.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
I work with many elderly people and they all sing the same song.
“Honey, whatever you do, don’t get old.”
They usually say this when a seemingly simple task is too difficult.
Their bones all sing the same the song too.
A stiff tune, no rhythm, off key.
Every movement, an awkward note in a song no one wants to sing.
It makes me realize how little my body has lived, and how ungrateful I am.
On the days when I “can’t” get out of bed,
I inevitably end up swinging my legs over the edge,
And hopping up, greeting a day of possibility with grumpiness.
Oh what my friends would give for my bones,
The joints that move them, the muscles that carry.
My body is an upbeat, joyful song I rarely let anyone hear.
I feel as if my body is heavy with the weight of the future on my chest;
Theirs is heavy with the past on their back.
But how lucky are they to have lived such long lives,
Lives full enough that their body can’t recover.
And how lucky am I to have one before me…
And though they can’t hop out of bed,
I cannot count the number of times they’ve danced with me while I am holding them up.
Can you imagine? Loving life so much that you’re willing to risk extra aching and pain,
All for a second of pure joy.
Just for a second, of two perfectly imperfect melodies, harmonizing.
Just for a second, two young souls,
Dancing.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
Oh my, you are one of a kind.
And if you would not mind, I would like to write and write
right next to you, while you read Clarissa Dalloway's story.
I would like to say that I am more of a Richard,
but I really am more of a Sally, minus the homosexual-ness.
Vivacity could be a substitute for my first, middle, and
last name on most occasions.
Yet, I exceedingly relate to Clarissa's adulation for Peter,
"it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket
knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions
of things had utterly vanished – how strange it was! –
a few sayings like this about cabbages,"
barring the pocket knight in exchange for a knit hat or two
that you would wear inside if it was a social norm.
Now as I would write right, my stream of conscious would pour out
like the musings of those about to attend Clarissa's party,
but most will never see my internal conflicts and revelations
because one of those revelations makes me mirror George Eliot.
I blanket most of my verses with a sheet of caution
because even when one's heart is on their sleeve,
that sleeve is a sheet in its own secularity.
As George said, or Mary for those who knew she really was,
"I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved.
I am not sure that you are of the same mind," and every so often
that is why my heart is evident out on my sleeve, and yet
the sleeve is steadfast.
So that is why I propose, if you would not mind,
to let me write and write right next to you,
while you read Clarissa Dalloway's story.
Because, "oh my," that two-word saying that I remember,
as if they are the analogous cabbages of you and I,
you are one of a kind, but so am I;
our minds are more the same than not.
The reality is, if I hosted a party,
I would not invite George, Clarissa, or any others;
I would invite only you, your eyes, your smile, your grumpiness, and your
knit hat, or hats, which I had let you wear inside if you would like,
and we would both read many stories
and write our own story right next to each other.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC