"guffaws" poems
I decided to be nostalgic
And flip on the Fresh Prince.
The "gentle" comedy cheers me up,
But then again, laughter is infectious.
I'm on a marathon now
With this show on reruns.
Watching every episode
Until one...
You watch a sitcom and expect
To chuckle and cackle along with the audience.
You expect your heart to be lifted
Out of whatever darker place you've been.
You don't expect it to hit so close to home
That your throat closes up
And your lungs burn with the need to breathe
But you can't
Because suddenly where there was the sound
Of deep throated guffaws,
Of bellyaching mirth,
Is only uncontrollable weeping and sobs
You never knew a sitcom could draw.
Will: I didn't need him then, I don't need him now.
Philip: Will...
*Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'ma get through college without him, I'ma get a great job without him, I'ma marry me a beautiful honey, and I'ma have me a whole bunch of kids. I'ma be a better father than he ever was, and I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a **** thing he could ever teach me about how to love my kids!*
[long pause]
Will: [breaks down] How come he don't want me, man?
That echo in my soul:
How come she don't want me, man?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
The clouds will be the shed
of my fears, my feet will walk
across the horizon; no one
can defy me beyond these boundaries
for here in my life, my story
I am the protagonist.
The rivers will dry. But dreams
will never falter, for if love
is the nuisance, I shall bury
it deep in the ocean. Then without guffaws,
I can vacate freely to the aspired place.
I whine. I cry. I fight.
Everything will be colored so perfect
except my shadows (beautiful lies
are my only enemies). In this
borrowed time, I will ratify myself's
journey to be better than the best
for my choice is my destiny,
for I am the protagonist.
People. I let them criticize me.
I let them purchase my real worth.
I let them discover the other side of my being;
I will bring tomorrow today, and rainbows
shall stand still in the midst of frozen rains
for here in my life, my story
I am also the antagonist.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
comedy
clandestine couples
clamerous cosmetics
coughing guffaws
garrulous giggles
gratefully grinning
grotesque charlatans...
tragedy
torrid transgressions
tornado turnabout
tempestuous tradition
transcendent puberty
punishing parable
poignantly
pointless.
Shakespeare.
wove both into
his weft of
words.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/12/2017
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
Confident sassy and brave
All of 13, on her way
Chasing a boy she thought she could love
She’s coyly flirting
Civilizing him
As only the fairer *** can do
They’re innocents
Pulled by that mysterious force
It usually starts around this age
Of course, there are missteps
Guffaws along the way
Romance at any age
Exciting, enticing
So inviting
Young emotions
Are volatile, fragile
Compelling
Dangerous
Wholesome
Sometimes puppy love
Turns into real love
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
Days of sunshine,
skies of azure
and scents of blooming flowers.
Days of never ending conversations,
careless guffaws
and childlike jests.
Days of heartfelt promises,
unrestrained caresses
and wild beating hearts.
I think I've fallen again...
.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
It is easier to dislike,
to hate,
to hide,
than it is to realize
YOU are the reason
that curve,
crooked tooth,
or scar,
are deemed flaws.
Accept your responsibility
as a creative being.
Adapt your perception
to one of appreciation.
That curve...
is from giving life.
That crooked tooth...
helps you whistle.
That scar...
tells a story.
Love your flaws,
they make you, you.
Release some guffaws,
as perception you redo!
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
"I kissed a feminist once",
he says, face flushed blotchy, something heavy resting on his shoulders
maybe
“I kissed a feminist once,”
and everybody laughs
“she was cold as ice,” he says
and he doesn’t mention how I turned
warm beneath his fingers,
heated up like embers
and reduced his bed to flame and ashes
“God was she mean,” he says
but he hasn’t forgotten the time
I told him to be kind to himself, to
purge the poison from his veins and
scrape the smoke from his lungs
“I love you I love you I love you”
I said,
“please love yourself too”
“I kissed a feminist once,”
he says, to loud guffaws,
an elbow in his side
and he doesn’t say “her lips
were the softest thing to ever brush
my collar bone”
he doesn’t say “she made playlists in my mind”
or “she covered me like a blanket”
or “her teeth on my earlobe ripped me open and scattered me across the sheets of her twin bed”
he doesn’t say “I loved that
storm of a girl,
I loved her heavy at 4am I loved
her like pennies
at the bottom of a fountain
like memorized freckles
I loved her like depth perception
like opposable thumbs
I loved her I loved her I loved her”
and instead he shrugs
that heavy thing off his shoulders
and shrugs the feel of my lips
off his chest and he says,
“she was a crazy ***** anyway”
- Lily Cigale
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
Such a tedious thing,
I sense our existence appears.
For my chest to breech to the sky,
A tightened blossom of whipping purity.
Then to sink towards such a vicarious engulfment of hell.
With each palpitating symposium,
My lungs waver.
To crust over,
and bless the,
upon gilded guffaws.
Perturbed of my ascension.
Or shall they sink,
Sallow under chagrined blasphemy,
My horridness inked upon
parchment seasoned skin.
Not but,
a child of bitter consideration.
I shall butter myself in ashes,
just to perceive myself a shadow.
For at dusk's beckon,
perturbed; to kiss the constellations.
Blemishes I conjured,
beneath a quavering lip,
a gentle crease of my nose.
I silence their whimpering of wrongdoings,
which I have failed to rupture.
To exhale,
in such a bubbling manner.
It gurgles at my lips.
Dribbles before me,
Whilst the sun blinks back a yawn.
Yet, upon a lunar serenade,
the talons which protrude from my veins,
writhes gruesome.
To my supposed
talents,
I see no anchor.
From them, to what lay before me.
To where I shall drift.
And good sir,
label my simplistic existence,
if you must.
Yet I shall soon die,
and so, you will too.
And by that flicker of seconds,
we should matter no more.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
A 70th Birthday Poem
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep my brothers and I from fighting
fighting to cause star-shaped pain,
two-dimensional and primary colored, like on Batman
fighting to cause welts from
rising like tectonic plates heralding the end of Pangaea
fighting to bring forth blood
red blood
red blood
burgundy and green and iridescent blood
she said,
“As long as you’re laughing when you hit them,
it doesn’t count,”
and it became true
as the forced, adrenaline-driven guffaws
tumbled up and over one another
like rocks shattering one another
into pebbles exfoliating one another
into sand
white and soft and meandering
seaside to tomorrow and forever.
Know what I mean?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep from clashing
in a fashionable/unfashionable dissonance,
it’s important to remember:
“Just because two things are red,
doesn’t mean they’re the same,”
or blue or white or black
that when held together like paint swatches
each holds a different value,
and the painter tries to make the best choice
because a purple shirt can be pretty,
but . . .
“Nobody wants to live in a purple house.”
Right?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
housecleaning should be done to a polka,
or not at all
joyfully or begrudgingly
as best suits the cleaner
and the polka,
because . . .
“Doesn’t a little accordian make everything better?”
Well, doesn’t it?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
today is the 31st anniversary
of her 39th birthday
just as it will soon be
the 15th anniversary
of my 29th birthday
**Of course, it is.**
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS
One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.
Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.
Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."
Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.
And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."
She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
This land upon each foot of yours walked, might be so cruel,
And you cannot be a deaf for those guffaws from everywhere:
Wherein, from that voyage of foolishness they live to prove,
Lies the night behind, for they are blinded from the truth.
Keep breaking the walls which hinder to once greatest moment,
Soon, will be freed from asphyxiation, after they realize your existence
Do not prolong your agony; they are just a bunch of stupid creatures
For there will be someone to hold you on your dejected hours.
True beauty can be sought by the heart; never by the eyes,
Let your thoughts alter the pain and foresee but frozen fires,
Cry for tears; they are trying to break your broken wings
Someday, you will be fled into the azure skies to exalt everything.
So, wake up each morn to taste the sweetness of the dew
For what sudden image you can behold in the mirror is really you.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 5:26 AM UTC
Nursery
Blurred shapes, lines of
hazy memories.
Babbling and wailing and curiosity,
Why, why and whys, and kissing boys
And not caring how others
thought of you.
Bright-eyed smiles, hopeful
Kindergarten
Fun-filled days of
Tricycles and grass under my feet
And swinging and falling and
Getting up.
Of giggling and friends forever and
Most of all,
Innocence that know no bounds.
Primary
No more tolerating of
Un-done homework.
Punishments and ugly laughter
And friends who ditch you
No more chortles, guffaws,
Only eye bags and rumours
brought by knowledge.
Secondary
New chapter, new
Friends, new school,
new, new, new...
Balancing precariously on an
Angry horse,
Threatening to buck and
--send you careening--
over the edge...
What's new?
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Once again her ashen crust cleaves , for its once aught to be sought.
In thou curiosity, heft the crude mud, brief a dawn to
the gravity of an intricate craft,
Where thee defy and 'tis a waking howl
Where a flock betrays its trace, flees behind a fowl.
Fowl, shaped upon by the call,
Leads to a world of faux strays,
Where the bodies sway under the moon
But sleeps upon the day.
Nocturnal breaths intertwine around,
Welcoming them into a warm embrace:
Where it is born 'dreamily' to eternally haze.
In no time, the march creates a howl too
That obeys the dance of calamity,
But her refusal hides under a tongue
For it is a refuge, kept under the safety.
After all, it's matriarchy, crumbling a feet of the tantrum,
The wind guffaws, sways to the luminous olive trees;
Where a nest of refugees crawl upon,
Chirping freely to the motion of adversary,
to a moment of cleft.
Thus, it's the mother nature that heaves above all
As if blowing a floral and once again, livid breath.
In its deed, she incessantly cries fugues,
As if a virtuoso morphed upon the death.
Upon lulling the sweet mortality into clay,
Then it strolls around, surreptitiously,the plenitudes of ****** heft,
then heading hither a flaw;
When the day and night sleeps, until the rituals nudges, an absolute,
No sense.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
We meet on a
a crowded street
and stand still,
like a pair of boulders
caught in a river
surrounded by salmon
as they swim upriver,
flowing by and
paying us no mind.
Off to the side two men
share a meal al fresco,
laughing into wine glasses.
After what seems a lifetime
you touch my face,
and I touch yours.
And I remember
every minutia.
We've been apart
for so long,
and yet it's like
a garden revealed
when the snow melts.
The freckles,
the spots,
the creases
beside your lips.
And I watch with glee
your goosebumps
rise and can tell
by your smile
you can see mine.
"Get a ******* room!"
One of the men hollers
with a chuckle
as the other guffaws
and nearly chokes
on his bread.
We look to them
and laugh,
a laugh shared
by strangers
knowing love
when they see it;
of a shared humanity.
-
By Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
I can’t stop dreaming of you
and your astral projection
won’t stop sauntering
into my alternate universe
where our bodies collide
and you wriggle and writhe
underneath me.
I’ve become fixated with you
and all the sounds you make;
your ragged breaths
and guttural guffaws
and the quiver
in your libidinous voice.
I find myself daydreaming
of your magnificent eyes,
bristling bright with fervor
as my vocal chords
give more pleasure
to your skin
than your ears.
I wish I could sleep for days
just to have you
All to myself
on the alternate plane
of pleasure
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
King wing nut fancied himself a fashion savant. No one was ballsy enough to tell him "you caahnt".
He sewed a nice shirt from riverbed dirt.
"Wonderful sire was the obliging blurt.
He stitched a cocked hat made from rooster
Fat.
"Mahvelous sire was the rat a tat tat.
He sewed wooden trousers
to so many wowsers !!!
His stockings were crafted from gobbledygook.
Superlative sire!! and "Oh goodness look"
The Vapid sot laid down on a cot for a nap.
He woke at two,recharged an refreshed.
He stripped down to the skin and proceeded to sew a suit from the thinnest of air.
He stepped to his throne from the twilight zone.
bemused and with hardly a care.
What say ye now said the simplified oaf.
All eyes drifted skyward as he strutted about.
to applause and stifled guffaws.
"Your majesty has outdone himself".
"Leave the rest of your clothes in the closets and shelves.
Nothing more needs be said.
Gassed up and content with an over-sized head.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
It isn't easy being the new kid on the block
staring eyes
gestures
murmurs
pointing fingers
It isn't easy trying to make new friends
laughing eyes
rumors
dumb jokes
you name it
It isn't easy trying out the new ropes
mocking eyes
guffaws
troubles
declaring harm
No, it isn't easy being the new kid
but know what?
I don't care
I'm gonna try
that makes me different
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
They ask me why I go through the pain.
The pain of distance.
The pain of silence.
The pain of difference.
The pain of jealousy.
The pain of harshness.
The pain of helplessness.
The pain of bitterness.
The pain of emptiness.
They ask me why I go through the pain
And I reply that
Without pain there is no joy.
The joy of finally holding each other's hand after a long flight home.
The joy of a "how are you" after a busy day.
The joy of learning a new song or listening to an idea you'd never dreamed could exist.
The joy of relief when they say you are the one and only.
The joy of hearing quick wit from the living room, starting as a lighthearted chuckle, changing to boisterous and cynical guffaws.
The joy of finally hearing the tears begin to fall when they've been held in for far too long and you can move forward.
The joy of the break in the silence after a difficult day when the apologies flow like honey, slow and sweet.
The joy of finally being whole, when life becomes real and free, and everything before it a papier mache mystery.
They ask me why I go through the pain.
What a pity: they have never been in love.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
I wake up every morning
With laughter in my head,
And sometimes as I'm yawning
I wish that I were dead.
It turns up as I am writing
And scoffs, grunts, and guffaws,
This laugh I'm always fighting
Which says; "you have no cause."
It's tone is not a pleasant one-
I know this very well,
But I'll not let it spoil my fun-
That laugh can burn in hell!
It and I are now connected,
And I can't wish it away.
'Though that laugh is unrespected,
I accept it's here to stay.
I sometimes wonder, as I'm yawning,
If that laugh makes me a better man,
Since I know every single morning
I've already faced the worst I can.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
together, more than a century
it occurs to his fresh coffee'd brain,
as he,
sliding in behind, half-assedly,
as in half in/half off the bed,
but the rest, the best, nestled, ensconced,
in a serpentine curvature connected
smiling too loudly,
titter~muffled giggle
at the passing by, a funny bone notion,
that combined, conjoined,
together, more than a century,
well, and well more, than that,
a depository of collections, nuances,
cross filed, so that our recollected told tales,
have been all heard before and will again
be retold with a swelling newness
to newborn readers,
checking out the classics
the roar of my suppressed soundings,
clearly too louding,
sleepy hoarse asks
the inevitable "what's the chuckle,"
so accustomed she be to my,
unexpected laughs expectorated,
menagerie of multiplicity of muckled
roars and guffaws, tee hee's,
she will n'ere be satisfied
with a non-answer,,
with a wiley evasion to
her invasion of my innermost
"occurs to me we are a very historical
(never employing that olden adjective)
library,
two cuddling librarians,
who are compelled
to our shelves,
to add a new book daily"
she laughs and kindly requests,
my immediate departure,
for having caused her by
mine awoking and
her evoking
laugh,
to be kicked out of the
library
for excessive noise making
not the first time,
and not the last,
he laughs,
uproariously,
in the deepest of his innermost,
hidden in the silent stacks of their library,
in a demilitarized zone,
neath two pillows soft by,
lest he be shushed vociferously,
by his once again, softly sleeping,
co-conspirator
librarian
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
Isolde stands at the window
of her old room. Her mother
and sister sit around the small
white table, talking to Tristana.
Cobwebs hang from the metal
curtain rail, a dead spider hangs
like a dead parachutist, a dried
up fly on the white painted
windowsill. The first few days
out of the asylum seem odd,
seem to unbalance her. Tristana
seems engaging well with her
icy mother, her sister looks on
anxiously. My room, she had
told Tristana. My bed, she had
added pointing to the bed
pushed against a wall. In the
asylum, some weeks back,
she and Tristana had ******
The fat nurse had caught them
and reported. There had been
giggles and guffaws in the staff
room afterwards. Now she and
Tristana were free, government
clearout, new policy, economical
necessities. She stares at her
mother’s head move from side
to side, her jaw opening and
closing like the shark she was.
Just a quick visitation, she said.
Her mother’s eyes and mouth
opened with shock when they
turned up. Not staying, she had
informed. Visiting the once, she
had said. Her mother seemed
relieved, her sister white as a
sheet, nodded her head like
some cheap doll. The room
was cold, colder than before.
She’d been taken from here
those years back, screaming,
held between men in white,
out into the cold night. Be gone
soon, she mutters, rubbing a
finger down the pane of glass,
making a rude noise, all heads
turn toward her room from
the garden below. Goodbye
old room, time for us to go.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
That east wind clawed at my skin
leaving me fragile again
I was once impervious
to reckoning
but now every element
guffaws at how weak
I have become
the shrill call of the
night birds humiliate me
for I am alone again
far apart
and torn at heart
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC