"heckling" poems
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
I can hear you heckling me
to play those sketchy little games
and I always convince myself that
I’ve got a shot at winning.
and of course I’m one
to be fearless, and eager,
and unbreakable
to take that wild ride with you.
but on every revolution
and each wicked twist and turn,
I get a little dizzy–
sick and confused–
and I wish you’d just stop this ride,
and let me off
to let me live–
live to enjoy the lights of the night
with you.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
I am up
Awake
Before the sun
It's arrival
Heralded by
Colors creeping
Out against
The retreating night sky
Do not mistake me
For a morning person
I do not relish this
Nor do I mourn
For sleep
lost
It could be
found
But this
is necessary
Not without joy
Not without sacrifice
Without a word
It simply is
A ride
My Fortress
of Solitude
For a mind
Besieged
By thought
At war with
Itself
Do not
retreat
Into the past
A ruthless place
A heckling pace
That tells you
You cannot
Hang on
Give no portage
To fate
For you cannot grasp
What the future holds
Just
Keep moving
Focus
This ride
It is the only ride
That matters
I wrap myself
In its tight fabric
It's sounds
Clicking and clacking
Racing thoughts
Shifting
Centrifugal forces
Sifting
As I order
Myself
Ride
As long
as I pedal
I am
Present
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
Dear rainbows,
Thank you.
Thank you for showing that out of every storm comes
something so inexplicably beautiful that we often stop all that we are doing to admire you.
Thank you for being a bright light at the end of every struggle.
The day that you don’t shine after a terrible storm is the day that I give up.
Thank you For your every hue.
Larger than life, your bright colors streaming across the sky,
Thank you for being a beacon to all of our allies.
I reach for you and your beauty.
Thank you for being the symbol of an identity I hold so dear
For your colored stripes are ever so often my only hope.
Thank you for giving me strength when I need it most
You tell us, not to give up when life is unfair, to not succumb to our despair
Thank you for being this, Mirage of heaven
The prettiest woman, a reborn Marilyn Monroe
Thank You For I can feel your hands guiding me
Down every bumpy road
Thank you for standing tall
Like paint trickling down from the sky
Thank you for being the bay and meadow
While the clouds fly high above your head
Thank you, for defining all my colors
All the colors of my rainbow eyes
Thank you for your rare kind of beauty
For, heckling the rain
Thank you, for brightening the sky
The vibrant shades of the world
Thank you for cheering me up
Even on the darkest of days
Thank you, because after the world glistens with rain
It's fun to explore what lies beyond your end
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
My configuration is accelerating
Off balance with the earth's core
Dissatisfied, I try to be still
My form is hyper and energetic
Loud and obnoxious
Mistaken and exaggerated for being cruel
I only seek to harness similarities
To stand grandly, instead I appear egotistical with low self-esteem
Contradicting, no way to make sense
This is a normal place
Disconnected, I try to behave
Social skill are at low percentage
Sitting, I embrace the heckling
one hand on heart and the other on mind,
In hopes to intertwine
Take control, define the soul
Combine me into a whole
Let standards go
Carrying a presence of a mild wind breeze
Never nearing nor ending
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
heatwave
hotter than Hades
heating every inch of our terrain
heckling with it's scorching sear
haranguing us from dusk to dawn
hell fires have been unleashed
holy cow we're in need of a bit of relief
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.
Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.
But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!
She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.
Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.
The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief
The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!
Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.
All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
The lights are out,
it's time to sleep.
But away from me it hides,
In the recesses of my troubled mind.
Sleep! Where are you? I do not know
I've looked, and looked but can not see.
There, in a darkened corner I get a glimps of you,
Heckling in the dark, How dare you!
Everything I've done, and you laugh at me?
Sleep is just an elusive thought tonight.
One I will not find.
Debbie Wilbanks 12/1020
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
The verbal diarrhoea of a politician’s promises
Flows over a broken roof of dripping umbrellas
Hustings heckling hastening onset of pneumonia
Voters need every candidate to be seen and heard.
Un-hygienic kissing of babies and pressing the flesh
Flash avoiding fixed smile like toothpaste commercial
Thinks - one man one vote a bad idea by Election Day
I wonder does every candidate vote for themselves?
Tense wait as political pundits make newsless news
Oscar like performances as the winners are announced
Four-more-years in The Slough of Despond for the loser
The Olympian heights of triumph for the winner.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
my thoughts
often bring me discomfort;
untamed impulses with picket signs
marching and heckling
at the guardians of my comfort zone;
lyrical demigods hurling verbal spears
into protective shields of conformity,
sparing no means necessary
to crush the mould,
and shatter the paradigm of paralysis
rooted in fear,
the fabled sphere of thespians that didn't...
heed the beat of spontaneity,
the clashing cymbals of discomfort
and dance to deviant drums
like ginsberg and ferlinghetti
and kerouac and wakoski...
disaffected thespians that did
~ P
(7/13/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
in a setting sun
reflected with imperfections on the lake
she waits under the summer tree
its lively conversation with the wind
stirs shadows and returns lost memories to her
like wayward children asking for bread and a sip
her fathers stern voice on a cold night
her first kiss by moonlight at bible camp
her cat's purr
these things come back to her in a rush
but the stillness of her face undisturbed
her's is a setting sun
reflected by the lake with imperfections
night is a sour brother to day and sits heckling
her from the window
that she should endure the hour alone
that her time fallow ground
the seeds scattered without care
but her hand scatters to her sleeping poet
and rests reassured on his feverish brow
she draws his form in fine lines and shadows
a black and white reflection of imperfection sleeping
she lingers with her smile
and by moonrise she is curled up in his arms
both dreaming reflections of the days reality's
but dreams are imperfect messengers of meaning
and hers is stuttering images of yesterday
in a rising sun
perfectly perceived
her bare skin wakes him
with anticipations of lustful hungers
he sees only her perfections
sees only the bright beauty of her body and soul
that is his imperfection
we are all slaves to our sunset's
we are all hopeful children of our dawn's
they are both imperfect
but together they are perfectly imperfect
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Up on the hill the fire roars,
hisses and spits out sparks that reach to the skies.
Dancing away from the flames like souls from a battlefield.
One by one by one they fly.
Amongst all the chaos there's someone.
Sitting back from the heckling crowd.
A man who fears no man or evil
nor any a soul in the clouds.
His reasons long tempered by living.
Long days with the sickle and plough.
If it wasn't for hard work forgiving.
He wonders if he'd be here now.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
this filthy
abomination
undeserving
of its rank
reigning over
your temper
holding your patience
at point blank
so why bother
heckling the crows
when their claws
are deep inside you
none can stand firm
before
or come close
In the hall of
the king of trolls
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Shadowing entities protrude towards your bed from yonder windows hazed light. Crying is no option for fear that this may stir something lurking out there in the darkness. Shrugging beds cover upward to protect your face and hands, well inside lest they be gripped by the night.
Foetal position, curled with hands wrapped around knees, eyes gripped tightly pining for sleep to transport you away to safer ground. Sought after sleep that will never arrive lest you forget to think.
Temples pound a beating drum. slightest sound ekes disaster like a thunderous gun blasting through your brain. finest breeze now a gale, the cold wind causing hair to stand upright stirring tingling pebbled skin. shivering at every inhale of breath, whilst sweat finds its flowing course.
Creaking noises of a living structure ponder audibly throughout the stillness as imaginary movement is conceived, sensed objects move delicately as this flurry of the underworld works its way into an already over worn mind.
Suddenly the lamenting cries of night torn animal carry up the stair from the darkness below, feline hissing following that same tread to your so sensitive hearing.
Each waft of air an heckling of wandering soul abound to walk freely this hallowed eve, touching the rigidity of young tender body. Mindful of stories told that very night and curses aimed toward the teller of such.
Blasts of light contain certain blindness and panic as you fight to avoid this incarnation that rips away bedding from young skin.
“Wakey Wakey rise and shine.”
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
to a traveler, it comes as no surprise that life is nothing
but a beautiful, intricate web of choices.
black or white, up or down, yes or no.
season after season, day after day - a million decisions.
but in the icy stillness of a snowy midwinter,
one lone traveler came upon a fork in the road -
a path leading to the left and a path leading to the right.
voices sweeping through the air whispered of the possibilities -
right or left, left or right, one or the other, again and again;
the traveler's fate faintly whispered within the melody of the breeze.
when she could no longer bear the urging of the frigid rain
or the heckling of the grey wolf's howl,
she faced ahead, chin up
and pushed her own path
right between the two.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.
clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned heckling and
our Winter's
truth,
and absinthe.
But there's Something Else.
and Nothing
Less....
than Atlas.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Peter was my hero, and Wendy my first fanciful lust.
We fought villainous pirates and bloodthirsty injuns,
and when danger came near as a dark scary night
we'd grasp just one happy thought and fly away
to a brighter new day, dreamed just for us.
Such a wondrous thing, the gift of flight.
Free, unrestrained... racing the laughing crows.
It seemed so simple I just had to try,
strange how the impossible, is so attainable
within the mind of a child of five.
I turn the old phonograph way up loud,
climb upon the hassock, (added height for takeoff)
I closed my eyes intense on my one happy thought
and singing the refrain to inspire me...
"You can fly, You can fly, You can fly."
I leap...
And for barely an instant in time I really do feel the sky.
Then gravity's reality crashes me hard to the floor.
Just in time to hear them laughing,
my evil older brothers watching at the door.
They had a great time with their haughty jest
I still hear of it today, but that's OK.
We were just kids and they lacked understanding.
For I was in training; practice for a not too distant date.
Honing my inner mind to create the improbable,
even the impossible, making it all seem real.
Today the refrain is no longer needed,
nor the hassock upon which to stand.
With old age comes a far grander experience.
Leaving all trials and tribulations upon the ground
I sit back, close my eyes, silence the world around.
Reaching out with sure confidence for the sky
with that child of five's, unrestrained inner eye.
Thanks to Peter and Wendy and my early lust
those heckling crows are left far behind
in vapor trails of my receding dust.
*"I can fly, I can fly
I really can fly!"*
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
making do with what we had, we rolled dank ****
into receipts from the bar.
For once, I wasn't worried about getting
caught smoking in a bus shelter.
I fixated on the cheap shots of tequila
and this paper joint
and heckling overdressed blondes
on a Sunday night in
November.
**** "cuffing" -- latching onto a person for warmth and
intimacy as it rolls into December.
For now, I'll stand against this graffiti wall while those
closest to me take ****** iPhone pictures of me
covering my face.
For now, I'll walk up Bathurst
and discuss whether or not beards are a dealbreaker.
I'm picture-locking every look,
every turn
and sound
One day I hope one of my closest
calls and says:
"Remember that night when time stretched out?
Our three sets of footprints cemented a time when we were
in our bodies
and not in our heads."
We left our heads on Queen Street that Sunday.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
I'm sorry if I'm playing my music too loud
But it's just as deafening for me as it is for you
Blasting these songs is all I can do
Hoping you find appreciation for lyric and tune
In compensation for the overbearing volume
My cornea is attacked just as my ear
Plastered with posters, a billboard under my name
The adverts are printed boldly and unavoidable
And speakers heckling what is written
Directing responsibility to me
The shouts echo and never cease
And my vision is obstructed by the swarm of papers
Leaving no gaps for light to lift veil
The words glowing in darkness, stealing all attention
And so I sing, finding company and comfort
The words restart my weakened imagination
And soon instrument and soul come back to life
The vibrant music makes my passion overflow
Erupting in streams of light dancing in tune-
I choose the soundtrack to my life
The rays of light flow freely
Dancing past the extent of my mind
Carrying the music hidden in their glow
Traveling innocently through your ears and minds
I admit I sing selfishly, seeking freedom to sing selflessly
And shine the light it creates for all to bask in.
The music brings brings color to imagination
Dancing to song in streams of light
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
The only thing I fear in life,
Would be to lose my only smile;
From the world's constant heckling strife,
It puts my emotions into exile.
Closing my eyes only hides whats real,
Tonight's monsters still prowl and haunt;
I cry out to them in my hopeless appeal,
But they won't leave without their want.
To steal my inner happiness,
Reap what spirit lies inside;
Leaving tears of bitter loneliness,
And to see if your joyride died.
Tonight I write to let you know,
Society failed its grasp and left;
Emotions still free, unique, and flow,
My smile still here, and free of theft.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
C.O.L.D.
Never changing always there
Adding on from dark to darker
Always changing your mind, the wind
Not realizing its making you any smarter
S.T.O.P.
its here ******* the warmth of memory that ever existed
Feeding on the souls of lives that merely insisted
Holding, haunting, heckling, horrifying
C.O.L.D
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC