"humoured" poems
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
I don’t have the desire to see another end;
after exhaustive months of getting to know
a fictionalised persona, fragmented, so
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
The last one hurt and you didn’t see,
but that doesn’t proclaim the scar less prominent to me,
my feelings numb, I no longer crave the intimacy - detrimental to me.
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
The last boys touch was for him not for me
and my body still screams cause he won’t let it be
and you’ll never understand as the trauma won’t subside
and my self esteem is diminished by his lies.
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
I humoured a guy who gave it a try
but all I could feel was nothing inside
and when someone bumps into me sauntering by
the unwanted touch still makes me cry.
No, I don't want a boyfriend.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.
I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.
Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.
But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.
But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.
Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
She never humoured anyone,
And she never made us small.
She gave our words more meaning
Than we dared and she thanked us;
Not with a word but with the understanding
That was her nature; Born in her
And given to us freely as she felt us worthy.
Another thing taken for granted,
Or to reflect on;
To learn.
She left long before
I flicked through her life in an album;
Before we cried and before I sang to her,
Or for her.
It's not clear anymore.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
3.4k
I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.
Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).
Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.
I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.
I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).
I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.
A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
placed indecision into your opponent´ s
heart-
an affair without end or start
but a cunning infinite!
a wheel of endless doubt..
a labyrinth of love and hate
that waves from the nights
and make past the very moment..!
suggested in plain silence..
and the stayed magic of third word
light of rhythm and humoured..
-soon a rat inside a box
-thinking outside a box..
a vortex
lost
another´s thought
caught..
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
Seems like the time
I searched the sunlight
Seems like the time
I watched the moonlight
My eyes so wide
above the sunset
Seem like the time
I touched the sunlight
Half moon
Half sun
Half river
Full moon
sun rays
blind my sight
Halt, stop
the world is moving
So slow, so slow
this movie
Half tunes
Half dreams
Half heavens
Half real
Half humoured heathens
Halt, stop
the snake is biting
the fangs, the fangs
so drilling
Seems like the time
I searched the sunlight
Seems like the time
I watched the moonlight
My eyes so wide
above the sunset
Seem like the time
I touched the sunlight
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
You were born open, I believe,
Eyes and heart and arms and soul;
Shouting and blazing a fiery path
Of beats and drums and rhythms.
Your energy knows no limitations,
Dancing with devilishly hoofed desire;
Savouring each moment of the day -
You make it work for you.
If and would and should are redundant,
When and how and now are yours;
Give and take, have, hold, make:
Present presence, gifts to gaze at in wonder.
A joker, of unbridled passion:
Intense, good-humoured, a heart heavy with joy -
And full of light -
The youngest of men.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Standing there she wrings her hands
The light falls on her thinning hair,
Shadow hides the worried eyes
Which fixate in a distant stare.
Years ago the husband left,
Left despite the child inside,
Despite the growing pile of debt,
He left it all to run and hide.
The boy is born one winter morn
Born with golden curls of mane,
He grows despite the hardship felt,
He grows to suit his noble name.
Boaz is his given name
The Hebrew word for strength and strong,
His mother’s strength of character
Is echoed in his blue eyed song.
Lean and long and strong in frame
A ready smile upon his face,
Beneath his long blond curling locks
Expressing his good humoured grace.
Thinly proud she meets each day,
She bears the hardship, every storm,
Thinly proud she loves the boy
Who runs in rows of growing corn.
Standing there she wrings her hands
A worried mother’s reddened face,
For battle’s flag has called her boy
Who volunteers with pride and grace.
With brimming eyes she thinks of him
Holding close his teddy bear,
Thinking of the laughing moments
Happy times they used to share.
Short letters from the front arrive
A message filled with love and joy
To reassure a mother’s fears,
In promise for her darling boy.
A silence from the distant front
The drums and guns have sung their song,
Chilling tales of valour but,
Combatants now do homeward throng.
Standing there she wrings her hands
With streaming tears as hopes depart,
A deathly silent distant field
Where lies the promise in her heart.
Marshalg
For all the mothers who wait.
20 June 2013
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
A blindness covers me like a blanket.
The sights, sounds and smells that
once brought such joy and reassurance,
are haunting now.
The perfume, the hair, the pillow.
A light breeze, a quaint look.
You still put a smile on my face,
but it’s different now, tainted perhaps.
Conversations and dreams of the future,
relegated to mere passing comment.
Poorly timed and unfairly executed.
The tracks which once brought us together,
and carried us apart, are longer now than ever.
I still see you at night with eyes pressed tightly shut,
but by the morning you’ve gone.
It’s hard waking up knowing what you’re missing.
The strongest yet most painful feeling,
fades with the fields and blue skies.
Forgetting the most beautiful sunrise you have ever seen,
Is humoured by a tiring cliché.
But I’ve never been a fisherman.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 2:35 PM UTC
You loved countdowns, because they always led to something great.
I thought nothing of them, but humoured you nonetheless.
On New Year's celebrations, we'd marvel at fireworks.
The explosions started to lose their spark.
Your words decreased, my pain ascended.
Each year, we grew apart.
The day finally came.
"This is it.
The end.
Goodbye."
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
i’ve been wondering lately
about the cynical views i hold dear
i identify with them greatly
but i’m not sure if they’re sincere
i don’t want to be sixty
and have not appreciated life while i have it
i never even wanted to live till sixty
but life’s all i have isn’t it
the idea of God always merely humoured me
and while an afterlife still eludes me
does nihilism’s peace really compete
with a serenity birthed purely from belief?
i’m non-committal for a family
but a child to guide and be close with
is a ***** kind of alchemy
that maybe would make me a goldsmith
i’m not one for a spouse
but i'd love someone to know me
maybe i could settle for a real house
enough to quench the wanderlust in me
society is cruel
too, life’s fatal rules
but i'd sooner be cast aside and sixty
than six feet deep at twenty
the selfishness of humanity always disgusted me
and while the blindness still eludes me
does humanity’s grief really compete
with a beauty Earthed like a stampede?
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Happy Birthday, my friend,
I hope your days never end
Before you fulfil your desires
And take the plunge into the fires -
Whether Hell's inferno or Heaven's purifying glory;
And that, when told, your story
Of stoic determination and good-humoured candour
Will inspire the next generation to endeavour...
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
when you're a little girl
they tell you how
you're so pretty
with your messy little braids
and muddy mary-janes
but they never tell you
you're interesting
or clever
or good-humoured
as if you're useless
to be anything
but pretty
as if the world only loves
those with empty heads
and pretty faces
and that there is no
happiness
to be found
for one
with only
beautiful
thoughts.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
I need to break the cycle
shake the sadness, smite the gloom,
while all my signs are vital
and before I reach my tomb.
I need to laugh in rainstorms,
breath in the finest smoke
and drown in sweet tequila
among sweet good humoured folk.
I need to blast some Springsteen
get some clothes on, get a grip,
because frankly all this maudlin crap
is making me feel sick.
I need to scream in forests,
get my bare *** in a lake
let the water freeze my **** off
then go home for tea and cake.
I cannot bear this sadness
leaching out from every pore
so I'll work my way right through this list
and then I'll scream....
ENCORE!!!!!
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
She smiles as if she has her whole
Entire being in the cookie jar.
I laugh from my spine, as the wheels
In her pretty, dark-humoured head
Visibly turn within some sweet, twisted
Process. She speaks with the wit of a
Secret agent; the vocabulary of sailors
And intent of someone like Skeletor.
Her mouth is an instrument from which
Poetry as the opposite of itself sounds;
From where come words that make me
Either thrilled to talk back, or blush. *The
Less you care together, the happier you'll be.*
She smiles like that. I'm loving this lesson.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
The scream that cannot be heard
The anguish untold
Flesh and blood: A humoured existence
Only the lonely
Only the abstract
Only the memories
Comfort me.
I am blinded by truth
So stark and unforgiving
I am struck down
Down in a hole
A deep pit of my making
And I cannot get out.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Hushed mist collects
Under palm fronds enveloped in the night melody
Consisting of crickets, far off moters and the warm heavy sound of contentment.
Orange lights flicker throigh the overgrown trees
Whom drape themselves lovingly over old RVs and quaint trailers.
Those of which house old souls
Content and humoured by their journey through this unexplained world.
And as I sit
Skin already warm from the midnight heat
the crickets my only companions
I wonder if my contentment will measure to these mischievious souls
When I near the end of my journey.
For these moments
Small pleasures
Unexpected uncalled for experiences
Amount to a life worth a thousand laughs.
And what is life?
but laughter light and love
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
July was in full bloom
I could see clearly from my room
the moon and the stars alive and well
The painting of the romantic night quickly fell
I walked to the window and sat
The streets were empty
The apartment even more
A night in the city’s belly
Buses, old and new, passed by
Men and women, of young and old,
stood still and are terribly ill-humoured
No jokes or stories were being told
A cigarette was lit in the room next door
If drink was at play, I was done for
She passed me a lighted one
Her gaze more dangerous than a gun
The streets became animated now
The cinema blurted out hundreds at once
I wondered what was on show?
She replied: probably another low
She brought out a bottle of whiskey
She said: once I leave, you’ll miss me
I said: is there a charge or a fee?
She said: you know it’s always free
She was right in that too:
I miss her alright.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
She used to obey his every whim
Love then was obedience
She used to let him have his way
Love then was playing along
In those days he was never to be questioned
His every word was like a deity's proclamation
In those days his every fancy was as good as done
His every mood was to be humoured
Now he is the piper and she pays for his services
He plays any melody she demands
She tells him what to dream and how to talk about it
Lady luck deserted him the day the tables turned
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Life is a suicide
Note.
For when you die,
Everyone reads
your last words..
My last vocals read by anothet would
invite
All those I hate.
Just to tell those greedy **** losers
**** you, your broke,
#money grabbing mother *******
Then those I love those I respect would be watching it live,
Giggling thinking dark sense of
Humoured ******
I love you all, but those hyena *******
Can choke on my ashes...
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
I could tell by the morning,
The weather would be daunting and yet so calm.
I could tell that day that the peonies would breathe through the flicker of wind,
And still be going.
Living, death, moving, dead; my body stopped but my mind rocked.
What is happening?
Being taught that we have a right to be here humoured me,
Because I felt I wasn't fully there.
Being taught that love makes the world go around amazed me,
That wasn't true since I felt no sympathy on me, yet I still beg.
Believe us now, or live it miserably.
Are you telling the truth?
Are the bees really here to help our sale of honey?
Are the horses really here to help us travel and teach our children of riding?
Are the aliens really there to keep us wondering?
Teach us that we are worth more than a thousand words,
Before we turn cold, yet have a living soul slowly sinking.
Please, where is my answer?
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC