"hunchback" poems
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…
The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…
There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!
Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…
All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
I hear thunder
*No you don't,
The voices in your head
want some more*
You're lying!
I am aware of my blunders.
I can hear thunder!
*No, you can't
you're just deaf
and without a plan*
You're just inviting trouble
Everyone is trying to hurt me.
My only defence is the thunder
I hear it. I feel it. Zeus loves me.
Mountains tremble in fear.
He is ready with his bolt.
It's a message
you don't see it
yet
but when thunder shakes the ground
you shall hold your breath.
*Talk about Hermes, Apollo
and everyone else.
The thunder shall do us no harm.
Olympus was never safe.
Aphrodite knows how to sell her body
There will be war, my friend.
The titans will rise.
Kronos will escape from Tartarus
and attack in stealth.*
You dummkopf,
you have no idea what you have been talking
Don't argue over Father of God's bolt!
God of the skies.
Traveling by air? You might die.
Poseidon can make your way back difficult
This behaviour of yours was very typical.
*You ignore your mind when it plays tricks on you
Oh dear, you really are a fool*
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
It comes oozing
out of flowers at night,
it comes out of the rain
if a snake looks skyward,
it comes out of chairs and tables
if you don't point at them and say their names.
It comes into your mouth while you sleep,
pressing in like a washcloth.
Beware. Beware.
If you meet a cross-eyed person
you must plunge into the grass,
alongside the chilly ants,
fish through the green fingernails
and come up with the four-leaf clover
or your blood with congeal
like cold gravy.
If you run across a horseshoe,
passerby,
stop, take your hands out of your pockets
and count the nails
as you count your children
or your money.
Otherwise a sand flea will crawl in your ear
and fly into your brain
and the only way you'll keep from going mad
is to be hit with a hammer every hour.
If a hunchback is in the elevator with you
don't turn away,
immediately touch his ****
for his child will be born from his back tomorrow
and if he promptly bites the baby's nails off
(so it won't become a thief)
that child will be holy
and you, simple bird that you are,
may go on flying.
When you knock on wood,
and you do,
you knock on the Cross
and Jesus gives you a fragment of His body
and breaks an egg in your toilet,
giving up one life
for one life.
2.7k
You stand straight.
Sit straight
Bend till you like,
Take care of me when I cry,
Only when i cry.
Do I have to cry everyday?
I so wish to have you look me straight.
How with every curve,
Right or wrong, in or out,
I can make you look your sexiest best,
or a hunchback *****
You look at everything else, dont you?
Then why do I stand neglected?
Like a sorry kid,
Always demanding attension.
You curl up,
and I protect you.
You face danger,
then turn to make me face it.
But now I face you.
With my words, I face you.
Supported you all our life,
now its time to reach for another.
When you grow old,
And I grow week,
I will still stand tall,
And not pretend to be meek.
You will need support,
that I know.
Physical weakness,
I'll try and never let you know.
But what about the responsibilities?
That you have sworn to bear,
Will they be lesser or heavier, in the end?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
Midnight in Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
may I take your bags, welcome to the Ritz
I am most sure, you will enjoy your stay
Paris is most happy, to see you Mr. Fitz
Paris in the spring is such a lovely sight
the flowers all in bloom, the skyline at night
bright sun shinning now, maybe an afternoon shower
plan your day well before you ride up in the tower
strolling past the cathedral of Notre Dame
thinking of the bell ringer the old hunchback
like the Philadelphia liberty, the bell has a crack
the storming of the Bastille, to relieve the shame
to the Louvre for the most exquisite art
Rembrandt and DaVinci at their best
so many things to see this is just the start
to see it all would be a fantastic quest
time for a ride down the Seine river
astonishing sights this old city can deliver
a bottle of nice Vouvray to enhance the ride
a lovely local woman right by your side
now you might ask her if she likes to dance
for the clubs in Paree are oh so fine
club Lido also a great place to dine
a wonderful time, Midnight in Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Do I worship a God
Who will not fix me?
A God who doesn't care?
I spent years
Praying to Jesus
Seems He wasn't there
Just fix my akward shoulder
This is all I ask
Why should it be
Such a difficult task?
Now I know
What the hunchback
Felt like
The one who hailed
From Notre Dame
Walking on the streets
So ugly and so lame
Jesus healed people
When he lived
But he won't heal me
I have tried everything
Even physical therapy
My left shoulder
Is bigger than my right
And sometimes I cry about it at night
I write honest poetry
So you can see
The pain that lives
Inside of me
I dedicate this poem to
All people who suffer from
Physical problems
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Everyone in town knows
Philmon is a mad scientist
It's not his little hunchback buddy
Or the crazy smocks in which he's always dressed
It's not the lighting clouds over his house
Or the strange sounds from which his basement grew
No, it's not any of those things
That gives the town it's clue
It's not all of the darkened birds
That hang out on his fence
Or his subscription to weird science weekly
And on what it is his time is spent
Not even when things always turn up missing
Down at the local graveyard
*No, it's the "HONK" if you love Mad Scientists sticker*
On the bumper of his car
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
Ole Hunchback
Got a right Royal burial;
That smiling villain's bones
Bleached black-blonde
In underground parking.
Exhumed and parlayed
For over two years;
Confirmed to be he
Who caused a Queen
To cry vats of tears
For the Tower boys.
Poor Anne dropped her hankie.
His horse-drawn caisson
Is a subterfuge,
A distraction to veil
Civil dissatisfaction.
He finally got his horse,
And we get the droppings.
And I see Cromwell
Standing beside Churhill
And Charles ouside
Westminster.
Perhaps Manson
Will be busted
In Poet's Corner.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
It took humanity thousands of years to evolve into a society. A place where our thoughts would be heard. Our words could be shared, and we, as a whole moved past the barbaric creatures that we used to be. Few have stood up to the whole and screamed, “WE MUST BREAKOUT OF OUR WAYS! We cannot treat others as if they were dirt! Just because that’s how it has always been does not mean that it is right!”
Their words have inspired, humanity has come so far. We have created an illusion that the more we have the better we are. We have cried and died just to say, “We broke out! We are different and have changed.”
And how perfectly we lie as we say it.
If we have truly evolved, then why are we fighting over love? Does changing mean lining the pockets of politicians so oil companies can make the rules and destroy the Earth?
Is breaking out of our barbaric ways tying down and torturing our mentally disabled? Putting them in cribs so the age of twenty seven looks like a deformed four year old. They are not perfect as the media says that they should. So we hide them away like the Hunchback of Notre Dame was hidden. How can we say that we have left our ****** past behind us when we drug those who are different and condone the torture of the abnormal?
It is not true! Some have screamed at our accusations. It will be changed… and we believe it.
We believe every beautiful lie.
Society bleeds peace from the skin of nuclear weapons. We scream for equality for those who are exactly like us and no one else who doesn’t fit the mold. Gangs run our streets like kings, their drugs flowing through our cities like blood in our veins. Hate is the skeleton with which we thrive and the beautiful lies we whisper are the muscles that keep us moving.
How can we say we have broken out when ****** run the streets free and the pregnant victim is the one society assaults? How can we have broken out when colors that shouldn’t matter are the soul basis for the death of an innocent fourteen year old girl, who just happened to be riding her bike. How can we say that we have changed when families are starving to death because the price of living has gone so high that their stagnant jobs can’t support them like it once did.
Society… Oh society how wrong you are with your honeyed, poisoned words. Do as you say and breakout. Change. Because you’re taking a long walk off a short cliff and those words will catch up to you. Breakout now, no one will do it for you.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
Greenfield far far away
In droves luring Africans
Across the foaming flames
Through the Sahara hell
Scaling the stormy Sea.
The sheep in droves
Galloping across the desert
Taking risk in risk, hoping
Till every breath of wants
Dies in want of want.
Many have died
Some are dying
Many will still die
Tell me not why!
Humanity in high flames
Burning in crimson clouds
Coming to outlandish rainbow!
The dead dead!
Would they come back?
To bite the hunchback
Hounding the donkey's back
In search of the greenery.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Privacy to sing;
to think;
to dance;
to slice.
to be or not to be
left with my thoughts
let them stir themselves
like a spoilt stew
or limp, useless, worthless, rotten meat
that's good for nothing.
dead and left for
flies and worms;
i hath made worms meat of me.
deserted and alone
with my inner most thoughts;
desires;
wants;
passions;
My sacred groove
My sanctity
My hollow alter and
Ceramic pool of most holiest
tap water.
Locked.
Where noone can capture
my hunchback, deformed, depressed
thoughts and passions
As I Cry
Sanctity.
where they cannot be killed
where i can bow so stubborn knees
but
not regret the effects of mine crimes?
help angels, make assay.
i am naked
i am relieved
i am pleasured
i am truthful
in this hollow tub of release
i thank whoever invented indoor plumbing
for my madness and sanity
for all that glitters is not gold.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
I am a player of words.
I will be the the one to grab you by the neck first
but I might show sympathy on you
kick you in the shins and call you a fool.
My pen can do wonders
crush kingdoms, **** children, point out your blunders.
It takes a movement of my hand to change it all
fulfill your dreams, defy science's laws
I can make your lover infertile
make you an illegitimate child
send you to the most brutal fight
or present you with the Nobel prize.
I can make you a part of a dirt poor family
I can make you live your life without a tragedy.
I can make you an old hunchback
who has seen failure
I can make you the knight
in his shiny armour
I can push you off the cliff from which you hanged
or give you a nice pair of fangs.
Oh yes, I am nefarious.
write words which are a mystery or hilarious.
I would rule this place if I had asked for it first,
I am a player of words.
I have painted your world in different colours
cheered for you when you got the medal of valour
I killed your favourite character? Go figure!
I can make you turn into someone else at full moon
I can torture the ones who were your muse
I can build a world of my own
Not taken down by any force
The fire in my veins cannot be extinguished
I will present you with people between whom you cannot distinguish
I can bathe in the tears of my readers
Don't underestimate words
through your spine they can send shivers.
They see me as danger
to trouble, I am no stranger
there is no extent to my freedom
I am half angel, half demon
I have had my mind drift away to places
I have made friends with the one with scarred faces
danced on waves, sang in deserts
all of this can't be done in reverse
I have killed you using shells
I often write to vent.
I often **** the things which you clenched.
I hold onto your soul and the boredom you munched
isn't all of this fun?
I could be queen if i asked for it first
the world calls me an introvert
and
The player of words
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Promise me, Maiden. Promise me you care
Promise me his Hand is Well-Strung and Fed
Promise that Dad's Serving Letter is there
And I Promise that my Fealty is set
If these Turning Events will make me Strong
And become the Hunchback allied to you
The Borgia Venom melts; It won't be long
For Sorrow to accept the Better Truth
Riddles apart I am Serious in Theme
About your Magic Craft I can't Compete
Hearts cry with laughter; His Smile justly seen
With Shifting Paradigms he is Complete.
Secrets Unshared, it is better as known
For a Child like me to know if he's grown.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Good taste is very difficult to define:
Some people like to kiss pigs' bottoms
And some people like to eat snails
And some snail-eaters prefer their snails dead.
But my definition of good taste is this:
If a man takes a woman to his bed
Only to discover she is a hunchback,
He abstains from playing Alsatians.
For the uninformed, "playing Alsatians"
(or German Shepherd Dogs if you prefer)
Refers to ********** ***********
A popular and sophisticated modus copulandi
Favoured by people of upmarket ****** tastes,
Only bettered by doing it "up the *******
As we scholars and learned academics
Tend to express it at moments of stress,
Especially when in full diarrhoeic flow.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Hunchback. Stand up and lift your hand and bless
A man that finds great bitterness
In thinking of his lost renown.
A Roman Caesar is held down
Under this ****
Saint. God tries each man
According to a different plan.
I shall not cease to bless because
I lay about me with the taws
That night and morning I may thrash
Greek Alexander from my flesh,
Augustus Caesar, and after these
That great rogue Alcibiades.
Hunchback. To all that in your flesh have stood
And blessed, I give my gratitude,
Honoured by all in their degrees,
But most to Alcibiades.
1.3k
#043016
He was a psychopath,
But not like the lead of Sherlock Holmes.
Maybe a scientist,
But his name was not because of Einstein himself.
Maybe a doctor,
Not like Dr. Seuss who's a nature lover.
Apparently, he's Professor X
But he never was laid in his techy wheel chair.
I saw Moriarty
But he's like an agent, sort of a policeman.
He died in a brutal story.
How I wish he was a man as Moriarty himself.
And Mary, she was arrogant
Without a white aura of being a nurse.
She's not a patient at all,
Maybe it's her attitude though.
Harry's hair I don't like.
Sorry, not Harry Styles, I mean;
Remember Hermione and Ron's friend?
Yeah, that Potter sequels I once read all day long.
His a wet-look chap and a hunchback.
And Frankenstein himself tore his life into new,
He fell in love with his co-actor in the circus.
But I see no chemistry in them,
Heights were not good at all.
I wore no veil of movies leaked
But some were simply bedtime story.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Texas dairy farm killers crushed the skulls of my holy vessels in 2011.
Their animals spirits descended to heaven.
They bludgeoned their heads as many times as 7.
My defenseless, sweet, trusting, innocent babies.
Their fate of their existence shouldn't be a maybe.
Wilbur & Bo Bo .
Should not be Bacon at breakfast with hot cocoa.
To eat what is dead is sickness unsaid.
Cattle **** the serial killers "downstairs".
Televise the video to be seen everywhere.
So caravores will start to care.
They heartlessly murdered my cows.
My cows. Mine now & forever in this time.
A life for a life.
A precious calf's life devalued, abused, disrespected, & used.
Meat has no price tag.
Like a two faced old hunchback sea hag.
A priceless life without tombstones or mourning.
This corrupt caravore world is disturbing & my empathy for the animals is pouring.
Change this mother earth in the next morning.
Father sky watches their animal spirits soaring.
****** is their hobby.
They butcher & dismember a creatures body.
Every animal belongs to me.
They have a spiritual essence I can see.
All species created are mine.
Their ****** is not okay or fine.
The killers need to do time.
I guess justice is something we have to find.
Baby cow is delicate & needs respect & love.
Baby piglet where is mommy spirits above?
Baby Lamb I love you your a baby angel.
The sinners morals are distorted & tangled.
Their bodies should be undamaged & not mangled.
Not on a death pile of other livestock.
Their revenge should be on the farmer's ****
Protect the living of these farms.
To the livestock bring no harm.
Sadistic butchers disarm.
Stop the slaughter alarm.
These creatures are precious their souls innocent.
The lives priceless & mint.
Meat industries & factory farms get a hint.
Clueless evil attacks as their back is turned.
A blow to their fragile baby head is how hamburgers are made i learned.
The dairy farmers killed my cows.
Unspeakable evil without a why or how.
The slaughter across the lands spread like a flood.
More death in the mud.
They lay on the ground in a pool of blood.
Their life drains from their lifeless bodies.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
The moon appeared to me
like a snickering school girl.
She brushed the snot from
her nostrils, clearing her hand on
a communion dress made from
luminous, white fabric.
She proceeded cautiously,
balanced precariously on spiked heels,
Stumbling along uneven paths
like a hunchback in a Flemish wood carving
But then she posed for me
in the manner of a silent-movie star,
all smiles,
lipstick beauty and cabaret flare.
(“Your Martini?”)
Her lips drew close to my ear.
With a graceful sweep of the arm
we were hid behind the dilated eyes
of a peacock-feathered fan.
She said nothing, nor did we kiss.
And she was gone,
just as quickly as she appeared
to vouchsafe a brief vision
in the interval of a cigarette.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
A symbol of faith
A part of history
Worshiped prayers
Stained glass windows
Gargoyle statues
Architectural beauty
Heart of Paris
Up in flames
Smoldering down
Now it falls
Hearts breaking
Sad day in history
As millions throughout the world have seen
Experiencing the masterpiece and pure beauty in this gothic creation
As it is Holy Week, around the world
We celebrate the rise and fall of life itself
Hoping that God will restore structure and life through the rubble and ashes
Symbolizing what God did for us, all of us...
We may not know or understand why, but we will always remember to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and rise above it all
“There exists in this era, for thoughts written in stone, a privilege absolutely comparable to our current freedom of the press. It is the freedom of architecture.”
Narrator from The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 5:45 PM UTC
They say that
-apparently-
I am a grown up.
Sit straight
Stand tall
Wear this
Don’t fall.
Do this
Not that
Try this
Try that
I thought I was a grown up
Well, they say that too
But really
-not apparently-
I am a child.
Fail test
Take track
Room mess
Hunchback.
Street food
Another book
Random mood
Weird looks
I wonder why they name us so,
With titles so bizarre
And scary
Because
-in truth-
we are all children with blackened hearts.
We hurt ourselves
And each other.
I Love my sister,
And I Love my brother.
Sorry heart
Angry smile
Bad start
Hard trials.
I am child.
Nothing else
Maybe a grown up
But mainly just myself.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
My heart is a burning city
Held up by pillars of salt
No one's sure how it started
A cigarette astray?
Catherine O'Leary's heartbreak?
Job lives in a house on the hill
On the teetering outskirt of town
He visits twice a week
And carries a purple umbrella for the ashes
Can pity turn into love?
Can saying it make it real?
Are we doomed to dream of a lucid skyline stained orange?
Slaving over carting wheelbarrows full of gristle
Of the burning tower I used to be
My silhouette on the horizon
Is the hunchback of New England
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:30 AM UTC
Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
A young man asked me about lucid dreaming
I said it's no falsity and he said seeming
To imply that I should teach him,
"Can it be done without like a small amount of screaming?"
"Yes", I said, but beware the devil for he
Is in the method you shall need to be
applying to get it right.
"You mean the devil totally is real and he will come for me?"
"No no child, for God's sake!" The devil is in
the method of checking reality akin
to checking a lion for lice!
"You mean to say, the devil lies in the way I think?"
"Well there you go son." As you test reality daily
you will realise how unreal it all is
and thereby you will learn
that evil can be bliss.
"Groovy"
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
you know,
you can imitate walking like a crow,
hunchbacked with a probing
index of a hand's pentagon
akin to the yellow pages being
itemised - walking like a crow
in the middle of night -
primarily because we started dicing a song
into rhythm deviating from rhyme:
it got boring after a while...
until it's an export, it ain't an import -
so ridicule the seance of hillbillies
in Soouthend for caricature of holidaying;
you can walk like a crow
in the night, hunchbacked, glistening variety of
into the void by black sabbath as accomplice -
crouched the solemn bird agile on foot -
crow walk hunchbacked:
why is the raven like a writing desk?
it's a hunchback on foot or with pen in hand
readied to scribble footprints onto
the slouched backbone of forgotten flight;
hunchback crow walk in the night,
a reverse of a Victorian street lamp lighter -
shadow eater, shadow fathoming form.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC