"impressed" poems
The giraffe and the mouse lived in a big tall house.
The mouse asked giraffe "do I make you laugh?"
In response to the mouse, the giraffe said "no"
"How can I laugh when you're close to my toe?"
"Close to your toe?" Said the mouse "but why?
Giraffe looked down and began to cry.
"It's a long story mouse" giraffe cried in despair.
"I'm all ears" said mouse and he pulled up a chair.
"To cut a long story short I've got an in growing nail"
"Oh" said mouse with a flick of his tail.
"Leave it to me I'll be back in a minute"
He brought back a kit with some first aid in it.
"Lift up your foot" and mouse set to work.
Giraffe raised his leg trying not to ****
Mouse fixed the nail in no time at all
Giraffe was impressed by mouse so small!
"How did you do it?" Asked giraffe in disbelief
Mouse just wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
"While I'm down here giraffe is there anything I've missed?"
"After all...
I'm the one and only....
Qualified rodent chiropodist!"
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
i had thought
the boy in my computer science class
with the foreign skin and army outfit
was the epitome of adorable
breaking into spanish when he got overexcited about learning
which was always
and i was excited when we were paired together today
until he seemed genuinely impressed by my competency
and contributed nothing
suddenly his misunderstandings of gender and sexism no longer
seemed like something i could cutely teach him about
but a tragic flaw
and a person i didn't want to be around
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Flashback,
To that time we played blackjack
I was impressed by your ability to shuffle all the cards just like that,
&then; you showed me a magic trick with pistachio shells
Oh what a friendship it is when someone buys you peanuts and opens all the shells
Yeah confession;
You're in my sci fi screenplay
I think I wrote about you in the most innocent way
And theres a song that,
I currently have on replay...
And a smile that can't help but shine when I see your face
What a moment it is when you're sitting there on the bus and you just want to photograph it
Life's a chess game, and now its your move..
I'm standing on the front line,
I'm giving my horsey to you (haha)
Oh this life's a chess game,
One wrong move and I'll lose....
But here right now we're at a stalemate
All my pieces were going but the piece that remains, patiently waits
For you..
Oh with you I never want the game to end so soon
And I know that we can't fall in love
Cause we've got different ones for us
But what a friendship it is when none of that matters no more..
You're the chess opponent I've been waiting for,
You are.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Congratulations, you now have a sweet *** ride
It was really my own fault for leaving it outside.
I have to say, I’m almost impressed,
because stealing a bike must have been quite the test.
In broad daylight, no less, you snuck up to my house,
snatched up my bike and scurried off,
quiet
as a mouse.
My neighbors must have been distracted, you picked a great time,
to steal that bike right off my lawn, the perfect crime.
I hope that you took it because you loved it a lot,
not so you could sell it, get some money,
and buy,
lots of ***
But I’m sure that’s not the case, you wouldn’t do that,
I’m sure that you’re just borrowing it to bike off some fat.
Or you took it because you couldn’t afford one for your kids,
if that’s the case don’t worry,
I’m glad,
that you did.
Regardless of the reason it was taken for,
I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll leave my bike out no more!
Anyway, I hope that you’re now really happy.
Good day to you.
Sincerely,
Me
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!
But the heavens cry manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.
Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.
A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.
Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.
Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...
Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!
Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
a lone star
stuck between galaxies,
watches the other stars
wishing for a super nova to pass
waiting for its chance to impress
as who can be impressed by the shine,
if nobody can see it?
maybe they can see
they just want to ignore
they ignore the last
glimmer of personality
the universe is never ending,
but forever this star is alone,
trying to impress, those who
can’t see, the hopeless
glimmer that wishes to be a shine
but that doesn’t want to be
annoying.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
Here in my bag you sit,
I'd love to pick you up to knit,
If only for a bit.
But clothes need washing and babes need baths,
And food needs cooking too,
Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing,
What to make of you.
You see, my stitches were not even,
My gauge, no one could guess,
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
You would not have been impressed.
But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so,
My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows.
My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you,
But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do?
Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet,
And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it.
I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade,
I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade".
Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue,
I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode!
We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see,
How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be.
Maybe I will make you gloves,
My baby's hands to cover,
And everyone who saw her'd say,
"her mother must really love her".
A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see,
But, only if I stop and knit,
Now look what you've made of me,
Your potential's not all I see...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
The bedroom walls don the shadows of the falling snowflakes
Through the window boughs swing heavy with crystals
Shimmering in the muted light of the crescented moon
Tracks of invisible animals impressed into that white
A wind whistling through empty corridors of an abandoned house
With a chandelier twisting in the ecstatic breeze
Flurries whipping frantically through that chilled air
Winter
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
a happy little bumblebee, flew smiling to and fro
the gardener who never quit, he made the flowers grow
his work impressed his happiness, the harder that he tried
he was the best until one day, he stung a squirrel and died
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
This city makes me miss you.
And I would pretend to be surprised,
but the ceilings in cities are always too high
and my thoughts tend to wander.
(For the record, I am less than impressed
that they found their way back to you.)
Last night, I swear you were waiting for me to fall asleep
to climb into the rafters, and sneak into my dreams.
I woke up feeling haunted and exhausted.
Now you've been following me all day,
and I'm tired of looking over my shoulder.
Kissing him makes me remember the taste of your bitter coffee breath.
His kind eyes contrast the complex hurt yours used to reflect.
His simple, level-headed ways make me recall all
of the circles our troubled words used to spin,
the endless loops we were always trapped within.
My ears keep echoing with the way
you used to chatter nervously in your sleep.
And I can almost still smell your apartment
with the candles struggling to mask damp laundry,
unwashed dishes, the smell of sweat and stale ****
The heaviness collecting inside of my chest resembles
the weight of your body wrapped around my lap
the last time we spoke and the way my fingers
still found their way to your back.
I wonder if you understood the things my fingertips traced
while our words started cornering us into our familiar place.
We were circling the drain anyway,
I was just another silly girl who thought she could save someone.
I'm really sorry
You should be
I miss you
Good.
**You always saw through my ********
it scared the hell out of me.**
*I would have loved you exactly the way you are-unconditionally
You were always enough.*
I love being miserable.
Well, you should probably get used to it.
We were circling the drain anyway...
Our conversations are the world's worst song on repeat
but I felt such smug closure after that night
things finally felt finished or at least mostly complete.
So why now did you feel the need to start the haunting again?
Call off your ******* ghost, B.
I am tired. Its over this time.
This needs to finally end.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
Locked inside your head,
Hearing distant footsteps
From the bottom of the stairs,
Alone in an empty room,
Broken ***** bottles
That drowned out the nightmares,
Fear of self control,
The thought of gaining power
That will make you way too strong,
Fear of letting go,
The thought of shattered potential
And seeing things go wrong,
Lost in a crowd,
The voices all the same
Your direction is all off track,
Speaking out for what you love,
The aching trepidation of rejection
That makes foundations of progress crack,
Achieving perfection,
Looks that could never ****
Or bodies that never impressed
Being normal,
It scares you half to death,
It makes the mind obsessed.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
In conversation with my cousin,
she says, 'Oh my God, my
brother-in-law still remembers
you
as my cousin with the 'nice ass';
the 'hottie' from my wedding.
Still talking about me after
all these years, I see.
I couldn't help but think,
'wow, quite the first impression
I must make, or is it the
impression I leave BEHIND?'
and I felt the wheels spinning
in my mind, as they always do,
trying to decipher what the
appropriate response to
such an admission should be...
in this...particular...instance.
And I heard this voice in my
mind, shout, in its softest tone,
'I...AM MORE...THAN JUST...
A...NICE...ASS, if you take
the time to know me.'
So I realize that I find
the observation anything but
flattering.
Amusing, predictable,
redundant...yes.
But am I flattered, am I
even intrigued, or...
impressed, in the slightest?
Not at all.
For me, it is just...
inevitable entertainment,
among other things I
won't freely admit at this
time.
But if, and when, I happen
to lose any components
of my identity,
I can always remember,
that if nothing else,
I am...
(not my name, or even
my fetching idiosyncracies,
but...)
the 'Hottie with the
nice ASS', and
I wouldn't be able to help,
but smirk.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
In times of crisis or trouble
I’m the one that keeps it together
When the world's crashing around me
I remain everybody’s tether
“Hey are you alright?”
I offer words of comfort
I tell them: ‘all will be okay’
No matter what the problem is
I have something positive to say
“You know…. its okay to be upset”
‘I’m fine’, I tell them all
When things happen in my life
Everyone around me is impressed
That I’ve overcome another strife
“Just keep hanging in there”
The truth is no one knows
That this is how I cope
I hide behind the happy mask
So I can give others hope
“You’re taking this…really well”
But somewhere along the way
I lost track of how I feel
I even tricked myself into thinking
That my happiness was real
“Are….are you sure you’re okay?”
But I can feel my façade cracking
Emotions are breaking through
I don’t have any distractions
And I don’t know what to do
“But..if you’re really okay…”
I force my smile even bigger
And laugh without knowing why
I’ll do whatever I have to do
To maintain this beautiful lie
“…then why are you crying?”
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
My emotions are more alive than usual.
Butterflies in my stomach, anticipating
That feeling I thought I had left behind.
That fluttering is becoming frantic,
Just like our love did.
That fine line between love and hate,
My butterflies fly over, every time.
•
I was your wildflower,
Your daisy in the dark.
But that’s not what I needed,
At least that’s what I thought
She was your magnificent rose bush
Her petals were pristine.
Perhaps you think she’ll enhance your bouquet,
But her thorns will ***** you one day.
•
I must want you to be happy.
What would I be if I didn’t?
Maybe it’s because she was the friend who hurt me?
Or is this all your doing?
All I need from you,
Is your permission to grow.
Wildflowers don’t need watering,
Hurry back to your darling rose.
•
We once grew together,
Our stems intertwined.
But u saw my petals had grown crooked,
So you bloomed in another direction,
That change of interest was apparent,
Even when hidden from the light.
Your onlookers are impressed by roses,
After all, I am just a wildflower ****
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 12:03 PM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
**Mastering the whole range of bleats with meanings-
made him think his command of 'goat lingo' was perfect,
But a cheeky Anglo-Nubian goat wasn't impressed by his fluency so remarkable,
"Vocabulary is not all, my dear Sir" she bleated back " your accent is singularly atrocious"**
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm
Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest
The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors
His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat
Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight
**
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
What's your name?
Abubakar salim bin jahedee
sorry sir you will have to step back,
****** hypocrites,
how does my religion connect to terrorism,
I'm just a tourist in your territory,
no doubt,
my fellow brothers who dress like me,
act upon their anger due to ignorance,
and the quest for freedom ,peace& justice,
Just see,
What a curious coincides that is,
-but does that make me a terrorist?
Islam's a religion of peace,
yet they propagate islam with bad image,
Which is a huge damage,
Who's involved in horrendous crimes,
Who oppresses mere harmless civilians?
When we retaliate the world begins to hate and
start generalizing,
without realizing what conspired,
-does that make me a terrorist?
Its we muslims who suffer from terrorism,
all around the globe,
Terrorizing and vandalising isn't islam heritage,
Impressed and obsessed you are with your TV,
believing the twisted storys as it gets to you with
no atom of truth,
Corrupted by silly illusions,
Apportioning blame on hopeless islamist
seeking for peace,
Do you still think i'm a terrorist?
Develop some form of reservation when you
call us terrorists,
I need not to speak through my nose,
before you know islam is against all kinds of
injustice,
-How can I be a terrorist then?
Innocent muslims die everyday,
In the hands of american soldiers
yet we are never part of the mainstream news.
No one cares,
Take a soul of an american citizen,
Then the whole world will point at muslims as
terrorist,
how tragic,
-does that make me a terrorist?
As a Reflection & manifestation,
Of an expression to the element of truth,
My Quran says,
you with your religion & me with my religion,
-does that sound like words of a terrorist?
I dress in the most noblest of form,
Yet you criticize me while you breed monsters
in your country,
Man to woman, woman to man all in the name
of civilization,
All these leaves me spellbound,speechless &
riveted
In loneliness and seclusion,
Reflect over the word terrorism,
And you will see it has no connection with
islam,
i'm a muslim not a terrorist.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
3 X 5 index card poems
3 smallish poems in five minutes
~
reheating
honey can I make you something to eat?
***no babe, you know I hate to see you cooking, frying
standing over pots and stirring sauces
trying to brush
wisps of bangs from your eyes
while wearing kitchen mitts***
What I would prefer is something leftover,
reheated served with a smiling grin from my ear
to wayover down under there,
next to you
<•>
old words are better than than new ones
hey, hi! how you doing, old friend?
“yo, out of the hospital feeling so much better;
had some kind of ‘itis’ which they cured with an ‘yisis’!”
***glad to hear; impressed by all those new big scientific words;
frankly preferred your old ones, that were rediscovered and
reoriented in new ways in your poems verses;
me?
never better cause to hear from a man
whose optimism has yet to meet a
match
that he can’t best,***
heals all our wounds
<|>
if you told me
***that I could spend three successive rainy days in almost all silence, perfectly contented by myself,
i’d said you crazy,***
isn’t that true babe?
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
The excitement of holiday has waned
& suddenly
I am on the playground again.
I am thankful for my gifts,
but they are not enough.
I stand at the corner
watching all of my friends.
Everyone has seen my toys.
They are not impressed,
no matter how much I love them.
No matter how much I love them.
Laughter & affection,
like Ring Around the Rosie.
Another game I am not really a part of.
I observe.
I see desire on the lips of every child.
The way their fingers itch
to play with my friends.
They glance back
from time to time,
and a smile I’ve learned to force
from the pit and pain of my stomach
leaves them satisfied.
They carry on playing their games
that I don’t really understand the rules of.
I’m fine.
I am angry.
Someone speaks to me.
I’ve learned to lie.
Even my stories are pathetic.
Tales that claw at the base of my brain
like the tears kept caged in my throat.
No one wants to see me sad.
No one wants to see me.
I impress no one with my hand-me-down genes.
Even I grow tired of them.
My blessings are robust
but that is not enough
for friends.
I am not picked.
They all wear rings and play house,
and in my head I entertain
dead things.
I better not tell them that.
It’s not that we don’t like the same things,
they just don’t like me.
Can I hear them snickering?
They won’t say no
but they won’t sleep over.
I am the joke
when I have no games to play.
If I could disappear,
maybe then I’d have friends.
Don’t they love to watch me go?
On this playground full of girls & boys,
lingers the stench of envy & top shelf rivalry.
My artifacts & ancient dolls,
the historic volumes I collect,
treasures only precious to me.
Let me hide away with these
while they show off their shiny things.
Perhaps in class
I’ll find a friend.
Someone with whom to share & offend.
To play games no one else understands.
Finally.
So I wait for that sweet release,
A ground on which they can’t compete.
A friend to which
I am their toy,
whom they proudly show
to every girl & boy.
It is a playground
still, it seems.
They don’t even know
they’re being mean.
I just want someone to like me.
I’m still waiting for that bell to ring.
"Playground"
2/13/04
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC