"impudent" poems
Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because morning and hope are impossible there:
sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who go out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in the impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
12.7k
1279
The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.
Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.
Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.
Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away
By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—
By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!
6k
No. It's an impudent falsehood. Men did not
Invariably think the newer way Prosaic
mad, inelegant, or what not.
Was the first pointed arch esteemed a blot
Upon the church? Did anybody say How
modern and how ugly? They did not.
Plate-armour, or windows glazed, or verse fire-hot
With rhymes from France, or spices from Cathay,
Were these at first a horror? They were not.
If, then, our present arts, laws, houses, food
All set us hankering after yesterday,
Need this be only an archaising mood?
Why, any man whose purse has been let blood
By sharpers, when he finds all drained away
Must compare how he stands with how he stood.
If a quack doctor's breezy ineptitude
Has cost me a leg, must I forget straightway
All that I can't do now, all that I could?
So, when our guides unanimously decry
The backward glance, I think we can guess why.
5.6k
beneath unbroken winds
and ropes of breathless air
pages of ripened age
when curl up in despair
in sea of thousand aches
oppressed by one's own self
some young impudent dreams
never deserve His help
although the lips may still
express endless repose
and gaze across the sky
as this night grows old
to sleep in pod of love
amidst the fog of dread
in hues of life dreamed of
you smile as stars ahead
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
On my way to work,
Whenever I pass through
The Holy Trinity church,
After a brief prayer,
The tombstone of a martyr
My eyes never fail to search
As his eulogies sensitive cords
Are sure to touch!
I admire
The tombstone’s design
A flickering torch,
Whose tongue
Is the martyr ’s statue,
That talks loud his virtue!
“Holy Trinity
Till I crossed the river of death
Allegedly, striped of my health,
Poisoned by evil doers,
Who hanker
By unfair means
To amass wealth,
I had been
A public servant
Adherent to my faith! ”
“Holy Trinity
To abide by
Your commandment-
Don’t steal-
Was my desire
Also to pull out millions
From poverty’s quagmire.
Across the board development
Working better than one's best
Efficient resource utilization
Also drew my attention! "
“Holy Trinity
A generation
To corruption averse
Is all-out
The bad scenario
In my country
To reverse.
A generation for
A developmental ******
That has lust.
I have come to understand
The coming up of
Many a lass and lad,
Whose rights that demand
I need no more reward,
When in front of you
This way I stand
Justice to demand! ”
Children of Oromia,
Ethiopia’s elephantine branch,
You have to detach
Your state, your country
From the impudent
And the corrupt
That still exercise
The outmoded
Colonizers’
Divide and rule
As a fool .
A corruption fighter
Development’s workforce
Is also a hero
Like Ethiopia’s
Valorous and dear sons
Balcha Abanefso
Geresu Duke,Abdisa Aga
And Jagama Kelo.
Children of Oromia
Giving to divisive guys
A deaf ear,
You should hold your
Country Ethiopia,
A cradle of mankind
And civilization, dear
Do not forget
Adding up
Is the current road map
Evil doers
Killing a hero
Could not bring
The change drive
To zero.
As a poet what I can say
“Evil doers
Stop to opt for
Devilish way!
But if you
Keeping going astray
You will go
To the grave in
Ignominious way!”//
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
Ahoy Captain Courageous!
Cleave not thy ship from soul
Past heaving swell through
Stormy sleet this spellbinding
Siren to seek.
Away thee, Ahab! More than
Whale, this mistress heaps
Thy spirit to take thee
Deep ‘neath sandy shoal.
She sings... clings... captures.
Pour over rocks
Impudent-ass officer
Soon torn and tattered.
You know better than
Fools before thee!
Yea!
Your liquor lapses
Dead man dreaming!
Admirals and angels
Have fallen
Afore thee… oh wise one,
Ha!
Like notches on a barrel
Your soul… she’ll tow on her tale.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Without a lover who'd slash your heart
Or an impudent cut across your cheek by your step mother
Without the pain, without things to bother
Without the mosquito and the rat,
Without Malaria and plague to smother
You will be living in paradise
Dear friend, you just realized
This is Earth, the devil's prada.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it?—They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
3.2k
Ya wonda why I'm filled with so much passion and rage/
But that's what happ'n when ya lessen a man to a cage/
I haven't even unleashed the darkness/
Imagine a soul that's heartless/
Crowley is weak compared to the I beast/
Within me, 'n He I now release/
It in I and we have begun to feast/
Spit it out
Shut ya impudent mouth n listen/
Time ta quit ya fuckin' insolent dissin'/
Check me out I'm hookless/
Reckless/
You follow the text n I'm bookless/
Check this/
Determination look me in my Eyes/
Ya gunna stay in tha gutta, ***** ***** just to watch me rise/
RA!/
I am incomparable/
Can't match me, I'm too lyrical/
I am an assassin/
Breath deep,
I am the heir, with anthrax-in/
How I see it, You nuttin' but fails/
You in a row boat ***** n my ***** got sails/
Ya call me crazy/
Ya vision is hazy/
And ya thinkin is lazy/
What I know would make ya a sage see/
I'm filled with these higher optics/
Shouldn't need a telescope ta spot this/
but you do
What/
Hoss is Down, Livin life like love/
'N neva givin' a ****
I Come here to shut ya ta Hell up/
------------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
You askin', "What am I"/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha commin' age/
Ya too tormented by change/
IT'S NOW
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC
Night and the Morning,
always I am wishing ,
When would the lights on?
When would I move on?
This makes me go worse, birth place ; death place sinks in darkness!
There would be one chance to blow,
Even to make the nights to glow,
But only when I step out ,
Now the people shout,
although a nerveless trout,
We are no more a country brute ,
We know the impudent crook,
who ***** up all our energy ,
who works without dignity.
We lack in unity ,
Well there is more diversity ,
WE ALWAYS KNOW EACH OTHER :Nothing more to point on some other .
This makes me worse ,Only one thing to point that's our leaders.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.
When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?
When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.
I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.
Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret
Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing
Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty
When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.
When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"
I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,
When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl
When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.
Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
1635
The Jay his Castanet has struck
Put on your **** for Winter
The Tippet that ignores his voice
Is impudent to nature
Of Swarthy Days he is the close
His Lotus is a chestnut
The Cricket drops a sable line
No more from yours at present
2k
For ***** to bounce is very rude,
Unless they dropped. Ascendancy
Is boldness we don’t like to see.
And roundness really is quite lewd.
For spheres, directions are the same,
And favoring the vertical
Is impudent in a mere ball.
A proper toy should be more tame.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 1:42 AM UTC
I sing America from Frankford
Commonly called 'home of the 'trem',
where the buses fly down the street, almost crashing into feral children
Where the scent of not-so-soft delicious pretzels are ubiquitous as it
soars through the streets like an airplane
Where the impudent teenagers scream at night
sounding like an angry choir
Where elderly widows rise gardens out of damaged bushes and dead grass
Tiny un-trimmed lawns are a can of tuna for stray cats
Where row homes cover tiny streets connect everyone
causing too much closeness
Where gum coated pavements are welcome mats to the running feet
running to catch their bus
Where cop cars fly down the streets, providing the next scene for the new Fast and Furious
Where at night, the constant sirens echo in the night sky
piercing through my ears
But in the end, I wouldn't want to be anywhere
but here.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
the car seemed to be gliding on glass
the last inconvenient instant before impudent impact
the mangled mass of metal and his black crisp body
a spectacle for the masses, all 4 of them
2 volunteer fire fighters and 2 EMTs
later, his father, blind now in one eye
from America’s diabetes, had Ramona
drive him to the spot, to the dead oak
as big around as an oil barrel
dead long before Paul’s 1996 Ford Escort
decided to take a go at it
daddy had to see the place
that infinite space between
yesterday and the tomorrow
that would never come, even though
he had already seen, through his one good eye
his boy’s charred carcass at the county morgue
resting on a silver slab, the clean and cold bed
where he would spend his last night
before the fiery furnace,
Ramona and he could keep his ashes
no need for a big service, no money for one either
but Dub, “Paul's boss down to the auto parts store,”
opened his wallet as wide as it would go
for the cremation and a nice urn
Paul would be missed, by Daddy and Dub
and once in a great while, in the fast and furious world
of the flat gray town where he lived and died
someone would ask, whatever happened to
that old boy at the auto parts store
the one who limped a bit as he walked,
the one who rarely talked but always
smiled through his yellow teeth
when he placed the goods carefully
on the counter
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
That woman has never had a motherly soul.
That is why her children have become so impudent!
Patience and Kindness is the key to raising young ones.
Support and Love is the key to raising young ones.
Trust and Faith is the key to raising young ones.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
"Take a throne, we're all royalty here"
Said the Master of Ceremonies to The Peeping Tom, The Spokesperson, The Wretch and The One Man Band
He pulled out the syllabus
It said that each of his colleges must fulfill a duty if they wanted membership into this social club
The One Man Band had to seek out a impudent amputee, a touchy nomad and give them brochures to a day spa
The Spokesperson was asked to to find his inner child, his feminine side and his sensitive side while making good conversation with Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and ask him why he holds a grudge against Bosnia
The Wretch was given the task to sell Avon products to those who looked like death warmed over and sway their urges to burn their candles at both ends
Lastly, the Peeping Tom was told to teach the languid, rough and tumble lipid worshiping people the number line then pass out pamphlets on healthy living
After reviewing their work and the rubric, the Master of Ceremonies congratulated them, they were in
"You will all now be a part of history, figures on this brotherhood's timeline; you fit the bill!"
They all got up as the Wretch footed the bill and went on to go wassailing
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
I sometimes think it could be ADD
this thing I really know is pestering poetry
it has me by the throat; it has me by the brain
now it has me in my gut, I'll never be the same
it comes when I least expect
it comes when I really don't want it
when I'm trying to do what I do for pay
it comes along brash and undaunted
I try not to do it, truly I do
but it just spills out like an overfilled gutter
"Stop" I tell her "leave me alone.
I don't want to do this" I sputter.
she's always there, that impudent muse
teasing and taunting my head
I can't get her out, I can't shut her up
even at night when I crawl into bed
she sits on the headboard and waits
for her chance to burst into a dream
then shaking me, waking me
in the wee hours she acts out her scheme
she won't take no for an answer
"I'm sleepy" just will not do
it doesn't matter if it's three AM
or if it's barely half past two
she refuses to let me just lie there
"*Don't be lazy! Get up and write it;
you know how forgetful you are.
Wake up and don't try to fight it.*"
There she is, that cruel taskmaster
looking down at me with a smirk
"*You'll do as I say. I won't tell you again,
Now stop whining and get to work."*
she insists that I follow her orders
battering my mind till it's lame
*"You may only write junk; you may only
write garbage, but you'll write it just the same!"*
I clench my teeth; I ball my fists
I'll show who's the stubborn one
I'll show her who's boss
before this (oh, drat, a poem) is done!
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
He is a man, and I am a girl, I know my thoughts are
Undergoing my mutilation, and I imagine
In my twisted, disgusting intellect, what he thinks of me
With his seemingly invisible gestures of his speech
In the merciful cloak of darkness, would he
Take advantage of my tight, pale body (i think he would)
I want to live this nightmare I have concocted
Over and over again, I constantly tease the pleasures
Of my creepy mind, my too pale, flawless, 18 year old legs
Impudent and childish sprawled across his lap
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
Grazin’ in the grass was mellow indeed
when you blew into your trumpet
blaring sounds of peace. What a trip!
Just watchin' as the world goes past,
you used to say playing notes of jazz.
Music of resistance for a tortured land
imbued in the blood of its natives bashed,
by the impudent high-handed little white man.
As your grandmother cared for you and miners
in illegal bars, piano keys enticed dreams of hope
for second class citizens silenced by oppression,
while the chaplain gave you your first instrument.
Little did you know the melodies you’d pour
on the rampant fires of blatant injustice.
Little did you know the strength you would instil
embodying possibilities, shedding light on the obscure.
Soweto blues you composed as Miriam gave
her voice to screaming mothers to cry out,
atrocities in town. Bring Him Back Home
you sang from afar until they did, and you
returned to see the prisoner walk free,
down the streets hand in hand with Winnie.
Only afterwards I heard your words and will
to show the people just how
wonderful and excellent they are.
A message I cherish and the reason why
many will remember you, your tune your smile,
as he who kept the torch of freedom alive.
A baobab tree has fallen indeed.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
"Did you ever see my esteemed Bottom Howard?
"Far more than I honestly ever cared to Sir."
Sir W, legendary thesp turned from his mirror
with a look of thunder. "And you are the most
impudent dresser and I should have rid myself
of you years ago." His hard face soon softened
as it ever did to this old servant and confidante.
"It was a Bottom to behold and no mistake" (Sir
W. laughs). A great ass's head that my company's
darling designer did, plenty of eye space so that
acting of the enthrallment and my famous twinkle
could be seen in the gods by my public bless'em,
whose few shekels count as much to me as you
well know, as the great and the good out front."
I've seen that twinkle too much in dressing rooms
mused Howard, just put it away you effin' show-off.
"No not you Sir, not one to play to the crowds, or
to ham it up and I know it's widely said in the biz
the biggest *** and Bottom. Always a dream but
hardly ever a pain." (Howard whistles gently, trips
forward to the chair throws a cloak over those broad
shoulders for the umpteenth time) says to his boss:
"Break a leg, won't you Sir?" (meaning it).
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Whimsical girl
Stupid girl
The world is not yours like an oyster’s pearl
Theatrical girl
Imbecile girl
You think you speak to the masses?
Impudent girl
Intolerable girl
No one is listening
Poor girl
Disillusioned girl
The world will never change.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC
the french doors are wide
open art stretches beyond
outrageous boundaries
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
A CORPORAL'S DEFINITION OF POETRY
The perfect summer's day.
The sky a postcard blue.
Hate distorted voices...faces
chanting: "STICK IT IN HIS GUTS!"
A lark ascending
throws itself against the vault of Heaven.
Only to be
rejected.
"...MAKE IT HURT...TWIST IT ABOUT
**** THE FUC**ING *******
God has a sick sense
of humour to have
bayonet practice
on such a perfect day.
The world whirlpools
down the plug hole
of Corporal 'Orrible's
almighty mouth.
He hates me because I
(Pt. Dempsey D. No. 835572)
am not showing enough
hate to **** a sandbag.
Sweat trickles down my spine
vertebra by vertebra.
The sandbag ***** the blade in
and won't give it back again.
I pull it out and fall
upon my derrière.
The sandbag bleeds sand.
Mocks my efforts
which displaces the book
I have about my person.
"What's this...what's this!"
Corporal 'Orrible hisses.
"A book, Corporal!"
"I can ****** well see it's a book!"
"A poetry book, Corporal!
IN PARENTHESIS by David Jones."
"In...in...wotsis do you think I'm
thick or wot!"
"Wot, Corporal?"
"Don't you wot me sunny Jim!"
His spit
peppers my face.
"There isn't enough white space
around the words for it to be a poem!"
"That's not an accurate definition
of a poem, Corporal!"
He froths at the mouth
tears it in half...throws it over his shoulder.
"Why you impudent little pup!
*** that rifle up...up....up!"
He runs me around the training ground
three times and then three times.
Later I go back and find
only half of it.
The half I have already read.
A sheep is nibbling it.
But like the Corporal it isn't
to his taste.
Over 40 years go by and
here I am an ex-army man.
Finishing the second half of
Jones' IN PARENTHESIS.
Remembering all too well the hell of
running 'round the training ground
three times and then three times
with my rifle up above my head.
Oh the agony of bearing arms.
Remembering too never to argue
with a corporal's definition of
poetry during bayonet practice.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Once acquired you become wretched
Be it by solitude of fury
If thee ever become tranquil again
It will truly be once in a blue moon
And thee are no longer courteous
Impudent nor amiable.
Now demonstration of greedy
And animosity is all you mates
Witness though you thought
You were revealing courageousness
But the exterior powerless.
I guess that's what moods do
To benevolent people and
Leave them as turbulent
Monsters.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC