"incurious" poems
Shancoduff My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look North towards Armagh.
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been
Incurious as my black hills that are happy
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.
My hills hoard the bright shillings of March
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn
With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves
In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.
The sleety winds ****** the the rushy beards of Shancoduff
While the cattle - drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush
Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills
That the water - hen and snip must have forsaken?
A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."
I hear and is my heart not badly shaken?
3.2k
I used to count the Acers
honed red striped wood,
offering hope in depths of February,
aeons of breakfast wishes
played changes that cannot be backed down
any more than my russet creations,
I long for companionship
as earthy as bottled Bordeaux ,
only if my crocus mia pathway
enfuses with the sound
of the incurious contendedly arriving
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Walking up the rickety stairs,
Patchouli and cigarette smoke
combat for supremacy
Before I even reach the door,
and I step through to see
The everyday undead scattered on the thick carpet like so many corpses blown out of Wednesday Addams' haunted dollhouse.
Maybe it wasn't wise to come.
A cd player informs me that, indeed,
Bela Lugosi's dead,
And I cautiously move into the living room.
Ruby lips and ivory faces emerge from the gloom,
Incurious glances marking my progress
As an acolyte guides me to the Queen of the festivities
Holding court in a corner of the living room.
Her waist-length silver-gilt hair and damp skin like fresh camellias gleam in the candlelight,
A studded black goblet brimming with Jack Daniels
Is handed to her,
A token of homage she eagerly welcomes
while nodding me forward.
Whispers behind me tell her story,
Of how she's seen a thing or two in her time,
And why her flat stare and Theda Bara smile give glimpses of her bottomless occult wisdom.
As her slim fingers play with a knotted black necklace,
She considers me long before finally declaring,
--"My God, you're an old soul"--
And she pats the cushion next to her,
An invitation to drink deep and close of her dark knowledge.
A cup of something unknown is pressed into my hand
and I sip, hanging onto every arcane word she utters.
Night slowly fades into dawn
and I wake cold and stiff from a kitchen floor sleep
only to see the Queen buttoning the cuffs on her white poplin shirt.
Smoothing her tweed skirt, she steps into her pumps,
Grips her cup of coffee,
And with a cheery wave, leaves for work.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
I wonder where i would be ,
wonder if somehow or maybe.
Where the world would have took
I who was too afraid to look
would I be in space on planet mars?
be floating above, up there with the stars?
Look beneath the big blue waves
beneath the sand or inside the caves.
the sound of my heart lost to comfort
big in regrets and deeply encumbered
blue, it is stagnant in it's hollow
waves crashing against it ready to swallow
For I regret not having been curious.
I forsake the days i settled for less
regret not having followed adventure
not finding myself in the process.
having wasted my time with such adult ways
been ****** into their incurious gaze
curious was I before those days.
Myself, who are you, i will never know
who is this person who gave up on tomorrow
are all my hopes now gone like how curiosity left me?
you have given up hope to ever find glee?
I sit among the "what if" shadows
will I ever really find my purpose?
never will i get back the time I have lost
know I will make up for it at any cost
Everyday I will search not a moment I will waste
I will rush into the coming days with haste
will I have ample time to ever find me?
search I shall with all leniency.
not a storm so large will make me sway
a large pay check will not take me away
moment I find myself I will say
"I am greater than I am yesterday"
will I find what i am looking for?
waste no time I am ready for more.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,
And the roof-lamp’s oily flame
Played down on his listless form and face,
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,
Or whence he came.
In the band of his hat the journeying boy
Had a ticket stuck; and a string
Around his neck bore the key of his box,
That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beams
Like a living thing.
What past can be yours, O journeying boy
Towards a world uknown,
Who calmly, as if incurious quite
On all at stake, can undertake
This plunge alone?
Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,
Our rude realms far above,
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete
This region of sin that you find you in,
But are not of?
1.4k
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Look at love.
All it brings.
Through a double sided mirror.
Browse reflections of what could have been.
A dithyramb of doubt.
Without a choir of untamed angels.
Bowing down in synchronicity.
Image diverted through the soul of the bearer.
Donation from the wearer of mortal pain.
Sword in hands .
Soul is sliced by angels' touch.
A promise of melting from the ***
Enticed by he who seeks advice.
Given freedom at hissed request.
The hiss is there the snake is not.
No dealings with badness.
Divest of garments.
Which cover the whole soul.
Petrified as driftwood.
Jetsam.
Discarded on the lonely shore.
Incontestable love.
Incurious woman.
Blithe spirit.
In solo party.
Witch waits in the wings.
Blessed in serenity till war is over!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
The radio song itself had died on the dashboard
the new abjudicator had shorn
the Moon like a clip board,
whose patient shadows wane,
those cornea headlights now incessant,
our sudden rasp of thirst
seemed to last until the first Sprig.
Moments we shared later recoiled,
our needless surrender held no prevarication,
yet others less incurious could only wish away this
dirt-road.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
live life with enthusiasm destined hardiness due to the harshness
Lacking the right guidance with so many choices we all interpretive heartfelt condolences to the families who have been a incurious
"Should be" as in past tense goes without saying some individuals are not capable to accelerate but we all have those interject with situations enough is enough just make it deploy indiscretion instead of misperception
Questions will not always have a answer to your concerns faith is the only thing we can believe in
You settle for the well-written incentive purpose
This is only the blueprint to or construction build to your desire
Cherish,be grateful, prefer a Just way disaffection those unavoidable dreams.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
fang
in the dull
tooth
of my womb
this sadness
I did not
inherit, that I
cannot
pass on,
does not
make me
human
but some
third, fourth
incurious
beast
loitering
in the belly
of a ruined, or half built
ark
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
I like this poem. I get the humorous part. However, I do not think we need to be mad to be great poets. I think the world is incurious and impregnated with the madness of indifference, and the really good writer observe, absorb, collecting disparate perspectives, run subconscious scenarios in their heads, and project the closest approximation of other peoples lives and feelings.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
We are reckless
We are incurious
We want to stay
To find our way
Oh wait
This is our fate
I know,
It’s too late
Help yourself
not us
We decide as you see
Struggling to be free...
Inside our home
Everything is safe
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
Strangely incurious,
her lover from before.
She has worlds within
I'm longing to explore.
~J.M. Green
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
I saw a thrush upon a bush,
a graceful bird was she,
and next to her I saw a rook
as black as black could be.
And as I looked, into my head
these words occurred to me:
Oh rook, oh rook, please tell me please,
why do we disagree?
For, after all, we both have beaks
and wings that we might fly,
and yet you know these things we share
just seem to pass us by.
Our main concern it seems to me
is how we might apply
abilities that each may have
that take us to the sky.
Beyond the rainbow we both soar
but what do we bring back?
For some of us it’s peace and joy,
for others its attack.
You may be black without concern
for my own speckled brown
but why should colour matter so
when, wings spread, we have flown
up to the heights and back again
albeit on our own
and you just treated with disdain
the friendship I have shown.
Although this thrush upon its bush
invited you to play,
you gave a quite incurious glance
then turned your head away.
I do not want to seem to push
or tell you what to do,
but if you want a friend, this thrush
will still be here for you.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
Two petite pretties
pranced before me
paragons of the
impoverished society
that values surface
over depth
The dancing debutantes
Dangled their dangerous
And dubious dispositions
Directly in front of me
Enter stage bad boy
Blustering buffoon
With a silver spoon
So far up his ***
He spewed silver polish
On his nice Polish pants
Cash in hand
He passed around
His affluences
Like it was influenza
Vomiting vague
Platitudes with
So much attitude
As if he had
Anything valid to say
But this crowd was rapt
With the vapid vocalist
He drank expensive ****
To prove he was valid
No valor just vain vagaries
On display to frustrate me
Greatly
They celebrated the success of a
Failing millionaire who was premade
By the fortune that his father made
To bail him out of all of his mistakes
As he played society like a broken violin
I was trying to bring talented art back in
But society placed me in the trash bin
Before I could even begin
To purge the poison
The incurably incurious
Perpetuators of
Shallowness
So I bow out of this
Cause I thought
We were working together
To make each other’s life better
But it turns out I was
Running a race
I did not even know about
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC