"indiscreet" poems
Mr. handsome stranger
He’s coming after
Desperate like a last request
Frantic delusional lunatic
Unhinged fragile losing what’s left
Self serving sadomasochistic
Easy on the eyes but doesn’t quite fit in
Playing it cool in social situations
His intelligent banter he claims as his own
With somewhat smart comebacks he practiced at home
Trying so hard that the sweat beads down
Onto his stressed wrinkled furrowed brow
the stories he skillfully misdirected
Carefully darting unwanted questions
Mr. Indiscreet can’t blow his cover
Disarm the girl of his unrealistic dreams
How quite average and normal he can be
Mr. Stalker walks over to the Girl
works up the courage and talks to her
Strikes up a witty conversation
With his movie star smile and education
Using the words that he pre rehearsed
Says all the right things and compliments her
Looking past his rather peculiar behavior
And when politely asked gives up her number
He rings her up the very next day
With a romantic scenic picnic date
Under the shade of a lush green tree
Upon a blanket with wine and cheese
Playing the part of the handsome boyfriend
Gains her full trust and faith in him
Joking in a effort to make her laugh
To put her at ease and follow his plan
Jealous of her ex boyfriends
Knowing their names and full address
And when he drops her off at home
Tracks and follows her every move
Knows all her weekly kept routines
Threatens and blackmails all her friends
Studies everyday mundane errands
Unaware of his decent into madness
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You'll never know.
Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, --
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me -- marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ....
And what goes on, my love, while you're away,
You'll never know.
4.4k
--And do not be indiscreet or unconventional. Play it safe.--
Listen here. I've never played it safe
in spite of what the critics say.
Ask my imaginary brother, that waif,
that childhood best friend who comes to play
dress-up and stick-up and jacks and Pick-Up-Sticks,
bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics.
Or form a **** Club where we all go
in the bushes and peek at each other's ***
Pop-gunning the street lights like crows.
Not knowing what to do with funny Kotex
so wearing it in our school shoes. Friend, friend,
spooking my lonely hours you were there, but pretend.
2.7k
On Christmas Eve, the street was dead
Most folks were home or gone
The buildings all were empty
That is, except for one
Gianni kept the lights on
As he did most every night
To let the people of the street
Know that everything's all right
Gianni's was a haven
A safe house for the street
The residents were welcome
And there was always a free seat
On Christmas Eve, though magic...
would take place inside the back
For each Christmas Eve at midnight
They'd get more than Santa with his sack
Precisely at the hour
When Christmas Day became the date
The house lights dimmed just slightly
As if by magic, or by fate
There on stage with Gianni
Sat the Bluesman and a band
Some only played this concert
It was the best one in the land
Hymns and Christmas carols
Sung like angelic odes of joy
And as always ...there's the Bluesman
Smiling, looking just a little coy
You never knew his secrets
There was always more than he would show
And most folks would pay a fortune
To know just what this man did know
Holy, Holy, Holy,
and songs from years gone by
were mixed with hymns that grabbed your heart
and made most folks there cry
It was invitation only
Just the folks from on the street
The locals didn't post it
It was kept quiet.... indiscreet
He played for near three hours
His little band of odds and sods
Singing songs of Christmas
Singing songs to God
He always had his med-sin
that small flask was by his side
And Gianni, every watchful
made sure it never did go dry
The Bluesman, stopped the concert
the room was quiet, all subdued
And everyone just sat there
I swear, not one person moved
He opened up the window
Pointed to the brightest light
He said "another saviour may be born"
"And it may just be tonight"
It was on a night like this my friends
That Mary did give birth
When Jesus Christ, our saviour
was given life right here on earth
My music sends a message
To all, both near and far
The same message was sent years ago
By one bright shining star
Gianni, led them all outside
And they stared into the sky
Silent Night indeed, Gianni thought
And then the Bluesman bid goodbye
He went back through the kitchen
To where he slept most winter nights
Where Gianni, gave him refuge
You know it's safe....from the bright lights.......
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
~
*Long live the king!
That is until—zooks!—a correspondence
from one indiscreet mistress
falls into the wrong hands
and passes before
the queen's eyes
it then becomes time
for a little Shakespearean tragedy*
~
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 2:51 PM UTC
The Tall Tale of the Pantomime Horse!
Lifted his tail and cantered off.
Into the burning out sunset he rode.
A malady of loves principle disaster.
The pantomime horse he rode.
She caught him for his final wind up.
Danced for his audience.
On the stage.
He jumped and frolicked.
Wore nothing.
Save only but a bright red polka dotted belt.
Provocatively indiscreet.
The belt that concealed his other half.
His better half of course.
His other half was delicate.
Her malady was him.
He was the star performer.
Made all the ladies grin.
She sent him to the knacker's yard.
When his ladies had all gone.
She had one further use for him.
She turned him into glue.
Stuck the pages in her book.
Suggest you take a little look.
At all the poems in her book.
And the remnants of the pantomime horse.
His last ever performance of course!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Indiscreet Parakeets
*Lovesick parakeets,
Eager wicked fornicators,
climaxed with a shriek.*
Bat Trick
*This bat, wants to act,
Only in a position
Other species find
Hard to imitate.*
The Serpent's Last Chance
*Hissed aloud, in vein, none seemed impressed.
Swished around, **** it's polished marble floor.
Only makes miserable after all the false moves.
No escape route found after so much struggle.
Serpentine arrogance desperately seek a burrow,
Finding the lethal poison of King cobra useless.
In a situation too slippery to bite or frighten
He could only coil in dejection, pretending dead.*
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
In a bustling bus lingered a vacuous seat.
'She's impure,' they proclaimed; indiscreet.
The poor woman wept- shedding tear after tear.
'Don't sit next to her,' they warned with a sneer.
The wide-eyed girl looked on in curious worry,
As the fierce conductor tried to make the woman scurry.
The amused passengers laughed on encouragingly
As he tugged at her bag, her hand, even her dignity.
Spurned by the hospital; in society she had no place
For she had not the money to be referred to as a 'case'.
Her sole possessions- her disease and her fright.
The doctorless patient drowned in her ceaseless plight.
Melancholia stared deep into the girl's wide eyes.
They welled with desolation as she heard the cries.
Her dream of being a doctor would soon come true,
But oh doctorless patient, what will become of you?
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
Secret Garden
Rose buds dressed in pastel pink,
Waxy coats,
Keep secrets locked tight,
Till they bloom,
They'll never tell,
Not indiscreet,
As buds are open,
All set free,
Release sweet secrets to you and me,
Fuschia dark awaits her popping,
As child,
Was a game,
Her secret's darker than her flower,
That's why she stays locked tight!
Aquilegia, my Columbine,
Keeps delicate secrets,
Safe in fragile name,
As dainty dancer,
Secrets safe from Pantaloon,
Les Millions d' Arlequin,
Harlequin seeks his columbine,
A comedy of errors,
He'll never find!
Garden secrets will release if in crazy error,
The grass finds out,
Whispering in tongues,
With conscience sadly lacking,
On breezy days,
As zephyr lifts,
Malachite secrets,
Malevolence released!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
unlucky are the days; these
keys no longer open doors.
Pennies exchanged for emotions
on the sleeves.
loyalty poured unevenly;
sitting here forever
bewildered by the simplicity.
questions on the faces;
wind-chapped lips silenced
the song, lyrics removed
to unfamiliar places.
stains on the rug from
the colored wax, indiscreet;
lost imaginations beneath
these feet.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
Sad faces
Indiscreet dreams
Platitudes and penance.
Secluded thoughts
Glimpses of posterity
Legacies and lotteries.
Tributes to the dead
Blasphemous flowers
Anonymity and indifference.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
Nola I came crawling
fingernails scratching at your broken concrete
blast-ridden ears numb to
Music at your center -
Now I lay myself down in your canals
Along your muddy parks
naked; indiscreet
I swirl in trumpet music
Eddy down echo streets
With funeral processions -
celebrations of Lives worth living
Again and again.
I would fold myself neatly
In lines like paper airplanes
to cut through your wet air
like a deft tongue parting lips
gasp and gasp again,
I want to deep dive in cerulean.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
1771
How fleet—how indiscreet an one—
How always wrong is Love—
The joyful little Deity
We are not scourged to serve—
1.4k
First poem of the Day: Yes Ma'am!
The discussion that follows is pertinent,
If you are over a certain age limit,
Whereby, having survived, you are entitled
To certain discounts that shall remain nameless
(Still reading? cool)
Having recently entered said stratosphere,
I became painfully aware,
There is no precision tool created that
A man can call his woman in public
Without setting off fiery eyebrow raising
Let's state the facts:
She gorgeous, she's hot,
She goes tango dancing after 10 PM
With bad boys from Argentina and the Ukraine
But that is not the problem, for she loves
Her poet's nookery, like he adores her cookery
No, my issue is more conventional,
Indeed, not boundary breaking sensational,
It is ticklishly delicious,
I don't know how to introduce her in public,
Or in a quaint phrase, in polite company
She has rejected
Lover
GF
Mi amore
Woman,
Companion
Hardly indiscreet and something the world has quite accepted,
Tho she dances nightly, on this particular dilemma,
She provides no guidance, dancing here too,
All around the problem
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
you put my puzzle pieces into place.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It didn't fit. I thought I could delete
one part, about the joys of your embrace;
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
but still it was too long. I thought I'd cheat
ByMergingWordsAndUsingCamelCase.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It failed again. I must admit defeat.
Like Fermat's margin, Twitter lacks the space
to let me say you make my life complete.
It makes the longer forms seem obsolete.
But even Petrarch's work would meet disgrace
if cut and scaled to send it as a tweet!
And somehow public posts seem indiscreet.
I think I'd rather whisper to your face
the message that you make my life complete,
and far too full to post it as a tweet.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
I'm finding myself with writers block because all I seem to find inspiration in is the color of my skin
Or being black to be exact
Or what it's like to be young and African American and in this great country
I become frustrated that this is what I write about it
this is what I feel the need to speak on
that this is what my soul is finding refuge to release
Sometimes I think I'm getting repetitive but I'm realizing if young unjust black deaths didn't happen so often maybe I wouldn't have to write about them
maybe if my young unarmed black brothers weren't murdered in vain
maybe if I heard black praise more than blacks blazed
maybe if less mothers didn't have to to bury their sons
Then and only maybe then would I be able to write about something different, maybe then would I sleep at night, but probably not
Because whether racism is forward or passive it's still closer than you think
the amount of melanin in my skin is slim but it still runs deep
and because I'm mixed people like to think I'm being over dramatic or I'm making it up because
"I'm only half black so why would I get any back lash"
but it's not about that
full or half
To white people I'm still black
And to some people it's alarming that I have a dad
Yellow or brown
African blood still runs through my veins, I feel my queens weep
when the white girl in the suburban locks her doors when I cross the street
when black men say they would never date a black woman because she is loud and indiscreet
when four black boys in a Cobalt going the speed limit are pulled over and policed
one time I overheard someone say "it's time to get over slavery I mean I would own one too for what it's worth"
This **** is the reason why I lose sleep
like every night this week
sometimes I feel my queens' tears down my cheek
she screams
as she is being penetrated by the patrol as her husband and children see
"just so you know whose in charge" he whispers as she weeps
and we should "get over it"
whipped and ***** beaten and dehumanized
3 centuries and they act like it was 3 days
And they like to say that so much has changed
just because we're not in chains
Yet we're restricted or ridiculed politically, socially and economically
we are
Emmet Till still
On our road to progression
A brown president and we are still considered an infection
We are still the threat
And they have disregarded their debt
This is the blissful ignorance I live with
And the growing terror my words attempt to change
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
On the marble steps they sat, much trodden and hence discolored,
what an improbable place for lovers to contemplate about their lives!
in groups visitors walked up, some lonely ones in silence went down
alone mulling,over the waning of clear evening light, that dominated
the sky was overcast,as if the winter blanket was not to be easily lifted,
She was from a land distant, light carried from too far, to his dark
silent night, that went on and on and on, for a life time it seemed!
Many many evenings, the museum gardens found them close together,
tiger orchid blooms he gifted adored her hair,he simply loved her eyes,
once a little girl came running ,pleading for those flowers from her
"No darling it's gifted by my lover", he expected would be the reply,
but she gave it,with a smile, apologizing to him for being indiscreet.
That broke an unspoken code, end of a fine spring was indicated,
without any ceremony, it should one day stop, she knew .Then
he too started to await, the bell; in library when they were alone
she broke the news,in silence,her eyes reverted on to his,he knew it.
They sat on that white marble steps , two orphans, had no options left,
still he had to choose between the dark night ready to gobble and her.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
When people are far away, it doesn’t mean we stop loving them.
But it’s a different sort of love.
An ache in your heart, and in your thoughts, when they come up in conversation.
A small lump in your throat when you think about how long it’s been since you’ve seen them, or hugged them, or even gotten a text from them.
It’s that single tear you shed when you get a meaningful voicemail after you missed their 4th call in two days because of timezones or work schedules or weird sleeping patterns you hadn’t even realized you’d developed since the last time you were a part of their lives.
It’s forgetting what they, specifically, look like but still remembering how they smell. And how their hand feels in yours.
Just because they aren’t near you, or living life with you day to day anymore, doesn’t mean you can’t love them just as much.
It’s possible that you love them even more. Their everyday mistakes aren’t around to remind you that they aren’t perfect. Their little slip ups won’t unconsciously disappoint you, nor will their poorly timed jokes and indiscreet innuendos make you feel uncomfortable in the presence of others.
Instead you have all of your memories together that are worth keeping around.
And the solid truth that you do so want to see your loved one again.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
The Level of Uncertainty, This Yellow Star
“Even though I’m OK right now,
there’s a sense it could all go
away in a second.”
<>
foreboding,
a disease well known to me,
not “as if,” but in fact
been Cain-marked at
birth to be wary, be watchful,
ever alert, never inert in the
realm of possibilities,
the king
in my universe’s galaxy is the
randomness of existence,
microsecond, milligram minuscule,
muscular instability that even if
unspoke,
danger!
it’s bespoke nature, customized
just for me, lurks, prepared to ****
me into a hard fall, loss of balance
yes,
I prepare with subtleties, minute
measures, discrete and indiscreet,
measured steps, slow-wide turns,
“hands on the railing down the stairs we go”
motto~attitudinal, antithesis~carefree,
for this birthmark was forehead installed
from birth, as a reminder that
reckless abandon
is a countervailing force,
and there are whales in the ocean
and whole coteries of fish in the sea,
waiting, wanting to swallow me whole,
lions across the ocean faraway continents
eager for a nibble of my tender heart,
round **** and
thousands of people
who hate me and my kind, for no reason,
other than my birth mark,
this foreheaded
yellow star,
notifying all eyes, that I am to be dreaded,
feared, for reasons no matter,
just but unjustly
because, I am a Jew
who prays thrice
times daily for peace
for the whole world.
Sat Feb 10
8:35am
Feb 24, 2024
Feb 24, 2024 at 7:46 AM UTC
How do I even begin proposin'
My love for you, just like the sea, that's blue
Every now and then, I'm reminiscin'
Darling dear, don't divulge, but do subdue
What hath she? Pondering thee, like a snail
If I do reckon gently, your sweet voice
To heaven, I would go, maybe by mail
Oh girl I don't know, do I have a choice?
Eyes, lips, hair. Those curves, baby, so luscious
The way you caress, that recedes all stress
Is, as Tolkien told, Gollum's "my precious."
Your style, the way you dress, sittin' with poise
If they say I'm indiscreet, just retreat -
You don't need to take any of the heat.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Feeble is love.
Weak as a kitten.
Indiscreet and tiny.
Hidden in corners.
Lands in laps unexpectedly.
Feisty as a puppy.
With needle teeth he nips.
Needle teeth and eyes combined.
Snares sweetheart, love is blind.
Puppy love hides in corners.
Think love is simple?
He's not.
A constrictor, he is waiting to crush you.
Before he slithers slowly away.
Revealed yesterday.
Departing today.
(C) LIVVI X 2014
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Mid *** shots from vacant lots, which strike and ricochet
A painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
To tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
And indiscreet along the street she gives her pride away
To any guy who’s passing by with cash and time to pay.
In concert halls, beyond the sprawls 'round shabby cabarets,
Unjaded thoughts of Camelot imbue divine ballets.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
My web’s a lonely place to be
For no one likes to visit me
No one who comes here wants to stay
Yet neither will they go away
I really can’t imagine why
A friend (for life) will pass me by
Unless, of course, it’s indiscreet
That everyone I meet …
I eat
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC