"innuendoes" poems
1445
Death is the supple Suitor
That wins at last—
It is a stealthy Wooing
Conducted first
By pallid innuendoes
And dim approach
But brave at last with Bugles
And a bisected Coach
It bears away in triumph
To Troth unknown
And Kindred as responsive
As Porcelain.
23.6k
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
6k
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
- Wallace Stevens (not me)
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
Maybe it was the first time I gazed upon brilliant brown eyes that needed a second look to satisfy my desire. Maybe it was the moment when greetings dropped from your mouth, my eyes transfixed on the sound resonated from within. The seconds we spent swapping hellos down hallways made my smile glow, I can’t define perfect but, you’re the only one close enough to tickle its chin. Skip five paces forward, now we aren’t like two peas in a pod, we are too tight to snuggle up close to anything. I can still smell the scent of cheeseburgers and teenage angst as you and I wasted away our day with jokes filled with *** innuendoes and american stereotypes. The face you make when laughing causes me to reclaim my thoughts of what universal beauty can be. You made forest fires look like buckets of ices when you stepped in a room, wearing that navy blue dress with ruffles filled with humility and self-confidence. Maybe it was the moment you can to me for help. I would do anything for a third look at brilliant brown eyes, enough time for me to escape any painful memory from first period. It could have been the first time I saw you blush when I called you beautiful. Rosey red cheeks never looked so good on tan skin before. I don’t think I could go without saying, it might have been the first time I was able to wrap my arms around your waist and lift you from tiled floors, giving you freedom to fly. My dear Julia, I hope these words shine a light of perpetual friendship, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. So in your native tongue, Eu te amo.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
It's been so cold lately,
causing blizzards of ice to break some promises.
These snowy endeavours are embroidered with a pure white lost lust,
hidden behind a mirage of warm sunrises,
which remind me of
spring
is where I found you,
hidden away behind a curtain of my carelessness
and amongst the budding flowers, I discovered a hidden gem between your smile.
It glittered like the sun and caressed my ego with flirty innuendoes;
we laughed with our eyes and touched with our voices,
captivated by the city of love whilst captivating each other.
Though, the days grew longer leading to
summer
is where I loved you,
but hadn't known it yet. I ached for your company as if it were air,
filling my lungs with your scent; memorized and mesmerized
just as easily from your bright eyes and small lips.
The long days mimicked the long nights that seemed to keep us inseparable
like how the wind kiss the leaves everyday until they
fall
is where I fell for you -
hard, building up my heart with hope only to bruise it black and blue.
But how ironic could it be that the seasons changed as quickly as your mind?
It's been as cold as the days doomed by early sunsets
which could only mean
winter
is where I lost you,
yet the worst part of all seems to be the frost
knocking at my window every single night
just to remind me that I should have left you
behind in autumn.
gd
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Nag, nagging,
Finger wagging,
Shoulders sagging,
Victim slagging.
Oh beration,
Flagellation,
Irritating
Castigation.
Cutting hemlock,
On her chopping block,
Innuendoes
Spawning ad hoc.
Super-intending,
Condescending,
Never ending,
Insult fending.
Pointless rounds
Of empty double-talk,
Wife, your name is
Self-styled wise hawk.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
Those unchained melodies are heard-
slayed and naked, like a lost soul-
wand'ring along a village; a dejected village!
And hark, hark to how they plead!
O, how they beg to be alive, to be free
from the deadness of these winds.
But no-one greets them, with a handful
of care!-how ill, and thievery is,
such inattentiveness! What a smug
egotism!-For these areth living
creatures, not lurking shadows as they'th seemed!
Blackened willows, stiffened dust;
trembling trees, affronted branches-
bending in their nakedness, a scene of vulgarity
with no ******* and sensations-
to capture attention, o, am'rous
attention! How poor these humans are! Brutes
are they to natureth-dappled with disgrace,
insincerely prayin' for more and more to feed their
ungrateful innuendoes-which prey on their
mortality-to fascinate their tongue,
and ***** And elements with no such marks
are out of them, no thinking is set on them;
no moreth! Peek, peek now, at how those
bountiful thorns blureth, and dieth!-at the scorn
and rivalry amongst humans-and still no-one bothers
kindethly-to eventh peek at 'em, yon miserable,
pitiful creatures! But 'ose humans, whose spitefulness
is awayth from b'ing praiseworthy, are aboundth with
death; cannot they defy it, inescapable as it's always
been-for death is not destined to dieth-never!
Thus thy sins, humans, wilt swing thy joys into swamps
of guilt, denial, and suffrage-be unafraid of which,
straighten thy chins-for these are all what thou'th
deserved, all along! Thou'th betrayed nature, and now
thy souls wilt be thy subtlest enemy-thy veiled threat!-
beware of 'tis, but still perchance, it is futile to
exhort thee-now and again! Thou art stained with
remorse, and prefereth doth thou-to follow thy own
course, rather than nature's bliss's vows.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Innuendoes were woven within each pressure
point of his embrace upon her being, oral
expressions were versed within probing
fingers as they were proficient in understanding.
Stimulating her positions of enjoyment, murmurs
were the braille of his perception, and he read her
well before even a touch was entitled upon.
Waiting moments had counted down to this joining.
As lips wandered like a Shepard herding the feelings of
her body to points she hadn't realized, he collected all her
urges in a inception of gathering dew, that he tasted with
haste. Fingers were a delicacy from her origin to his emotions.
Her breath upon his lips sticky as tongues delivered silent
messages to another's attention, woven silk was moist
between accents of loves intentions. No words were spoken
only the smiles of elation that swam in each others eyes.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
A very firm intention
To tell it as it is
Has the audience attention
On its toes and all afizz,
Though channelled to the circumspect,
With a patterned thought awry
It chaotically cascades
Across the prism of the eye.
It chaotically discharges
In a scattergun array
Of verbal innuendoes
Through a thin, saliva spray,
And all the passion spent in telling,
All the effort of the tale,
Sends a barrage of confusion
To occipital portrayal.
Where the tiny bones of balance
All atremble with the sound
Have discharged interpretation
Through a penny to a pound.
There’s a lost extrapolation,
There’s a blank look on the face
Where the balance of exchange
Has frittered nimbly from this place.
A calmness in both parties
As a sad pretence prevails,
Where communication nexus
Is ignored to save the whales.
Marshalg
Incommunicado
30 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
I hate the way you laugh.
I don't know whether it's because
I hate seeing you happy or
I genuinely hate the way you laugh.
Loud, snorting, but mainly yeah — really loud.
It's quite embarrassing going out with you,
Especially when all you laugh at is
Innuendoes.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
I am in a collision of dominos I fell on to
the dislike of one, words were etched known
truths but like puppets they suspended me on
the ropes of what was warned now I am
holding my own on a cascade of eventual obscurity
whims of singularity that delegate to the masses
fall on me with much weight but I am not of subtle
innuendoes, I care not for those doors shut for you
only impede yourselves of not reading my verses.
When one is the voice of many and all fall into the
oblivion of there words, I do not hear them drop,
I heed not there linguistically challenged sense.
Saying a true that you are not the master of me I will
ink more words. I don't care what ill winds you spread.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
A taste
of wine
with scholar
that tears
their sheets
with innuendoes
and her
longing where
her chance
but witness
in her
fiancé with
questions only
honor that
such blood
stains die
in supposition.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
We put our teachers on a pedestal,
Until we age, and mature, and stifle.
They wear cardigans and reading glasses,
While teaching spelling and grammar classes,
And have an impeccably insufferable wit -
A world of puns amidst the world's dark grit.
So who would think that life's next station
Would involve discussing punctuation?
And passing that, believe it far -
Sharing drinks in a grotty bar?!
But here I am amidst my friends
(Despite not knowing them at ends)
Discussing the art of lesbianism,
Islam, clowns, and feminism,
How men are pigs and life is ****
And how innuendoes always fit,
How therapy would be depressing
(Despite depression being the issue pressing.)
Oh, how girls can dance whilst sitting down
With words, and lips, and laughs and frowns,
With obscene gestures with their hands,
And tongues and drinks, and stories grand,
By uplifting life to a higher beat -
A rhythm that can trap your feet
And click your fingers.
English language teachers don't
Dance how I imagined them to...
And yet, I'm sad when the music's through
And my memory of them
And that simple, yet brutally important night
Lingers...
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
Below the surface was the whisper,
an elusive breath of wisps that
spoke in seductive subjective
innuendoes.
Never to let there presence to be seen,
they kept between the veil
of the waters crest.
below this they would drown in solitude.
But when one was between the veil and the
shallow breathes
they seduced every breath to feed there hunger.
There hunger was a boundless ocean.
And you fell in to there shoreline pool
of false promises.
Drowning in a breath of illusions pleasures.
And the the ripples splashed upon the pools
dry tears that never collected or fell.
just lingering like perspiration of the silent void.
Now filling this pool of consciousness,
with a still refection
of eyes blank and open and nothingness
swims in its pools and it devours within.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 7:49 PM UTC
It is most difficult to examine
this cycle of political rhetoric
The extreme overhyped
campaigns being presented
could be classified as brash
Toddler like in the creative
lies and falsehoods relayed
The Donkey and Elephant
determine themselves to be
parties of the people, more
like ***** of forgetfulness
Tired of the drama
Tired of the lies
Tired of the innuendoes
Over and over we are being
bullied to conform to
the status quo or total
wholesale changes
We desire transparency and
overt clarity to have a glimmer
of a strong world leader
My cynicism remains
crystal in objectivity.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
He’s just waiting
For the moment to pass
When the media
No longer asks
Where’s his proof
Cos there has been none alas
Of the wire tap
He tweeted about so fast
Though the office he holds
Couldn’t be much higher
Both his hair and his pants
Are clearly on fire
The man in essence is
A pathological liar
Who ****** himself out
To the highest buyer
Everyday we seem to get
A brand new lesson
And ya can’t get him
To answer a question
So his deafening silence
Just keeps us guessing
To the point where
We’re now all obsessing
So he’s waiting
For the moment to pass
While showing the world
His uncovered ***
And very early in the morning
There’s a twitter blast
Of innuendoes and lies
That his internet casts
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC
My Facebook friend does not like Trump,
While I despise Chuck Schumer
We post opposing clever memes,
Insults, innuendoes and rumors.
He’s not a bad soul, I suppose,
(Just terribly one sided)
There’s no convincing him or me
That our opinions are misguided.
I see him daily in my feed
He’s never been “unfriended”
Our “arguments” will continue on
Until one life is ended.
So we agree to disagree
And that with me is fine.
I will not to the choir preach;
That’s the ghetto of the mind.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 2:46 PM UTC