"irksome" poems
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out
So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times
The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain
With a heart surrounding
As mine beats slower
At last, the sun begins going down
And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me
Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:31 AM UTC
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be--
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
"Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
"Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
3.7k
we,
as potentially conscious beings,
do incur such fantastic Purgatory
and yet we seem
indeed so very keen
to choose to wallow in
vain and irksome squalor-
a comfortable yet blind stupor
when it comes to
the very real causality
wrought of our intention:
yes, you read right:
i said "potentially conscious."
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
THE TROUBLE WITH TIGHTS
The trouble with tights, they dangle.
They’re very annoying at times.
When around your ankles they slip.
Snag them on the garden gate.
When on the way to work, they rip.
Just as you’re in a mega dash.
They really are such irksome things.
Tights are laddered, cash all gone.
Still need to carry on.
Of course, they have their other uses.
Will fix a broken fan-belt well.
Maybe a robber of the money institution, will find them a lovely disguise.
The only bank robber ever caught.
In possession of a pair of long nylon ears.
Stockings are much sexier.
Lovely soft and silky.
For whenever you are feeling *****
Who ever heard of wearing tights, beneath their wedding dress?
Wear them for a date.
When pretty woman goes out hunting.
Just to find her perfect mate.
Surely, stockings must merit the order of the garter
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
irksome thoughts spin round the moment
and they flee to where iv fled to
and they tap out strange messages on my head
and they gather dust into piles
and the piles grow to hills with the
passing hours and changing landscapes of the heartstring
strings are for kittens to play with
chase round and round
she lay in the shade of an oak tree
by the roadside
in the dust hills
sipping her long island
and watching the road with languid eyes
leaf floats down and
unattached from the dream
she wanders
the dust hills wailing for lost loves not her own
and berating thouse resposible for every
slight ever felt
headlights bath the dust hills
as eighteen wheelers truck
the empire of america ever southward
into the cheaply painted tropical sun
she is bikini clad
and is forever clutching an ice cold drink
that eternaly leaves a smile on
her forever blemish free smile
in the ***** dark dust hills
i feel so alone here by her side
i want to run away
and sleep in a feild
with the ****** and the drunkard
with the apostles of night
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
All so grave and shining see they come
From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,
Though so distant wheels the nearest crystal dome,
And the spheres are seven.
Are you in such haste to come to earth,
Shining ones, the Wonder on your brow,
To the low poor places of your birth,
And the day that must be darkness now?
Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on
In the grey and mortal years,
The pure flame the smoky hearth it burned on,
The clear eye its tears?
Was there, in the narrow range of living,
After all the wider scope?
In the old old rapture of forgiving,
In the long long flight of hope?
Come you, from free sweep across the spaces,
To the irksome bounds of mortal law,
From the all-embracing Vision, to some face’s
Look that never saw?
Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you,
Lured you with the ancient bait of pain,
Down the silver current of the light-years brought you
To the beaten round again—
Is it you, perchance, who ache to strain us
Dumbly to the dim transfigured breast,
Or with tragic gesture would detain us
From the age-long search for rest?
Is the labour then more glorious than the laurel,
The learning than the conquered thought?
Is the meed of men the righteous quarrel,
Not the justice wrought?
Long ago we guessed it, faithful ghosts,
Proudly chose the present for our scene,
And sent out indomitable hosts
Day by day to widen our demesne.
Sit you by our hearth-stone, lone immortals,
Share again the bitter wine of life!
Well we know, beyond the peaceful portals
There is nothing better than our strife,
Nought more thrilling than the cry that calls us,
Spent and stumbling, to the conflict vain,
After each disaster that befalls us
Nerves us for a sterner strain.
And, when flood or foeman shakes the sleeper
In his moment’s lapse from pain,
Bids us fold our tents, and flee our kin, and deeper
Drive into the wilderness again.
2.2k
Ever since I can remember
I've had a problem with my temper.
From just a simple irksome situation
Turns into an explosion of emotion
So if you're up for quite a scare
Right now, take heed, watch out, beware.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 5:44 PM UTC
We take the night
Flourish when our minds are most at ease
In between the artsy and the ghetto,
It's gonna take some doing to really change
Maybe if there's someone else
Who isn't too young to save, too irresponsible
We'd be taken to a more realistic edge
Get down and face it,
We don't need as much
As we think we do
Here we are, and here we go
I've been trapped
Lost in a cage
Planning for a great escape
But whether or not
It could happen to me,
I really can't say.
Today you're where I'm at
Where I want to be -
This can happen to me,
I believe I believe
We've investigated a thousand new names
like what I've got isn't good enough for fame
Surprise, surprise - money buys everything,
Actuality and Individuality
it's a state of realism we can't escape
Looking, you don't find flaws in anything
but you know the difference between
poetry and a shallow being
Let's be real here, crazy, let's be real
we feed off of one anothers intricacies
A beauty in ecstasy and believability
I've tried to melt into someone else
Then before nothing made sense
until you, impossibility
There's nothing to compromise
It's just you and I,
fitting
I'm not numb,
some would find that irksome
but I'm glorified in the feeling
*I find that place on your chest
That beats like a bomb
A keyboard synthesized to play my song
With every breath you grow lost
Confused by each tear
A lapse in judgement, in character
I don't fear, I don't fear.
I have my fingers pressed into you
Like it means something-
"Don't you see?"*
We'll be more than we ever expected could be.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:03 AM UTC
Born of barrows blood and acorn goodness:
honest as nature and prodigious as her harvest.
Cursed with cowardliness, blessed with bulk
but an irksome intellect invariably finds fault.
The pain of creation softened by canine affectation,
and artificially-altered perception.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:59 PM UTC
Verbiage
Sagacious humans would concur
Salacious verbiage is trenchant
Verdant language withers a guileless soul
Hubristic linguists deem limpid oratory irksome
A Didactic, petulant, boorish, garrulous, nefarious, obtuse, and insolent
Overtone is not my intent
Puckish, risible, mannered, jocular, antic, and adroit
Reverberations I am manifesting
TRANSLATION
Words
Smart people would agree
Healthy words are sharp
Unripe words die naive spirits
Self-confident word users find simple language annoying
Moral instruction, rude, insensitivity, wordy, wicked, blunt, and contemptuous
Feelings are not my purpose
Impish (silly), laughable, artificial, playful, clownish, and clever
Reactions I'm hoping to create
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
I have this pen
this one pen.
irksome it is
licentiate be a pen
colourless it writes
so blunt be it
crooked writings produced
yet its my pantheon
and this is my panegyric.
this one pen,
Not is it croon
I believe it crook
I adore this one pen
this pen
words cannot produce
words cannit be pronounced
A magical pen
perhaps mystical
my pen is pantheon.
This one pen likr myrrh
A lure pen I love
secrets secrets publicly
Be ware....
my pantheon on the look
Any vice will be on the book.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
Reading poems is the way of discovering
that people write for fun, they write of
the very things that you think preposterous.
They write of love, and you write of hate.
Poetry is in many ways charade of indiscipline,
even gross indignity. Gives you joy rides and goose
bumps. Why do people write- poetry?
I deliberate and out of it curse people, write a poem
send it for publication. The laptop creaks. The editor whines
when flooded by my irksome mails.
In the streets of the city, and there are plenty, I see a rag picker.
I see the *****
I see the blinded with begging bowl, but singing. Chanting.
I see barely seven or eight a child pleading for coins and mercy.
I stalk away. Walk away. My hauteur a new demeanour.
Why do people write- poetry?
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
I'd like to mention that my city Karnal was once the bastion of the armed forces.
Close to my house in NDRI campus until half-a-decade ago stood remnants of the old British Barracks - an irksome reminder of the colonial period.
But we went inside the rickety ruins of an olden period to play hide and seek and sometimes just for fun as an adventure.
I had seen them - the erstwhile barracks in that dilapidated state only, carrying the Union Jack painted at some places, and I had seen the ruins crash to ground - a reinstated taste of Indian freedom.
The Colonial army camped here until the occupying British chose to shift the army camp to Ambala due to high occurrence of mosquitoes in the city of Karnal and found this place fit only for a great cattle yard.
Karnal has seen negligence & side-lining ever-since along the course of history.
The Indian Oil Corporation's petroleum refinery was decided to be built in the neighbouring Panipat city & so was the National Fertilizers Limited's manufacturing plant built there and not in Karnal.
In Karnal they built research institutes, filled with greenery these make the city a comfortable place to relax at ease.
But ****** shameless people don't realize the value of plants & trees and keep removing them off the face of Karnal & even where I live, in the NDRI campus - acronym for the National Dairy Research Institute campus.
****** blood sucker stupid human beings are sometimes more irritating than the malarial mosquitoes.
They cut trees assuming trees shelter mosquitoes!
True they might be but I keep wondering what about the potholes dug by them into the coal-tar & gravel roads to facilitate the installing of religious & marriage tents.
But nothing can be done to change the people whose mindset has been falsely ligated with the thought of we are the best & we won't change.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Though miles may separate us dear friend,
And days fly quickly with each irksome chore,
Our bond on such trifles does not depend,
Only serves to enrich our love the more.
Although skies may darken with clouds of grey
Dispelling happiness with blackest gloom,
Glad sunshine dances in sparkling ray
When mem'ries of you flood as sweet perfume.
Melody of robin and woodthrush blend;
Gentle breezes through meadow grasses sigh.
I am reminded of my lovely friend
Causing worries and grief from me to fly.
I am so happy to call you my friend!
Happy Mother's Day Wishes I do send.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
This life is a mysterious one,
Happy, sadness, boredom, fun.
So many people walk this earth,
Yet lonely isolation weighs over mirth.
When lonesome desires cross my mind,
It's a faithful companion I wish to find.
Yet when company sounds an irksome tone,
I wish to leave and be all alone.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Too thrilled by the case,
Sherlock just disappears,
To begin with a chase,
John is let alone,
To get a cab, and go to Baker St. .
But wait- wherever he goes,
The telephone booth starts ringing!
He waits for somebody to pick up,
And continues to walk;
The third booth starts ringing,
The caller must be desperate to talk.
A black, shiny car,
Pulls over for John to ride,
The destination seemed far,
In this conversation-less hour.
"Anthea", answered the accompanying secretary,
When asked her name,
Fake it was,
Absolutely.
The anxiety was over,
John was confronted by a well-dressed man,
Who offered him money, to spy,
The guy, who deduced Watson's army background,
By his tan.
The "arch-enemy" of Sherlock,
As he introduced himself,
Told John about his psychosomatic disorder,
"You are back in the game,
You don't fear danger,
You've missed this lifestyle."
True it was,
Pretty much,
"Could be dangerous", wrote Sherlock,
And there he was dashing into 221B.
Sherlock was quite disappointed,
When he got to know about the declination,
Of that tempting offer,
"Pity, we could've split the fee",
He suggested John for the next time.
Isn't Mr. Holmes quite irksome,
Calling John from the other end of London,
Just to send a text?
No, this was not an ordinary text,
An SMS was just sent,
By Mr. Watson's phone,
To the murderer.
The murderer?
But why?!
Elementary for SH.
Found the case within an hour,
Which was now in front him.
His mind, is truly above par!
One thing missing from the suitcase:
Her organizer, her phone.
"Nah, she's is a clever woman,
A serial adulterer,
Would never leave her phone at hotel",
This Holmes said, backed by balance of probability.
They waited at a restaurant,
And the wait was long,
But worth it.
Had to chase a taxi,
which was done successfully,
Thanks to Sherlock's excellent memory.
Hence proved it was,
The psychosomatic limb of Doctor.
A drugs bust had occurred at their place,
Seriously, this man, a deduction ****** would have drugs?
"I'm not a psychopath Anderson,
I'm a high functioning sociopath,
Do your research!"
Snapped Mr. Punchline.
Just a couple of minutes later,
This brilliant sleuth realized-
"Rachel! Yes, Rachel!
This woman in pink, Jennifer,
Is clever,
And she's dead!",
much to Mr. Holmes's displeasure.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.
Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.
The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.
A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.
Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.
Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.
Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Mid-spring, skinny, black, blind
eastern tent caterpillars -
Malacosoma americanum -
falling from the cherry tree
leaning, human, over our deck.
Irksome. Mash and kick
them with my feet, continue
practicing or reading.
Three weeks later, reading
late at night. Heavy-bodied
black-eyed, reflexed antennae -
many hundreds of moths
crave the lamplight, some attaining
extinction through cracks
around the window screen. Vexing.
Until next morning, I look
up the name that has eluded me
all spring and early summer.
The single-minded moth and larval colony -
one small monophony.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
I am floundering in a new identity
often praise is irksome
it comes with a cost,
so subliminal I'll become, rudderless,
I voyage, comparatively
as a torrent is to stimulating.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.
She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.
She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.
Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time ****** away Memory
From you and those you love.
The stark feebleness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
YOU ARE:
Boorish and bellicose
Calamitous and caustic
Defamatory and dowdy
Garrulous and guileless
Insolent and irksome
Are you busy tonight?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
FRENCH KISSING ON VENUS(A little nonsense )
Just coming to life.
Was up til three.
Playing silly sods.
Hopped into my baby son's spaceship.
Found myself on Venus.
Don't know how I got there.
Maybe I was seeking love.
Venus has a purpose, in matters of such trivia.
In the silly world of love.
Met a few Venusian chaps.
Funny things they were.
Their hands were wandering everywhere.
Too many of them you know.
Far too many hands that is.
One went in for a French kiss.
Guys from Venus like to kiss.
His tongue was very very long, with it my tonsils tickled.
Irksome tongue, it made me choke.
Ipso facto, that mega tongue, made me rather sick.
That rampant guy from Venus, well he ripped of all my clothes.
Used them as a hand kerchief, on which he wiped his runny nose.
Somehow.
Method as yet unknown.
Landed outside my front door.
What a shock that was.
For my poor unfortunate neighbours.
Who saw all my naked bits.
A weird situation, created by a kiss.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Tucked away in the crevices of my mind,
Are shades of sorrow you left behind.
Memories of joy and sweet contentment,
Innocent of hate and bitter resentment.
Initiating as friends who desired affection,
Enthralled by lust and blind to speculation
From those whom regarded it all "too soon",
To prove them right and close in June.
Six months of sweet, indolent days,
Precious as the next due to the simple way
Your presence alone kept me elated,
Your revered wit held me captivated.
The moments we shared basking in the sun,
Or curling with the kittens - equally as fun.
The hushed inertia of our days spent together
Was not irksome and dull but treasured forever.
I can adopt adjectives, embellishments and rhyme,
In the child-like hope they may turn back time.
I can exhaust poetry as a means to say
That I miss you more each day.
But should you read this, I pray you must know
That the colourless wave of self-pity and woe
Brightens and shallows with every passing day,
And that our precious moments are pocketed away
In the warm embrace of my broken heart,
Slowly mending now that we are apart.
Like a phoenix rising from ash-glistened coal,
I will grow from the embers and rejuvenate my soul.
I will rise again and start anew,
And cherish the days I shared with you.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC