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"loafing" poems
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
0
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
VERSES OF CAUTION TO AN AFRICAN GIRL
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
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36
forced to ask 'is it all bullshit' this field of study just completed this path now flying feet fleet'd I, alumni all outwardly faux alacrity but instead really inside shades drawn hiding shame useless waiting for the sun's forebearant rays to pull dead drunk me off floor again still sick sinning spinning lies on nodal web patterns of activation just a narcissist sociopath-in-training (was I?) being taught how better to manipulate other's fate for personal gain great fat magnificent magnanimous beast loafing on liar's chair o'great victory-defeat doublespeak tho Orwell is long dead and we do mourn him so with eulogy eyes that weep crocodile tears of well hidden liars having long forgotten how to believe in anything aside from own ill-gotten gains, they mean nothing more than bloodstained verses anemic murmurs whispered great whisky hopes and sallow cheeked dreams
0
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
WhereDoIGoFromHereDorothy
eulogy eyes
forced to ask 'is it all bullshit' this field of study just completed this path now flying feet fleet'd I, alumni all outwardly faux alacrity but instead really inside shades drawn hiding shame useless waiting for the sun's forebearant rays to pull dead drunk me off floor again still sick sinning spinning lies on nodal web patterns of activation just a narcissist sociopath-in-training (was I?) being taught how better to manipulate other's fate for personal gain great fat magnificent magnanimous beast loafing on liar's chair o'great victory-defeat doublespeak tho Orwell is long dead and we do mourn him so with eulogy eyes that weep crocodile tears of well hidden liars having long forgotten how to believe in anything aside from own ill-gotten gains, they mean nothing more than bloodstained verses anemic murmurs whispered great whisky hopes and sallow cheeked dreams
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30
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,  Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,  Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision, Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,  Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,  Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,  Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,  Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,  Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...   ©Michael P. Smith
0
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
michael-p-smith
Crocodilian Analysis (Tongue Twister)
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,  Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,  Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision, Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,  Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,  Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,  Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,  Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,  Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...   ©Michael P. Smith
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10
"Humpday" has arrived and Thursday is looming. "Happy Hour" now beckons and business is booming. So, go with your friends belly up to the bar But make sure someone else takes you home in your car. Two days till the weekend, and a lifeline's relief. But don't get caught loafing or your job may be brief.
0
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
Cne
**** Day
"Humpday" has arrived and Thursday is looming. "Happy Hour" now beckons and business is booming. So, go with your friends belly up to the bar But make sure someone else takes you home in your car. Two days till the weekend, and a lifeline's relief. But don't get caught loafing or your job may be brief.
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12
The cur foretells the knell of parting day; The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The wise man homewards plods; I only stay To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
0
2.3k
Ambrose Gwinett Bierce
Elegy
The cur foretells the knell of parting day; The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The wise man homewards plods; I only stay To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
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4
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades. It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms. “Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.   “Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog. “Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s ***** “Every man’s dream,” I confirm. “Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word. “Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add. There’s a knock at the door. We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught. “We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers. “Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested. “Why me?” he whined. “Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?” “These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?” “It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.” There’s another knock. “Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat. “Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob. “Women and children first,” I remind him. There’s a third knock. “Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door. “You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
0
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
anaisvionet
indolence
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades. It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms. “Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.   “Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog. “Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s ***** “Every man’s dream,” I confirm. “Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word. “Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add. There’s a knock at the door. We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught. “We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers. “Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested. “Why me?” he whined. “Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?” “These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?” “It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.” There’s another knock. “Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat. “Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob. “Women and children first,” I remind him. There’s a third knock. “Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door. “You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
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23
A guilty pleasure of carnal exuberance Congenital aspirations met with no defiance I've found luxury in finding what was sought A frivolous triumph taken with moderate pace Though, A willful pursuance it was not Merely a loafing fate met face to face stares from the immoralists fronting smiles lust takes form in the death of self denial From the heated chase of senseless sin Or, a marriage founded on a whim or gin We are the hypocrisies of unconditional romances The mindless breed of Objective contradictions Aloof in the thought of all our un-taken chances Content with the notion that it's willful conviction Moving our limbs onto each other with passion- In a not so convincing mechanical fashion The pang of departure becomes idle and true As the woman's desire decides on life anew Free'd of commitment and it's anchoring pull To set loose the labours of a dwindling kiss Where compassion lay ready and yearns to be full cleansed of the sound from the victims cold hiss Echoing through the basin of his darkened prison The hatred and spite of the fallen has risen To find meaning in sorrow and his empty feeling Distraught in the rhetoric she left for his healing Mocking the hollow cadaver left scarred and alone He watches the darkness slip into a vivid irony How could the heartless turn the living to stone? Or the simplest of notes fade into a weary eulogy? This must be some kind of cruel joke on repeat But, How can we laugh at the likeness of love and deceit?
0
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
EgoFeeder
A Simple Truth In Tears
A guilty pleasure of carnal exuberance Congenital aspirations met with no defiance I've found luxury in finding what was sought A frivolous triumph taken with moderate pace Though, A willful pursuance it was not Merely a loafing fate met face to face stares from the immoralists fronting smiles lust takes form in the death of self denial From the heated chase of senseless sin Or, a marriage founded on a whim or gin We are the hypocrisies of unconditional romances The mindless breed of Objective contradictions Aloof in the thought of all our un-taken chances Content with the notion that it's willful conviction Moving our limbs onto each other with passion- In a not so convincing mechanical fashion The pang of departure becomes idle and true As the woman's desire decides on life anew Free'd of commitment and it's anchoring pull To set loose the labours of a dwindling kiss Where compassion lay ready and yearns to be full cleansed of the sound from the victims cold hiss Echoing through the basin of his darkened prison The hatred and spite of the fallen has risen To find meaning in sorrow and his empty feeling Distraught in the rhetoric she left for his healing Mocking the hollow cadaver left scarred and alone He watches the darkness slip into a vivid irony How could the heartless turn the living to stone? Or the simplest of notes fade into a weary eulogy? This must be some kind of cruel joke on repeat But, How can we laugh at the likeness of love and deceit?
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32
(the poem, the story intends to reveal, or vice versa, the story I'm told is very old) Seven silent days of shiva, sort of premature, sitting with one called their friend, our friend, as we watch, from now from here we know the daysman, we observers in mind, flies on sores, flies on walls, we can use their eyes we can pity the comforters and the comfortless moan, Come into my comfort zone, cries Job. What comfort? Why me? was answered, Job looks our way and winks, an a side, I invited the daysman, he says, but only ere knowing God almighty knows, and the accuser of man, whom mine symbolizes, knows not, how it is to be a mortal man, wombed or un. Would God there were a daysman betwixt us. I said, unaware, completely of any good news on its way my way I coulda said nothing, had I known Would God there were a daysman betwixt us. I said, I thought, So I can wonder whys and hows, ask where truth abides in what men have imagined, what drew the sweetness, what drew pain, is luck a factor? Sacred making, did we get that wrong? Seems is as it seems to be, here. This is not afterlife, this is life, today. This day's daysman twixt truth and lie, in the meta game, he is neither archaic warden of loafing warrior's watchtower, or miller minding the grinding, seeing all who labor, they shall eat. Who legislates tradition? Meek or mighty? ******* speaks: ax Moses. Fair, that's fair. Meekest man God knew, some of his works could be cut and paste, that's fine, he wrote the rules in his day. He can be the referee, the daysman in this game. A mediator for fools who only ever knew lies. A man who once was a speechless babe. A referee who makes the rules? Jesus, can we cheat? This is leaven? We loosed leaven? Jo-bob, we didit! Jesus H. Christ! The bomb. Once enacted the package never stops, as long as there is that which can be leavened, it shall be leavened. The Kingdom of Heaven is like that. === No, life isn't fair. The good guys won the metagame, quite a while ago. But, if you ain't in the game, you wouldn't agree. Time will tell. What the hell, wait and see. Merry Christmas.
0
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC
kenpepiton
Job's daysman's job
(the poem, the story intends to reveal, or vice versa, the story I'm told is very old) Seven silent days of shiva, sort of premature, sitting with one called their friend, our friend, as we watch, from now from here we know the daysman, we observers in mind, flies on sores, flies on walls, we can use their eyes we can pity the comforters and the comfortless moan, Come into my comfort zone, cries Job. What comfort? Why me? was answered, Job looks our way and winks, an a side, I invited the daysman, he says, but only ere knowing God almighty knows, and the accuser of man, whom mine symbolizes, knows not, how it is to be a mortal man, wombed or un. Would God there were a daysman betwixt us. I said, unaware, completely of any good news on its way my way I coulda said nothing, had I known Would God there were a daysman betwixt us. I said, I thought, So I can wonder whys and hows, ask where truth abides in what men have imagined, what drew the sweetness, what drew pain, is luck a factor? Sacred making, did we get that wrong? Seems is as it seems to be, here. This is not afterlife, this is life, today. This day's daysman twixt truth and lie, in the meta game, he is neither archaic warden of loafing warrior's watchtower, or miller minding the grinding, seeing all who labor, they shall eat. Who legislates tradition? Meek or mighty? ******* speaks: ax Moses. Fair, that's fair. Meekest man God knew, some of his works could be cut and paste, that's fine, he wrote the rules in his day. He can be the referee, the daysman in this game. A mediator for fools who only ever knew lies. A man who once was a speechless babe. A referee who makes the rules? Jesus, can we cheat? This is leaven? We loosed leaven? Jo-bob, we didit! Jesus H. Christ! The bomb. Once enacted the package never stops, as long as there is that which can be leavened, it shall be leavened. The Kingdom of Heaven is like that. === No, life isn't fair. The good guys won the metagame, quite a while ago. But, if you ain't in the game, you wouldn't agree. Time will tell. What the hell, wait and see. Merry Christmas.
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62
Today is my birthday And I don’t have to do a thing. Not if I don’t want to I can go on lying around loafing. I can get up way late And go to bed as late as I want. I can watch cool movies And I have birthday cards to flaunt. I can have ice cream And copious amounts of cake. I can eat like a pig Until there is no more I can take. I can sit in BVDs Or less if I so decided to do. It feels so good to me I may take off another day or two. It means I am older But it all feels the same to me. I will change the number But I don’t feel any differently. I still like chocolate And chicken fried and breaded right, And good sci-fi movies; Maybe two or three each night. So sing me the song And I will blow out the candles. I’m ready for the party And all the fun we can handle. It’s not about presents It’s all about the celebration And one more year In joyous, grateful continuation.
0
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY
Today is my birthday And I don’t have to do a thing. Not if I don’t want to I can go on lying around loafing. I can get up way late And go to bed as late as I want. I can watch cool movies And I have birthday cards to flaunt. I can have ice cream And copious amounts of cake. I can eat like a pig Until there is no more I can take. I can sit in BVDs Or less if I so decided to do. It feels so good to me I may take off another day or two. It means I am older But it all feels the same to me. I will change the number But I don’t feel any differently. I still like chocolate And chicken fried and breaded right, And good sci-fi movies; Maybe two or three each night. So sing me the song And I will blow out the candles. I’m ready for the party And all the fun we can handle. It’s not about presents It’s all about the celebration And one more year In joyous, grateful continuation.
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32
Childish churning chickadees-- chastened in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket. Chatting urgently only in touch, when their bodies grind together where two or more gather-- like prayers, like lips do like hands do-- Uncomfortable shape-shifting; feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess-- digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet encroached within a werewolf's flesh-- Musically: creating new timbres accompanying suddenly aggravated gaits-- Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching-- Fumbling in the darkness. Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly, as the forlorn children of burdensome currency. Soon, their captors retire to worn couches to engage in aggressive loafing-- growing sluggish and torpid, legs slacken and jeans loosen-- their lips at the captor's hip bones spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva-- and down, down the children go, choking between the cracks of the worn cushions. Bodies shift, aching for comfort, the farther, farther down they go-- their cries drowned drowned by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies. Those that survive the dreadful encounter-- clinging to their prisons-- feel once again the stifling hands of death reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers; for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands that toss them absentmindedly. It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again. (It would have been better, to have sunk acquiescently, down into the bulbous stifling purgatory alongside their unlucky kin.) There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons are thrown--cage and all-- into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine, who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously. They amass at the bottom of its belly, until intense gurgling acids arise, reaching higher and higher til all are submerged. They are tossed in voracious waters, twisting and churning and gasping and drowning-- holding onto each other like prayers; feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum-- cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast-- lost, lost, lost, in the cries of forever longing. Goodbyes: *Goodbye, dear friends.*
0
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
jarjarrhine
Loose Change
Childish churning chickadees-- chastened in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket. Chatting urgently only in touch, when their bodies grind together where two or more gather-- like prayers, like lips do like hands do-- Uncomfortable shape-shifting; feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess-- digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet encroached within a werewolf's flesh-- Musically: creating new timbres accompanying suddenly aggravated gaits-- Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching-- Fumbling in the darkness. Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly, as the forlorn children of burdensome currency. Soon, their captors retire to worn couches to engage in aggressive loafing-- growing sluggish and torpid, legs slacken and jeans loosen-- their lips at the captor's hip bones spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva-- and down, down the children go, choking between the cracks of the worn cushions. Bodies shift, aching for comfort, the farther, farther down they go-- their cries drowned drowned by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies. Those that survive the dreadful encounter-- clinging to their prisons-- feel once again the stifling hands of death reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers; for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands that toss them absentmindedly. It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again. (It would have been better, to have sunk acquiescently, down into the bulbous stifling purgatory alongside their unlucky kin.) There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons are thrown--cage and all-- into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine, who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously. They amass at the bottom of its belly, until intense gurgling acids arise, reaching higher and higher til all are submerged. They are tossed in voracious waters, twisting and churning and gasping and drowning-- holding onto each other like prayers; feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum-- cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast-- lost, lost, lost, in the cries of forever longing. Goodbyes: *Goodbye, dear friends.*
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58
A day at the beach and a piece of bread are a lot alike It's all about loafing around And no matter how much gets smeared on you always end up toasted
0
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
Carlo-C-Gomez
Two of a Kind
A day at the beach and a piece of bread are a lot alike It's all about loafing around And no matter how much gets smeared on you always end up toasted
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8
I love the way you smile. But girl its been awhile Were just loafing on this grassy hill I can never get my fill Sensations of soft lips lingers A knot of interlocking fingers Jesus Christ I've missed you And your eyes of pure blue You've been so far away But in my head every day You whisper softly in my ear Your motives are clear I look into your eyes your soul You are the piece that makes me whole Our lips softly touch and touch. I feel you smiling its all too much We slowly pull apart Its been a long start We laugh and softly smile Its just our style The stars watch over head The grass and flowers hears all that is said Our bodies so close and hot A type of closeness that is sought A type of love that will last Love that is present future and past.
0
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
patrick-mccombs-1
Loafing on the grass.
I love the way you smile. But girl its been awhile Were just loafing on this grassy hill I can never get my fill Sensations of soft lips lingers A knot of interlocking fingers Jesus Christ I've missed you And your eyes of pure blue You've been so far away But in my head every day You whisper softly in my ear Your motives are clear I look into your eyes your soul You are the piece that makes me whole Our lips softly touch and touch. I feel you smiling its all too much We slowly pull apart Its been a long start We laugh and softly smile Its just our style The stars watch over head The grass and flowers hears all that is said Our bodies so close and hot A type of closeness that is sought A type of love that will last Love that is present future and past.
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26
Poetry may not do it justice. Their brown feathered heads bob, their feet dig, clumps, grab and rob, clods and sods, while tearing Earth. Their heads twist downward and eyes peer at what was unearthed and prized. They were scratching out a living, peck eking out an existence, even though peck, they were paid in chicken feed, peck, peck. They were the chickens of the loafing shed! He worked with glass then later in front of the glory hole, several hours a day and many, many years of hours total over two and a half decades, annealing like his glass. He pulled the sweetness from each piece with furnace fire, air and motion staying level-headed while the raw molten ocean gathered on the honey dipper of super-heated soft and borosilica masses were built from inside out, from the crucible of the masters imagination. Each year, all glass masterpieces all, but three it averaged would not make it to the market, fall or fractured, shattered, not a thing to be discouraged. Cooling, heating a tricky thing, Light blue pieces in the pan disassembled by natural forces, so unlike their dreams, which have become tangible, at 1100 degrees C, just don't touch the beauty, quite yet this is the glass blowing reality at loafing shed
0
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
darrell-wade-elverum
Chicken Scratch and Fractured Glass
Poetry may not do it justice. Their brown feathered heads bob, their feet dig, clumps, grab and rob, clods and sods, while tearing Earth. Their heads twist downward and eyes peer at what was unearthed and prized. They were scratching out a living, peck eking out an existence, even though peck, they were paid in chicken feed, peck, peck. They were the chickens of the loafing shed! He worked with glass then later in front of the glory hole, several hours a day and many, many years of hours total over two and a half decades, annealing like his glass. He pulled the sweetness from each piece with furnace fire, air and motion staying level-headed while the raw molten ocean gathered on the honey dipper of super-heated soft and borosilica masses were built from inside out, from the crucible of the masters imagination. Each year, all glass masterpieces all, but three it averaged would not make it to the market, fall or fractured, shattered, not a thing to be discouraged. Cooling, heating a tricky thing, Light blue pieces in the pan disassembled by natural forces, so unlike their dreams, which have become tangible, at 1100 degrees C, just don't touch the beauty, quite yet this is the glass blowing reality at loafing shed
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27
Love, what a Widow's day. First bloom Celosia, singing in the rain. Rushing streams faint noises, in a land some length away. Dream clouds bathing, in the clearest sky of blue. Children loafing on the chairs, complaining, "we have nothing to do." There are dishes and laundry the plenty, but "no way" they always say. "Instead of working, or hiding in the house, we should go out and play."
0
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
deanna
Watch You Grow, Celosia
Love, what a Widow's day. First bloom Celosia, singing in the rain. Rushing streams faint noises, in a land some length away. Dream clouds bathing, in the clearest sky of blue. Children loafing on the chairs, complaining, "we have nothing to do." There are dishes and laundry the plenty, but "no way" they always say. "Instead of working, or hiding in the house, we should go out and play."
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13
I'm hurting lately Is it just me? I keep breathing barely Is there a good excuse? I'm quite tired these days Should I get medication for that? My nightmares are showing me new ways What's the deal? Cut. One small thought I had as well Where did that come from all of a sudden? In our bathroom is that certain smell (I can't stand it) Am I doing this right? I think I left my confidence at home Or is it hiding under the bed? Guess we got separated, this girl is one, lone. Or is she? I made new friends in the meantime Is Anxiety coming over? We gonna have another slumber party, “I seem fine” (That's going to be the theme) Don't forget about Self-loathing, the party doesn't really start without them, does it? It's gonna be a sick time with a bunch of loafing, Sounds pretty good, huh? Might as well make this my invitation, to my awesome sleepover though there's an ongoing renovation so please don't mind the noise.
0
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
Blade-Maiden
Having a slumber party (maybe)
I'm hurting lately Is it just me? I keep breathing barely Is there a good excuse? I'm quite tired these days Should I get medication for that? My nightmares are showing me new ways What's the deal? Cut. One small thought I had as well Where did that come from all of a sudden? In our bathroom is that certain smell (I can't stand it) Am I doing this right? I think I left my confidence at home Or is it hiding under the bed? Guess we got separated, this girl is one, lone. Or is she? I made new friends in the meantime Is Anxiety coming over? We gonna have another slumber party, “I seem fine” (That's going to be the theme) Don't forget about Self-loathing, the party doesn't really start without them, does it? It's gonna be a sick time with a bunch of loafing, Sounds pretty good, huh? Might as well make this my invitation, to my awesome sleepover though there's an ongoing renovation so please don't mind the noise.
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29
Jam-packed case for just-in-cases        No way of knowing when you gotta jam Loafers with no-loafing laces No-track tracksuit for no traces Boxing boxers, bracing braces        Wool-coated trench coat for time on-the-lamb Racewear dress for dressy races Full-face mask to hide full faces High-pace sneakers, sneaky paces        Bent scrambling helmet if hellbent to scram Sleeveless tanks for arm-y bases High-jump jumpers for high places No-halt halter, hasty chases        Hoodwinker hoodie obscures who I am Jam-packed case for just-in-cases        No way of knowing when you gotta jam
0
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 2:52 AM UTC
jill_1
All set to jet-set in my no-flak jacket (HP remix)
Jam-packed case for just-in-cases        No way of knowing when you gotta jam Loafers with no-loafing laces No-track tracksuit for no traces Boxing boxers, bracing braces        Wool-coated trench coat for time on-the-lamb Racewear dress for dressy races Full-face mask to hide full faces High-pace sneakers, sneaky paces        Bent scrambling helmet if hellbent to scram Sleeveless tanks for arm-y bases High-jump jumpers for high places No-halt halter, hasty chases        Hoodwinker hoodie obscures who I am Jam-packed case for just-in-cases        No way of knowing when you gotta jam
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16
Sliced leftovers on the counter Loafing about like nobody’s business Laughing at me as I fall to my knees Patting the floor, searching for my dignity…
0
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
jack-3
Nobody's business
Sliced leftovers on the counter Loafing about like nobody’s business Laughing at me as I fall to my knees Patting the floor, searching for my dignity…
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4
In front of my face rain is floating Like frozen in a kind of break Slow motion for the fallen Everyone is dying of hunger In front of my face the sun is lisping Sounds like decades ago Kids raving and yelling and raging Far off from my homeland In front of my face a dog is yawning Loafing about and panting I scent the soul of this dog Within my dream it is alive In front of my navel there is a sound A siren is telling me something At the red shore of the long arrival The waves are swallowing her chant In front of my feet sand is drifting A smiling face is in the sand I am this face The water is washing it away
0
Aug 21, 2023
Aug 21, 2023 at 1:14 PM UTC
maxneumann
The Encounter
In front of my face rain is floating Like frozen in a kind of break Slow motion for the fallen Everyone is dying of hunger In front of my face the sun is lisping Sounds like decades ago Kids raving and yelling and raging Far off from my homeland In front of my face a dog is yawning Loafing about and panting I scent the soul of this dog Within my dream it is alive In front of my navel there is a sound A siren is telling me something At the red shore of the long arrival The waves are swallowing her chant In front of my feet sand is drifting A smiling face is in the sand I am this face The water is washing it away
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20
the production manager at the poetry factory had a rather long chat with lazy little Lizzy he stated that she'd been loafing on the conveyor belt chain and from this practice she must immediately refrain he added that her output needed to be upgraded for she had not written enough works to be paraded the manager's concerns about a shortage of supply have caused him to be as agitated as a buzzing fly should Lizzy not lift her game he's told her of a trip to the dump as he won't abide his poetry factory being placed in such a slump
0
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
ElizabethSquires
Slump
the production manager at the poetry factory had a rather long chat with lazy little Lizzy he stated that she'd been loafing on the conveyor belt chain and from this practice she must immediately refrain he added that her output needed to be upgraded for she had not written enough works to be paraded the manager's concerns about a shortage of supply have caused him to be as agitated as a buzzing fly should Lizzy not lift her game he's told her of a trip to the dump as he won't abide his poetry factory being placed in such a slump
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20
Through the eyelids All yellow and hazy and warm The sun gently creeps in A freshness blows As the birds sing Signalling the day is to begin Dust particles dance in the air Like midges near a river The weary eyes feel wet A yawn is stifled Arms stretched up What mysteries await me yet Snuggled under cotton Wrapped like a mummy The chill is creeping around No work today A weekend release Loafing is duly abound
0
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 7:27 PM UTC
Chaz2296
Waking up
Through the eyelids All yellow and hazy and warm The sun gently creeps in A freshness blows As the birds sing Signalling the day is to begin Dust particles dance in the air Like midges near a river The weary eyes feel wet A yawn is stifled Arms stretched up What mysteries await me yet Snuggled under cotton Wrapped like a mummy The chill is creeping around No work today A weekend release Loafing is duly abound
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18
The sun was mellowing like a luscious mango and a small slit on its zest, poured out its savoury sweet rays in the sky turning the never-ending space into a blend of coloured popsicles, from the brightest orange to a chrome of honey like amber reviving my dull loafing adulthood back into a fanciful imaginary childhood. I am reckoned to talk about rocket science to see things like those of spacecrafts and satellites. But all I think of is walking over rainbows And riding on white unicorns unlikely of a grown up with rational outlook but promising to a dreamy child wanting to fly higher and higher on the carpet of cotton clouds. All through the years, the imagination of a child sheared off by precise and wise reasoning, the innocence of the heart uprooted right away once it believed it grew to what it has become today. everything turned from feathers to ashes when we learned that we can fly without wings swirl up high in the sky with winged machines but still cannot touch and make cloud ***** like the way we imagined and dreamt when we were naive and small.
0
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC
vetwriter
The heart of a child
The sun was mellowing like a luscious mango and a small slit on its zest, poured out its savoury sweet rays in the sky turning the never-ending space into a blend of coloured popsicles, from the brightest orange to a chrome of honey like amber reviving my dull loafing adulthood back into a fanciful imaginary childhood. I am reckoned to talk about rocket science to see things like those of spacecrafts and satellites. But all I think of is walking over rainbows And riding on white unicorns unlikely of a grown up with rational outlook but promising to a dreamy child wanting to fly higher and higher on the carpet of cotton clouds. All through the years, the imagination of a child sheared off by precise and wise reasoning, the innocence of the heart uprooted right away once it believed it grew to what it has become today. everything turned from feathers to ashes when we learned that we can fly without wings swirl up high in the sky with winged machines but still cannot touch and make cloud ***** like the way we imagined and dreamt when we were naive and small.
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24
The spring wouldn't have born If there weren't exquisite butterflies Just loafing around Making sure Every beautiful souls Are in euphoria.
0
Oct 23, 2020
Oct 23, 2020 at 2:24 PM UTC
Ridha-04
Butterflies
The spring wouldn't have born If there weren't exquisite butterflies Just loafing around Making sure Every beautiful souls Are in euphoria.
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5
Last Winter, the coldest place to be was perched upon that balcony, testing the frigid air. You could find me overlooking there. Watching my breath linger, then fade, the figures of people walking away. Expanding with strides unbroken, their anachronistic spots of motion. Fervent still-lives swapping each second, flashing, their haystack destinies beckon. Each step they continue, each foot they shrink, "tiny infinities" I like to think. Again, my old listless demon calls, and the day's porcelain sky begins its fall. A thin coat, a chimeric chair, you could find me overlooking there. With hands loafing, catching snow, I'm pretending I'm not below.
0
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC
fatdogz
After hearing "Someday" by YVY ft. Emarie
Last Winter, the coldest place to be was perched upon that balcony, testing the frigid air. You could find me overlooking there. Watching my breath linger, then fade, the figures of people walking away. Expanding with strides unbroken, their anachronistic spots of motion. Fervent still-lives swapping each second, flashing, their haystack destinies beckon. Each step they continue, each foot they shrink, "tiny infinities" I like to think. Again, my old listless demon calls, and the day's porcelain sky begins its fall. A thin coat, a chimeric chair, you could find me overlooking there. With hands loafing, catching snow, I'm pretending I'm not below.
Continue reading...
19