"mabel" poems
'Di ikaw ang tipo kong laro
Umayaw na kasi ako
Sinubukan ko na kasi dati
Ayon, talo lang lagi
Pero heto na naman ako
Parang tanga ang loko
'Di mapigil ang ngiti
T'wing naiisip nang ang balat mo'y dumampi
Pucha, totoo ba?
Na-SS mo nga ba?
Taena, mukhang ako'y na-stun
Ng walang kalaban-laban
Langya, GG
Hindi good game, kundi gagi
Diba humindi na tayo sa sakit?
Ano na naman 'to? Wooh bakit?
Noob na 'ko eh
Weak, walang silbi
'Pag eto sa wala na naman nauwi
Sarili ko lang pwede ko masisi
'Pag in-game
Please wag mo na ko buhatin
Aasa pa sa GM ang tanso na manok
Pa'no, marupok
Mabel, pasensya ka na
Hayaan mo, ang 2019 ay papasok na
Baka lumipas din
'Pag hindi, patay, "I have been slained."
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
The missus bought a Paperback
...at Val Village, Saturday,
I had a look inside her bag;
....T'was "Fifty Shades of Grey".
Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…..
In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.
Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn't weathered well;
She's eighty four next week!!
Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!
She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
.....I am the dominater !!
Now if you knew our Mabel,
You'd see just why I spluttered,
I'd spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I'd uttered.
She stood there **** and naked
Bent forward just a bit
I went to hold her, sensual like
and stood on her left ***
Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
"Step on the other one"!!
Well readers, I can't tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of Grey.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Charlie Chaplin, set the pace
Buster Keaton, old stone face
Groucho and the brothers Marx
Margaret Dumont for some sparks
Harold Lloyd, The Brothers Ritz
Did I mention Zazu Pitts?
Stan and Ollie, Keystone Cops
Chases that just wouldn't stop
The Stooges, Larry, Curly, Moe
and then theres Shemp and Curly Joe
Bing and Bob, and Dean and Jerry
Two could sing, while two made merry
Bud and Lou and who's on first?
Harry Langdon and Charlie Chase
I think who is on first base
Mabel Normand and Mack Swain
Always tied before the train
Pie fights, slapstick in black and white
This was when we laughed all night
Mack Sennet, Roach, and Our Gang
Spanky and Alfalfa sang
Words were twisted, spun and turned
People splashed and others burned
Remember back to days of yore
To when they had you on the floor
Rembember Baby Rose Marie
She started at the age of three
Many more could make the list
For many I know that I missed
Make 'em laugh and take a pie
Get sprayed with seltzer in the eye
Go and watch their films again
So comedy will always reign
Thank you to the funny folk
Who taught us how to take a joke....
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Five hundred feet from Terrapin Point the Birdman stands with his bicycle. His face as flat as the quarters he begs for, glares at foreign tourists. Two boisterous parrots, Larry and Mabel. They smell like tourists and change, and are footcuffed to three brass chains connected to his backpack. A Muslim family approaches. They want a picture. Birdman places the birds on the hands of the smallest boy, and his mother takes a picture. Mabel squirms. Larry squawks. Click. A reward for their posturing, Birdman places birdseed on his tongue, and the parrots peck away, ignoring his birdbreathe for an evening snack. The tourists clap and laugh at Birdman and toss him their spare change. Birdman stands. Waits. For another family to pose with his birds.
Mabel licks her wings
and Larry says, "Picture pic."
Birdman stands alone.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Mabel is breathing....
no one ever visits.
She has tended flowers and done laundry all
life for others.
No one needs her.
She has a bad knee and
Neuropathy , subsists now on pain medication and sugars.
No one calls her.
She envisions one day getting flowers.
Or hearing again from that gentleman, who
twenty years ago smiled.
Or her children or grand young ens';
but no one writes her one letter.
In the cold she wears all those sweaters she knitted.
So no people remember her, I will!
I visit and bring the flowers I grew specially
for her,
the prettiest yellow roses,
while she lives!
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
'Di ikaw ang tipo kong laro
Umayaw na kasi ako
Sinubukan ko na kasi dati
Ayon, talo lang lagi
Pero heto na naman ako
Parang tanga ang loko
'Di mapigil ang ngiti
T'wing naiisip nang ang balat mo'y dumampi
Pucha, totoo ba?
Na-SS mo nga ba?
Taena, mukhang ako'y na-stun
Ng walang kalaban-laban
Langya, GG
Hindi good game, kundi gagi
Diba humindi na tayo sa sakit?
Ano na naman 'to? Wooh bakit?
Noob na 'ko eh
Weak, walang silbi
'Pag eto sa wala na naman nauwi
Sarili ko lang pwede ko masisi
'Pag in-game
Please wag mo na ko buhatin
Aasa pa sa GM ang tanso na manok
Pa'no, marupok
Mabel, pasensya ka na
Hayaan mo, ang 2019 ay papasok na
Baka lumipas din
'Pag hindi, patay, "I have been slained."
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC
My demons swim.
George's can fly.
Mabel's can shoot
Jimmy's won't die.
My sorrows are deeper.
Judy's weigh more.
Fred's chained him up.
Anne's heart was tore.
I can breathe lighter.
(Ah, that's where you win
From the contest of sorrows
One cannot rescind.)
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
ode to Mabel
Mabel is breathing....
no one ever visits.
She has tended flowers and done laundry all
life for others.
No one needs her.
She has a bad knee and
Neuropathy , subsists now on pain medication and sugars.
No one calls her.
She envisions one day getting flowers.
Or hearing again from that gentleman, who
twenty years ago smiled.
Or her children or grand young ens';
but no one writes her one letter.
In the cold she wears all those sweaters she knitted.
no one remembers her. I will!
I visit and bring the flowers I grew specially
for her,
the prettiest yellow roses,
while she lives!
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
"It’s a mysterious thing time is"
said the pocket watch man
whose shop resided on the corner of 4th and Mabel Street.
"Do you see how the greatest minds
use clocks as the object of mystery?"
I was young then, I shook my head,
hair bobbing with the force of my agreement.
"But why? Why are clocks so mysterious?
For after all, it is we who give them time-"
He trailed off lost in thought again.
I picked up a silver watch that needed repair,
dusting it off on my light blue petticoat.
I looked at it, the gleaming glass showing no movement
He looked up, "That one is broken, I think there is a gear loose"
"I know" I break my stare from the watch
and look to the window,
The old man cups my hands around a small object
Shocked at the cold metal in my palms,
then by the warmth of his hands,
I look down and sitting there was his own brass watch;
beaten from the war, chain swinging below
"They believe when a watch runs out of time,
the person who gave it to you dies"
My eyes widened as I looked into his face
"Is it true" I say, I sure hoped it wasn't
"Of course not" he assured me patting my head
"Of course not". He shooed me out of his shop
and warned me not to lose that watch.
He built the clock that’s in town
and every day the clock strikes noon
It chimed just once then stopped too soon
He died at noon that very day
And his watch has never worked the same way.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:57 PM UTC
Long and passionate or short and sweet./
Old Aunt Mabel’s peck on the cheek./
French or American, it matters not/
Long and languorous I find hot/
Experienced or ingénue/
Always enjoyable and new/
Given by mistresses or/
Bestowed by Misses./
In a pinch I’ve made do
With Hershey’s
kisses!
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Its her birthday today ...
Exactly the day she was born into this unfair world
Born of a mother who death took away nine years ago;
To a brother into whose hands nature was assured of her safety;
I wasn't there when she needed me most
Only how i wish i knew what run through her mind as
She lied in her own pool of blood
Wishing her only brother, all that she had left in the world was there to help her out
The ruthless hands of death took her away from me
Four years of her departure is like just four minutes;
hmmm... Life she would say is unfair , but just then you she would add " but you are fair brother"
I miss you Robertson E.L Mabel...
You forever remain in my heart
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;
of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.
You weren't the poetic one.
You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
the girl with the Scottish accent
the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
the mother of three, the loser of one
the stern face of discipline
the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
the grandmother of three boys
the ageless face of beauty
the one I remember best
You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
once seven pm
in this neck of the woods comes
'round
it's blues and gin time
a bit of eight ball
on the table
the dice in the corner
girls in short dresses
and perfume
Floyd Dixon making the women wet
a bonfire outside
a sip of moonshine
her looking
red lipped
licking
me trying to remember her name
beats turned up and the cue ball slams
into the rack and vicious
I stare seductive as ten grenadine bottles in the window
back at her svelte high hair load of makeup
smiles tight assed hips posed just right there
hell its past 7 now
give yo a ride home Mabel?
she smiles
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC
i
a strange time
but the same
all the same
i still miss
red wine
how i loved
that abandoned
safe spacing
lifting of pain
a button
in my brain
clicking off
or on
here am i
again..!
ii
i would read
the russians
their suffering
brought solace
so understanding
drink and lie in bed
clair de la lune
thank you
iii
a)
auntie mabel
said
they
would
hang me..
being
from
wales
poetically
a lilting
prophesy
(a prediction
common
among family)
b)
i was bemused at
the time
we sat in the bar
red wine
dribbled off her
chin
hang me..
why..
she said she knew
not why-
why is a sin
i was eleven
or ten..
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
a
auntie mable said to me
said they would hang me..
coming from wales
and poetically placed
(her lilting prophesy
common amid family..)
b
i was bemused at the time
we sat in the bar..red wine
dribbled off her chin
she ****** back in
hang me why
she knew not why
why is a sin
why is a sin boy..
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 6:43 AM UTC
******* sheets of copper,
Something so improper.
Balanced on a pillaged scheme,
Straight from a crooked stream.
The tenderness of mass,
A fondled higher class
Breakfast's gone cold
Poor champion's been sold.
To a home of swindled means,
For the sake of argument, let's call them the Greens.
They were prestigious in a worldly right
The cause of most any blight
To some, they were a cursed name,
Nonetheless, they had quite a bit of fame.
Mr.Green owned a large stable
His prized beast a creature named Mabel.
She came shipped in a crate,
No mere act of fate.
Mr. Green broke her in that very night,
Regardless of marital right.
Bruised and broken from that day on.
Mabel remained the victim of a vast wrong.
In time, all with wealth had a ride
Wretchedly ripping the poor girls hide.
Soon she caught a common plague
And passed it on to every stag.
One day Mrs. Green was heard ******* copper
And explained to her husband why that was so improper.
So the man set fire to his stable
Murdering poor old Mabel.
It was mostly over that very night
Then cleaned up fully by a sheriff in the daylight.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
The other day my cousin Mabel
She said to me
Mike I ain't never seen
Nothing before like your poetry
Cuz, you need to be famous
We're going to take this on the road
We're going to knock down some doors
We're going to make some heads explode
She said I know this feller
He's going to do good by you
He's one of them there agents of sorts
He'll put you in the news
Right then and there she called up Bubba
Who believe me, didn't come cheap
Wanting all the money up front
If he was to represent me
So I handed over all my doe
And now that's where we are
On a whirlwind of a tour
Of America's Super Wal-Marts
He even had me a bunch
Of my poetry books printed out
I think that they're in English
But I still have my doubts
That's okay cause most here
Prefer not to read
And Bubba had his kid draw in some pictures
Which seems about all they need
They ask if I'm famous
I come back with a lie
Ever hear of Jeff Foxworthy?
Well I know that guy
That's when the book sales took off
Like history in the making
I told Bubba to buy his son more crayons
We're going to need more illustrations
Yes this being a famous poet
Seems to really suit me
Tomorrow we're going to set up a stand
Outside of Denny's
We'll be hitting the breakfast crowd
Right on up through lunch
So move over fame your in my spot
Just call it a hunch
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
In the dark we groove for light
Awaiting again the lion's roar
To awaken us from a stupor
A Maniac infuse to our culture
Mislearnig adventures incured by our search
Searching for light with the touch in hand
Searching within the endless tunnels of knowledge
Bellowing our rich forest and mangroves
Bastadizing the deep sea of life bestowment.
True and of a truth...!
Silence is a guide but we lost touch of the hunters skills
Skills that unwind the pantheon, crossed the hyaenea
And put paid to the antics of the Foxes
Our quest is now an inquests
Following the foxes of this sphere in a hide and seek dance
A salient dance of alienation between the Hunter and the antelope.
Will the lion ever roar again..?
Chinua Achebe, Kofi Awenora,Senghor, Bongo Mbeti,
Dennis Brutus, Alex La Guma, Anthol Fugar
Nelson Mandela, Cyprain Ekwensi,
Christopher Okigbo and now Gabriel Okara
....And other great lions
Living and dead whose roaring sounds
Cascades our spheres and beyond.
The great lioness;
Bessie Head, Nardi Gordimar,Mariana Ba,
Mabel Segun, Amata Aido,, Doris Lessing
Helen Oviagere, Buchi Emecheta.....!
Your breast has not dried up yet
And your ******* still drips with milk of knowledge
Only we lack sulking skills to quesh the hunger and thirst
We cry for trivialities searching for food outside our barns and homesteads
We long and thirst for great sayings with Witt
Idioms with Music accomplishments to rummage deep into our marrow
Pickerng into our very being .....Healing!
We long for the roaring Lions
Seeking sounds to penetrate deep into our persons
We long for true words and essences
Piercing through the very depths of our soul
Written by
Otuogbodor Okeibunor Abuja, Nigeria
— The End —
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
Get your bra on Gladys
Lockdown is nearly done
Shave your legs and brush your pegs
Let's get out in the sun.
Put your perm on Doris
Get your hair all in a curl
Some lippy in red and a hat on your head
I'll take you out for a whirl.
Bin the slippers Mabel
Squeeze your bunions into some heels
A top tight at the bust is really a must,
And I'll pick you up in my wheels.
Chuck out the onesie Doris,
I know that you just didn't care,
In fact stay at home, I prefer being alone
And there's too many people out there.
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 1:43 PM UTC
black as before dawn
at times colored like flesh bleeding
crimson red sunrise
saying mother or butterfly
or peace or
a middle finger
always on your shoulder
thigh ankle
a heart
a key and lock a riddle
I have never understood
Angie or Mabel or
Cheryl
and sometimes a big x across
like that did not work out
it has to hurt
those arrows
darts poison pens
when she finds someone else
or he leaves you for another
why I ink only paper
with names and remembrances
and if I chose to I would have
Carpe diem tattooed on the head of my ****
or AURIBUS TENEO LUPUM
would fit too!
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
**Uncle 'erbert on the Joanna
Aunty Mabel on the mike.
Singing rollout the barrel
All Alf ****** on saturday nite.
Cousin Doris in the armchairs
Face to stop a ****** clock
Giving me the greasy eyeball
And a stare to knock me
round the block
Grandad 'arrys in the money
His nag came in at 1O to 1
Granny Edie's sweet as honey
She get sour when
all the money's gone.
Cousin Cecil pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made em cry.
And when the boys came out to play
He kissed them too
Cos he's a bit that way.
It will end in a ****** fight
Mixing this loss is hit and miss
But they do it every saturday nite
It's just my family on the ****
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Like Batman
Emily Dickinson was reclusive
Like Superman
A Fortress of Solitude
I spend much time alone
But I am not a hermit
Drive my son to work
Eat at the little diner
Unde Malum?
Tormented Saint Augustine
Tormented Camus
Writing often ensued
I visited Amherst
This World Is Not Conclusion
Mabel Loomis Todd
World of strange designer
Wild Nights
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 5:27 PM UTC