"marge" poems
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.
Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty
even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,
to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.
Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups
for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.
The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother
gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place
in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?
In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still
her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?
Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.
The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.
Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch
but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.
She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.
I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death
I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood’s cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
3.3k
I can't see into the future
But, I know someone who can
She's a gypsy from the midlands
And, well, she looks just like a man
She says her name is Heather
But, to me she'll be a Hector
She said she had an accident
But, by god...it nearly wrecked her
One eye stares, it doesn't move
And this one is the best
The other follows you around
It never leaves your chest
She reads tarot, tea leaves and the bones
She's a reader of your life
She said she's still not married
I can't imagine her a wife
She'd know just what you're thinking
She'd know a lie before it's told
And if she's ugly nowadays
Imagine her when she gets old
The people go to see her
when the caravans arrive
She will read for twenty dollars
Her tent opens at five
If you want to know your future
Just take notice, listen close
Because her lips are slightly puffy
And she whistles through her nose
She's bent over looking downward
On her left side there's a ****
On her cheek there is a goiter
Behind her ear there is a lump
She weighs in at 300
Doesn't stand past 5 foot tall
But if you want to know the future
Then she's the one to call
She's an old afflicted gypsy
Has a daughter known as Marge
Says she's wanted up in Bristol
She's a small medium at large
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
525
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the **** the Bald—
Lapland’s—necessity—
The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
2.8k
_Marge_ retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.
SNAP-AP
Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.
SNAP-AP-AP
Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.
SNAP-AP-AP-AP
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 7:01 PM UTC
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
2.3k
Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....
"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.
Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?
Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?
At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....
Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
I've been told that change is good;
It keeps you on your toes
So I guess I will try to write a poem about something else
............................................................about someone....else
Until next time,
Mine truly
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form *****
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That ***** its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
1.6k
Sartorial elegance
He always wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck
The type actors wear when in blazer having a drink on the terrace
Of a posh hotel, he bought his scarf at a second-hand store
In Cheshire, nevertheless, it was made to fit him
Oddly enough the rest of his apparel was purchased in a Chine's
This gave him an air of seedy elegance that normally comes with
Those who suffer no self- awareness
He was poor and lived on bread and marge, when not invited
To high-born party by people who thought he was an aristocrat
Sometimes I came too because as he said he was writing a novel,
And that made me interested in people with literary ambitions,
There are so few of them hidden in lofts and not spoken of-
His dead was sudden a rope and a beam,
he was missed by the locals
I have not had a proper dinner for a long time,
But I wear his yellows silk scarf for a book unwritten.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC
First,
You teach me to think
With my own brains
Feel out my way
With my own feet
Treat me the same
As the boys
Second,
You put me in a school
Where they teach me to read
- oh, what a world!
They teach me to look
At international
Literature
- Marge Piercy,
Maya Angelou
And the like
Next,
You show me the crimson
Powder meant for foreheads
A deeper red for blood
Spilt on beds.
A life of compromise
And adjustment
Ripping out my ideas
And opinions
Telling me they're worthless
A baby, a house,
A life of adjustment
Is all this was meant for.
Tearing my beliefs
In an equal world
An equal society
Where society rises
To meet human morality
Is this what you taught me to read for?
Sorry sirs, ladies.
I tip my hat and bow.
Sorry to disappoint.
I was meant for an equal position
And I'll take it
- by force or mutual
compromise.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
i caught the plague
every second hazy
every minute vague
so well balanced this tribulation
that it affects every nation
worthless is the medication
unless taken with fortification
drunken reeling
useless feeling
pitiless luck...ummm...
fruitless duck?
ahhhh ****
no wait, wait... i got it now
adenoidal cow?
hormonal sow?
the far back reaches
of the here and now...
the stern of the boat
but now the bow..
free blow jobs for
Chairman Mao
i'm trying to finish
this ****
but how?
rhyming is fun
until its not
sorry for this ****** poem
but no one will read
it anyway...
sincerely, Marge Schott
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Lo, as a dove when up she springs
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;
Like her I go; I cannot stay;
I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away
O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying; 'Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care?'
And circle moaning in the air:
'Is this the end? Is this the end?'
And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return
To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away.
1.2k
barking Marge was tight and wet
she took dem bois wit out regret
she let dem in, one-by-one
and let dem pump till they wa dun
but now dat galz a little loose
from all doze years of takin' goose
and all dem bois ha got dem lifes
and all dem bois ha got dem wifes
sa bawkin Marge went down da peer
out ta waare da air isss clear
she took er self a litl dip
neeth da roll o wave and shipp
not a teer na don yu foist
cu bawkin Magj is nice nd moistt
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
*This is all, everything,
Our love—
A string...
...of ellipses.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
We ranging down this lower track,
The path we came by, thorn and flower,
Is shadow'd by the growing hour,
Lest life should fail in looking back.
So be it: there no shade can last
In that deep dawn behind the tomb,
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
The eternal landscape of the past;
A lifelong tract of time reveal'd;
The fruitful hours of still increase;
Days order'd in a wealthy peace,
And those five years its richest field.
O Love, thy province were not large,
A bounded field, nor stretching far;
Look also, Love, a brooding star,
A rosy warmth from marge to marge.
879
Marjorie picks up the phone,
She's quite sure that she's alone.
Punches in her "good friend's" number
She's excited! It's no wonder!
Something naughty to convey!
Can't wait to tell! Can't wait to say!
"Hello, Sally? Yeah, it's me!
I'm at the window... guess what I see!
You know that ***** across the way?
She's with another man today!
Hannah's hubby, right next door.
Can you believe that little *****
I'm telling you 'coz I'm your friend
This wicked business has to end!
Wait a minute... there they GO!
They're leaving! I'll bet you know
Where they're headed. Oh, you bet.
*A motel room is what they'll get.*
*Juicy fruit spills from the lips
Open mouth and out it slips
Sweet as strychnine to the tongue
Where the poison apple's hung.
If you've nothing nice to say
We're all ears! Come our way!
There's a tale to be told
Don't matter if yo young or old
It's a secret on the block...
... if it's scandalous, LET'S TALK!!!*
Sally John finds her PC.
She has another "friend" you see...
"Hello, Jane? Just talked to Marge,
Got some news, and it is LARGE!
You know that harlot up the street?
You'll never guess her latest meat!
Hannah's hubby! Oh, her ****
I can't believe this awful biz!
Marge told me, it can't be wrong,
They were KISSING... ON THE LAWN!!!
Then they drove off in his car...
They weren't going very far
No-Tell Motel's where they're at...
Whatcha expected from an alleycat.
Hannah's gonna *flip her lid!
I won't tell, so keep it hid...*
-chorus-
The story spread around, of course.
Hannah's filing for divorce.
Then her hubby *lost his job...
... as pastor of a CHURCH of GOD.*
And the ***** Well. She died.
She committed suicide.
The real story was quite sad,
And I hope it makes you mad.
"Harlot's" son? He needed pills.
Guess no one knew that he was ill.
She wasn't goin' very far...
... and her pastor had a car.
Who's the culprit? Who's to blame?
Guess we all know her name.
Who's to count the tragic cost?
*With one stroke two lives were lost!*
Her little boy went 'round the bend.
An alcoholic in the end.
The tongue can be a thing of praise
Or ignite a mighty blaze!
So check your heart. Check your mouth.
Make sure that it's not *headin' SOUTH.*
Kindness is joy in age or youth....
... you *reap what you sow **and
THAT'S the TRUTH.***
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) July 5, 2010
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
You seem to be my Clyde to my Bonnie
You seem to be my Martin to my Gina
You seem to be my Bobby to my Whitney
And you are more than I could ever ask for
You get on my nerves
You call me names (but in a friendly way)
You tell me your honest opinion
And you even check others when it comes to me!
You are my Micky to my Minnie
You are my Homer to my Marge
You are my Peter to my Louis
And you are someone I can trust
You helped me up whenever I was feeling down
You showed me that giving up wasn’t an option
You treated me like no other!
You can be my Simba to my Nala
You can be my Prince Adam “Beast” to my Belle
You can be my Shrek to my Fiona
And you can be more than just my friend
You honestly opened my eyes
You made me change my mind about dating
You always told me I was beautiful!
You will forever be my Lucious to my Cookie
You will forever be my Jamie to my Fancy
You will forever be my Dwayne to my Whitley
And I plan on making this last forever
You seem to be my friend
You seem to be my lover
You seem to be my other half!
Honestly
I think you’re my best friend...
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
For the young who want to
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a ***
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
I heard it as distinct as I hear my heartbeat
in my ears. A slight, faint plaint, from the corner
of my closet.
Was it a purr? Or a breath from a lost friend
calling me to look. Marge, a phantasm, memory?
Touched my shoulder. I heard words say,
look in the little box in the corner.
I did, as I thought of looking back,
and saw two eyes peep up. Grey white furry head attached.
They seemed to say to me, I am sorry.
I heard mews then, I knew.
My Babay, a stray I took in when I lost her, was nursing four of
earth's miracles.
I haven't cried as much since Jan 7th.
I fed her tuna milk.
and, bought me a big
cigar, alternating,
between memories,
and the newness of life.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 7:45 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
I heard it as distinct as I hear my heartbeat
in my ears. A slight, faint plaint, from the corner
of my closet.
Was it a purr? Or a breath from a lost friend
calling me to look. Marge, a phantasm, memory?
Touched my shoulder. I heard words say,
look in the little box in the corner.
I did, as I thought of looking back,
and saw two eyes peep up. Grey white furry head attached.
They seemed to say to me, I am sorry.
I heard mews then, I knew.
My Babay, a stray I took in when I lost her, was nursing four of
earth's miracles.
I haven't cried as much since Jan 7th.
I fed her tuna milk.
and, bought me a big
cigar, alternating,
between memories,
and the newness of life.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
That girl, just a tv show, a comment on equality,
Carol Burnett, slapstick extraordinaire,
JFK and MLK died so young but touched me,
Joe Dimaggio, I wanted to be as a kid,
smashing rocks tossed in the air
the last inning of the world series imagining,
the drama all in my head,
so little of the world did I know then,
Ghandhi should be my hero,
or Lincoln, but in my top ten,
are Marge, just a lady I know,
who loved animals and people,
Pops, my old friend, who has always been there when I needed
him,
Shakespeare , of course,
who I quote ,
"When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry."
Albert Einstein
who once stated
"You can't blame gravity for falling in love."
Helen Keller, when I think of her I feel ashamed
for complaining,
and of course Jesus,
and Allah and Moses and Abraham and
Aphrodite;
Nature and Sky and Wind
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC