"marion" poems
At ***** Dick's and Sloppy Joe's
We drank our liquor straight,
Some went upstairs with Margery,
And some, alas, with Kate;
And two by two like cat and mouse
The homeless played at keeping house.
There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor's Friend,
And Marion, cow-eyed,
Opened their arms to me but I
Refused to step inside;
I was not looking for a cage
In which to mope my old age.
The nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards of our mothers,
And hearts that we broke long ago
Have long been breaking others;
Tears are round, the sea is deep:
Roll them overboard and sleep.
28.9k
Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt
tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up
she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground
after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me
I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me
yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her
and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms
over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?
she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods
and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys
call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks
ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses
or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses
and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go
she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses
and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps
leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly
she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up
and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think
I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid
like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day
could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider
and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground
and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk
down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Freedom was close to me.
She never did want me to see.
A pain undone
That nobody could bear to run.
I went to a few concentration camps.
There were several big lamps.
They searched in the dark black nights.
They held all my frights.
Then came my pebbles.
One was round and marble smooth.
There was no dull for its color shone
I bid farewell to the dullness of life and the dullness of prison.
Size was fair in my twisted little game.
Pebble One. Pebble Me.
Pebble Two. Pebble Brother.
Pebble Three. Pebble Mother.
Pebble Four. And Pebble Father.
One was found. I saved my life.
Two was found. Welcome Brother.
Three was found. Hello, Mother.
Where was Four?
I would bother to save my Father.
There it was.
My hidden rocks.
One, two, three and four.
Some say that there is tricky feat called a cheat.
That is not what I am.
To cheat means one is beat.
I am not what beat is.
I am what a treat is.
Mother shall have her house.
Brother shall boast in his bed.
I will have all the bread.
Father will have freedom that is not forlorn.
The pebbles are what kept us alive.
It is as if we are stuck under a beehive.
One came out to sting.
With that sting it took every single thing.
The Russians came after many years.
I would have cried but I had no tears.
My life was fuller.
My soul gained strength.
Marion B.
Had the strength to know when to flee.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
1
Marion Island, 2011 and 2008
The fur seal courts the king penguin
runs after it,
as if the penguin were a desirable female seal
and then fails
(it’s just not possible physically;
and hey, the girl says NO!)
and then tears the bird to bits
and eats it
(if you can't ***** it
you eat it)
maybe that fur seal is a loser
chased out by other dominant seals
all female seals taken for the season
and so tries in desperation
to gain entry into a penguin
2
like other losers
many life-forms do it, it seems
insects, spiders, worms, frogs
birds and fish – they just do it…
chaotic with testosterone,
exiled from female receptacles
where you pour in *****
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:47 AM UTC
***Read the fourth stanza whichever way you want to, one column, two columns, one full stanza, etc.
Freedom was close to me.
She never did want me to see.
A pain undone
That nobody could bear to run.
I went to a few concentration camps.
There were several big lamps.
They searched in the dark black nights.
They held all my frights.
Then came my pebbles.
One was round and marble smooth.
There was no dull for its color shone
I bid farewell to the dullness of life and the dullness of prison.
Size was fair in my twisted little game.
Pebble One. Pebble Me.
Pebble Two. Pebble Brother.
Pebble Three. Pebble Mother.
Pebble Four. And Pebble Father.
One was found. I saved my life.
Two was found. Welcome Brother.
Three was found. Hello, Mother.
Where was Four?
I would bother to save my Father.
There it was.
My hidden rocks.
One, two, three and four.
Some say that there is tricky feat called a cheat.
That is not what I am.
To cheat means one is beat.
I am not what beat is.
I am what a treat is.
Mother shall have her house.
Brother shall boast in his bed.
I will have all the bread.
Father will have freedom that is not forlorn.
The pebbles are what kept us alive.
It is as if we are stuck under a beehive.
One came out to sting.
With that sting it took every single thing.
The Russians came after many years.
I would have cried but I had no tears.
My life was fuller.
My soul gained strength.
Marion B.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Lincoln green robin
hoodwinking the
greedy rich
Feeding the poor
robin red breast
flaunting credentials
robbing the lady
marion
the little birds of their
flimsy
filmy honor
Little boy little
man-child john
little mowgli
conquering the jungle
conquering the tiger
riding imperious
the stark grey brown elephant
And backscratching bear
sleeping in the greensward
dancing with milady
tucking into supper of
fast arrowed stag
Hung out and dried
between devil trees
and huts afire
Across the brittle
yellow beach into
the deep blue sea
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
The Story Of The Littlest Angel
As Christmas Day draws near
I get lost in memories,
of colored lights, mistletoe
and loved ones by the tree.
Of all the priceless moments
I fondly do recall,
a story that was read to me I
cherish most of all.
The Littlest Angel was the title,
and through the magic of every line,
I learned the value of life on earth
that a gift from the heart was truly Devine.
Even though a lifetime has passed
the angel who read me this treasure,
dances in my heart this Christmas
and always will forever.
In Memory Of
My Auntie
Marion L Fowler Rose
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © November 30, 2013
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As ****** know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the ***** of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp--
A moment--and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.
1.4k
Brandon Bless you brother for your Holy Spirit filled poems.
Bless you Elsa , for your heart and God is using your poems.
Bless you Just Melz, Marion,Nicole,Dark and beautiful too.
Wolf Spirit,DC Raw,Ignatinus, David, Timothy, Joshua..
Joe Kevin, Gary L, Traveler, Mike Hauser, Anto MacRuaridh.
Soulsurvivoe, weeping willow,Hilda.Emma, MargotDylan.
I want to name each and everyone of you that I follow/
Beth St Claire, Nicole, Elizabeth Squire,Mark Cleavenger.
Forgotten Heart, Haley Madison, Eudora, Ann M Johnson.n
Vanessa Gatley, Beryl Dov, Mercie B, Paul Butters, Emma.
Nateive Son,Dopperganger, Cecil Miller,My cup overrunth.
Sweetpea, Frank Ruland, olestory teller, Ridicule, Tivonna.
Carolin, Anu, Nicole Dawn. plus so many more inspires me.
Please forgive me if you are not on here I love you all.
Everyone of you inspires me , I see your courage and your love.
May Christ always bless you all abundantly with his blessings.
I see the courage in all of you whom have my life here on HP.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.
1.3k
~for Marion~
all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs
who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,
broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,
regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets
of the extra-ordinary,
claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,
insights inside other's waste,
refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title
by fusing other's refuse.
the original recyclers,
junkyard dog liars,
willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,
exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,
*"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*
them's me.
~
12:37am may eighth
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
Marion Carrion, she was a tease,
She really knew how to flirt,
Would shake her hips and her moving bits
That were hidden under her skirt.
She’d beckon me out to the hockey field
And raise her skirt to the knees,
Said I could look at her secret nook
For only a simple ‘Please.’
She had all a woman’s mysteries
Although she was only a girl,
And knew the power of her nether bits
Would put my mind in a whirl.
So she showed her thighs with her flashing eyes
And then would have shown me more,
While I would share with a candid air
That I knew what she had in store.
Out there on the side of the hockey field
In the shade of the only bush,
We’d hide behind, so my hand could find
Whatever would make her flush.
I thought that I was the favoured one
While playing about with her toys,
But then I found on the soccer ground
She was sharing with all of the boys.
That moment of disillusionment
I thought would have broken my heart,
But I was tough and had seen enough,
There were other girls in the park.
So I thank Marion Carrion now
For her retrospect revelation,
She taught me well on the road to hell
And saw to my education.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
Mrs. Richart said,
Go home tonight
and do your freaking homework.
Do it right, do it good.
Or you get a bad grade.
I wonder if it's really that easy.
I'm 16, a Pikachu, and born in Marion, Illinois.
I've been going to school here my whole life, and
I'm the only ginger haired Pikachu here.
I live in a ****** little house,
Down the road from the park, in Marion...
An now I'm sitting here
Writing this poem thing.
I'm not too sure what's true to be seen,
or heard, or told, at my age of sixteen.
I guess I am what I be. And what I be,
could it be, what I see? I see trees,
and bees...and other people...no. That
can't be right. Unless I looked in a mirror...
Now I look, and I see a girl. A girl who
likes to eat, sleep and have fun. She
loves being with friends and being in
love. She cares deeply about her friends
and would do everything in her
willpower to help them in need.
I guess looking a bit like a
Pikachu doesn't change the fact that
she's just as good as other people.
So will my page thing be
good that I write?
Being me, it won't be like a
Jigglypuff, Absol, Vulpix or Mew...
Definitely not Mew...
But it will be
a part of you, Mrs. Richart,
and my friends.
Because you all are good.
Better than good.
You are great, amazing, and beautiful,
All put together......gramaziful!
You're gramaziful!
Though, sometimes perhaps you
have your moments....
And so do I...
But still.
We are all graaziful
in our own special way.
This is my poem thing for English II.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Imagining your lips trailing soft delicate kisses across my skin
Leaving little goosebumps in it's wake
My body tingling in response as you send shivers down my spine
Feeling your breath, hot on my neck as I arch my back in a primal response
Your fingers lingering in the most sensitive of places, calling out a dark sudden urge inside me.
You toy with me, cradled away from the world
For a night I am yours, lost within a sea of blankets and soft, delicious moans.
I am your marionette and tonight, you're pulling on all of my strings.
Control me, puppet master.
Your every wish is my body's command.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
That day, the sun as bright as yellow-white,
the day Robinhood met Cinderella
on the fairgrounds at Montezuma
and Cervantes white steed was neighing
tied to the fence
and both them,
)Robin and Cindy(
at the same time
went over to try and calm him
and Cervantes tilted ( a bit high drunk stupored )
he was. Spilt the horse's water
all over both of them.
Cinderella's white shirt
became transparent.
Nubs soft curves
all apparent.
Robin stood,
impressed by the display before him.
Then, Maid Marion showed up,
grabbed Robin by the scruff of his neck.
And Cervantes saw Don Quixote
approaching.
Quickly he threw
the horses blanket
over Cinderella's beauty.
He whispered in her ear,
I know this abandoned windmill
near, we might
have a tilt or two,
Cinderella lost a shoe running
to the horse to mount
with Cervantes
whipping reins and dust flied
as they disappeared
to never ever be
seen again.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
The perimeter was limiting,
the interior more inhibiting
and the Islander lived alone,ambitions dissipated,sun dried,dessicated,he waited for the ship to come,
he lived on coconuts and *** and Wrigleys spearmint chewing gum and two tonne of cargo from the hull of the ship that nearly pulled him to his death.
He was blinded by the sun and sand,so carried lightly in one hand a parasol (made in Taiwan)
not one known to complain,he found it hard to explain to his companion,
a turtle he'd named Marion,in honour of his life and his poor departed wife
just how he felt,
but he knelt before the sea creature,which, though he didn't know it then
would feature in a hot cooked stew somewhere in the distant future.
Sad to tell that the Islander spent eighteen years on his Island hell and went quite insane
thought the sand was rain and bathed in it twice weekly
leaking fluids from his skull he swam out to the rotting hull and danced a jig on the ancient deck,
both man and wreck sank deep below where only sharks and shellfish go and the sea ****** both to their sad demise.
No stone marks the resting place,no words remark on who lies there,but the Island stares out to the sea and knows the turtle was eaten for tea
and Islands never forget.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
ERIN MORAN FROM HAPPY DAYS
HAS SUDDENLY PASSED AWAY
FONZIE IS GRIEVING BADLY
CHACHI IS EXTREMELY SAD
MARION IS HEART BROKEN
AND RALPH IS VERY MAD
HAPPY DAYS WAS A GREAT SHOW
AND WHAT AN INCREDIBLE CAST
IT WILL STAY IN OUR MEMORIES
AND LIVE IN OUR HEARTS
AND THERE IT WILL ALWAYS LAST
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
I'll hold the window
in place
you ***** it
to the wall
my father said
he had the seriousness
of a professional
his dark hair and eyes
firm
rock like
I took a *****
and proceeded
to ***** the window frame
to the wall
my father
was engaged
in the work
I was thinking of Marion
the blonde
who sang
with a band sometimes
who I met some nights
over a drink
and she talked
about music
and how she
had a good relationship
with her father
and how she'd say
Daddy can I go
out dancing?
and he'd say
yes my crazy daughter
and she laughed
I sat there
just listening
seeing her
blue eyes shine
and her body pause
with life
and I asked
what about me
and you and bed?
you mean ***
she said
well yes
I said
O my
I can't sleep
with anyone
not until I marry them
she said
that's like opening
a Christmas present
before Christmas
can't be done
so I put that idea away
and we just talked
and drank
and she sang
a few of the songs
she sang with the band
doing that wiggly dance
she did
her blonde hair sprayed
like a huge bouquet
of flowers
is it firmly in?
my father asked
you need a good *****
to hold it in place
yes that's what I
was thinking
I said
pushing the thought
of Marion
out of
my 17 year old head.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
All five.
I ask her can you tell that I'm alive
She say i can tell when you rise
I'm like..like what the sun
She say no like Shawn Marion when he was young
The Matrix ..
I say girl I'm your Neo
Be my Trinity
One hand on your chest I can make your heart beat...
Let me inside and watch you expand
Girl I can help you breathe
Or take your breath away
Oh the sweetness of your taste
Consuming treats with no tooth decay
This girl is my wife
We ignite the night like gun fights
My touch ignites her senses take her to new heights
Starship enterprise
Explore the frontier
Of her inner thighs
As a kid I dreamt of this, dreamt of her..
Dreamt of love, Dreamt complete freedom
Sharing my inner most thoughts
Express with all five senses I give my heart
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
'If' is the core to life; an infinity of possibility. Only two things can render the passion stagnant:
fear and negligence, addictions to comfort.
Addictions to slavery.
But if the 'lie' is removed from life, we are left with the 'f', we are left to be free.
Freedom itself is infinity, for an idea never dies.
It goes on and grows on, the hope shining in your eyes.
Yet freedom is not achieved in a flash, to stay with you forevermore. It must be sustained,
it must be fed.
It is not easy.
But what does ease bring, in the end?: temporary satisfaction hoarded with dormant passion
(passion and possibility)
Work - hard, grueling, exhausting labor - leads to the ultimate ease,
a satisfying ease that you feel
you deserve.
And that is the greatest freedom.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Daylights were so much
than expensive goldbars
with your arms securing my chest
in the twenty-fifth of May
covered with comfy bedsheets
and you as my everyday scenery,
my healthy breakfast,
my vitamin A.
But nightfalls were so much
unaware than missed shooting stars
in clouded firmament
with your eyes refused to stay
growing cherry blossoms
as I hope that your feet
became regretful
for stepping to the nothingness
to the process of forgeting
until to the complete unknown
— marion.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
Upon a dale of dandelions
running his tongue 'tween stems and leaves
to pluck the carpel
tunnel
syndrome of nectar.
Pollinating without any bird
or bee
paying the slightest
attention.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
i helped a lady
take her groceries to her house today.
it was the same lady
i watched cross the street
it was the same lady
i didnt hear walk into the corner store behind me.
it was the same lady
i let the door fall onto.
i couldnt hear her.
she ended up ahead of me on the sidewalk.
grocery bags on the pavement.
phone on her ear.
i walked by her.
she apologized
said she was trying to get help.
we walked together.
she told me 'help' was on the patio
drinking a beer.
she asked where i lived
and i said a street over.
she said she hoped she'd see me around.
and i said maybe not, im going home for the summer.
she asked if i was getting out of the rat race
im too young for the rat race.
she thanked me a lot
and said
'some good karma will come your way
im a firm believer in that'
me too
i said.
i walked home and thought
i should write a poem about
that conversation.
about giving a second chance
about being a kind person.
about karma.
usually when something like this happens
i write the minute i get home
but i didnt.
i realized, i dont think i can write
about happy things
because when they happen
they always ferment until
they're not what they were.
it was a quick high
a genuine moment.
if karma is real
and that woman is right
either im the devil himself
or theres a big check
with my name on it.
before i started writing
i googled seasonal depression symptoms
apparently not talking to anyone between the months of february and may every year is still a horse with no name.
how do you **** a love
you made yourself.
i leave this town in a week
and i feel as broken
and confused
as the **** i tried to leave
all i want to do is jump in the river
to see if i can really swim
and figure it out from there.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC