"maunder" poems
what i cant understand
is how people can write poetry about the flowers
or the sunshine
it just seems so irrelevant
when there are so many more beautiful things to write about
like your dainty, thin, long fingers
and the way your lips emit a tiny bit of air when you pronounce ‘th’ words
your towering, awkward, bony body
loosely, limply entwined in mine
that make up your gentle, comforting hugs
how melodic your voice is, almost lulling me to sleep
your contagious, animated smile
how you write as if embroidering the pages
gracefully, an art
and the words float mid-lines
reflecting how your thoughts float among the clouds
doolally detonations of enigmatic pure excitement
over the most extraneous of matters
your eyes, the captivating bluish-steel of a mid-winter night sky
their flare, and the way they light up when you maunder lovingly of such passions
alas perhaps, poetry about plants or the weather are just as beautiful
but i
would not know
for even the planet, and nature
and sheer beauty of life
seems pale
in prejudiced comparison to your radiance
and how bright you make
my insides feel
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
I place my bet
on strings pulled
by the sun.
crows in their
black plumage
are silhouettes
suspending
mustache sunset.
my pockets are
empty—
no lint,
crime
or cash.
I am broken
but will not run
into the darkness.
no
let me maunder
with the ephemera
of passing day.
I need a friend to
talk to.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
Equally hardened and fragile;
Incredibly beautiful and, to break, agile.
Your porcelain lips on mine wander,
As my cracked soul finds refuge in your maunder.
Dec 2, 2022
Dec 2, 2022 at 12:41 PM UTC
you mumble and maunder
all through your afternoon
nap....
never quite still,
but not thrashing about...
and then you wake,
tired and grumpy
all sweat and stickyness
two hours of tired
and five years of sassiness
standing before me
with thunderclouds for
eyebrows....
you want!!!....
but what you get is
a big hug a quick dash
to the next door neighbors pool....
please god....when will this
heatwave end???
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
Almost all my most popular poems
Are the ones kicking Trump’s fat ***
I know after November sixth for sure
This particular issue will lose gas.
While that will slow me down for sure,
It won’t make me loathe him less.
He’s a charlatan, a liar and a ****
In almost every way a total mess.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
So I will have to maunder around a bit
To find a juicier source of poetic satire
Than the Big Cheetoh has often been.
He’d open his mouth and spew hellfire.
He frothed and threatened and whined,
And for the most part the scorching
Ended up being his own big ****
And never was an *** more deserving.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
He’s arrogant and babbles lies
One of the nastiest people ever seen.
He only seems to make sure his face
Shows in photographs in magazines.
He has little understanding of the job
He thinks he wants to be chosen for.
He expects everyone to bow and scrape,
To compliment, effuse and to adore.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
He called me, “Assassin,”
And peered into my piercing blues.
I called him “Collateral damage,”
And watched my mark maunder blindly out the door.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Beneath the arch,
among the branches,
the maunder of her eyes
finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
explicit and indivisible,
every reflection is her,
there she looks close
for gracefulness,
in the essays of her skin
and their brazen transparencies,
she enters into her body fable,
the shape of her resembles
the tenor viol: where it widens,
where it narrows,
where it digresses
and monochromes,
she reflects a fragile geography,
a soft cargo, but
an inkling of hurricane,
rendering the fault lines
beautiful and strong,
in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
until she's become her own lullaby
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
Eyes of dreamer
soul's redeemer
gaze wonders
ploughs wanders
sadness hidden
pain overridden
heart weaves
today's wish
life, a moment...
well of ponder
draws veil
marvel or maunder
mystery rides
smooth or wild
emotions pine
Connection
yonder...
Dreams dance ,
eyes sparkle
diamond aura
shimmer inside
soul yearns
Beautiful guise
tracing deep
walking beside
Love in Light!
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
While sleeping in my bed
Rhymes escape my head.
I maunder them around
Then write them down
And publish them instead.
That is, those worth keeping
That I write while sleeping
That often turn out to be
Happily approved by me.
A poetic parrot peeping.
An internal rhyming thing.
Almost an eternal ping
That runs through my brain
There to sometimes remain
And bubble back upon rising.
Sometimes it wakes me up
And I brew myself a quick cup
Because at that time
In search of a rhyme
That goes with boxer pup or buttercup.
I haven’t made a dime from this
My middle-of-the-night muse’s kiss.
I just gleefully scribble
And sometimes I giggle
No matter it’s a hit or a miss.
Far be it from me to complain.
For so many poems remain
That turn out terrific
That I’m labelled prolific.
Either that, or poetically insane.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
To maunder on this dusky, dubious trace
where one becomes lost and is never found
again; deafening his ears from the sound
that cries for help how to flee from this race
Unworthy and obtuse, last is my place
but no one heeds, as a snow falls on mound.
Now tell me how to stand tall on the ground
as I start quitting on this hurtful maze.
But then, my Father soon replied, "My child,
come to my arms, I bring you protection."
From that I ascertained a Father's love mild
who hears and accepts my imperfection,
who dedicates His life just for my earn.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
Weigh the bouts with doldrums.
Maunder the era of fallacious months upon the aspersion wrought by tempered lust.
A slow settling stone in blue.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Her life is pen
It proceeds swiftly without pause option
once marked , ever permanent
No one can erase
Time flirted , she is no more ordinary girl
Now she dreams poetry in colour
Grasps world in the words
Secrets maunder in heart
Inky thoughts void through fingers
She picked up heart , throw in the sheet
Everything whisper ****** darkness
She fetched happiness in loneliness
Cause she met death before
Gardening a grave with passion
Her search rattles like a pill in bottle
Her wrist drowns in blood of killed poems
Her heart beats just for her darkest desire
A name - " A dead poet "
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
Astigmatism effects many around these Sylvan parts,
Where word's turn to bullets,
False love flies between transpired sparks!!!
Arrogancys lost child mourns mercantile traits,
Wherein fears art nothing but fate ,
Materialist confirmed to promise!!!!!
Whereth art thou mender?
Lover?
Dutchess!!!!!!
Mentality struck down,
Memory foam pounds lit to green bushes!!
Maunder thy jail time feeling's,
Their nights goeth short to cold!!!
Thine melodramas Soo grant I'm watching it all right here!!!
Darling, dear,
So mazed ,
Soo sincere!!!
Mistaketh nothing,
for thy monastery only can play out to thine escort lost end,
Unmonogomous prelude of gratis sphere radiance!!!
Countess of impurities,
Traitor to mall town frivolity!!!!!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
Don't let fears of the yonder
wreck your
future.
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
"I, frequently, find myself ponder-
ing: what it is other people are wonder-
ing, or if they have began wander-
ing from their, once, true path in life,"
he laughed, while taking a bath,
down by the Boulder.
"&: when, precisely, did it happen?!
Yes! It is true that I have spent
many, magnificent, moons squander-
ing the wealth of my place in this space..
I consume certain substances that others
find distasteful. Yet: within the maunder-
ing, I find a very subtle peace; know-
ing that we will all, inevitably, be go-
ing to find solace in the final slumber.
Nothing we do is flawless.
-
Maybe once we're all gone:
may the 'livestock, produce, and lumber'
florish, fully, once again."
he was bowed next to the Boulder,
coughing on a cigarette of cannabis,
when he caught the crouched cougars eye.
As the joint, jittery, smolder -ed,
his mind was left in blurred bliss.
Just then: began to fly, forward -
the chiseled cougar.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
This is the coldest room in the
house, they say as we pull
out the fan with its blades a-
swirling and fill the air with
Friday night conjectures.
Her fears come out in
rivulets: red and black striped
maunder with thorns and
petals maybe rosy but I can’t
see it’s dark.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Words dripping
From empty lips
Trickling down
Into the abyss
Droning on
Becoming faint
Swirling around
Down the drain
Voices making
Waterfalls
No one listens
Everyone talks
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC