"mayhap" poems
I am a controlling boyfriend.
No, I am not a male, nor do I have a girlfriend to abuse. But I am the crazy stalker controlling boyfriend.
I have realized something in myself:
I am free with my boy and his casual flirtations, but am extremely jealous and possessive of my girls, when I have one.
Or even in my present case of not having one, I want to possess her as she has possessed me. I want all your time, all your thoughts, as you inhabit mine.
“How do you handle the jealousy??" It's funny, I don't get jealous when I have both partners in my bed, or in my arms. That is when I’m most content.
I get jealous when outsiders are flirtatious or show interest. It's also funny, I'm more annoyed when people flirt with him thinking he’s unattached.
I don't get it either; just a quirk of mine.
Perhaps my nonchalance with my boy is merely grown out of our time together. In nearly seven years, not one has managed to create a rift. Those who have tried have failed, and he and I have come out the better.
Patience is a virtue I do not possess, and the longer I go on incomplete... mayhap my own fears make me dig my claws into a new potential. Fear that someone else will charm such a rare unicorn away from me/us, and we’ll be left again, searching.
Nor is this a new feeling, for this young woman. A year ago, I felt the same overwhelming possessiveness. Then again, it would not do to compare the two; they are two different people, who hold different qualities.
The bitter jealousy I now project I have tasted before. The shock that I’ve become my own controlling high school boyfriend fills me with disgust.
Unbeknownst to her, I imagine her not only in my bed, in my arms, in my life… but also on my knee. I’ve never before considered someone as both lover and submissive.
Unbeknownst to me, would that make my jealousy grow or fade, were I to possess her in every way I’ve imagined?
Obviously I have some things to work on.
Firstly, finding our unicorn.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
Busy people…
Oh so busy people….
You step real hard when you walk real fast
With your busy scowls on your busy faces
Making busy wrinkles in your busy forehead
From thinking all those
Wondrous… and
Special…
Busy thoughts…
**** sho too busy to
Make small talk… or
Ask about… or
Even be pleasant to
Us regular people…
Oh so busy…
Would make an old man wait for 6 hours
For the answer to a 5 minute question…
Cuz you busy…
Too busy to even answer the phone
Especially… If you know who’s callin’…
Sho too busy…Way too busy…
To answer
For the likes of me… or even him… cuz
That’s not what you busy people do…
We should all
Just be happy
To have your
Wondrous… and
Special… and
Busy self
To be
Ignored by
But Oh Mr. Busy…
One day…
Mayhap…
You will look up from your busy-ness… and
Find that there are
No more some bodies
To step past real hard… or
To dismiss… as unimportant
With your busy scowl and busy wrinkled forehead
No more callers
To ignore… or un-pleasantries to share
Cuz you, yourself, have gotten
Unpleasantly old
And every body else
Is just too busy…
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
4.7k
My words have been ripped from me
uncovering my naked body below
and I bemoan the cold or mayhap
just existence
My pupils will not focus, a lack of dilation
I am not entombed in life
for I blink with each inhalation
I am subtly encased in flesh
not suffering
simply slipping
Mourning the loss of my language
and when I dream
death pervades my visions
when I wake,
I'm approached by none other than heartbreak
at my most fearful perception
Strength isn't to forcefully remove temptation,
but to resist temptation daily and survive.
A man doesn't reflect until he is imprisoned,
and limited by an external boundary,
I re-forge myself within the internal foundry.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
Try this! Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:
Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.
Here was my submission....does it make sense?
Yours Truly
(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)
No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns. A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.
07Jan12
D66d
By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
For they are the gold that floats upon the wings of angels,
These innocent sweet eyed infants,
They bring to us a gentle reminder of
Beauty
&
Purity,
Mayhap we shall yet reach those fabled lands
which glow and glitter
with the glory of God.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Aug 24, 2010
Aug 24, 2010 at 4:59 AM UTC
Scream, for love traps you
In the embrace of barbed wire
Slicing your heart wide open
With blunt, rusted razor blades
So bleed the scarlet icicles
As your soul begins to die
Dark longing surrounds you
Loneliness comes crawling
Does your heart now shatter?
Where no one dares to look
To see blistered tears Etched
On a face masked with fear
But if only you remove your mask
Mayhap the Sun may kiss it
So roses without thorns may grow
Then love could have no pain
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
*before you start reading, please not that the Barbie in this poem is not the registered trademark that is the Barbie doll (all is revealed in the notes)*
When Barbie wakes up in the morning
Even the birds stop chirping in fright
She makes her way to the wardrobe knowing
What is inside will start the day right
First to be donned is her barbarian bra
It takes quite a task to fill
She really is ever so grateful for her bra
It keeps all the best bits subdued and still
The bras must always go on first
Without it she would be in trouble
If the briefs went on first without the bra
To this day she’d still be bent over double
Next on are the bountiful bootylicious briefs
She worries that they may have shrunk
Mayhap she should stop putting them in the dryer
They are essential to keep all her junk in her trunk
Over the top of the barbarian bra
Goes a sweater with the deepest V neck you’ll find
The cleavage that is on display is important
It keeps the focus from straying to her behind
On go the boots and laced up tight
These babies were made for walking
But most days they are just for comfort
Unless she’s up for some stalking
Last of all on her perfectly coiffed head
She settles her beautiful hat
It looks a little like a large table umbrella
In fact, once upon a time, it was actually that!
She’s now ready to start her day
And the birds resume chirping like a choir
Barbie is ready to face the world dressed in her
Barbarian Bra and Bountiful Bootylicious Briefs and
Other Amazing Attire
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
it seems, my words
have lost their allure,
this morning.
and i am too fixated,
on vainly scrawling.
to see
the crafts of others,
floating on the river poetry.
i am, hands to the oars, rowing against,
a beautiful tide.
endevouring,
to attain a mooring,
on the inside of a thought. what would happen,
if i.....
let go and read just
one or two poems
from other,
weary skullsmen
and made comment.
it mayhap...
nothing, but then it,
maybe...
instead of poetry,
decrying a dying state.
the poet in the other boat,
rowing silently,
for a moment, or a lifetime
is encouraged to,
greater acts
of creativity.
just maybe.....maybe.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
.
*Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.
Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.
Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.*
© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul
1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?
2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?
3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?
4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?
5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?
6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?
7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze) to certain life-enhancing enrichment?
8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?
9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?
10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?
*you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you.too*
S T, 16 July 2013
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Perhaps comparisons to you, m’ love,
will be of such fluttering birds with their
silken pearl plumage; soft and fragile dove.
I would challenge those who with this compare.
To do so would create such metaphors with
something mild and predictable, delicate.
You are not breakable or dainty, keen scythe.
You are a graceful storm to not abate.
Mayhap I could liken you to a blade,
a dagger wrapped within smooth satin.
To a deathly flower; lethal nightshade.
For to a white swan you are akin.
Know that a dove is equal your beauty,
yet you are deadly elegance, truly.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
the choices made
just the sitting alone in the dark
of your own waiting
the waiting for the truth to come on up the road
but that could be a long wait indeed
counsel yourself not to spend what
you got foolishly
cause you never know what tomorrow will bring
it might bring rain
mayhap the burning season will come again
mayhap the road will finally take me home
stead of further away
sitting here listening to the steady approach of thunder
like a parade in a lazy summer town
i been thinking perhaps i should just keep running
till there aint no more running to be done
mayhap ill cry till there is nothing but salt water seas
perhaps ill do evil things till there's nothing but darkness
mayhap ill set the night on fire
then maybe we can see a safe place to be
been thinking i should just keep running till
there aint no more running to be done
cause iv gone the distance
and nobody cared
still it rained
and still the men dressed in black
laid innocence out for the plunder
still the evil men came two by two
and all i could do is watch as the world swept her away
and all i could do is die a little bit inside every day since
been thinking
i should just keep running till
there aint no more running to be done
there aint no more running to be done
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
The Queen has passed away
No longer will she reign
Just another day but,
It will never be the same
The world without a queen
Thoughts shift as we all take stock
Everywhere she’s been
Solid, like a rock
Mayhap a relic of the past
Promoting privilege and class
But the dye was cast, for her
In slippers made of glass
She was the rhythm of our days
The anchor of our nights
Now we stand here in a haze
Bow our heads and dim the lights
We say good night and thanks, to
The bearer of the crown
The face upon our stamps
And we watch the sun go down.
Sep 14, 2022
Sep 14, 2022 at 1:54 AM UTC
Eftsoons, thee would fain depart and chasten thy chance
Meseems to be fond of thou beloved with fears:
Harken thy anacreontic jovial at once,
For whosoever conveys love shall drown on tears.
Thee may not ratify affections I bestowed;
Each morn may bring no reasons to behold the sun.
Yon enigmatic events has come and winnowed
Beseech, to cease the fires, afore thy love has gone.
Somehow, blossoms will wither, as rivers will dry
Mayhap, thy heart I own shall be shattered in twain,
Welkin rings, pearls cannot retrieve ev'ry goodby
Maimed and futile; whence, no one can withstand the pain.
If these velvet ropes would seize thine eyne twixt the thrill,
Utter prayers, for Heaven would burn me in hell.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
VI
We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:
Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.
We see the things we do not yearn to see
Around us: and what see we glancing back?
Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack,
Hopes that were never ours yet seem'd to be,
For which we steer'd on life's salt stormy sea
Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.
If thus to look behind is all in vain,
And all in vain to look to left or right,
Why face we not our future once again,
Launching with hardier hearts across the main,
Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight,
And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain?
IX
Star Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar
Beyond the drawings each of other's strength:
One blazes through the brief bright summer's length
Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car;
While one unchangeable upon a throne
Broods o'er the frozen heart of earth alone,
Content to reign the bright particular star
Of some who wander or of some who groan.
They own no drawings each of other's strength,
Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy,
Nor veer along their courses each toward
Yet are their orbits pitch'd in harmony
Of one dear heaven, across whose depth and length
Mayhap they talk together without speech.
1.6k
You are a ********* do you know it?
You've fallen for the one person who will
intentionally rip at your heart, hoping
just hoping, to see scarlet drops of blood
mar the silver blade I wield against you.
Be warned my darling,
I will leave you no dark corner in which
to hide your most tender thoughts.
Compassion runs from my bloodhound heart,
it fears the harsh light,
which I intend to spotlight it with.
Run, run as fast as you can,
I promise you can't hide.
You've fallen for me,
so roll up your sleeves.
Do you believe it's going to be that easy?
The marble veins below my skin
service to carry lead from my heart and back again.
Your sweet tongue can do nothing
to dispel my stoic judgments.
Is it supposed to make me feel soft?
You tell me that my skin is different
from everybody else's.
Mayhap your hands are calloused
from working on cars and
permanently numb from the kisses of
electricity to your fingertips,
still my flesh isn't different than yours.
It's only colder,
and akin to the color of death.
Don't you know that
a hand is just a hand?
Bravery is just a cage of ribs.
Bone is nothing but porous bridges
of calcium and other things
that protect our hearts.
It's fairly simple to stop the muscle
that lets us confess.
The sky looks ****** today,
it's trying to warn you.
Pay attention dear, the fun has just arrived.
Promise not to promise anymore and I'll stop, I promise.
Perhaps the next time you knock
on my heart I'll take the chain off the door.
My heart is above love, or perhaps just under it.
I haven't decided yet.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 3:32 AM UTC
And with hot branding, I name the end, it is unknown Obadiah, it is uncompromising Demosthenes, it is ambuscaded Agamemnon,
it is crafty Cain, it is able to pull lightning down from clouds to electrify a world beset upon by forces of great magnitude, vibrations ricochet off of each other, quaking knee's knock as earthquakes rock tectonic plates.
In this final hour what was once to edify is now to petrify and once let free the fire is an esurient monster after being kept so long locked behind the now yawning earthen gates, witness even the most pluvial flourishing plain blister and boil, witness unyieldingly the flesh bubbling in flux as if from extreme cell proliferation, another soul abdicates its husk.
Mayhap this life will lead to another, as If there will be a choice project an air-less voice on the matter, will this If, insist on this If,
hold your breath in front of polyonymous Death, let without a moan a trembling icy finger trace lips of now great pallor and make the word-less decision known, no more cyclical reaping of our worn souls says humanity and beg on the now naked ruth for our sanity.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
drink pour drink
lacking love I sink
swimming in the pink
my soul is stretching for the leek
the thing I want I'm doomed to want
if ever id had it, id have at least lost
but never at all not for lack of trying
meany a time offered out to be cried in
any time other its *** or its sin
unlovable or am I looked down upon
some god picked me to frown upon
some life randomly to be shat upon
unneeded my outdated satyricon
Faust verily howbeit parfay
whilom methinks maugre swoopstake
twixt speed and sweven, swink eke teen
mayhap afore alack fore fie
clepe gardyloo thole
whosoever sith wist whereof speed
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
It’s time to be real, time to face facts
We all love a drug, we all have our pills
We all choose addictions to soothe our ills
Trying to forfeit the pain life exacts
Things that we grasp only briefly distract
Behaviors we love that cannot fulfill
Popping bad habits instead of real pills
Making wrong choices, spurning their impact
Devices, entities, actions, can ****
All of creation mayhap abused
No matter your choice, regardless of thrill
We conceive our own monsters
By our own selves we are used
Pills only widen life’s fissures
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 12:53 PM UTC
the drops of dew cling
like petulant children
to the rusty stars of
the barbed wire fence
while below the sodden
ground is scarred with
the long footed imprints
of rabbit tracks
tufts of their fur can be found on the sharp edged
sticks of the fern fronds
that have been broken
by their hurried passing.
the sun light can only
be described as dappled
as it cascades in shifting
shafts of mote filled magnificence through
the slowly shifting leaves
of the gum tree canopy
and in the distance the bellbird peals
that clear sweet noted song
that brings a smile to my lips
in the underbrush a shuffling sound arises
an animal too wary of me
most probably a wombat
but perhaps something
more exotic, a bilby or
echinda, mayhap a goanna
i am destined not to know
as the sound recedes off
to the west....
and the kookaburras call
loud and raucous overhead
i walk on following the track
by the old fence...
so very aware, that,
here in the aussie bush.
i am the indtruder....
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
The sponge holds all it can then begins to ooze.
OR. The glass brims over full.
I think for me it has to be.
Some such.
The ooze mayhap. Emotional. Cleansing.
Spiritual centrifugality.
Sweet spinning
Balance of body and soul.
Rote release.
Relaxed expression by way of
Familiar repition.
Out of body.
8 punch combination
With no hitch..
A groove.
Like.music.
Like dancing.
Like making love with passion
Like breathing............ almost
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
I should tell time by the words spoken
That way when death came knocking at least we would have conversation
Choose scheme carefully for it could mean one um to close to middle age
Two I loves you's from adulthood
Words would mean more than the method to maim
Slander the budding of free thinking mind
Or take light from a flicking candle
If time could be stunted by vocal notions
Glodal pops and humming lyrics
Then lovers would never die
And poets would fade into
The everyday mayhap the fickle trickle back into the ether
The quiet would be lovely
Emoting the stillness of nature birdsong would fill the silence as it was meant to
And the air would not be littered with the dank smell of spit and betrayal
You could ask me the weather by motion
Dance me into existence with the way your eyes spark and the grace of your smile
Such language would be peaceful
Dreaming a dream
So calming I might not
Wake
For there was nothing to curse me from it
The muted manner of being
May transcend the busy buzzing of the rat track motion
Squeeking out their horror and joy
Such silence
Such relief
If words could tell time
Forever in bliss I would be
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
In the field
where roses sing
a lonely man approaches.
His face is haggard,
stained and scarred
yet strong as he encroaches.
He won't stop
to think of rest
though long his quest has taken.
His ka-tet broken
friends all dead
yet his resolve's not shaken.
He goes up
the ancient steps
and sees his precious moments.
Why does he smell
sweet alkali?
Is this a form of torment?
Thirty-eight
he sees his love,
sweet Susan dead from fire.
Oh Char-you tree!
He feels such guilt
but keeps climbing the spire.
Up he goes.
He ponders this:
Mayhap it goes forever?
But, no. It can't!
His life is long,
but not that long, however.
To the top
where one last door
with ROLAND on the surface
does call to him
and begs him come,
for was this not his purpose?
There engraved
upon the ****
the guns his father gave him
wrapped in a rose.
But they are gone.
No, even they won't save him.
Past the door
the hot Mohaine
and alkali await him.
He begs mercy
but ka has none.
The Tower it did bait him.
Roland, he
begins anew
and remembers not a thing.
He marches on,
the Tower waits
among where roses sing.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
they are like,
amorphous things,
these thoughts, these half remembered dreams
floating,
like lilypads upon a pond
luscious green rounded fronds and shooting,
ponted drafts of sun....
luminescence, drifting on.
i dream in monet, today.
all fuzzed dots and pastel hues....close up, nothing new
but from a few steps back,
a picture...gorgeous to behold...
let me now... dream....
somemore....mayhap
i soon will see, immpression:
soliel levent
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC