"miserly" poems
Just about the size of my thumb
Plant so delicate and dumb
little by little I see my henna plant grow
You don't have tongue to talk
You don't have legs to walk
little by little I see my henna plant grow
The sun makes you sweat
And rain makes you wet
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Up grows your shoot
Down grows your root
little by little I see my henna plant grow
One by one leaves sprout
Making you strong and stout
little by little I see my henna plant grow
In this season of spring
Sparrows around you dance and sing
little by little I see my henna plant grow
At times they pluck your leaves
those cute little thieves
little by little I see my henna plant grow
I give a miserly glance but I don't interfere
It is entirely nature's affair.
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Your tiny existence soothes my eyes
I can hear you when others fail hear your voice
little by little I see my henna plant grow
You are Sharing another plant's flowerpot
Don't worry a new *** soon we will allot
little by little I see my henna plant grow
There you will grow bigger and bigger
Your branches will become stiffer and stiffer
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Within you they will make beautiful nest
Sparrows with enthusiasm and zest
little by little I see my henna plant grow
And when you are big and strong
Maybe then I'll be inspired to write another song.
little by little I see my henna plant grow.
little by little I see my henna plant grow.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Eternity's cogs
geared and ratcheted
to the chain of time
We settle for the simple
ignore and refuse to witness
the obvious glory
of this world
insist on a miserly view
a pinched token
Then the night
closes in
an embolism erupts
into silence
I take a different view
hold out hope
for far horizons
settle for nothing
and struggle to drive
a hard bargain
with one who holds
all the cards
In the end
I expect beauty
a bright light
and a chilling plunge
into the grey Pacific
I hope for more
of course
a taste of watercress
a glass of wine
and an epiphany
All paid for by grace.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.
Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.
Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.
If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot.
Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.
Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.
They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.
When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
Hmphh. The Goat. Ruled by the Black Hand of our solar system. Gate of the Gods, but you truly fail to see your real potential because you're clueless how real motivation works. You are not a prodigy, you are the most basic construct of a human, next to the over achieving Leo. The two idiots of the zodiac flitting about. You would think with being the Goat, you'd want to aim high, climb, and grab life by the ******* ***** right? Nope, most of you are homebodies who are phobia ridden. Saturn got your pessimistic ways? Boohoo, go cry with Cancer, there's a "whipping sign" you can take out your miserly and grudging ways on. Discipline? More like, "I'd rather watch paint dry than your ridiculous dreams you always seem to be chasing". And why you try to come off as hard workers is beyond me. You do very minimal and claim some ******** grandiosity; highly annoying in your braggart ways. ***** please, don't come off as serious, we all know Elvis died on the toilet. Get over it.
Advice: Do some real work without all the nonsensical stupid, dry humor. You aren't as brilliant as you think.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
My world changed.
Now. I. am.
Dis- inherit.
More like the unwanted
guest,
in
a party for yourself.
That un wanted
is always
you.
Banners can say your name.
One thousand times.
Screaming.
Out of skyscrapers, bungee jumping
from space shuttles.
Saltating, from your inner
lung meat.
Banners, with names, can only spittle lies.
Now unwanted I wanna leave,
get out,
only 3 more miserly months
of a kingdom of intellectual
gods and tzars.
screaming my party name,
but I.
I.
gone.
I am sitting
While I'm grieving
and admitting in my seat
clenching to be let out
breaking cracking/gnashing teeth
left alone. all wanted
left to brain rot
but forced to sponge
learning what i want in
learning my ashcans full
i am done
I will. remain. despondent.
I wont apply my neurons
motor-sensory illusion
for math demagogues
what the ****
crust me over
cut my brain-case
destroy all brain
function and matter
grey dissolve to black
and white every *******
shade inside
cephalic
meat bowel
Lifeboats float back up to the top, after
re-inflated, I breathe air once again. My
retinas detect the light coming from
packets of waves emitting from the shore.
I float back up from the cold sea to the rock.
Alive.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged **** cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
The human being is an inherently contentious creature.
Seven billion rock-wall eyes;
Eyes staring belligerently down seven billion sharp noses;
Noses affixed to seven billion faces;
Faces covered in creases and scars,
Framed in unruly hair
And outlined in stark exactness
By the flames cowering in bipedal shadows.
Into the human heart is chiseled "inexorable".
We are an incongruence:
We row up the rapids,
Scale the waterfall
And taunt the oily heavens from atop Devil's Tower.
We will always get what we want,
Whether it involves killing the albatross
Or playing Gondorff's chess.
Whether we wrest it from Gaia's grasp
Or that of our more miserly peers.
Robert C. crystalised our resolve.
The riot gear-clad Blue and Green with timers in their throats
Stand abreast.
Chanting "Listen to Mother. Mother knows best.",
They begin the forward press.
When an impish grenade leaps our way,
We fling it back between mouthfuls of chips.
The barricades erected
By Mother and ourselves alike
Are many and implacable and incessant,
But they will be broken and overtaken.
They will be broken and overtaken by us,
The humans,
Because we are.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Im ripping your heart
From your chest
I don’t ever
Want to be friends
I taste sweet
,but Im definetly sour
Like thorns
On a beautiful flower.
I really wish that i could love you.
Your words
**** me like a knife
Your silence
Breaks me all the time.
Im the *****
You happen to love.
That ***** you cant get enough
Sorry.
Tragic tunes with endless *****
It’s crystal clear,
your not wanted here.
I’m miserly and cruel
No love from me
Honey, Sparks need fuel.
i really wish i could love you.
Your words
**** me like a knife
Your silence
Breaks me all the time.
Im the *****
You happen to love.
That ***** you cant get enough
Sorry.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 12:30 PM UTC
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
In the morning, I gather my thoughts of yesterday
Like the foraging chipmunk, collecting acorns
And stuffing them miserly in my jowls
The past is sustenance for a somnolent soul
As age condemns my faculties
I pull, from my once copious jowl
A jewel of sorts
A garnet set in fool’s gold
My memory is manufactured
Assembled and disassembled
No longer what was or is or will be
But was and is and never has been
I confine my thoughts to winter
Where barren fields and sterile trees
Offer less to recollect
And empty my jaws of these useless reminiscences
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
I wish you all Happy Holidays, a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Festivus, Yule etc. Whichever tradition you follow, the heart of the celebration is the same. It's about rebirth (among the other good things like family and compassion and healing), the mystery of new things by some miracle born of old. We're told that we are supposed to be happy, that to not be cheerful this day is miserly and selfish, it's implied that if we aren't feeling perfect then we should fake it for people, that we should fake happiness so our loved ones can be genuinely happy by not seeing our sadness. But this is a hard, sad time for many of us, no matter how hard we try to be hopeful. I wish that I could really believe, rather than just hope, that the old world, the world of xenophobia and hatred, so many acts of violence and horror that I can't even keep track of them all...I wish that I could be sure that the world is being renewed by a higher power. In the face of so much, it may seem that you're just a small person, in a small place, with small problems and small gifts and a small heart, and this whole thing is a worthless gesture. Well, it isn't...this isn't just an accident, we're not just flotsam in a nameless, faceless mass of humanity with no real purpose and no value. Everything matters, and every day we have a chance to make a difference, every day we are given opportunities to be a part of miracles. All of us have the power to reach out and touch another person, to give hope instead of taking it away. There really is a better world out there, and every positive act, every genuine smile, every gentle word and every courageous stand against hatred brings us closer. And finally, a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, and if I wake up tomorrow to find that all my appliances have come to life and burst into song and a gaggle of short bearded guys expecting food and talking about some kind of stolen gold and dragons and crap, I may just have to start taking things a little more seriously ;)
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
In brighter days she sought escape
A vowel yet to take shape
Reasons faint as loveless lips
Miserly her wicked grip
Common be the traveled road
Debuted was a fate forebode
Heavy though I did not shake
In brighter days she sought escape
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
doppio espresso
and 100mg of ℞ potassium
bring the equilibrium
I have been advised
against
long enough
for the insect hum to become
coherent and show me
a pathway to the moon
but in its miserly light
I can’t tell
if it’s half empty or full
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
reading the papers,
watching the news,
future is bleak,
to negative views.
lambing in springtime,
fresh flowers in bloom,
wash away worry,
misery and gloom.
look forward not backward,
with hope in your heart,
pave your own pathway,
or stay at the start.
horizons seem bleak,
to miserly souls,
blind to the lambs,...
and never have goals.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 11:41 AM UTC
literate legends of the past
wordsworth, tennyson, shakespeare, poe
philosophers preaching wisdom
whilst churning words of woe
if born a century onward
their genius contribution
would re-direct thought
and our retribution
clever wit, used correctly
relays a message indirectly
be loud in voice
be strong in deed
plants that blosom
have nurtured seeds
learned men, with miserly souls
different values, different goals
hypothetically speaking, if resurrected
could this system be corrected
past vision blurred, future masked
the valley victim duly asked...
what make thee of my vale?
once vibrant, now lies stale
thine vale like a garment, tightly twined
sceptical of progress, wallow in decline
thy forefathers fester in premature tombs
martyrs to masters, grafted in gloom
thy dwell on the dead, thou should view ahead
though mystery of history must ever be read
tread forth with vision, or stumble ye blind
don't dwell on the dead, or land once mined
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
his old arm points west,
so weighted with years, his crooked
finger aims down, to the cracked ground
more than to the setting sun
thrice in eighty plantings,
he's seen these droughts drench
the thirsty earth with white fire
but this one, he swears upon
creation, is the worst
holy houses fill with prayer
for rain--the man says this is in vain,
though the good lord hears all entreaties
he has always been miserly
with his mercies
this shall pass
he avers, but he doubts
he will see another warm summer rain
his baptismal to come as wind
from the scorched plains, one
that scatters but dry seeds for
tomorrow's harvest moons
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
*hunger
like towering walls
of water
i won't give in though i
crave crave crave*
**they won't let me get drunk
won't let me do drugs
won't let me do nothing
so nothing gets done**
two miserly words
self sabatoge
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
what if we had
just
one day
to
love
live
and give
something
back
to
this
world
in which
we
live
how would
you
spend
your
allocation
of
precious
hours
take
your
time
think
it
through
would
you be
spendthrift
miserly
or
provident
selfish
selfless
hope less
can do
devil may care
buyer beware
seize the day
rue the moment
sing and dance
weep and cry
accept the loss
bemoan the lost
savour the day
pack your house away
24 HOURS
even less
hours to live
be a blessing
and in turn be blessed
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Recruitment without Naukri
Is like a cobra
Stripped of its venom
A tree without leaves
A musician without an instrument
A Mutton Biryani without the mutton
A laptop without a battery
I can go on and on
But you get the gist, right?
Recruitment without Naukri
How does it even work?
Of course, there are other portals
LinkedIn, Monster, Indeed
TimesJobs, Shine, Updazz
Dice, Hirist, Instahyre
But do they even come close
To matching the pin-point accuracy
The sheer amount of detailing
The refreshing practicality
And finally, the user-friendliness
That Naukri brings to the table?
The answer to that, unfortunately
Is a resounding no
Recruitment without Naukri?
Can it be managed?
As mentioned earlier
There are other portals
But will your boss be ready to pay
For any of them, apart from LinkedIn?
The answer to that, unfortunately
Is again a resounding no
Recruitment without Naukri
Coupled with a miserly boss
Is like chasing 350 in 50 overs
On a seaming wicket at Leeds
All your hard work at the nets
Goes to the drain
As you keep trying to hit boundaries
And end up getting clean bowled instead
Ultimately, the loser is not the client
Not the boss either
It is you, and only you
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 2:22 AM UTC