"modicum" poems
shred, dash, drop, pinch, soupçon, jot, iota, whit,
atom, smattering, scintilla, hint, suggestion, tinge,
a modicum of good works,
my endeavor, to serve and deliver,
man's bounty of good words
from my kitbag,
fresh, hot, n' crusty
just like me....
Hello Poetry!
Feb 2014
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.
The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.
Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.
On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
but what proud and accomplished
race of beings
would need to search for
companionship
among the stars?
The little metal ball floats away
blinking bits of data back to Earth
each grainier than
the last
tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
and a quiet modicum of
hope.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
I know plenty of elderly,
I should,
Who seem to know
Everything about Nothing,
And have the time
To tell us.
If we're not wise in youth,
We're not necessarily wise
In age.
Experience needs tempering
With a modicum of brains,
Which may explain
The Wisdom Fallacy.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
I tried to feed the pigeons with seed
at the end of the driveway,
not even a modicum was eat
unlike my friends 5 cultivated visitors.
Only tonight he is watering his Dahlias
and Sunflowers.
I casually forgot to water my tub of potatoes .
Energy and priority
burns with this capricious summer.
and as good as we think we are
its Brendan who
manages to surpass the conundrums
forever your plantsman and allotment stake- holder
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
How did I get to this place?
Desperately ask myself
As under the quilt in my lap
I point a 38 at
The man that I
Once thought was
The One-
That I don't take his life
Can only be
Grace
Shining on ME
Cuz my heart suddenly knows
It is not worth my soul
To hurry him
On his relentless journey to hell-
He will surely get there on his own
It is Grace
That saves us BOTH this day
Grace that he won't miss until it's gone
~~~
The old man across the street
Talks to his old wife
Like she's got bird ****
Smeared across her face-
I'm sure it didn't start out this way
I'm sure that once upon a day
She was shown a modicum of loving kindness
A sweetness commensurate with the Grace
With which she
Used to
Walk
But now with which she
Bears the never ending insult
That her life has become
Grace that the old man
Does not appreciate
Grace that he won't miss until it's gone
~~~
She leaves her baby in the car
While she steps into the bar
For just a minute-
Time not only flies
When you're having fun
But also when addiction lies
And sez you are-
So baby-girl
Waits
But it is Grace
That sends mom outside to *****
At the very moment
Mr. Predator
Spies’ baby-girl alone
It is Grace that mom won't, in her haze, even notice
Grace that she won't miss until it's gone
~~~
This old world can be a cold dark place
Would be darker still
Were it not for Grace
Someone once said
"T'was Grace that brought me safe and through..."
~~~
For all the Lovely and the Good
There will be the Ugly and the Evil
But Ugly and Evil
Can NEVER do more
Than
Amazing Grace
Can do
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
From a modicum of manners
and a pinch of pleasing wit
many boys would benefit
and not be quite so ****
Sloppy graces devastate
a gal's apparent shine
without a "please" or "thank you"
she ain't quite so fine.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
At least give the devil his due;
A thousand wind-swept contenders become a few
As the coast erodes & tides
approach
we wonder if God ever spoke
___
the drained heart of god
Initials & pillars both flown, blown away
To await scripture from a new era
Is he there, in a modicum of fear
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2013
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
Not for nothing.
But an apology
would have been nice.
Or at least
would have conveyed
a modicum of respect.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Oh Vova, My little Vova
Sitting on your throne of skulls
You survey your frozen kingdom
and as you always do
You grimace
With bitterness tempered by the ages
Born a citizen of a scarlet empire. now the tyrant of a tricolor nation
You are both the largest and the smallest man
Who does reside in this time-worn land
You rule your potemkin empire with a fist of iron, a gaze of lead and a voice of kolokol-1
Your inhumanity is well practiced
From your days in the KGB
Your “New Russia” is merely a kleptocratic mockery of it’s golden years
A cheap ersatz mimicry
of Russia’s grandest days
Few things could bring your hard slavic face to show
Even the smallest modicum of joy
But there he stands
Dima!, oh Dima
The light of your life
The only man with the power
To make the Czar smile
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
I am Coyote
in human form
one who drools poetry
sly as a bag of bones
alert to every hazard
Long odds
are nothing to me
I'll beat every beast
with courage and finesse
And to get to the next realm
where I become myself
I must leave scant traces
survey the world
through scent and sound
And find the bridge
that builds itself
as I walk
across a terrifying chasm
of evolution and magic
to human form
Here to ponder your fate
Here to look to your good nature
Here to endure your pogroms
And survey your world
notwithstanding your traps and tricks
with a modicum of good cheer.
Ever wary.
Ever well.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
She takes
more than her share
consuming what is hers and
a little of everyone else.
An inconsiderate roommate
of the seasons
devouring the contents
in the frig
and beginning to work on
the boxes marked "Spring".
Like us,
they hate her and dream
of ways to evict the trespasser
but she has no pride or
modicum of fair play.
And we know
when she
with diva flair
finally blusters away
we'll be raggedly left
paying the debt.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
I want it all.
I have a craving for what this world has to offer
and I'm daring to see if it'll be fulfilled.
Yes, shiny baubles and warm sensations
bring them all.
But I also want the depths of human experience
I want love
I want meaning and purpose
To answer to higher call while knowing none exists
Do my words sound cryptic?
As well they should.
Language, poetry, fiction
All are imperfect means of communicating the breadth of consciousness.
They are tools our ancestors created haphazardly,
Quite by accident
In search of reassurance and comfort
In the coldness of existence.
This modicum of life cannot be grasped entirely by any
Save sages and scholars some say.
Mystics and dabblers they are.
Life is not viewed from a single lens.
Would you stare at your lover only through photograph from afar?
Life requires mixing and intersplicing to bear any examination at all
So once again I ask, do my words sound cryptic to you?
I sure hope they do because I hold no answers.
Those I learned long ago are quickly dispersing
with who knows what else
and all to no avail
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
- for patty m(mombo)
who will be laughing
out loud, spilling her sippin’ coffee~
after she reads this~
woke up o f f c i a l l y “fully rested”
per the devices that monitor the body,
hoping
that’s all they do, unless they are
writing this?
don’t think but can’t be sure,
cause the poems planted here,
were seedlings elsewhere, and
the Gatherers, my senses, be working
overtime
as we (me & them) trapse
through life picking up the discards,
of songs. tv pundits, (see title!)
overheard snippets of street
conversations,
your poems & comments,
(as I walk among you)
almost everywhere,
anytime
anyhow,
to add
days to
my life span
because
the poem notions
hit me so fast,
hanging fruitfully
needy
for picking, need
more time to love
them so fulsomely
so maybe one or two
are Rem insertions by
my Apple watch, but
not many cause I write
in a funny style!
my son asked AI to write
poems in the manner of
his dad, and it replied,
“can’t help, his poems are
too weird, not reproduceable,
borderline crazy(!!!!);”
give us someone easier
like Whitman or Plath
or Leonard C., no problem
doing dat”
so this poem was an off chance remak,
heard in passing by my digesting ears,
and like Noah’s Ark,
loaded up with alphabets 2 x 2,
set sail to your receptors to bark at ya
awake baby
with hopes
that you rise and read this,
laugh way
out loud,
and suddenly you tutu,
feeling well-reset, rested and very
a very,
moderate modicum more
appreciated enuf
nml
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 11:31 AM UTC
My thoughts are the slots
Put a coin in to play
Two pennies for some sense
Since the banks recompense
the poor sitting on a lower shelf
The rich are empty, lost themselves
Attached to puppet strings
Pulled up by faceless masters
faster full of things
Stop. Cut your strings.
Sell the loans and mortgage debts
Escape the ensnaring nets
Look. Now you’re free.
Fear is free just look at me
Im stuck inside with my soul to hide
a sinful slip up ups my chance
My tongue is doing the liars dance
Two toes on point, or into finger guns?
That’s the one that I still fear
the freedom to do, drive the car, yes steer.
Drive away or drive by
to these feeling on the sidelines
second string emotions turn
with stinging motions. Burn
my offing notions with a note
not a hundred grand but a modicum
I lay in my bed try to sleep, feeling none.
The slots spun a short win
when I put my two cents in.
Now the lump sum is sitting dumb
My thoughts are dimmer
I’m the loss when I’m the winner.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
I lie sprawled on the dead crusty grass of Winter,
breathing in the frigid night.
A passing car ambles by,
headed for destinations unknown,
a mystery on wheels at this hour,
its eyes ripping the velvety shroud of darkness.
I lie in the darkness
beyond the periphery of its piercing gaze,
until it rumbles by and on until it is gone,
and darkness settles once more.
The wicked wind whispers
soft lilting nightmare lullabies
that float through the frozen forest branches
into my numb ears.
I lie in the darkness,
entranced by the bitter breeze’s melodies,
until it blows by and on until it is gone,
and hushed stillness falls again.
My body shakes
with deep rustling tremors,
to defy Winter’s icy kiss or maybe just
to break the mesmeric silence of the night.
I lie in the darkness
as the cold steals the breath from me while I tremble,
until it gusts by and on until it is gone,
and a modicum of warmth returns to my bones
and I am still.
I stare up and away into the night
until my eyes water and freeze and blur
as I stare at one star and the rest disappear
into the folded shadows of the sky.
I lie in the darkness,
a creature of the frigid Winter night,
enfolded in its quiet embrace,
oddly soothed by its anesthetizing touch,
lost in its starry splendor.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Turn these restless limbs to stone
so I can get a modicum of rest.
Clothe my bones, walk me home;
steady the clamour of my chest.
Blot the stars with a marker pen,
place a ceiling over my dreams.
No news at ten, play remember when,
when the future falls at the seams.
Place all useless guilt in the dirt
so I can finally lapse to sleep.
No three year hurt, I will iron my shirt
and line my pockets deep.
Hide the misery amongst the flowers,
the ash amongst the living.
These early hours, these mythic powers;
find the solace of forgiving.
Pull me from the Ground Zero rubble
so I can learn to stand again.
Be my double, first sign of trouble;
my anchor and not my chain.
Shield the summer from the rain,
let me walk with a peace.
Free from pain, my voice will strain
for the melody of release.
Heave all words of lazy defeat,
throw them to the pyre.
Been white as a sheet, a snowman in heat;
flame of grief turned to fire.
Mask the eye too full of fear,
leave the door opened for the light.
So used to tears, so many years
at the mercy of the night.
Take me from this dead-end breeze
out into the open air.
I am on my knees, these hopeful pleas,
that you will take me there.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
I often find myself being Governed by Idiots of moderate Intelligence,
Not Governed, necessarily, in any Political sense;
Governed or Controlled by someone in a position of Power:
Whether within a Company or a Bureaucratic hierarchy; or a Job Description (An"Expert" or "Executor" );
Or someone with physical superiority or gender qualification.
Whatever, whenever, however --> Some people abuse their Authority over others.
Some in Authority have worked hard and diligently to reach their positions -->
My hat off to them: Good Luck and Congratulations;
You obviously deserve the Privileges attached to the Responsibilities.
I have no qualm with such Authorities,
Providing they don't abuse the Social Trust (too much...).
However, there are many People invested with a modicum
Of Authority that so Deceives them;
These People are self-conceited delusionists,
Ever eager to swagger and boast and abuse Their given Trust -->
A modicum of Authority with a modicum of Intelligence
Is tantamount to disaster for someone else.
Unfortunately, that someone is often vulnerable to the Abuse;
Someone given to being Victimised,
Either by Age or Gender or Sexuality;
Or by physical weakness or Belief or Conviction;
Or by circumstance or timing or just plain Bad Luck.
I'll accept most Trivial abuses of Authority -->
Good Luck to them, providing it doesn't impact Me and Mine too greatly.
However, there are those instances of abused Authority
That can destroy People's lives, either directly,
Or attempt to destroy or damage People's Lives,
For No Good Reason, other than They can.
These Abusers of Authority **** ME OFF no end
And They Must Be Stopped, Weeded Out and Put in Their Place.
They have no Consideration for Others
And the damage done can last a Lifetime.
Enough --> F**k You, ******** Pull Your Head In Before You Lose It!
Too often the Abuser is absolved of Responsibility;
Too often They hide behind a smoke-screen of Legitimacy;
Too often These Idiots Abuse because They can get away with it -->
They wear the Uniform;
They have a purview for Order or Peace or Protection.
Don't get Me wrong -
In the Heat of the Moment, Things Happen, Good or Bad,
And Mistakes are Lessons learnt the Hard Way;
Accept Your Responsibility along with your Authority;
Front up and give a True Account
According to the Facts and Your Decision(s) for Action;
Accept that SomeThings are as They are - UnReasonable as They may Be.
Don't Abuse Your Authority!
TRUST ME --> YOU'LL REGRET IT!
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
It's been about a year
Of my 63.
Somehow I awoke
To the hell around me.
My naivety dashed
Against the rocks of
Parentless terrorism.
Gazing at the latest tragedy
Or slap against humanity,
I long for beauty past
At 64.
Knowing that it will not come
Except within my own self
Where I have a modicum of control.
I see fields and flowers
And taste the honey
Before waking up.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
Write in stanzas. Think in stanzas.
Speak in stanzas. **** your routine.
Sleep less. Go to work drunk.
Yell at inanimate objects. Yell with
inanimate objects. Fly your mother to
San Francisco (coach) and watch the
house for her, the dogs, the child, the
drunk. She is your mother.
You do not like your job. Spend
your days beneath an apple tree and
spend your workdays eating apples
in any given weather. Lie on the floor
of your bedroom belly-flat and smell
the carpet beneath you, all dead flakes
of skin and dog fur, sinew strand of
hair, black dots—tar or shoe-gum or
something other.
Think on your place. Reach to the left,
your side table with glass of water and
lampshade. Feel the hilt, small knife for
your pocket, small pocket. Free the blade,
feel the grooves, gold and blacked-brushed
blade you bought with a flask, a set, two
tiny commodities that may serve you well
in the wild or a shopping mall, what ever
little evils exist away from your bedroom
with its television and soft blankets, slow
mortal shuffle and modicum.
Stop and breathe. Feel the heart in its
always-patter. Know it will stop.
Not fret, no, only knowing.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am happy for you
Really, I am
I smile for you and I am excited
When you tell me every modicum
Of how he looked the other day
Or your intentional conversations
But I cannot help but feel inside
Like it soon may be over for you
Like it was for me, it always was
And I never want that for you
I want him to be the one you marry
I really hope for your sake he is
I pray you never have to have your heart broken
I pray you never have to live without him
I pray you never feel rejected
But I know your man is different
You chose the right one the first time
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
I've always found the concept of seeing the future in the dregs of a drink, ridiculous.
How are the leaves supposed to know who exactly has consumed the drink,
Let alone what may or may not happen to them in the near or distant future?
Do the leaves absorb a modicum of your soul
And use that to project predictions unto you?
By that logic, is it so the more tea you drink,
The less of your soul stays with you?
I may be the only one, but I find that idea to be very discomfiting.
I drink rather a lot of tea, you see.
At least a cup a day.
And now I fear it may be the cause of my untimely cynicism.
Of course, that may just be my tea-addled brain looking for something to blame it on.
As it is, I will continue to blame all negativity on witches and psychics and herbs and tea,
Because there is no one around to prove me wrong,
Or provide an alternate answer.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Read me, Hear me.
I am existing somewhere
Strewn between each letter that
Your eyes caress.
I'm mingling with the meaning
I've chosen to impart
With riddles, with metaphors,
With everything but
The truth.
I'm tangible.
Whisper my writing and know
That I am a scrawled sentence
Of desperation;
A Vagrant, caught wandering
In the downpour
Without the language
To capture the way
The rain smells, or the wind tastes
Or the earth sounds.
Oh read, and know
That I am crying out
Along each line to the seraph
Of a letter that I've struggled with
To grant a modicum
Of the nonsense left in my heart.
I've cried out
Thousands of words;
Screamed them until they furrowed
In paper, in computer screens
Into the faces of hapless lovers
To no such avail.
At the end of the day, read and know
That my writing is as futile
As loving a dead man,
An errant, wandering heart,
And a depth-less, angry river.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC