"molls" poems - Hello Poetry

(To the tune of "Like a Virgin'.) Not a ****** Queen of the molls, Not a ****** So I've been told, Not a ****** I'm like, well, old, Not a ****** Please stop your moans, Not a ****** That's why men are alone, Not a ****** I'm like, well, old, Not a ****** So I 've been told, Not a ****** You sound like a *** Get over it!!!!!

0

Jan 6, 2016

Jan 6, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC

julie-grenness

DOUBLE STANDARD

(To the tune of "Like a Virgin'.) Not a ****** Queen of the molls, Not a ****** So I've been told, Not a ****** I'm like, well, old, Not a ****** Please stop your moans, Not a ****** That's why men are alone, Not a ****** I'm like, well, old, Not a ****** So I 've been told, Not a ****** You sound like a *** Get over it!!!!!

18

I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard nil by nil by nil feet How to describe a sensation such as heat to them? The interminable sun and so on I wonder if they understand that Light itself is not heat whereupon the bell sounds their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air I look at a Dupuytren in the room Cord around the chair His clothes hanging off him Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair From his eyes My room looks out beyond the yard It is high up - precarious Through that picturewindow, the world without is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown spires and roofing I see my own sadness, my impotence In every inch of the heights the girls come back, propping black bikes against the gate; my legs are wrapped in a blanket and I feel nothing below my waist Through a system of cables and consent my companion molls in Bergonic poise each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart lessening the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed He read about Escher in bed waiting to be plugged unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and unbeknownst methods until he forgot those days in Margate the sound of his nieces and everything he read about Escher – the light makes dull the precision of the thorn

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Aug 6, 2013

Aug 6, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC

rf

light courted, coursed

I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard nil by nil by nil feet How to describe a sensation such as heat to them? The interminable sun and so on I wonder if they understand that Light itself is not heat whereupon the bell sounds their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air I look at a Dupuytren in the room Cord around the chair His clothes hanging off him Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair From his eyes My room looks out beyond the yard It is high up - precarious Through that picturewindow, the world without is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown spires and roofing I see my own sadness, my impotence In every inch of the heights the girls come back, propping black bikes against the gate; my legs are wrapped in a blanket and I feel nothing below my waist Through a system of cables and consent my companion molls in Bergonic poise each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart lessening the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed He read about Escher in bed waiting to be plugged unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and unbeknownst methods until he forgot those days in Margate the sound of his nieces and everything he read about Escher – the light makes dull the precision of the thorn

38

The dreamer can see and understand how the mountain may hold out a welcoming hand to the climber who wishes to get to the top and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand. But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by and the tortoise that sits high on the hog or the dog with a tick. Take your pick there are so many dreams given free what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste? A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me another fish swimming by in the sea and golfballs where nobody dances A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim one more fin on a fish I wish it could last but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls. Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said) even in dreams can't get that into my head. The dreamer and know it alls and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences offending no one and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all. Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there why should we care. To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne. These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller or perhaps it is me getting smaller. I ramble so slightly twice nightly and three times on Bank Holidays at time and a third. One day I don't hope to recover my senses leave me to the horses and white picket fences I'm happy.

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May 31, 2013

May 31, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Instructions inside

The dreamer can see and understand how the mountain may hold out a welcoming hand to the climber who wishes to get to the top and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand. But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by and the tortoise that sits high on the hog or the dog with a tick. Take your pick there are so many dreams given free what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste? A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me another fish swimming by in the sea and golfballs where nobody dances A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim one more fin on a fish I wish it could last but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls. Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said) even in dreams can't get that into my head. The dreamer and know it alls and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences offending no one and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all. Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there why should we care. To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne. These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller or perhaps it is me getting smaller. I ramble so slightly twice nightly and three times on Bank Holidays at time and a third. One day I don't hope to recover my senses leave me to the horses and white picket fences I'm happy.

38

*I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it. Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare? The touch of her skin as she lays bare? Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue? Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes? I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet. Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms? Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her ******* Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best? Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie? Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes? Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor? It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight? One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't. Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage? Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare; aligned teeth, sharp nose; tan skin, shaved brows; waxed legs, hefty breast; mild touch, sweet caress; cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall; flamboyant voice, and foxy lips? What about molls and vagrant rips? To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis? Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a **** Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal-- Does beauty still nest on them? I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound. To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.*

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Oct 25, 2014

Oct 25, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC

gabtrrs

Aphrodite

*I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it. Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare? The touch of her skin as she lays bare? Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue? Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes? I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet. Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms? Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her ******* Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best? Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie? Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes? Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor? It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight? One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't. Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage? Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare; aligned teeth, sharp nose; tan skin, shaved brows; waxed legs, hefty breast; mild touch, sweet caress; cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall; flamboyant voice, and foxy lips? What about molls and vagrant rips? To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis? Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a **** Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal-- Does beauty still nest on them? I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound. To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.*

28

We work-to-rule, we're molls, We are not unfeeling dolls, Molls don't make extra cuppas for you, We write our own rules to suit, It's up to you to not be rude, I say, "Pappa don't preach!" to you, Molls write lots of rules, They've got their own cooking school, We cook when we want to, The world is not run for you, Yes, molls now have work-to-rules.

0

May 7, 2016

May 7, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC

julie-grenness

WORK TO RULE.....

We work-to-rule, we're molls, We are not unfeeling dolls, Molls don't make extra cuppas for you, We write our own rules to suit, It's up to you to not be rude, I say, "Pappa don't preach!" to you, Molls write lots of rules, They've got their own cooking school, We cook when we want to, The world is not run for you, Yes, molls now have work-to-rules.

11

i thank you most for your amazing soul ;for how you heard how eyes would move when words like faithandhopeandlove look less absurd if gathered as a group of nothing's goal your cambridge soul unfurnished but for love for prosties with a heart, the gangster molls, the corner louts in bars, and wealthy trolls who wandered drunk through parlors where you moved seeking answers asking questions beautiful finding lonely large and self by sea any/noone humans merely be- ing flames of making burning blue and cool you opened eyes of eyes and ears of ears with words that shook the mountains of the years

0

Apr 3, 2016

Apr 3, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC

joel-m-frye

Miracles are to come

i thank you most for your amazing soul ;for how you heard how eyes would move when words like faithandhopeandlove look less absurd if gathered as a group of nothing's goal your cambridge soul unfurnished but for love for prosties with a heart, the gangster molls, the corner louts in bars, and wealthy trolls who wandered drunk through parlors where you moved seeking answers asking questions beautiful finding lonely large and self by sea any/noone humans merely be- ing flames of making burning blue and cool you opened eyes of eyes and ears of ears with words that shook the mountains of the years

14

Who really has world power? Think on this while you shower, If you own the coffee or tea, You own the home, prithee, That's molls' rules, you see, "Do you want a cup of tea?" Our magic word is 'please', Be nice to tea ladies, Or there's no more coffee or tea, Is that power, or what? Tea ladies rule, so what!

0

Feb 7, 2017

Feb 7, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC

julie-grenness

THE POWER!

Who really has world power? Think on this while you shower, If you own the coffee or tea, You own the home, prithee, That's molls' rules, you see, "Do you want a cup of tea?" Our magic word is 'please', Be nice to tea ladies, Or there's no more coffee or tea, Is that power, or what? Tea ladies rule, so what!

11

Don't call women ***** and molls, Who, indeed, makes girls so? Eve always gets the blame, you know, So, if a man turns a girl into his ** Does that make him a stud or a ****** What a double standard, lo, A world of molls and gigolos!

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Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC

julie-grenness

EVE GETS THE BLAME!

Don't call women ***** and molls, Who, indeed, makes girls so? Eve always gets the blame, you know, So, if a man turns a girl into his ** Does that make him a stud or a ****** What a double standard, lo, A world of molls and gigolos!

7

F.....ing molls, f....ing molls, We cook your food and wash your clothes, F.....ing molls, f.....ing molls, No wonder you **** your own blip, You are so full of it.....

0

Jan 19, 2017

Jan 19, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC

julie-grenness

INSULTS!

F.....ing molls, f....ing molls, We cook your food and wash your clothes, F.....ing molls, f.....ing molls, No wonder you **** your own blip, You are so full of it.....

5

Yes, it's International Women's Day, Let's all celebrate our own day, I didn't hear that, what did you say? Oh, yes, I'm an f.....ing moll again, Yes, in Oz, it's f....ing Molls' Day! With our philosophies of molls, Molls' non-participation protocols, You know what great-grandma said? "Bullies don't get!" get that in your head, Yes, Molls' management rules, I say, Let's celebrate International Women's Day, Now in Oz, it's f.....ing Molls' day, With a smile, of course, that's the way, Smile, babes, this could be you one day!!!!

0

Mar 7, 2017

Mar 7, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC

julie-grenness

SPATULAS AT DAWN!!!!

Yes, it's International Women's Day, Let's all celebrate our own day, I didn't hear that, what did you say? Oh, yes, I'm an f.....ing moll again, Yes, in Oz, it's f....ing Molls' Day! With our philosophies of molls, Molls' non-participation protocols, You know what great-grandma said? "Bullies don't get!" get that in your head, Yes, Molls' management rules, I say, Let's celebrate International Women's Day, Now in Oz, it's f.....ing Molls' day, With a smile, of course, that's the way, Smile, babes, this could be you one day!!!!

14