"moue" poems
She broke my heart again
It failed as she skipped out of reach
It’s okay
Little things can go unnoticed
How big can a heart really be?
She gave it a kick as she stumbled over it
That paled in comparison when she stepped on it
I gift wrapped my heart
I even sang a little tune as I tied the bow
She had that look though
A little moue of surprise and a stutter
My heart dropped and I leaned back
Bracing myself always feels like it should help
But, then she broke it
Kicked it
Stepped on it
Scuffed it for sure
It got a little blurry
I knew as soon as she said
“We can still be friends right?”
cc062911
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.
you will find yourself all alone.
you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself
{a story is nothing
without
a villain}
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
17 years later I still see her face.
I see her in the glamorous moue of some random starlet,
I see her in the tilt of the nose of the checkout girl.
I see her in the curve of the cheek, the bend of the elbow, the small of some strangers back.
I barely remember her, it was so long ago.
I have been without much longer than with, but she still haunts me.
everyday.
I see her face in the mirror and I understand
why my stepmother hated me.
it's alright,
its all tight its all ok.
What would she think of the woman I have become?
Would we be friends?
Would we be at odds?
Even after all the choices I made,
the hearts and laws I have broken,
would she still love me?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
Sonnet.
Dans la salle à manger brune, que parfumait
Une odeur de vernis et de fruits, à mon aise
Je ramassais un plat de je ne sais quel met
Belge, et je m'épatais dans mon immense chaise.
En mangeant, j'écoutais l'horloge, - heureux et coi.
La cuisine s'ouvrit avec une bouffée,
- Et la servante vint, je ne sais pas pourquoi,
Fichu moitié défait, malinement coiffée
Et, tout en promenant son petit doigt tremblant
Sur sa joue, un velours de pêche rose et blanc,
En faisant, de sa lèvre enfantine, une moue,
Elle arrangeait les plats, près de moi, pour m'aiser ;
- Puis, comme ça, - bien sûr, pour avoir un baiser, -
Tout bas : " Sens donc, j'ai pris 'une' froid sur la joue..."
1.5k
to write a poem,
what is the point
to pick such topics
just the right word,
that amazing phrase
an awe inspiring emotion
to put pen to paper
or more commonly now
fingers to keys
why such an urge
who does it benefit
the writer, the reader
or maybe the dog?
should it be vivid
should it be magical
how about beautiful
or even disturbing
should it make you laugh
or tear
or should it just simply
make you think
hard and deep
and even self question
or bring you back to that moment
way back when
is it because
you have a logolepsy?
or maybe ahypnia?
it's starting to become achroous,
this examination of the verse
when all I want
to make is an alborado,
to sing your praises
and write about pageism
why not?
this galanty is so much fun,
are poems a paideia?
or are they just to say your point,
a rush of emotions
a release of the tension
the sharing of love
and the caress of sadness
though I'd rather aim to macarize
and cause habromania
or dacrygelosis
so don't moue
it's not my fault
you'd rather patavinity
I should just write a decastich
I know, I know
all this garniture,
is causing garboil
stop this gemebund
to write is to write
be poem, story, song
they are all precious
in their own self
Satisdiction
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
Hummmm.
Mon Immortelle, mes aïeux !
Comme tu es appétissante !
Je n'en crois pas mes yeux !
J'ai agrandi ta photo jusqu'à ce qu'elle crève l 'écran.
J 'aurais pu t'embrasser si je l 'avais voulu,
Tellement tu étais proche, magnifiée !
Mais je me suis retenu
et j 'ai décidé de détourner le regard de ta chair et de me concentrer sur les accessoires
car le risque d'atteindre une illumination visuelle à distance aurait été grand
si j 'avais seulement pris le temps de m'attarder
Une demi-seconde sur le lac de tes yeux profonds
et la moue sur tes lèvres couleur aubergine
Je me suis donc consacré exclusivement à l 'examen minutieux,
Détail après détail,
de tes accessoires, de tes épices.
Oh ne m'en veux pas
Si ce n 'était pas toi, la déesse, que je regardais défiler
Sur l 'écran à vitesse lente chevauchant une tigresse blanche
Mais tes accessoires
Et tes accessoires en disent long sur ton essentiel !
Ce sont des accessoires magiques, physiques, magnétiques, chimiques
Un simple verre de vin de letchi devient entre tes doigts du divin jus de jade
Tes boucles d'oreille et ton collier d'argent assorti d'une fleur blanche odorante majestueuse!
Jasmin ? Frangipanier ? Rose ? Orchidée ? Lotus ? Dis moi !
Tes bagues dorées au majeur et à l 'annulaire, main droite comme main gauche, deux par main
Des fleurs, encore des boutons de fleurs !
De veuvage ? De mariage ? De fiançailles ?
Tes deux bracelets d'argent au poignet gauche
Sans oublier ta robe bleue imprimée à fleurs
Et tes mocassins bleus assortis.
Et ton pantalon blanc bien évidemment !
Laissons de côté ce sublime rouge à lèvres couleur aubergine !
Bref j 'ai passé en ***** tout ce qui t'enlumine et t'illumine
Sans être toi tout en étant toi.
Comme ton sac en bandoulière et ce verre de vin de letchi ou de jade que tu presses entre tes doigts.
Tes accessoires sont la voie royale vers ton essentiel !
Et je sais désormais que tu es fleur caméléon,
Je sais les couleurs de ta quintessence :
Tigresse de jade blanc aux oreilles et au cou
Dorée au bout des doigts
et marron et blanche sur fond bleu,
Toute de lianes et feuilles et clochettes
Toute fleurs de safran, gingembre, curcuma
Piment, tamarin et cannelle
Des épaules aux cuisses !
Me voilà bien avancé, n 'est-ce pas, ma fleur,
Dragon de jade, sur ton chemin de Compostelle ! ?
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
Dear Magenta,
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than I. It has only been three days since I was allowed pen and ink. I have spent the last two days trying to decide what it was that I wanted to convey in this message.
Once I decided, I spent most of today locked in my room beginning and destroying this letter.
The floor is littered with scraps of paper, upended preludes.
There is so much to tell you; beginning is near impossible. We will do our best, I suppose.
I want you to know foremost that I have never hated you. I want you to know that I only wanted to see our project to it’s inevitable end. I wanted to be done with you, I wanted you to leave me to my own devices for a while, I wanted to be able to refresh myself and renew my spirit. You, my antagonist, should have allowed it. Alas, you’ve always seemed to be ignorant of my need, or to have other plans altogether.
It is a clever ruse that you have put together. You would speak to me of my own betterment. You would tell me that you were only trying to strengthen my resolve, to make me somehow improved. And how I believed you! How I wanted it to be unfeigned! And, I do wish ever so that your efforts were pure. But, where you see me, you see a buffoon, no doubt!
What a folly you have made.
I am aware of you now. My eyes are open and my mind fairly screams with indignation.
I need you to know that I will not bend to your supplanted misgivings. You will not continue as you have these recent months. My confidence is returning and no anxiousness shall impede it.
I know now, and have always known, that I am capable, and intelligent. You may find me unconventional, perhaps even unsavory, but I know that my intentions are pure and my efforts are honest and more importantly, well received!
Now, you must also know that I know what to expect! When the time comes and you are confronted with my malcontented behaviors; you will project a moue and cry foul. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye!
And, honestly, I’m looking forward to it. But, please do try to maintain a level of composure that is redolent of your years on this planet.
With an unfortunate level of superciliousness,
Obsidian
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Bills piling shots firing I'm trying to find a way
Introverse with her whining carrying on now confounding
Uncomfortably I lay arrest the facts on should I stay
Consideration out the door confide my thoughts ample the roar
Patience, interests, attachments, evanesced
Love, desire, allegiance, suppressant
Quiescent our days spent questions asks nowhere to vent
While time progress the strongest may stick thus, what is done we forget is effects of Decay theorist
Faults will be blamed and blames will be fault
Obsessed with an solution that disinterested us with doubt
Moue and pout scrutinizing about ubiquitously we well figure this out
Grind, fail, comes with travail enough of both will prevail
for the time being mistakes are edit abate, the **** cusp, the tail,
CREDITS
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
wanting to see it all
from top to bottom
sitting in the stands
smelling something rotten
leaving a nasty taste in my mouth
a moue of disappointment
under appreciating surroundings
feeling a loss of entitlement
wanted to taste it all
wanted to speak its language
wanted to experience it's thrall
felt nothing except banished
saw nothing but heartache
saw nothing but fear and pain
felt nothing in my exile
wings beating hard, here I remain
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
J'ai rêvé d'un lent périple,
Interminable roulis
Au terme duquel
J'atterrissais sans autre appareil
Que mes lèvres nues et sincères
Entre le grand zygomatique
Et le risorius
En plein arc de Cupidon
D'une ogresse à queue de sirène.
Et quand j'ai posé ma toupie sur la moue lisse,
A l'aplomb de cet oeil en demi-lune
Que je savais être celui du cyclone Désirée,
Une coupe d'amour pleine à ras bord m' attendait
A la commissure gauche de ses lèvres
Ainsi qu'une inquiétude vermillon où je fus
Instantanément bercé.
La mer molle de ses lèvres bouillait
Tiède et folle comme un tapis de miel
Je dérivais ainsi entre lèvre haute
Et lèvre basse dans mon rocking chair aubergine
Constricteur et dilatateur
Je drivais sans savoir trop comment à la godille
Entre ses ourlets humides à peine décollés
Et du gouffre de ses fossettes pleuvaient des abeilles d'or et de plomb.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC
Le ciel si pâle et les arbres si grêles
Semblent sourire à nos costumes clairs
Qui vont flottant légers avec des airs
De nonchalance et des mouvements d'ailes.
Et le vent doux ride l'humble bassin,
Et la lueur du soleil qu'atténue
L'ombre des bas tilleuls de l'avenue
Nous parvient bleue et mourante à dessein.
Trompeurs exquis et coquettes charmantes,
Coeurs tendres mais affranchis du serment,
Nous devisons délicieusement,
Et les amants lutinent les amantes
De qui la main imperceptible sait
Parfois donner un souffle qu'on échange
Contre un baiser sur l'extrême phalange
Du petit doigt, et comme la chose est
Immensément excessive et farouche,
On est puni par un regard très sec,
Lequel contraste, au demeurant, avec
La moue assez clémente de la bouche.
405
Baiser ! rose trémière au jardin des caresses !
Vif accompagnement sur le clavier des dents
Des doux refrains qu'Amour chante en les cœurs ardents,
Avec sa voix d'archange aux langueurs charmeresses !
Sonore et gracieux Baiser, divin Baiser !
Volupté non pareille, ivresse inénarrable !
Salut ! L'homme, penché sur ta coupe adorable,
S'y grise d'un bonheur qu'il ne sait épuiser.
Comme le vin du Rhin et comme la musique,
Tu consoles et tu berces, et le chagrin
Expire avec la moue en ton pli purpurin...
Qu'un plus grand, Gœthe ou Will, te dresse un vers classique.
Moi, je ne puis, chétif trouvère de Paris,
T'offrir que ce bouquet de strophes enfantines :
Sois bénin et, pour prix, sur les lèvres mutines
D'Une que je connais, Baiser, descends, et ris.
384
Medusa slips into necessary days, 20th century,
completely by accident, it was a chemical spill
nobody was there to clean up this ms stake
but she was definitely sorry
boy was she in for a surprize
it wasn't golden at all
it was all about the wrong moment
wrong in every way
1944, Germany, Medusa on stage
Fraulein, in tap shoes, wearing powder kegs
beneath her stage set and she had no idea where she
might be but she knew exactly where to stomp down
exactly when to toss that feathered purse
and to whom to throw it, with a moue
a dimpled kiss and a wink
goodbye, my love
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 12:24 AM UTC
Tu m'as frappé, c'est ridicule,
Je l'ai battue et c'est affreux :
Je m'en repens et tu m'en veux.
C'est bien, c'est selon la formule.
Je n'avais qu'à me tenir coi
Sous l'aimable averse des gifles
De ta main experte en mornifles,
Sans même demander pourquoi.
Et toi, ton droit, ton devoir même,
Au risque de t'exténuer,
Il serait de continuer
De façon extrême et suprême...
Seulement, ô ne m'en veux plus,
Encore que ce fût un crime
De t'avoir faite ma victime...
Dis, plus de refus absolus,
Bats-moi, petite, comme plâtre,
Mais ensuite viens me baiser,
Pas ? quel besoin d'éterniser
Une querelle trop folâtre.
Pour se brouiller plus d'un instant,
Le temps de nous faire une moue
Qu'éteint un bécot sur la joue,
Puis sur la bouche en attendant
Mieux encor, n'est-ce pas, gamine ?
Promets-le-moi sans biaiser.
C'est convenu ? Oui ? Puis-je oser ?
Allons, plus de ta grise mine !
300