"mousy" poems
The sunlight turned
Your mousy brown hair
Into strings of gold
And killed the air so cold
The sunlight turned
Your frown upside-down
And stitched the gaps shut
Within this heart of mine
The sunlight turned
The abomination we made
Into a helpless heap of snow
And we didn't worry much about it
I'd **** to see more days
With us under the sunlight
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
'Neath canopy of paradise
Super troupers' shafts of light
Illuminate his terpsichore;
***** he struts, the impresario
Gyrating on spindle shanks;
Needle thin and knock-kneed
He dances a samba
On stage of verdure;
Midst Elvis blue-black thrusts,
Steel rimmed amber orbs
Seek admiring and desirous glances
From the dour drab hen,
Mousy in her beige twin set
And mottled tweed skirt;
With nonchalant disinterest she exits
The arena; audition over.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 11:40 AM UTC
i.
I once knew a girl who wore jeans with ripped holes
not a cape, but scraped knees
she didn’t believe in smoke signals, instead
wrote in the margins of the paper but
each time I wanted to drown,
she taught me how to swim.
ii.
She slouched when she walked and
had mousy brown hair without
pearly white teeth or a figure 8 but
when she smiled, my God,
was she beautiful.
iii.
My mother always told me that when I grow up,
I could be whatever I wanted. When I told her
I wanted to be Wonderwoman, she laughed and said,
“someone is already Wonderwoman,” I didn’t know
that someone was you.
iv.
The next time someone pulls your hair or
calls you names, remember that there’s only one you
who knows how to save my world.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
You tell me you love me
**** you, *****
You call out the window at me like Romeo
"Welcome home, beautiful."
The text messages read raw
"I'll always love you, Jamila"
But my name isn't Jamila.
I drop you off for a few days
It's your sister's birthday
A year since her death
Through angry tears you kiss me goodbye
"See you in a couple of days, after the celebration.
I'll be calling you like crazy. I'll miss you like crazy. Answer."
You don't call.
There is a new picture on our computer
She's got glasses, mousy brown hair, and is holding her cell phone
I do too.
I text you and ask you who these people are
"There's no one else, I swear. I love you. I'll marry you. Let's get married, K?"
You think I'm coming to pick you up.
I won't.
You tell me you love me.
Well, **** you, *****
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 9:51 PM UTC
i belong to the daybreak
when humans with sleepy eyes
and mousy morning hearts
are brave enough to face
the scarily mundane world once again.
i belong to nature
to the hidden wonders of the world
there's unknown modern hanging gardens of babylon
and the secret sanctuaries
where the teenagers of the megalopolis
go to rest.
i belong to the ocean
in the deepest trenches
no man has seen
where it is quiet and still
and darkness reigns supreme.
i belong to outer space
in the galaxies who are
strangers we'd like to know
there's dark matter that swirls
space dust coalesces
and stars are born to die all over again.
i belong to the rain
when the sky cries and
the typhoons turn to drizzle
the water runs through
empty houses and thrift stores in the gutters
and on and on, to underground,
to God knows where.
i belong to the night
to the time when the busiest people
submit to slumber
but a few who are not
bothered by lightyears
sit by their windowsills
to watch the stars.
*i belong to the world
and the world belongs to me.*
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Smears of charcoal under my eyes
The white of my bones shines through my skin
Blood streams through the cracks in the floor
Horror behind me, horror above
Chained to the basement wall, ravenous
Awaiting my abductor, half curious
The door screams and creaks open
My body jumps, a frightened child
***** boots stomp slowly down the stairs
To the rhythm of my petrified heart
DEAD YET?
He bellows
My mousy chest no longer moves
Up and down
There is a sickening silence
Heart attack
Is there existence after this day?
No escape
He trudges closer, squinting at my shell
My once beautiful thin frame
Now resembling a Holocaust victim
Rib cage exposed, eyes locked
He sneers again,
I asked you a question
My voice box is being strangled
By the sadistic frog in my throat
The seconds tick as I find my words
Piece them together in my mind
And try my best to lock away my strength
You may be able..
Kick
*To **** my body..*
Steel toed boots
To slice me to bits..
Crack
But I promise you..
Another rib
You cannot..
Bleeding
****
I can taste my decay
My essence..
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
Mousy was a little mouse. He had a mousy tail.
And Mousy had a giant friend named Francis.
Who's a whale!
Now you might wonder how a mouse
could be friends with a whale.
Well.Mousy Mouse was a mouse
And he knew how to sail!
For Mousy was born on a sailing ship.
Far, far out at sea.
And having been born a sailor,
What else could he be?
The sailing ship was a mighty one!
With sails tall and white.
And Mousy would stand on the deck
And watch the stars at night.
Now Francis was a great big whale
Who came up once for air.
He looked up at the ship
and saw Mousy standing there.
"Hi there little mouse! Ahoy!"
Francis called up from the sea.
The waters great this time of night!
Come down and swim with me!"
"I'd love to swim with you great whale!"
Mousy shouted out with glee.
"My name sir, is Mousy Mouse"
"And what might your name be?"
"My name is Francis. Francis Whale Write!
And now that you and I are friends,
Come swim with me tonight!"
"And so I shall!" cried Mousy.
And he dove into the sea.
They swam around for hours!
It was quite a sight to see.
They swam and swam and swam some more.
Till Mousy finally said,
"I really should get back on board.
For I must go to bed!
Then Francis sighed a little sigh
And said "I understand.
"But your down here while the decks up there!
"I best give you a hand."
So he sat little Mousy upon his giant tail,
Gave it just a tinsy flip
And through the air he sailed!
Mousy landed on the deck.
As easy as you please.
"Thank you!" cried out Mousy Mouse.
"For swimming round with me!"
Francis said"that's quite all right,
We must swim again someday!"
And that's how they became friends
And still are to this day!
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Mouse’s are a famous breed,
From lines of kings they come.
They have a mousey song, and a mousey creed;
They love mousey cheese, and mousey ***
Mouse’s love spirits, wine, beer, and ale;
They love to chew on cheesy things.
And when they’re drunk, they will regale,
Spouting stories of mousy kings.
In mousey castle, in mousey town,
Lived a mighty mousey king.
And his mousy eyes, looked up and down,
On every big, and little thing.
But his mighty mousy features,
Were struck by mousy mope.
For all his fellow creatures,
Were bereft of *** and hope.
“No *** No rum!” They cried,
To the king as he passed by.
They wept, and sobbed, and sighed;
“Oh my, oh my, oh my”.
In the kingdom of the mouse,
There can be no greater woe,
Than to find no *** in house;
It lays the mouse’s low.
“No *** can be got”!
Stated the advisor to the king.
“We’ve all got up, and drunk the lot;
'Tis a sad and sorry thing”.
All the mousy heads,
Hung low in grim defeat.
They played with mousy threads,
With mousy hands, and mousy feet.
But the king of mouse’s rose
Standing tall upon his mitts.
Wriggled in his mousy hose,
And strained his mousy wits.
“Who can build new ***
Asked the mighty mousey king.
But all the mouse’s were dumb,
On this mighty mousey thing.
Then from out the bleachers;
Stumbled little Georgey mouse.
A smirk bestruck his features,
He was happy; he was ******
With mousy hands he gript
A bottle tall and fine
And from its neck he sipped;
A liquor; so divine.
“I shound it through zzat wall”,
Announced little Georgey mouse
“Theresh enough for one and all;
Enough to build a housh”.
He sipped the liquor fair,
And shouted, “What a corker”!
He flashed the bottle in the air;
Black label Johnny Walker.
And all the mousey squeaks,
Wrung cheer from misery.
And the cheers went on for weeks;
“Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 8:19 PM UTC
some connections can't be adequately explained
freezing wind and gilded ceilings, mousy brown roots
on bubblegum hair
keeping a scarf in place is too hard, and staying inside is too easy
(the bottom has cobblestones)
why is there is only such thing as effortless
when the air is cold enough to burn?
(the best veins are beneath the lids of my eyes)
if footsteps don't echo there's neither point nor interest
menthol, sorbitol, glycerin, xanthan
I exhale mint when I breathe in the world.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
At the bus stop,a beautiful dormouse nibbled.
Gnawing away at a roll filled with sausage.
The freak with the tea-bag face.
Let's call her Alice.
Fair maid.
Mousy fair hair cradled her shoulders.
Reminiscent of Wonderland.
No blue and white pinafore dress.
Just a pair of leggings wrapped in complex patterns.
A medley of cream, brown and black.
Fluffy ebony boots of winter.
One missing thing no Cheshire cat here.
The road is rather too hectic for a cat to come and frolic.
Not even a fantasy cat with a grin.
Alice's mother stood close at hand.
Protecting her as they wait.
Quick as a flash.
The bus came.
Right one for me.
Doubt if I'll see bus-stop Alice ever again.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
10,000 hipsters stand in the square
with ***** makeup and ****** flare
prayers fly into the dim lit sky
as a generation asks god ‘why’
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
I sit here in despair
for a god of whom I did care
well, just a man with a master’s eye
for making all of the people sigh…
and now I sit here with my head in my hand
just trying to understand
what this world has come unto
can there ever again be skies of blue
and while swishy in her satin and tat
frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
there can never be another like that –
the morning news brought a cold chill
as the icon of us undesirables
came to be laid at rest
it’s on America’s tortured brow
leaving us to sit solemn
as old records spin
telling tales of space men
and life on mars
a little china girl
and one man who feel to earth
it’s on America’s tortured brow
the fashionista of glam rock
the birther of Ziggy
the man who sold the world
forever changing
chameleon
in smart shoes –
spinning grooves
and scattered cd’s
tears slipping away
as memories already start to fade
it’s the freakiest show
look at those cavemen go
will they ever know
just who left us
take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girls with the mousy hair
now she walks with a sunken dream
and the cream that once rose so high
so too will come the time to die
and as all of us let him go
there can be a bit of hope for those
who carry a torchy flare
to the girl with the mousy hair
and will sing in the dead of night
with face paint and a big spot light
******* and the party boys
come out with their fancy toys
but it’s a god-awful small affair
if you find you’re too square to care
‘bout the goblin kings sad depart
from this earth and from hipster hearts
see these kids have no loyalty
to a man who helped define me
when the world gave me a frown
for kissing boys in a dainty gown
ole Davy gave me peace
with a confidence that never ceased
oh Mr. Jones I’m in debt to you
for turning my grey skies to blue
now I’ll forever carry this torch
from green valleys to my own front porch
but it’s a god-awful small affair
it’s nice to know some of us care…
about the earth and sun and stars
and yes
there is life
on
Mars –
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs. Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home. Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol. Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market. Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices. Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement. Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies. Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do. Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape. Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning. Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away. Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there. Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer. Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
You know what I'm going to miss most...
Are those short chats in Afrikaans class
That share sly secrets and hearts are opened freely
No pretence and no doubt in mind
And I come to realise
It is my last year to do so
It's the sound of the bell
That leads me along each day
That structure every day of my life
Calling me to its whims
To the places I should go
Next year I will be alone.
It's those short walks to each class
Where you get in those last bits of a conversation
You utter words of encouragement to those who are in need
To your fellow girls in green
And for the first time, I wonder if I'll ever see them again...
I've been surrounded by these radiant faces
Each day of my life
For the past five years,
Some twelve
I've walked these corridors with them
I've heard about pieces of their extraordinary lives
We've shared laughs as a class
And inside jokes...
That time when someone was given something in art that made her insane and declare "the tree bit me", again and again
The hazy day in grade eight when we were so delighted by our teachers absence, we caused such a raucous and when she came... That class captain shouted "SHE'S COMING!"
And all was back to normality...
I remember my first cultural day...
Singing to the entire school at the top of my lungs...
I remember my first day of grade 8,
A mousy timid being not sure of where she should go
To a phoenix screaming her name on the stage...
Ready to fly into the skies
And stare down at meak faces
And eyes filled with fascination
You see,
There are things in my school I love dearly
The radiant faces beside me each day, the ones that have always stayed and never strayed away...
The sound of the bell as it structures my day
And those conversations in Afrikaans class...
That keep me sane...
I ponder of what my life will become
And if I will always hold these memories
So close to my whimpering heart...
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
She dyed her hair purple,
though not all of it.
She wanted to keep some of herself.
She didn’t want to erase everything.
She dyed her hair purple,
leaving some of that mousy color.
The purple was violets
like her favorite flower.
She was shy,
but now she would look bold.
She would stand out amongst the clover.
She dyed her hair purple
and bought all new clothes.
She donated much of those
childhood remnants
and took a trip to the thrift store.
She searched through the past,
through the castaways
and found her new image.
She chose how she wanted to look.
She dyed her hair purple
and tried new things.
She went on walks through the woods,
laid in the hammock at night
to watch the stars,
to catch lightning bugs
in the summer,
to draw in the sunlight,
to read in the grass,
write down the stories in her head,
and dare to be herself.
She dyed her hair purple
and kids at school thought she was weird.
But she didn’t care.
She dyed her hair purple
and her parents didn’t like it.
They thought she was going to do bad things.
But she didn’t.
She was a flower child,
a child of the night,
and true to herself.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Introductions are never easy.
Mousy boy.
Chains.
Ankles shackled.
Lungs rattle, relentless battle.
Loose phlegm, filling falling castles.
Under no pretense.
Moat; a barrier of defense.
Where voice is a drawbridge
Oscillating flow.
Open bandage.
Darkest window.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
and maybe one day you and i will write our own realities
because we are boys whose dreams begin and end with cheeky grins
and dark eyes
and we are boys whose dreams begin and end with mousy brown hair
and hurt painted on forearms
and we are children and young and fierce
we are like the wind
and our love is everlasting
and maybe one day you and i will sign a petition to end the world
bloodstains and a lit match on our cheap hotel bedspread
tornado valley in our hearts and in our heads
i can’t promise you that this is real
but i can promise you that it can be
maybe one day you and i will cut out our hearts
and sew them to our sleeves
and let them bleed down and soak back into our sinew
but right now we are children,and
we are young and fierce,and
we will love young and fierce
(twelve years and thirteen bodies later--)
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
EEEEEEK! She shrieked as
Lucky black cat spat
A mouse into the house
SKEEEEEEK! Squeaked said mouse
Paddling skedaddling hither thither
Seeking sites secure
Said mouse booked it to bedroom
Cornered itself into a corner
SQUEEEEEAKING!
Himself (and black cat) tried to help
Poking prodding mouse to come out
Critter capered up my trouser
And lept!
Disappeared!
We slept.
From boudoir to bath
I find next morning mousy
Tentatively treading toilet water
What a fright!
All night!
All his might!
Suavely saving mousey
Glad I put gloves on as its
Teeth deployed deeply
Outside with him.
Run away!
Cat’s watching.
Heart beating
Lungs working
Stay alive, little guy!
Later, Fred keeping watch
The little grey fluff is gone
I mean: really gone
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
On the bus I heard a fellow decrying Americans at war,
Said all were yellow bellied cowards,
I found this most distasteful,
Wanted to bite him , to lash him with my tongue,
To unwrap a box of disrespect,
Tell him not to generalise,
To speak out about causing such offence,
From discussion of cowardice,
He digressed to general sundry,
The price of fish and wages,
Along with the price of beer,
Felt sorry for the mousy wife,
Who never marked his card,
To get a word in edge ways would have been extremely hard!
I am an English woman thought this so unfair!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
Come,
let me coil snakelike
round your mousy faced complexion,
spinning till
I squeeze the life back in to you.
You'll be wrapped tight in me,
forget where I end, and
I'll swallow you whole into us.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
mousy girl, sitting in the corner, of an american airlines’ lounge
staring out a window, watching it snow
waiting for a flight from frankfurt to dallas
so cute, so demure, how is a boy to resist you
long shiny hair, over sized sweats, black leggings, white keds
sitting crossed, over one leg, slightly bouncing nervously
occasionally catching my eye, then glancing away
are you flirting or just curious, i wish i knew
how do i approach you, what do i say
am i of interest or am i passe
do you know, you’re playing the part, of a little
do you need a daddy, someone to hold, protect you
make you feel special, loved, and cared for
cuddled, kept warm
kissed and touched, everywhere
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 8:23 PM UTC
Pitter-patter.
On the window.
Pitter-patter.
On the sill.
Pitter-patter.
Does the child.
Pitter-patter
from your mouth.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
You pitter-pat all the time until-
until you pitter-pat your way,
to driving out insanity.
Pitter-pat.
Pitter-pat.
Tisk-tisk-tisk.
Tat-tat-tat.
You pitter-patted through the house.
You pitter-pat like a measly mouse.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
Pitter-pitter.
Pat-pat-pat.
The rain against the window resembles,
the sound after a pitter-pat.
You clasp your lips,
say you'll make no sound,
but you pitter-pat
all the time;
all around.
You say you don't,
I know you do.
You say you won't,
I know you will.
You pitter-pattering,
chitter-chattering,
skitter-scattering,
little rat-like
mouse.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
His eyes pools of blue, his hair mousy and soft.
His lips as luxurious as a breeze on a hot day.
His words pierce me like cupid's arrows, his gaze as stunning as Medusa.
I feel this for him yet I'm just a friend, my soul sings like the caged bird.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
acceptably buried,
color: drab
effectively furrowed
gray.
heather, iron
jutting knife
lead, mousy
nearly opaque,
powder
'quisitively rugged
smoky
terribly unnoticed
verily withdrawn
xenon
yesterday's zeal
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Today I cried because my arms are fat
And my eyes aren't pretty unless lined like a cat
I don't want to be the mousy brunette
Of average height and intellect
I want to be that edgy girl who rocks vintage clothes
And collects records, and reads, and looks like Bridget Bardot
Not good enough for you, but how can I forget
When my mind constantly replays the moment we met?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC