"muddle" poems
Hands shake after intake
of brown and green.
Catch the breath
keep it till it leaves.
Pretend, through the muddle,
that this hasten heart beat
isn't bumping blood cells
filled with defeat,
that the O2 isn't poisoning
the alveoli that absorb it,
sending this brain, and all
it entails, straight to
hell.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
We chase the ghosts of youth,
with glove and bat and ball;
running down the base-paths,
hoping we don't fall.
Like honey in slow motion,
we make our way to first;
panting... out of breath,
we hope our lungs don't burst.
If we're in the outfield,
we've "lost" the legs to run;
but it's the game we treasure,
it's mostly to have fun.
We laugh at our mistakes,
strikeouts and dropped flies;
it's but play... that we seek,
not self -regretted sighs.
Long gone, the grace of youth,
we muddle through the game;
and rest upon the off days,
tired... happy... lame.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
It's a nightmare of a journey
Through the Rose Hills.
White roses cover death
Along side the 50mph ride.
We'll speed down the boulevard
Turning right, swerving left.
Drink some beer on Broadway,
Smoke some cigarettes at CVS.
Then I'll fill your heart with rose petals
And regret.
You grin and whisper gently
I'll meet you in Whittier at Sunset.
Lets muddle through Greenleaf
Under a cerulean sky.
I got lost in the time held in your eyes.
I stumble back to only trip into your disguise.
Only to drown in your lips and lies.
Dragging our souls to Hellman's and back,
I'll find you on Hadley letting the sun in,
Wilted in Whittier at sunset.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Does a fish go ***
when it's swimming in the sea?
Does it ever get the notion
when it's swimming in the ocean?
Does a fish take a leak
when it's swimming in the creek?
Do they do it in a muddle
when you see them in a puddle?
And then, for goodness sake,
do they go while in the lake?
Could you see a yellow gleam
as they do it in the stream?
Does a fish go ***
when it's swimming in the sea?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
These shots were never taken by chance
They were of anger taken under sunshine
This smoke can oh so muddle your view of the truth
They use smoke of their own to hide their intentions
But the truth can be seen rolling by, glinting red
The weapon of black turns their eyes white
One shines with tears; the other dull and *****
The greedy man hides the youth of all seventeen
It could have been stopped
And the young could continue
This is preventable
But he continues to enable
His smiles are swamp green
His words are shiny gold
But he hides it all behind his suit of blue
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
The puppy sat by the door.
Near dying to go out.
Crying an abysmal wail
As if a naughty child.
Pawed and clawed the kitchen door.
No-one heard the honey pup.
Everyone was out.
Owner running late for work.
Neglected to let her run.
However could she forget.
It got to six a clock at night.
No-body came.
The tension built up.
Fluid build up.
Exploded sweet pup.
(metaphorically of course)
Owner came home.
Just couldn't be cross.
Cleaned up the muddle-some puddle.
Gave her puppy a hug.
Smiled to herself.
Said to puppy how sorry she was.
Cautionary tale acquired from here.
No matter how ever late you ever may be.
Put your cute puppy out to ***
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He’s always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;
So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle;
But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
7.3k
Even on nights when you can't muddle through
Count your blessings I tell you
Look to the sky, oh, so blue
Watch the leaves as the wind blows through
Count your blessings day and night
To keep your curses out of sight
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
The record player keeps spinning the Vinyl
black & white pictures on the walls
are beginning to talk
And the lights blink on and off
The same dark feeling of despair settles over me
during the early hours of the morning
It's a shame 'cause I've run out of whiskey
to help chase the inspiration and sleep
I desperately need
My thoughts cross to you sometimes
and I wonder where you are now
I guess you never kept that promise
as I've yet to see your name on a spine
I guess I'll go to bed now
I'll put on one more record
and muddle into the fog
These black & white pictures
are beginning to talk
And the lights blink
On and off
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
December 2005; January
2006, Summer that year.
2008 round the middle - no not the crash.
2009, yes the muddle.
Tell me about how May 2010
was axed by December 2010.
Palm, palm, date palm, ash cloud.
February, April, August 2011 and
that dreaded December.
last grasp of the kite string,
off goes the dreamed of high
far far away the anchor moorings
when transmission stopped, all white
noise since then, empty
prattle chatter of the key board,
two millennia and counting thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, march, October, March!
January 2016. A new landing.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim
Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him
A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith
A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give
A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture
He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture
He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall
Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all
He will become the most that he can ever endeavour
Be the creature he needs to be and whichever
Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him
It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim
He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly
Who would be more and only more to her and her solely
His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own
If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown
A man would be raised and the sky would be without border
A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order
There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander
A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer
There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth
To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief
To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack
For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back
To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky
His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by
Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent
He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent
If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught?
If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought?
Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt?
That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout?
Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity?
Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity?
Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her?
Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise
No he would not rise anymore
If there ever was such a man and ever such a she
He would have her for as long as that may be
Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you
Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
She's journeying they say;
Journeying.
They're too scared of the word
To simply say 'dying'
But it is all too clear.
I'm sure she knows,
Just us well as they,
Even though her mind is such a muddle.
She doesn't eat
Or leave her bed
And a machine outside her door
pumps air into her lungs for her.
When you try to talk to her
You get lifeless eyes,
As if she's already died
But her body kept on breathing.
Everyone can see it.
They stop what they are doing
To look into her room,
But they never stay for long
Even with all the curiosity in the world
It's not something you really want to witness.
The terribly slow
fading of a life.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
In department store foyers, free samples sprayed,
A collision of cosmetics muddle the air.
The olfactory overpowered by such obvious odours,
Why do natural notes disconcert you?
Not the gym heavy sodden or overworked,
Recognition of an individual, whilst eyes remain shut.
Faint trace of the familiar or frenzied pheromones,
A headiness misplaced by the cologne wearing clones
Preference for the perfumed, the artificial sweetener.
Marketed meticulously
Musk manufactured yet not made by man
Of flowers dear, of oils and compounds.
Fresh, fruity, citrus or spiced
Artificial aromas keep your own scent disguised
Society simulates this sophistication of the senses,
Masking yourself from me as you are wooed,
Accustomed to this attraction, till you let down your defences
How shall I know you when you are ****
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
Waking up to hazy mornings.
To the bitter cold days of
Early Spring.
I've never seen such a beautiful sunrise.
Nine o' clock cigarettes during
The morning rush.
Saturday morning cigarettes
That muddle my head.
The chilly air mimics the smoke
Spewing from my lips,
Toxins sticking to my lungs
Like glue.
It's another day in Paradise.
The dishes in the sink
Pile up in mountains.
Like the skyscraper laundry stack
Overflowing in the hamper.
Just another day in Paradise.
The street lamps glisten as strings of pearls
Their light reflecting off the silver glare of traffic barrels.
The flowers have not arrived.
The flowers have not bloomed,
And the anxiety is killing me.
Killing me like the coffee craving
Pounding in my head.
The flowers are missing,
Hiding from the stinging cold
Of early Spring.
I've never seen such beautifully dismal skies.
In the mild conversations about the weather,
I tell them that it's never been better.
In a way, it's never been.
I walk down the battleground of sidewalk
And tree roots, the slabs of concrete
cracked and marred by Mother Nature's
Will.
Broken etchings of hopscotch
Blur on the gritty surface, besides
The rose bush peeking out through the
Fence.
They'll never fix these.
Because it's another day in Paradise.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
in the
pit I'll
visit tonight
with her
said the
yellow *******
of cordial
and skylight
in Monserrat
she ought
to treasure
my Abacab
with séance
with her
quilt of
resilience that
she'll muddle
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
Soft and firm, gentle and fierce,
A parting breath smothers on skin.
Wild and wanting, surrendered and stroking,
Fingers are searching and home.
Quiet, now listening, anticipating, wishing
Until the spell breaks beneath lips -
Blushing it comes, blooming it bursts
Against symphonies and rhapsodies
With melodies heaving, heavy, unheard.
Gasping for life, holding more tight
To another so fragile, human, finite
Stealing, giving, alternately taking
An appetite destructive, delicious,
Desiring, raging;
Flesh upon flesh, ragged, receiving.
Twisting, bones resisting,
A common ground with no space between
Reaching and holding, pressing and pulling,
Synchronized in silent sweet rhythms of time
Warm, willing, fantasies thrilling, perspire
Lovely and lucid, writhing, conducive
As dancing flames to the fire.
Thoughts are melting to muddle
Into puddled pools of passion
Dripping, swirling, flooding, licking
The innermost walls of the cowering mind
Bodies and hearts are pulsing, repeating,
Beating and bruising, until each breath
Is ****** divine.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
No,
not short poems.
honest to goodness
short shorts,
jean-like short shorts.
No,
not those kinds that
the young girls wear,
jean lookalike stretch fabric,
skin so tight it makes
their ole daddies' faces
wince the same color blue.
in the middle muddle of fall,
now you write of short shorts?
Well, I was told I could not write this
till after the summer was final gone
from the rear view mirror glass.
Once I wrote/imagined about
a woman of a certain age,
who emptied her armoire drawers,
time to transition and take things
that could no longer be,
to the thrift shop,
for others to be
thrifty in.
Except for one bathing suit,
a two piece back from the days,
when two pieces meant
you were proud
of what you had and
what you didn't have -
the same suit she was
wearing grabbing her little son,
then a man of six or seven,
(now a dad with a son,
of three or six or seven),
in the photo on the night table,
some thirty dreams ago.
Man you take a long time to make a point!
what's all this got to do with short shorts?
one summer day,
a woman I know,
an actual
fire-breathing dragon,
went thru the drawers
of her ***** blonde armoire.
there she "found" a pair of
shorts shorts, from some
thirty dreams ago.
it did not take
too much encouragement,
just a little courage
to try them on,
thirty dreams later.
now these short shorts
were the old fashioned kind,
they look liked cut off jeans
but were not, they had rolled up
cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion.
They no longer fit!
Yup.
******* short shorts were
loose
around that curvaceous waist,
known as my favorite place.,
where I rested my head once again,
after,
we celebrated.
that is my poem about short shorts
that I've been carrying round
until the curfew was lifted.
but even tho I like short shorts,
I'll never ask someone to wear them,
risking scorn and mockery,
but I know for a fact,
those short shorts did not
get thrown out.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
I feel surrounded by countless fears
The world for me has nothing but hate
It's getting harder and harder to hold back the tears
For I have an infamous tendency to be late
And that's just how they would phrase it too
So holier-than-thou with their watches
In this world swiftly turned to zoo
Time is king and we are just the notches
My teacher felt the urge to inform me today
That I am late in every way
Late in my work, late in my location
Late in choosing my perfect vocation
And even if you try your hardest
Treat your task as a craft
If you were there the latest
Everyone will view you as daft
Well from now on I will try hard to be on time
I'll cut the corners and muddle through the grime
This problem brings me so much shame
And my peers always choose my head to blame
But never assume that I don't care
Do not believe I enjoy this flaw
For like all the great singers and witty writers rare
My punctuality will someday leave the world in awe
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
In moments of raging to the hospital, the jolts from the road, the squeal of the tires, and the tripping of your feet only multiply your anxiety. Delicacy is suspended amply in the air, hanging daintily on the thread of life and death.
Delicacy is the soft and inconsistent beeping from the cardiac monitor. It controls your thoughts; yet is only a shadow on your radar. It shares the rhythm of the pounding in your head, and the thumping in your chest. You strain to shut everything out, leaving only the shy quiver of breathe slithering out from their lax lips. Their lips tremor under the reign of some foreign enemy, and their eyes flutter from an unseen truth. It is the suffering you wish to unburden them from, the pain you would inflict upon yourself in return for both their lives intact.
Delicacy is a light fragrance, a mixture of disinfectant and sweat. Is it the scent of creating a life, or the imminent end of it? Beads of perspiration stream down your face and sting your eyes.
The sweet caress of silk treads faintly underneath your fingertips. You rub the back of her hand, clammy and fragile. Rubbing the skin, you forget who the comfort is more for while footsteps pierce the stillness in the air. A figure dawned in white appears before you. Their form blurs in and out of focus, their voice a toneless muddle seeping through your cloud of stupor.
Delicacy is a whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We can only save one of them." It is the realization that too much pressure, and two months premature, is a cocktail dyed with poison. She looks to you with eyes of understanding and acceptance.
Delicacy is the collapsing of all you know. It is the berating of incoherent words tumbling from your lips for the pure sake of escaping. You're swiftly taken from the room, kicking and screaming to the hallway.
The unsettling tick of the clock mocks your every fiber. You **** the void of silence with the tapping of your foot, taming yourself from barging your way into the room. With the screaming from the bed, the instinct of protection, the stiffening of your back, the nurse quickly ushers you back in.
The soft and consistent rising of the baby's chest is surrounded with the light fragrance of life. The plush fibers of the yellow blanket tug on the skin of your fingertips. The fascination apparent in your eyes, look to her while wondering how this little body will have the biggest impact on your life. Delicacy is the soft whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We made it."
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
I thrive upon it,
And yet, it thrives upon me;
Grey muddle of life.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
you see,
well rather ironically
you dont...
or at least i dont
(...my mistake)
(that was my perception/projection of "you" based on "me" because we (again sorry or/ sorry again) can only see the world egocentrically)
i lost my glasses last week
havent seemed keen
on finding them on the streets of
O, (Oh) (OH) how i keened after them (IO)
driving on a mirror this morning, mourning, before the sun, a rose, arose.
i finally noticed them gone.
the acid lined upper middle class road from my
(socially speaking)
lower class acid ridden
(economically speaking)
upper middle class mind
had dis(re)appeared^(infinity)
all time was lost
and for the first time in my driving career
i found myself, spending more time looking at the street than at the road
shooting stars of red streamed after taillights
as if always trying to catch up
greens joined in from lights above
...but did not muddle the stars
like the perfectly controlled watercolor artisan
what Virtuoso, what Perfectionist, what Letter-dash-letter of a being
could create such an immaculate emasculating picture (lack of question mark)
i am humbled.
p.s
i gave up looking for my glasses
my vision seemed perfectly clear
so was yours (Sorry)
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Back to counting the hours
until I get to go home.
Back to awkward encounters
with strangers I know.
Back to wearing my earphones
in tense public spaces.
Back to standing alone
in a sea of the faceless.
Back to socially inept,
standing in corners,
intense introversion
and wishing it was over.
Back to hiding my flaws,
my quirks and my oddities--
not talking too much
because I say all the wrong things.
It's back to the grind,
and I'll muddle through
because at least when it's over
I'll be home with you.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
going down this long lost road
traveling under the waning moon
thinking upon memories of old
I feel my impending doom
we are pilgrims in the age of fire
we are gods.. truth we aspire
voyaging deserted corridors
painted in cast iron blood
a great spectacle of gore
like nothing you could think of
elaborate scheme between hunter and pray
scrambling the mind and left in disarray
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC