"mumu" poems
*****
Men sometimes put no value to *** and the sacred decision a woman might hold dear for the reason to
Submit options of letting you indulge in her essences. See some have had men all over the world and there is one thing for
Sure that ***** has a name never a face, Mumu , myse ,kisse, pepita, catellus, passera, mita it all mean
The same thing ***** ***** ***** And the truth of the matter is your sometimes not remembered or
Even thought about once you give the ***** up!
So guard and respect your ***** and you’ll be wiser for not giving it up, I thought of all the times I
Gave up my ***** and grieving the next day he was gone, nothing but a memory of the ****** he either didn’t
Or did put on! I have disrespected my body for a moment of pleasure far too valuable to get rid of, and
The 15 minutes or less or if I’m lucky an hour of pleasure soon will be forgotten as he’s on to the next one
Or back with his main love or the one whose holding out, but she worth waiting for.
***** is abuse sometimes tainted with the smell of ***** left inside you with your naïve *** I’m not going
Anywhere imma be here for you, trust me so the ***** stinks reeks of disappointment!
As they get dressed to leave a delicate kiss on the forehead and a polite thanks for the *****
Don’t be this chick (hold out on giving up the ***** be known for your worth)
You’re so much more than *** or ***** I now know my worth!
Written by Monica Chrisandtras Hines 9/16/2014
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Do Thee Wed
“As the wedding day approached - June 14, 1938, Gertrude continued to confess her reluctance. Delmore’s apprehension expressed itself in fits of nausea and vomiting, and his mother announced that she wished she was dead.”
“When is the when is the --
(I’m going to be sick.)
“Now what is the how how how soon?”
(I’m going to be sick.)
Gertrude’s in her mumu, blonde hair in a mat,
setting flame to glossy pages of her bridal magazine.
Ashes fall to the carpet like distress flares, burning
mascara clumps on the pink **** rug.
She mumbles how soon,
how soon, how soon?
And my mom, she’s climbed up on roof
and begun to pace from end to end,
moaning like a ***** fanning herself with her hands.
Dad’s in the yard making a spectacle and -
Oh, I’m feeling sick again.
The beams bend like matchsticks
under mom’s panicked corpulence
as she nears the edge of the roof.
At the sight of her my father
slaps his hand over his heart
and sings, “Here comes the bride,
big, fat, and wide..”
I leave Gertrude babbling and rocking on the couch
(“I just don’t know now, darling, how how how soon?”)
and I slink in silence out the door.
Beyond my mother and father,
down the sidewalk out of sight,
I finally ***** on my shoes.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
My eyes are windows to the living,
I am not dead yet,
Beyond the dead , I'm alive,
Alive child,
A wild child.
My brows mean as MuMu says
"Look into my eyes chile!"
My mental state is a dollhouse...
I play out scenes in my mind,
As I'm seeing my way out the windows...
Out of the window and into your worlds,
Different stories,
Your alive just like I...
You know in a way we are alike,
You & Me.
Our souls brings the best of feelings,
Flowers blooming in the spring,
Oh i wish ...
I close my windows,
& my dollies fall back into an abyss,
Chained away in a rusty old treasure chest,
Oh God, Dear God,
How can i make a dollhouse for the dollies to live in,
I'm alive ,
But my dollies are in a chest of sin,
I want to break the ribs and reach in to save my ole' friends,
They are plastic but they are my only kin,
**** they are my best friends,
Lips big as blow up dolls,
Their body weight is 80% of alcohol,
It's how i made them...
Their clothes are made out of
The blood I bathe in,
Latex leggings and waist clinchers,
Pale as the purest sand,
Balloon fake ****
Contoured cheekbones,
You would think they were Bratz clones...
My dollies need a H.O.M.E
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
His days in the saddle long ago spent
and grand children in school or on vacation
(he could never tell which)
Old Mr. H took
to gardening.
One day, he was bent over with a rake in hand
over some big bulbs
peonies or tulips, he wasn't sure
and then
he just
stopped.
The world was not as he had known it.
It is the curse of age, he supposed.
And he was lonely,
people so far away
his wife three miles over and six feet deep.
She didn't bother him much.
After the first ten years, the pain had mellowed out
and another ten,
while not forgotten,
it was dulled.
Still,
there was not a magnet on his fridge
and no new smudges on the front welcome mat
'side from ones from his own boots.
The flowers kept him company,
but they weren't much good for talking.
And all the while
the sun would whisper things
clicking like a clock
till his own last day.
Mr. H,
he lit a cigarette
picked a flower
and walked next door
where pretty Miss Diane, widowed for fifty years
sat with some sweet lemonade and a floral mumu.
Excuse me, Miss
I think these are for you.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
wunteim i sad to mee mumu wor i *** gee
shaggie sakid we nood to do de smokeng
i sed noo is a bood goy
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
“Sige may mumu dyan!”
Noong bata ako mandalas itong sabihin sa akin ni mama para iwasan ko ang mga delikadong lugar na magpapahamak sa akin.
At habang nagkakaedad ako
Napagtanto ko na may mas nakakatakot pa pala kaysa sa mga multo
Na mas dapat kong pagtuunan ng pansin.
Ito ang mga mapanghusgang lipunan
Mga mata nilang sumsukat sa iyong pagkatao
At mga opinyon nilang sisira sa iyong sariling kumpiyansa
Sa kabila nito, ipinagpapasalamat ko pa rin
Na sinunod ko noon si Mama
At isinapuso ang mga payo niya.
Dahil kahit napapalibutan pa ako ng mapanghusgang lipunan
Mga matang sumusukat sa aking kakayahan,
At mga salita nilang pilit sumisira sa kumpiyansa ko
Heto ako, nananatiling matatag
At ipinaglalaban ang prinsipiyong pinaniniwalaan ko.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 8:03 PM UTC
Go in for the solo invade
Man, this guy is really good.
Is this Jesus?
Probably.
Soloing baron,
All the while wearing
A straw hat.
Communists are fat.
Even though they don't have food.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC