"nary" poems
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
195.8k
*Casting spells in a song of lust
with such beauty undenied.
He's chased her half a lifetime
and have lost but all his pride.
Sailing all the oceans blue
He's left his ship dashed on the rocks.
Begging for that enchanted kiss
from his mermaid as she mocks.
Her voice to call within a gale
scent heady upon the waves.
Nets shredded trying to capture her
yet every night he craves.
To nary catch a fleeting glimpse
of her golden hair or tail.
He's chased her 'cross the storming seas
as winds and rain did wail.
Forever calling out her name
He's come to rest in every port.
On moonlit nights he hears her song
attempts to see her, she does thwart.
The scent of salt does show his years
but still he sails to her song.
Forever on the shifting waves
is where his heart belongs.*
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
there's nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there's nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly sucked-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they'll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you'll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.
14.4k
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
I learned to be stronger
I am better by far
By leaving your orbit
with nary a scar
I'm a better man for it
I'm glad that we met
But, I'm thankful for all
that I lost on the bet
I want to say thank you
For coming into my life
Because now that you're missing
I have found a new wife
If I had not met you
I'd have gone on a course
That might not have ended
With our resulting divorce
I am stronger and nicer
I now know how to share
I do things without asking
And I know to be fair
That I have to say thank you
Because if we were still one
I'm sure that I'd have gone
and ****** on a gun
I want to say thank you
For coming into my life
Because now that you're missing
I have found a new wife
If I had not met you
I'd have gone on a course
That might not have ended
With our resulting divorce
I just had to say this
Thank you for the time
I am now very happy
And have been a long time
I'm a much better person
Than I was when with you
So I feel it is fair
That I tell you thank you
I want to say thank you
For coming into my life
Because now that you're missing
I have found a new wife
If I had not met you
I'd have gone on a course
That might not have ended
With our resulting divorce
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...scream at the Horse for nary the fun.
What have you seen? What do you believe?
Did you get burnt on St. John's Eve?
Which day is it? Oh what the time?
Who be the meaning of old fabled rhyme?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Shh, here she comes, break black -the night!
...washed away the horse with infernal delight!
One is left ****** burnt, torn, pieces broken,
..and Momma, please Pappa; one's life merely token.
The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...ritual of the fear, for New Age begun.
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens? *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
In all my iterations, and my frequent reiterations,
Introspection reflection, run a muck, I find it unnecessary
To talk to God; the reason being quite simple, is
It and I are in constant dialogue, nary a pause, chattering
Round the clock, 24 seven, night and day, sleep interruptus,
I think to myself God has some nerve,
why can't he bother others?
in other parts of the world…
And so he does!
Visitors from far away lands, and languages I do not understand, but applaud their attempts to decipher the English one, that we share in common; if the lands are exotic, the names are more delightfully so, almost ****** It excites and titillates, to greet these kindred souls whose words be greeted by puzzlement, intrigue, like the delight of rediscovering vanilla, it's the same language spoken differently!
and god smiles and says:
"knew you would eventually speak my soul language!'"
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
So he threw all his chips on red
Thought only of what was in his head
Which turned out to be shots of dread
For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed
Without nary water or breaking bread
Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead
So he rushed down stranger's alley shed
On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled
Through her banks, he crashed her spread
Like a raging, raging thoroughbred
Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead
For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead
There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed
While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead
It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread
For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed
Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed
Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled
Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed
Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
Logan Robertson
10/05/2018
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
i tagged a ride
up along side
the tail end of a lavender moonbeam
with nary a care
as it darts here and there
effortlessly moving on its nightly stream
i fashioned a kite
made from solar fire
stitched together with starlight dreams
in the design
of cloud #9
on the tail end of a lavender moonbeam
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Collaboration
Cen' and Traveler Tim
Traveler:
This is not about ***
There will be no
******* *****
Any flesh
That you read
Shall not be nibbled
On by me
Any mentions
Of flower traps
Petals filled with
Sweet cream sap
Curves or crevasses
Such lustful lines
I refuse to burn
By your design
You **** thing
Such beauty I seek
But I won't
Be made
Into a freak!!
Cné:
A poem of ***
But not in this text
I just used those words to see
~
If you would come
Looking for fun
And read this poem by me
~
You will not find
Words of that kind
No moaning passionate steam
~
Two of the night
Not in this write
All of these verses are clean
~
Lips locking soft
Hearts now aloft
Maybe what you did expect
~
Candlelight flame
Screaming a name
Glistening skin, beads of sweat
~
Sensual sighs
Quivering thighs
****** moments to trace
~
Euphoric throes
Fingers and toes
Sorry you’re in the wrong place
~
None of that here
Let’s make it clear
Nary a stanza reflects
~
Words that you see
Written by me
Not a Poem of ***
Traveler:
I'm sure these words
Cleverly crafted
Would never lead astray
A moaning voice
Breathing heavy
With a wanting to get laid
No words of touching
Self out loud
No fleshly fluid rhymes
I'm sure your words
Would never stir
My lustful hunger mind!!
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
There was once a family of slugs
That lived in a cabbage patch town
They went out everynite to eat
Found a cabbage and began to munch down
All through the night they could reduce
A cabbage to a stalk in the ground
All night they would munch and munch
But you would never hear then , nary a sound
But Mrs. H was becoming fed up
Her patch was the proudest around
With malace , blood red , she schemed
She vowed to eliminate all those clowns
She purchased the best poison they had
She tried every trick she had read
But the slugs just kept on coming
Every night, long after it was bed
Then a local wino for he said
Out of the garden he could take
These inconsiderate gluttonous
Stylommatophora Pulmonates
So he began by opening a beer
Placing some into a sphere
Putting them by each cabbage head , he said
"This will make those slugs disappear"
But by morning the cabbage was gone
Worse yet so was the beer and
If you looked even more closely tiny signs saying , "Next time make it import you here !"
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
.
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Allowing the beasties free reign in the village
Bellowing out o’er the wickedest sound
Pacing the streets, seeking out bits of garbage
Leaving their stains on the innocent few
Leering in windows where children are hiding
Tender young things and so easy to chew
Thieves in the night lurk about come the morning
Stealing the sun at the break of the dawn
Drinking of sewage a’ flow in the gutters
Checking off names as the many are gone
Peering ‘round corners, down alleys, in shadows
Seeking the favor of all who do grieve
Laughing in spite of the torment now growing
Licking their lips in the hope you believe
Roaming in groups so the followed outnumber
Say what you will for the king does not hear
Lost in his throne made of mirrors that flatter
Shivering, cowering, caving to fear
Deaf to the villagers asking for reason
Blind to the pillage befalling this land
Dumb, well I guess that just goes without saying
Nary a care what the people demand
Feasting on turkey, potatoes and gravy
Raising a glass to the enemy proud
Taking a stand against those who support him
Locking the front doors while yelling aloud
***“Carry your torches, your pitchforks, your honor
It matters not for this evil shall win
Even when gone there are echoes of anger
Lingering on till they come back again
Give them your all, what you’ve poured your heart into
Down on your knees, bow to them one and all
Step over rock and the piles of rubble
This castle will stand even when the walls fall
Shout all you like as no change is forthcoming
Accept it or flee, you think I give a ****
When you are gone many more will replace you
Now pass those peas and a slice of that ham”***
So roam the beasties, their teeth ever sharpened
Fanning the flames as so many are burned
Tearing apart what the people envisioned
Silly to think that they somehow had learned
Nothing so happy with no ever after
Always the same, it will happen again
But unlike some other long winded stories
Sadly in this I can not say “the end”
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Thankfully I can peruse from a distance
Witnessing all without hanging around
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
The old lady planted roses near the corner by the driveway
She never planted roses by the door
I remember once she told me, "Bees come out to get the nectar"
And a bee sting can be deadly or quite sore
Instead, she planted herbs along the walkway to her cottage
You'd pass by, the scent was rather nice
Rubbing rosemary and lemon grass and sage against your trousers
Sometimes you would even walk by twice
She had hollyhocks and primrose, a classic English garden
Lots of fragrant trees and bushes there as well
There were cedars by the windows and hyacinth close by
If she even had a lawn, you couldn't tell
There were irises and tulips, daffodils and more
And great bushes of white lavender abound
Not only was the lawn gone, with the bushes and the trees
I bet from inside you'd nary hear a sound
Around the back the same thing, exactly as the front
Herbs and plant life, and I'd say maybe more
Than all the plants in Englands Kew Gardens have to see
And more lilacs by the walkway by the door
The vents from down the basement blew through cedars and the lilacs
Sending warming scents around the clustered yard
There were windows to the basement, blocked by flowers and the trees
And to see in was really rather hard
The one day I remember when I came out to the house
Is one I know I'll not forget
For walking down the pathway with a policeman on each side
Was the old lady with a look of deep regret
It seems the scented flowers and the bushes and the trees
Provided scents to hide the smells from deep inside
The air was vented out directly through the flowers
The house was just a grow op in disguise
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Little Red Riding Hood walked through the woods
Singing and swinging her bag of baked goods
When out of the brush leapt a wolf with a smile
And some florist’s advice for the innocent child.
So off went the girl, picking bunches of daisies
While Wolf raced ahead with a step none too lazy.
Then at Grandmother’s door he knocked and said
“Let me in dear Grandmother, it’s your little Red."
So with grandmother’s blessing he let himself in
And ate up the oldest of little Red’s kin.
Then Little Red Riding Hood came through the door
With nary a clue of what was in store.
After noting her “grandmother’s” ears, nose, and teeth
Into Wolf’s gullet she went with a shriek.
As the transvestite wolf began snoring like thunder,
Along came a huntsman, who cut his belly asunder.
Out came Red Riding Hood, Grandmother too
While Wolf, so oblivious, kept sleeping right through.
With a few heavy stones, a needle and thread
Wolf, far too full, finally woke then dropped dead.
After a party of baked goods and wine,
The huntsman gave Red a great wolf pelt so fine.
“Thank you, dear huntsman,” said our little Red,
“But I’d rather skin wolves on my lonesome instead.
I know things now, of these beasts and their wiles
I’ll give them a lesson, with blood and with style.
Teach me to stalk, to chase and to shoot
The best huntress I’ll be - and the cutest, to boot."
The huntsman, he roared with his big booming laughter.
In a voice that rose straight up to the rafters:
“Why little girl, have you a taste for the hunt?
You’re better off sewing, though I hate to be blunt.”
But little Red pouted, and threatened to cry
So the huntsman gave in, with a shrug and a sigh.
The huntsman- he was a formidable teacher.
Now Red lives in fear of no living creature.
Today, when Red Riding Hood walks through the woods
She carries bags of new, furry goods.
And when out of the brush leaps a wolf with a smile,
She smiles right back: “You’ve picked the wrong child."
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Son of a Snitch
My daddy was an informer to the FBI,
got caught selling drugs to this undercover guy,
his only recourse was to tell what he knew,
but people found out and gave him the *****
they even took it out on me, I'm Mitch,
and rubbed it in my face, call me son-of-a-snitch
came home from work the other day,
looked for my ******* and my can of starch spray,
magazine was gone could not find it at all,
I said hey, who took my friggin book off the wall,
wife looked at me and with nary a hitch,
she said why you ask me you son-of-a-snitch
went to the super to get me some cheese,
beans and beer and bread if you please,
wanted a streak but the cost was to high,
asked man behind counter I say hey old guy,
why this price so high is this some glitch,
he say don't ask me you son-of-a-snitch
everywhere I go I get the same old crap,
a punch in the gut, a facefull of slap,
just because daddy bought his way out of debt,
this is the kind of treatment I always get,
I plead my case give it my best pitch,
quit that whining you son-of-a-snitch
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
a passing balloon piece,
his, within in a message,
makes the imagery explode
with numerous contractions,
even confusions, and requires an
explaining explication and a fresh
application of sealant
men see the words ~ think war or football,
women think of the lyric, phrase in a sad
love ballad that means recall, and a
moistening tear drop that liquifies but doesn’t drop
but that word, pulverized, has an enormity
attached, that conjures destruction total,
s battlefield’s aftermath, tree stumps cut
down, synchronized with bodies in parts,
sole souls departing
without reasoning/justification
the lineage upon her face,
pulverized by sorrow and
no expectations for the morrow,
gaveled into existence,
by losses and carried
for a length of a term ill defined,
as “life”
with no hint of irony, for it’s not life
when it’s spent reminiscing remembering
the dismemberment of what was a
joy taken instantly and perpetually inexplicabe
the tragedies multicolored in black,
a solid stolid state that nary a meter,
talking centi’s here, pinch of breeze
and /or hurricane alters status quo,
both of us have long known that, but
we nonetheless pick up grains, single
alphabet scrambled pieces to put the
whole together again, but it’s a cause
hopeless cause we be
are
pulverized inside so
the chorded chore is
a double whammy
and still
and yet
we say
but,
for we cannot stop our fingers
from their appointed rounds
and we think in term not of hope
but a thought out louded,
the eternal question,
what if
we do not try?
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 10:18 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Mutted sounds
The city sleeps... traditional
Rest...closed shutters
Against the heat....skies white
Blinding, implacable
Brurnt, liquid: coupolas baking
Through centuries of glazed splendor
My lover's breath on old fashioned
Sheets: starched, crip...ironed flat
Our bodies recouping
In the cool inner wall... welcomed presence
Nary a sound...inanimate objects
Enrobed in silence
Languid , heavy, waiting for the shadows
Announcing night's fresh enconter.
Colette Anne Naegle
copyrights 2005
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.
The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
‘Tis the eyes of the Lobster: all beady and black
Little black pearls; but luster they lack
They stare and stare with nary a blink.
And heavens to Betsy if you know what they think!
With pinchers and crushers and blood of blue
I’m not so sure I’d want one in my stew!
The new year dawns and here am I
Writing of lobsters and I’m not sure why!
Oh, but I jest and of course I do!
‘Twas a bet! I lost! And now pay my due.
Sincere apologies to those who read.
I know it’s rough. I must complete this deed.
I hope this ditty; whatever it be
Fits the bill and you’re more than pleased, --!*
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
Whereas your Love created for all Sights bid
To mend your Board-in-Essence Corrupt
And Promote your Show; But in Harm's Stone, bid
Then **** the Living Savio interrupt
Rarely do most ask what you duly owe
Though Nineteen was Fit enough to Impress
You had your Feast; Though your Water denoue
To take this Cool Stunt many did confess
Cool?! Freaking serious?! To check your Skinned List
Which nary do Voices approve your Parish
Of your Sacrifice; A lamb's Stupid Wish
Thought he filled a Sacrament, then Perish.
Your Body. Your Life. This Plaque smash your Brain
And Whip your Growing Mule for your Insane.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
Tinkling rhythms engulfed us
As we sat in a cuban bistro,
Surrounded by the populace
And having nary a place to go.
We spoke of many things
That curried the other's favor,
Then I noticed her silver rings
And decided I'd wait no later.
This stranger that sat before me,
Blue curls atop her pretty head,
Observed my hand steadily
As it dropped off the table's end.
I reached into my bag and withdrew a rock,
It's complexion of gold and plaque shining silver.
Her reaction was that of pleasant shock
As I wished her congrats on turning a year older.
Now, a year and some days later,
We've both reached a special place.
Day to day I get to face her
And feel my lover's warm embrace.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
Am I the only one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing?
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
Yes, it can soar indeed,
so high, with the wind taking it places,
almost making it forget,
just enjoying the wind rushing through,
lighthearted
The wind drops,
then it gets snared
among tree branches maybe,
or perhaps stuck on a roof or elsewhere
with its string all tangled and knotted,
almost impossible to untangle
if made with paper,
it should be lucky to still be intact,
with nary a tear
more often than not,
it gets ditched in the trash,
the price to pay for
its momentary freedom
Sometimes, though
perhaps a rarity these days,
there is that boy who makes
that kite from scratch,
whittles the sticks himself,
painstakingly forming that frame,
creating that kite with love
So when it does get all tangled up,
that boy still tries so hard to fix it,
to make it new...
never minding the cuts
he gets in the process--
That string not meant to tie down
that kite,
but a lifeline to the boy
But like I said,
that must be a rare thing these days...
For I am one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing...
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 3:38 AM UTC