"noisily" poems
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
146.4k
We are our favorite trees, you and I
You, pale and painted with marks
and full of life
Me, twisted and lonely
but coming to life next to you.
Perhaps our branches could grow
and eventually intertwine
but if they do not stretch quite far enough
we could build a bridge
or sprout wings and fly to each other.
We are birds of a feather, you and I
Chattering noisily and endlessly
And I yearn for the day
that together we soar away.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
Trivial beauty holds me captive as i sit near the flower
Reaching towards it, marveling at the colorful rainbow
It flaunts its
Sheer beauty,
Having it wave with the breeze
As i watch
The stripes came to take the juice
And then left to spread more
Lo, the beauty of the stripes and the beauty of its job
I followed. leaving the flower.
Ever so noisily, It buzzed, harmonically, lovingly
it danced in ways that intrigued me
so i left the flower
to pursue my bee
it took me to its hive
but disappeared back to join the others
back to its life
back to her lover
ditching me.
time flew by and by dark
the flower still glows with its rainbow color
no matter what comes to it
it holds itself tall and proud
it stayed in place
waiting for me to come
such purity
i watch
Dawn of fall came, and i opened my ears
As a yellow flower sang nearby
Nevertheless, a sunflower
Ah, yellow was such a pretty color
flower of the sun, reflecting the most powerful object in our vision
this flower had the qualities to shine like one
for it shined so brightly during the day
i started to watch this flower instead
and sing to it, hoping it would grow
cared for it with everything i had
but i failed to find it during the night
for it changed throughout the month, throughout the day
soon i found my efforts were nothing
and that the sunflower was always in its own flock
the yellow flower is still there
always will be
but its petals always faced something else
in the opposite direction
and as soon as i come close to getting it
it turns away, mimicking its sister,
the bee
summer came
and the rainbow flower, it was still here
it never left
why?
confused, i sat
i became sad
why did i leave this flower, ever?
it still stayed
so i've decided to stay.
forever.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Fireworks!
In such a razzle dazzle fireworks flash and bash in vibrancy,
In a spectral aura of contorted colours,
Stars sparkling, noisily highlighting the sky,
Release the Gods of chaos, as on the sparks they fly,
Amid a colour scheme supreme, a total fascination,
In an argument inopportune as fireworks hit home,
In a firework of a love-struck soul my body is vibrating,
Travel on a firework fly beyond the moon,
For on a pyrotechnic dream, embark beyond those stars,
Saw rowdy fireworks the day I met you,
Still seeing them now, those flashes,
For in my heart those fireworks are popping still,
Wish I could ride upon a rocket to be with you today,
Make the fireworks flash in procession,
Let the marching band play on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
There's a beautiful gun in my hand.
Flawless.
The nightshift sun gleams off the barrel like a swan on a lake
At home against the humid sweaty dark pressing against everything yet awesomely singular
The clock stopped a long time ago and gunshots took over in place of the ticks and tocks…
(I'm chewing on something soft)
… and I never noticed.
It seemed natural.
Every bullet chambered was just another hour passing
And though it feels like forever I know its been half a day
Blood laces the treads of my shoes
Hugging the rubber and drawing patterns that I'm less aware of than I am of...
(What is this? It's good.)
... myself
Everyone I know is sitting in a pile.
No more alive than the gun itself.
Still they talk. Memories are shared and advice is given. I don't care to know if its real.
*Everyone talks. It makes sense.
Even the dead*.
The ceiling fan noisily labors diligently if not futilely against the unspeakable heat. It's the only sound I can be sure of. The motion helps.
Nothing else is moving except...
(Chewchewchewithinkicanithinkican)
...My jaw. Steadily gnashing through…
(Everyone talks)
My tongue. I don't care about the blood at my feet or the fact that its coming from my mouth.
What worries me is that now everyone is staring at me and I dont have any gun at all
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
Its faded pink parka,
Stretched tight across its shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Cacophony with the rhythmic
Thud of shopping cart wheels.
Its rotten malt liquor stench--
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My pockets jangle noisily,
But I offer only empty hands.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
A mysterious island stands morosely free,
in the midst of the deep blue sea.
The waves crash upon the shore
covering the evil and all it's gore.
The brown leaves slowly fall,
from the tree that was once tall.
The beauty that lies in seclusion
is merely just an illusion.
Look at the sun shine with all its glory,
the rays trying to tell us a story.
Illusionary beauty that drifts between light and dark,
is a transient allure that will set; leaving a mark.
Clouds of birds rise from the tree
chirping noisily out of key
warning the poor young boy that within
the island was filled with sin.
Behind the rocks lie serpents slithering,
above the trees the eagles are soaring.
To all appearance the island is interesting,
hidden from the eye, evil is lurking.
The island is like a scary dream
where the birds will bitterly scream.
Trees cry out of fears
yet still, no one hears.
Shadows are bright,
grasses are blue,
nothing is right,
no one expects it to.
However out there the world is even more menacing,
destruction, corruption, the world is shattering,
enveloped in the arms of so much wrong
tell the island it did belong.
W.H.Y~
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY
The wolf sat on the ground.
Little Red Riding Hood
sat at his feet.
"Well, well, well, so
here we are again!"
said Mr. Woolf in a faux
English accent
he had picked up from watching
Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia.
"Some apple juice my dear
have some apple crumble do!"
enquired Mr. Woolf of his
fairy story cohort.
"I baked it myself you know
molasses instead of sugar
gives it that dark flavour
oh and a little touch of ginger!"
Little Red Riding Hood
wolfed down the apple crumble.
Sipped...slurped
noisily through a bendy straw
annoying the silence that
gathered itself around her.
There was a piece of apple
crumble on her nose.
For a little girl she
had a big appetite.
The wolf ate nothing.
"We can't go on like this
any minute now a child
somewhere in another
somewhere
will start our story
by opening a book.
I will be called upon
to eat you and Granny up.
I don't even like
grannies for gawd's sake!"
Mr. Woolf had tears that
refused to fall.
It's got...it's...got
to somehow stop!"
Little Red Riding Hood burped.
"Pardon!"
So, when the child I used to be
opened the story once
upon a time it was
simply not there.
There was nothing there.
Nothing but a great big ****** blank.
Somewhere in another somewhere
Little Red Riding Hood
swung on a swing
Mr. Woolf pushing her
higher and
higher into
a summer blue
sky.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 7:48 PM UTC
'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'
'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'
'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enter a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.
2.3k
rain finally falls,
pitter-patter,
the heavens burst,
splitter-splatter,
it pours,
drip-drop
down,
noisily,
making itself known,
and thunder growls,
to tell me,
'I'm here!'.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
The cactus ate the moon;
a cosmic starflower;
a cyanide razorblade.
You ate your way through the mouse droppings
in the cereal bowl
and look at me through lens-less everythings.
The sun took the moon
to his midnight hideaway
and she was absent that night.
Beneath the artificial breeze
blowing noisily, raucous;
birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do.
I never gave you hope;
I never gave you nothing;
I never gave you what you deserved.
Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust
wonderlust
you're keeping yourself company tonight.
Ha! playing with yourself again, I see.
Picking your nose and rubbing your toes
in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches.
Friendly, never ceasing.
Repeating repeating repeating lines
repeating repeating repeating signs
repeating repeating relocating lies
Nice to just let go
no reality
no gravity.
But I'm not defying, no
nor scrying, oh
but lying, go.
She gave me her hand
and expected me to restitch the fibres
as if I were ever so good a tailor.
Surgeon.
Nevermind.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
I saw the rain fall sideways,
striking the cello case cruelly.
The case was white and beaten,
weathered and worn.
It was sad to be alone in the rain.
I could almost hear the cello sing
from inside its case,
like a trapped songbird
forced to play the saddest
of songs
for no other reason but
to make others feel as sad as
itself.
I hold my breath and the rain
taps on the case,
tap
tap
tapping noisily
for the cellos attention,
but he does not come out
and play,
and I dont blame him.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye,
Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly.
The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird,
Mom preparing stuff for breakfast,
And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast.
I stare at my room window and take a glimpse
Of people rushing their cars past the traffic.
Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific!
The birds chirping daily without any holidays
And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings.
The gardener has arrived, the maid had come
In almost each person’s home.
People terminated their morning walk
And grabbed the car.
I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily-
The merchants and vendors shouting noisily.
All the work is turning on without distraction,
Everyone at their workplace in attention.
After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm
The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face.
This assures me that everyone left their houses
And reached their respective places.
I take my eyes off the window and sit-back.
No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works,
And timetables on the calendar looks.
No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus
No more books and things at mess.
I see the clock-it’s only eight
Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight.
Spotting everyone at their routine work-
I feel so much desolate and forlorn.
And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work.
At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom
And ask myself-“What have I done today?”
The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!”
I see the calendar-Two more months for school:
Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle
Two more months to shut the windows
Two more months to mess my table
Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble
I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
This eerie silence make me hear tinnitus,
My own brain buzzes noisily as always...
The saddening grief & the aggrieved sad,
Both terms are mine and am myself so..
There beats a heart of mine in her chest,
Seated in her ribcage between the *******
I might be able to smile someday again,
And the smile be creditable to satisfaction..
The silence scares me & is so deafening,
Beeps continuously the tinnitus within...
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
so noisily these nights
I cannot sleep
But when I put in earplugs
My heart beats just as loudly
shouldn't I be comforted
the presence of my friend's breathing
shouldn't I be glad
I'm alive, my heart's beating
but all I can think right now
is I wish we could sleep like the dead
and get some peace and quiet
in my weary leaded head
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
Frz have you forgotten me?
I hear your voice, but its me saying do not listen
Anyway I say, how are you?
the court records a divorce, a child, and a republican,
You were once a brooklynite, a beloved chassid gal, so hollow to hide, have you moved upstate?
me? maybe inappropriately concerned
I dreamt we will meet one day.
I see you, you see me, then run away furtively,
I race head long, trying to catch you, to touch you at last.
Mind numb, you duck in the LGBT centre. I stop.
Leaving you to minds damnation and hell, a palace of fears, fool for years, you lead me down some steps, through an alley, open a gate, and smile,
stay here, you say, between two buildings.
I sit next to the garbage cans against a wall with leafless vines, its the first snow, you never said when you'd be back.
It is now a year before I die, cars roll by noisily, far off a lone siren, someone is digging in the garbage for scraps, it seems impossible that inches away you were within my reach
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
Happy thing -
Come fiercely.
Bend me like a tulip at midnight,
Make something out of me,
Smoke out my *****
And saddle it in gemstones,
Gallop me like a tongue-twisted
Traveller into the
Whole globe’s bedrooms.
Happy happy thing -
Push me!
Make something out of me!
Kid me,
Front me,
Strike me dancing like a hot
Stone,
Hand me cigarettes that I’ll light
From the last one,
And the second to last one,
And the next one.
Happy thing!
Ohhh come colourfully!
Make the world all-a-bright,
Make red as red as a big red love
Or a spitsuckled cherry gumdrop
Of red-red-red-red-red,
Make yellow smear itself
like crushed cats eyes,
Make pastels all pennysweets
And green so luminous that
Clock hands can’t even dream of it.
You beautiful
*******
Happy
Thing!
You happy happy happy thing…!
Songs are burning!
And planets are droaning!
And London is sleeeeeeping,
And the morning is leaping at me!
Is it leaping at you?
My happy thing,
Come noisily.
Sit with me jabbering,
Jack off with me,
Snog me,
Pull apart my face and
Absolutely ************* drench me
In come.
Happy thing,
Pierce me,
Make me a Sebastian,
Riddle me with spears and watch me
Laugh out the blood,
Happy thing,
Come quickly.
Take my hand and run with me.
They’re shooting at us,
Making saints of us,
And they’ll get us y’know, they’ll get us, they’ll get us –
Happy thing
Come on now dear,
I know the watercolours are running but
Don’t they look pretty
dropping as keenly as our tears –
being caught is just another reason to escape!
Happy thing,
Don’t swallow that.
Are we lowering ourselves?
Are they poking holes in us?
Oh no,
Are they sinking us?
Happy thing,
I hope you always
Come fiercely,
Colours aren’t the same now
And ******* is just a drone of biology.
I promise that
next time we'll be immortal.
Next time we’ll have learned
How to really, really run.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Blinded was she; the young girl in the corner,
Quivering with fear and trauma.
There was gunfire, shouts and laughter,
whilst she hid in the corner,
Hoping to blend in the scene.
They opened the front door,
and her heart sank to the floor,
When she heard the orders,
And they noisily raided her scene.
There were only two storeys,
Made of cardboard and metal.
She head time for one last tear;
one last prayer
before the men barged into her room
and dragged her out of the house kicking and screaming
and shouted praise at each other, like she was some sort of trophy.
She took one last glance at her home
In the Congo: the **** capital.
She wished she had died in the explosion, like her family.
She let out one last scream of pain before she was hit across the head
With the barrel of a gun.
And that was the end of Rosa.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
This silence is too eerie, this emptiness is too vast. I thought I've finally escaped this "hellhole". I thought that I've escaped into the embracing arms of Camelot. But little did I know, Camelot is an evil place brimming with demons from over the world. Shush, they're coming for me. Don't make a sound now, or else I'll flip.
I hear them breathing noisily thought their nostrils, congested with slimy mucus. I see them now! Blood overflowing from their mouths, unable to satiate their undying wants for human minds. Help! I'm gripped tightly around the fingertips of fear, "they'll never let me go" I thought to myself.
As quietly as I could, I tiptoed into the most outstanding room of this beautiful castle. I locked the door, double bolt, and triple bolted it. Oh, foolish me. What have I just done? This room has no windows at all. Those cannibals are scraping the door. They've smelt my scent, they've smelt my sweat. They've realized my presence and now I can never outrun them anymore.
I dug my hands into my pocket, hoping to find something that I can use to fight them off. I thought my pockets were empty, but thank God for hope. I felt something metal, I felt something sharp. I pulled it out. Guess what I've found! Upon sight of that metal blade, I chuckled to myself. I am elated. "There's a way out of this after all." I really couldn't have asked for more.
With this blade I'd win, I'd be triumphant.
So as the wooden door slowly split into two upon the clawing of those disgusting creatures, I've dug the metal blade DEEP. DEEP into my ulnar first, then my jugular. "HA HA HA HA", I cried out loud as I breathed my final breathe to show that I'VE WON, YOU CAN NEVER GET ME NOW.
(C.C)
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Love is a monster.
with huge scary teeth,
they're concealed behind a magnificent smile.
which, smiles indiscretion,
in the blink of an eye,
with a mischievous wink.
It hides in your heart,
but you'll never release it,
never again.
There's a corner at the end of your street,
It could almost be a Parisian walkway,
in a coffee shop,
pull up a seat,
take your coffee,
like a love affair,
make sure it's super hot,
May your eyes meet,
exchange glances,
Eyes fixed.
You know you want to beat that monster,
with all you're heart and all your mind.
But,the sirens are eternally alive,
they wail noisily,
as always,
just a beautiful diversion,
to steer you onto the rocks.
(c) Livvi
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC