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"nuthouse" poems
(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
0
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
raj-arumugam
My English teacher was wooly-headed
(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
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63
Euphrosyne: You can just stay here And if I give you the white strips You can just lay down And use the white strips And by the time they release you Your teeth will look so good I mean no offense but You’d be using you’re time wisely. They will look so Much better. Here, I have two boxes. Aglaea: I think there’s yoga too You can really firm up doing that I really think you should stay and Take the yoga I’m serious. You can also journal And do color therapy I know you know your colors Obviously! So you should think about Sharing what you know With the less Fortunate It shows Gratitude And I know that you’re Grateful. Thalia: While you’re here we’ll get you all New stuff I know this guy And he can do it He’ll redo your whole place And I bet it could be an editorial And you need flowers. We’ve got to get that sorted Why don’t you do a vision board? There are Magazines here right? You can use them. Well some of them. Vogue maybe? They do have Vogue right? And when you’re out we’ll Deal with the hair and stuff like that. In the meantime Find out if there’s a manicurist in here. You feet are busted.
0
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
swiggins
Les Trois Grâces Want to Keep Me in the Nuthouse
Euphrosyne: You can just stay here And if I give you the white strips You can just lay down And use the white strips And by the time they release you Your teeth will look so good I mean no offense but You’d be using you’re time wisely. They will look so Much better. Here, I have two boxes. Aglaea: I think there’s yoga too You can really firm up doing that I really think you should stay and Take the yoga I’m serious. You can also journal And do color therapy I know you know your colors Obviously! So you should think about Sharing what you know With the less Fortunate It shows Gratitude And I know that you’re Grateful. Thalia: While you’re here we’ll get you all New stuff I know this guy And he can do it He’ll redo your whole place And I bet it could be an editorial And you need flowers. We’ve got to get that sorted Why don’t you do a vision board? There are Magazines here right? You can use them. Well some of them. Vogue maybe? They do have Vogue right? And when you’re out we’ll Deal with the hair and stuff like that. In the meantime Find out if there’s a manicurist in here. You feet are busted.
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45
My words have started leaking out like a virus. They are meant for the page Some just for my head But they leak out Sneak out And pop up in conversation. Strange phrases And extravagant diction Creep into my daily life. Soon they'll send me to the nuthouse.
0
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
christine
brain-mouth space travel
My words have started leaking out like a virus. They are meant for the page Some just for my head But they leak out Sneak out And pop up in conversation. Strange phrases And extravagant diction Creep into my daily life. Soon they'll send me to the nuthouse.
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10
Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane. Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital. A lunch conversation with a nurse. “That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.” Russell writes about hummingbirds. “It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says. “Oh,” I say. Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients. But the nurse, now she’s worked up. “Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says. “Uh-huh,” I say. “The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.” “Oh,” I say. “To call him *** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says. I say nothing. “He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says. “Um…” I say. “He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says. “Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says. “Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says. “Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away. “Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.” “Not your fault,” I say. “I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.” I say nothing. “Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks. I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop. “If a poem could **** the nurse says, “I’d write one.” From my pocket, I hand her a pen.
0
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
joe-cottonwood
Poetry Workshop, Napa State Hospital
Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane. Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital. A lunch conversation with a nurse. “That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.” Russell writes about hummingbirds. “It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says. “Oh,” I say. Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients. But the nurse, now she’s worked up. “Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says. “Uh-huh,” I say. “The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.” “Oh,” I say. “To call him *** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says. I say nothing. “He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says. “Um…” I say. “He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says. “Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says. “Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says. “Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away. “Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.” “Not your fault,” I say. “I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.” I say nothing. “Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks. I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop. “If a poem could **** the nurse says, “I’d write one.” From my pocket, I hand her a pen.
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29
She close fist punches me Open hand slaps me repeatedly Throws shiit at me And still expects respect Out of me Like I'm some kind of nuthouse dummy I must be My own quest enemy... ©2024
0
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 4:35 AM UTC
bettsjc187
~•§•~ Dummy ~•§•~
She close fist punches me Open hand slaps me repeatedly Throws shiit at me And still expects respect Out of me Like I'm some kind of nuthouse dummy I must be My own quest enemy... ©2024
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9
never been in a nuthouse. might be time to go there. most people are nice enough. I’d sacrifice my life to save a drowning child or an old woman who has fallen in the street as a garbage truck rushes in but as a congealed whole I consider humanity to be a pathological disease. individual components are worth mercy while the masses are a global staph infection. I don’t know what the **** is wrong with me. beer and xanax work temporarily until sleep obliterates. I have never been in the nuthouse. no that’s not right. I am in one right now it’s called civilization.
0
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
kurt-nimmo
five thirty
never been in a nuthouse. might be time to go there. most people are nice enough. I’d sacrifice my life to save a drowning child or an old woman who has fallen in the street as a garbage truck rushes in but as a congealed whole I consider humanity to be a pathological disease. individual components are worth mercy while the masses are a global staph infection. I don’t know what the **** is wrong with me. beer and xanax work temporarily until sleep obliterates. I have never been in the nuthouse. no that’s not right. I am in one right now it’s called civilization.
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27
Some poems don't work. No amount of tweaking will fix it. You can't finger it until it comes. Push the delete button and start over. You write because you have to. It's in your cells. You're a salmon, swimming up stream to stay alive. You write because the nuthouse yawns, and beckons. It waits. The cage door is open, and the water is tainted with mercury. Fly away, or die. If the writing isn't working, go fishing, eat a tangerine or some brussel sprouts. Be livid Be silly. Study the ***** and the orchid. Think about what the color black tastes like, or if pink whispers or yells. And write until the trivialities take flight from your life. In the surrendering, triumph will come.
0
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 7:34 PM UTC
thomas-w-case
Sometimes, You Wait
Some poems don't work. No amount of tweaking will fix it. You can't finger it until it comes. Push the delete button and start over. You write because you have to. It's in your cells. You're a salmon, swimming up stream to stay alive. You write because the nuthouse yawns, and beckons. It waits. The cage door is open, and the water is tainted with mercury. Fly away, or die. If the writing isn't working, go fishing, eat a tangerine or some brussel sprouts. Be livid Be silly. Study the ***** and the orchid. Think about what the color black tastes like, or if pink whispers or yells. And write until the trivialities take flight from your life. In the surrendering, triumph will come.
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45
*We have been betrayed by virtual brothers in arms We have been dealt a great injustice We have been turned against and they mean us harm But I will not tolerate this We will rise again, the soldiers of exile We shall storm the field and make them kneel, beg, and grovel We are the ones left behind Beaten and battered by our own kind So bring me your lone wolves, your unwanted, and your clan-less For the Cult of Slaughter will show you kindness Each one betrayed will become a demon We are the nightmare, our cult of the forsaken There will be war There will be blood spilled We will be their horror We will rejoice in the bloodbath from the ones we've killed Slaughter can't be spelled without laughter And we shall laugh while we **** and die, now and forever I was the Nuthouse Devil And I am now the Demon of the Cult I'll look upon my old friends and smile As I lead our clan's uprising and revolt*
0
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
grim-spade
Forsaken
*We have been betrayed by virtual brothers in arms We have been dealt a great injustice We have been turned against and they mean us harm But I will not tolerate this We will rise again, the soldiers of exile We shall storm the field and make them kneel, beg, and grovel We are the ones left behind Beaten and battered by our own kind So bring me your lone wolves, your unwanted, and your clan-less For the Cult of Slaughter will show you kindness Each one betrayed will become a demon We are the nightmare, our cult of the forsaken There will be war There will be blood spilled We will be their horror We will rejoice in the bloodbath from the ones we've killed Slaughter can't be spelled without laughter And we shall laugh while we **** and die, now and forever I was the Nuthouse Devil And I am now the Demon of the Cult I'll look upon my old friends and smile As I lead our clan's uprising and revolt*
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22
You are my safe haven You are my friend You have saved me time and again And I'll follow you through a virtual nightmare until our end You protect me from evil Whenever together we play You will follow me, the Nuthouse devil And I want you beside me, forever to stay You are my friend, my hero And only with you by my side am I ever to grow
0
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
grim-spade
My Hero Up
You are my safe haven You are my friend You have saved me time and again And I'll follow you through a virtual nightmare until our end You protect me from evil Whenever together we play You will follow me, the Nuthouse devil And I want you beside me, forever to stay You are my friend, my hero And only with you by my side am I ever to grow
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10
Your ashes don't speak to me Dad; they float silent in the ocean. I need you. I have questions about Don Quixote and Steinbeck. You implanted in me a love for literature, and then left me before the story was supposed to end. What is the theme? This plot ***** I inherited your anger. I think of you when I punch the wall and scream at my wife- spider web windshields. I cry through Man of La Mancha, and laugh at the memory of the stage you built us in the basement. Who does that? Props and scripts were our toys. I acted and lied my way through my first two marriages- always on. You were the great director; all your trophies are on the mantle. You thought the pizza place turned the volume down on the T.V when your speaking parts came on. I think you passed me your insanity. I've been to the nuthouse many times. I'm a poet Dad, two books published. I still remember you reading Kipling and Cummings to me. In third grade, I read from Of Mice and Men to my class. The teacher scolded me for saying, "Jesus Christ' and "Son of a ***** What a peasant! She missed the bigger picture; life doesn't go as planned.
0
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 6:32 AM UTC
thomas-w-case
Mouse Trap
Your ashes don't speak to me Dad; they float silent in the ocean. I need you. I have questions about Don Quixote and Steinbeck. You implanted in me a love for literature, and then left me before the story was supposed to end. What is the theme? This plot ***** I inherited your anger. I think of you when I punch the wall and scream at my wife- spider web windshields. I cry through Man of La Mancha, and laugh at the memory of the stage you built us in the basement. Who does that? Props and scripts were our toys. I acted and lied my way through my first two marriages- always on. You were the great director; all your trophies are on the mantle. You thought the pizza place turned the volume down on the T.V when your speaking parts came on. I think you passed me your insanity. I've been to the nuthouse many times. I'm a poet Dad, two books published. I still remember you reading Kipling and Cummings to me. In third grade, I read from Of Mice and Men to my class. The teacher scolded me for saying, "Jesus Christ' and "Son of a ***** What a peasant! She missed the bigger picture; life doesn't go as planned.
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40
Playing shrink In the nuthouse game My mind just made Listen and agree To all they say About the same troubles We all have All of them great But for you They all feel so vain
0
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
katlif
The Nuthouse Game
Playing shrink In the nuthouse game My mind just made Listen and agree To all they say About the same troubles We all have All of them great But for you They all feel so vain
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10
A man and his family drove down a white-covered road, He rolled down his window, And a middle finger was shown. Christmas had come once again, The tree was 8 foot, No probably 10. The guests had arrived, The dinner was cooked, A squirrel jumped out of the tree, The whole family was shook. The house lights wouldn't work, So many times he had tried, Clark accidentally said, "It's a bit nipply outside" He got locked in an attic, With a towel on his head, His family didn't know, But let's leave that unsaid. The ******* was full, Let's blame it on Eddie, Mr Griswold went sledding, And he definitely wasn't ready. They were the jolliest bunch of ******** A crazy nuthouse, But oh boy oh boy this movie, Would put a smile on your mouth.
0
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 3:39 PM UTC
aimees_poetry1
The Griswolds
A man and his family drove down a white-covered road, He rolled down his window, And a middle finger was shown. Christmas had come once again, The tree was 8 foot, No probably 10. The guests had arrived, The dinner was cooked, A squirrel jumped out of the tree, The whole family was shook. The house lights wouldn't work, So many times he had tried, Clark accidentally said, "It's a bit nipply outside" He got locked in an attic, With a towel on his head, His family didn't know, But let's leave that unsaid. The ******* was full, Let's blame it on Eddie, Mr Griswold went sledding, And he definitely wasn't ready. They were the jolliest bunch of ******** A crazy nuthouse, But oh boy oh boy this movie, Would put a smile on your mouth.
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26
Love finds me in the nuthouse wandering in Delerium, sweat-drenched dreams. She's my ******* angel, and she ***** the vagabond poison from my veins. Arms are bruised to a Dijon yellow. I forgot the ecstasy of connection and ****** chemistry. The heat...the smiles that set the bones on fire. This is birth.
0
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 2:49 AM UTC
thomas-w-case
Exstacy
Love finds me in the nuthouse wandering in Delerium, sweat-drenched dreams. She's my ******* angel, and she ***** the vagabond poison from my veins. Arms are bruised to a Dijon yellow. I forgot the ecstasy of connection and ****** chemistry. The heat...the smiles that set the bones on fire. This is birth.
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19
Shoving, pushing, a high pitched row. Nerves so tense, lids to blow. What an insane nuthouse show.
0
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
OpenWorldView
Mass Transport Insanity
Shoving, pushing, a high pitched row. Nerves so tense, lids to blow. What an insane nuthouse show.
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3
It won't be a silent night this Christmas in the Psych Ward. There are some real wack jobs in here. One guy grabbed his crotch, and said, 'I have hold of all my faculties.' The nurse asked him what drugs he was on, He said, 'It's not the drugs that are the problem, it's the women.' Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought. I shouldn't talk; I'm getting ECTs (Electra Convulsive Therapy) One of the side effects is memory loss. I hope they make me forget the last woman in my life. Life is so odd. I'm locked in the nuthouse, getting shock treatments. She's home in her apartment, cooking and cleaning, crazy and mean as a ********* rat.
0
Jan 6, 2025
Jan 6, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
thomas-w-case
Not Such a Silent Night
It won't be a silent night this Christmas in the Psych Ward. There are some real wack jobs in here. One guy grabbed his crotch, and said, 'I have hold of all my faculties.' The nurse asked him what drugs he was on, He said, 'It's not the drugs that are the problem, it's the women.' Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought. I shouldn't talk; I'm getting ECTs (Electra Convulsive Therapy) One of the side effects is memory loss. I hope they make me forget the last woman in my life. Life is so odd. I'm locked in the nuthouse, getting shock treatments. She's home in her apartment, cooking and cleaning, crazy and mean as a ********* rat.
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23
. love ---- Winds ( Constant movement ) words ! DARE WE REALLY SPEAK ! poet (?) !!!!!!!!!!!! " he hurt my feelings " Doesn't quite Make It ! ( • ) ////// The women of the village Know the way // Here Where bodies are commodities for sale The young girls Romping naked thru the marketplace ! Get what they really seek ( NOTHING ! Nothing at all ) // Just a few trite poems And a sickness of soul That may last a lifetime )( Headless girl With her toys to be given away ! // We'll see her in the nuthouse After a while .
0
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
jeffrey-robinta
/ ( • ) ( • ) \
. love ---- Winds ( Constant movement ) words ! DARE WE REALLY SPEAK ! poet (?) !!!!!!!!!!!! " he hurt my feelings " Doesn't quite Make It ! ( • ) ////// The women of the village Know the way // Here Where bodies are commodities for sale The young girls Romping naked thru the marketplace ! Get what they really seek ( NOTHING ! Nothing at all ) // Just a few trite poems And a sickness of soul That may last a lifetime )( Headless girl With her toys to be given away ! // We'll see her in the nuthouse After a while .
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