"oohs" poems
A graceful water weaving dolphin
swirls wakes of gentle waves -
a white, silver blue phantom
shimmering in the noonday sun.
Piercing the surface,
she dances an aquatic ballet
of corkscrew pirouettes
and majestic somersaults.
Diving beneath the spray
she churns her engine upward -
soaring through the flaming hoop
to the "oohs" and applause
of a throng of short-sleeved hominids
bleachered beyond the rails.
Plunging into quiet depths,
she lingers for a moment
perhaps to recall the fresh sea air
and the borderless waters
in the golden days before the ships came.
January, 2007
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Kiss tingle whizz fizz
Fireworks shooting hot stars
Lots of 'oohs' and 'aaahs'!
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
Look upon all my beauty
I'm a traditional rhyme
Written so elegantly
Perfect in every line!
No, look at my free verse style!
I'm not prissy or fussy
I'm free as a bird with a free spirit
That flies within the realm
Of so many possibilities and directions!
Much less inhibited than you!
Nonsense! The camera flashes!
They are taking pictures of me!
Lovely, poetic form of old
Style, as pure as can be!
You're out of your mind!
You traditional snob!
All the oohs and aahs
Are really all for my poetic genius!
Move aside!
And so they soon got into a tussle, words flying everywhere....that is according to Free Verse
Traditional Rhyme felt so robbed
Free Verse, you trouble maker!
You may be the rage of the day!
But to me you are a faker!
Free Verse had such a harsh choke hold
On the throat of Traditional Rhyme
I can rhyme too... but not like you!
Perfectly? No! Not all of the time!
Traditional Rhyme called a truce
Finally accepting both ways
Sure, she had grace and she had style
But Free Verse would not go away
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 2:38 PM UTC
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous
<>
*the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised
and so the job,
our work,
begins*
<>
five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned
the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati
like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless
yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!
your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate
now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din
quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day
and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully
luminous and dangerous!
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
*When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,*
because of poetry.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?
cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one
way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets
words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly
6/25/18
10:25PM
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
Geraldine
riding home
on the bus
after work
sitting there
in the crowd
thinking of
her lover
sweet Holly
lying there
in the ****
all the night
her small globes
kiss ready
legs parted
hotly moist
waiting for
Geraldine's
snake like tongue
spider like
*********
between thighs
watery
sea blue eyes
uttering words
I love you
between the
oohs and ahs
whispered sighs
of just there
gets me hot
just that spot
she sways slow
to bus's swerve
a bell's pressed
at the front
but all that
Geraldine
can think of
is Holly
and Holly's
moistful ****
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
I pressed my left heel down to get it into the strap of my sparkled sandal--bought from the cheap version of the rich girl store; I got them more than half off.
I'm a fraud.
Sliding my foot into the shoe,
the way I've done so many times before,
I lose my balance.
And there goes the first one.
I knew the nails were coming off;
I'm not all that wealthy.
I have to wait until the last minute to cough up fifteen bucks to get these things re-done.
I thought it just popped the nail straight off,
but it throbs and is begging for me to pay it some attention.
I peer down at where the once perfectly manicured nail (baby blue tips and all) had sat upon my index finger.
It has left a ****** mess--jagged and imperfect.
I can see my real nail drawn up next to my cuticle like a smile.
Placed on top is a half moon of hardened acrylic until it breaks off near the soft doughy point of my freshly exposed fingertip.
Edgy.
Almost.
The blood lines the rim and trickles it's way down
curving its way around the smile;
highlighting the crescent of my own fingernail.
It throbs.
****
I say wanting someone to hear me.
****
a little louder.
I just want to complain lately.
I want a little attention for the suffering I put my own self through.
As I wait it throbs more.
I wipe the blood away just to watch it refill.
I walk down the stairs,
and they take care of me.
They give me my oohs and ahhs and owes,
put some ointment on a paper towel because we don't have bandaids,
wrap it with tape,
and I'm off to sew my dress back together for dinner.
My sister's dress;
my sister's dress that she got from a nearby neighbor
who stuffed it in a trash bag and left it there for us to take.
Maybe I will get a discount.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
happened upon an extravaganza of spring’s hallmark,
the cherry blossoms outing their munificence of color,
I happened to position myself direct below a tree,
the thicket
of blossoms so, well, thick, that sky was obliterated ‘cept
for pointillistic spots of blue sun, yellow sky that poked
through the
few de minimus interstitial spaces permitted, and was
struck silent, by-for-before shimmering eyes that uttered the
requisite oohs and ahhs,
and
words came to me weeks later,
when the memory, now fully decanted,
reappears
courtesy of a giant tech company’s code tinkering,
merging and splurging the combined images in the
photographic memory
of my devices,
as if to say:
your life is
points of light and color and scent
as you write now
amidst the hubbub of jackhammers, raucous horns a blaring,
the homeless screaming on the street at god,
the fatalistic headlines of hate and
the pallor of a low level haze of perp~gray
between you and your true elfin self,
and you are not surprised,
but sadly, but not entirely,
bemused
that the photo’s true utility was to
remind weeks later
that all that my eyes utter
is not just
woe, double trouble and toil, toil,
*but to Hey Jude and George,
step out and see the park on a Sunday
in its entirety and to glory in
your being
by being
a point in that tapestry spectacular
of ingestion, digestion and final comprehension and
a happy*
exhalation
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 8:06 AM UTC
When I speak,
It is not so much for you
As it is for me.
Every word,
Echoing in the ballroom
Between my teeth,
Sets my jaw to dancing.
Sibilant whispers
Tickle the tip of my tongue,
Kissing the hiss
Of sunlight on daisies.
The hum drum of mountains
Growling at the ceiling,
Like a kitten purring
Against my nose.
Oohs and Ahs,
Medicine for my cheekbones.
Such ointment as vowels
No doctor has seen.
When I speak,
At times when no ear is listening,
It is not so much for what
As it is for how.
Every word
Stretching time,
Composite peace.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
If I loved lustily like a man,
I'd strip it all down.
I'd take away her oohs and ahhs until only her yeses were left.
If I loved her like a man,
I'd remove her woman's mystery.
I'd tell her she was doing it wrong and show her someone who did me right instead.
I'm glad I don't love quite like a man
Some days, it's easier being a woman.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Back into the circus,
Back into the ring.
Just another spectacle,
Another freak they can make sing.
I'll do my flips and tricks,
I'll sing, dance, juggle flaming sticks.
The audience laughs and cheers.
If one jeers, boos- no one can hear.
The thunderous applause,
Whistles of approval,
All of the oohs and ahhs
Please me and tickle my ears.
Welcome to my carnival.
Here in this tent I put on a show.
It is a mirage to please all who go.
It is the most convincing act-
A performance no one can look past.
They can't see the real me
Past the freak they want me to be.
Here in my circus,
Here in the ring.
Ring around the rosy,
Throw the ashes around like sickness.
Welcome to my carnival
Where I'm just another freak who can sing.
Ring around the rosy circus tent
Until in ashes it all falls down.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
A cosmic parade today fell from the starry sky
As nations lined up to watch it all pass by
Beauty to behold, a bit hard to believe
Paraded down all the worlds cities streets
Chrystal spears of every color and size
Filled with wonder all the hearts and the minds
Never before has there been such a day
As this day of the cosmic parade
Exotic flowers dancing in a magical mood
Bright colors flashing in a rainbow of hue
Nothing of this sort has ever been seen
Like being awake in the strangest of dreams
The oddest of creatures whistling planetary tunes
With banners held high of universal moons
All you hear from the crowd are oohs, aahs, and sighs
As the cosmic parade goes floating by
7 foot tall aliens with 7 bells in each of their 7 hands
Lined up 2 by 2 in the parades space time marching band
Polka dot animals with heads like big bass drums
Being ridden and played by purple hands with 13 thumbs
In place of all the floats, spaceships were in flight
Spelling out peace and love in brightly colored lights
That must be the reason for this wonderful parade
To bring joy and peace to a world in need on this day of special days
A machine like none ever seen scattered stardust confetti to the wind
Causing all the world as one to turn and call each other friend
As anger and hatred melted from the heart of man
At that precise instant throughout all the land
Just as fast as this cosmic wonder fell out of the sky
At the end of the street is where they waved goodbye
Off to spread the message of serenity and peace
To other solar systems like ours that desperately have that need
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
The ineffable ignites the sky,
As words unspoken
Crackle and combust
Into the raining fire
That lights our eyes.
Oohs and ahhs gasp
As the ashes disappear into the night,
The very fabric of heaven
We dream of each slumber,
That one day when we too will see the light.
Two lovers kiss beneath God's gates,
Believing that they will ascend into the stars as saints.
When the twilight has passed and dark is upon us,
We too may take that firecracker to the heart,
Life's deepest and cruelest form of art.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Every year as a child
We'd go down to the mall
Spread blankets on the new mown grass
And watch the fires fall
The display was not a large one
For Tucson was quite small
But on my father's shoulders
And I felt Ten Feet Tall!
At dusk the fireworks began
With blasts... staccato pops!
We'd watch with awe the sparklers
That would, as fat sparks, drop!
It would get brighter and brighter still!
It never seemed to stop!
The oohs and aahs of the crowd!
The smell of grass fresh cut!
Looking up! Exploding embers!
My eyes never shut!
At last! The finale!
What a fireworks display!
We were tired at the end...
*.... but it was a PERFECT DAY!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/4/2016
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
I want to scream or shout,
anything to help get me out of here.
I can't even seem to leave mentally
a moment never lost in song or dance.
Instead everywhere I look
I find constant reminders
of how I feel.
Books- covered in dust,
longing to be picked up and read.
The old red bike in the shed,
hoping someone will share a beautiful summer day with it.
The little black dress in the back of my closet,
crying for night filled with oohs and aahs
while making heads turn.
But the books they are on my shelf,
the bike-- in my shed
and the dress in my size.
For I am the only one to blame
for leaving these once so prized possessions behind.
Forgetting them, leaving them in the past.
Although never used now,
they serve as the reminders
I dread to face each day.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
How am I supposed to celebrate Americas freedom
While I'm not free myself?
My mind strangled by metaphors
And thoughts of him
The fireworks making the sky
Shine and glow
As he used to do
By placing a smile upon my face...
The oohs and ahhs of excitement;
Barely equivalent to the burst and sizzle
Of each shared kiss...
Happy people in love
Suffocating me,
His scent is pushed past me,
Carried by the wind.
My heart sinks a little more
With each vibrant spiral in the air.
Fire is raining in the sky
As I'm slowly sinking through the ground
And into the fire below.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
Fade in: Ext. Theater - Day
Cue clouds: gray shrouds
blanket the sky
and the sun's last remaining rays
Cut to: Ext. Theater - Noon
Cue crowd: no sound,
no song comprise
the mise en scene
of this somber scene
Fade in: Int. Theater - Night
Cue sound: few gasps,
some oohs and ahhs,
some cries comprise
the mise en scene
of this joyous scene
Cut to: extreme close up
Their eyes reflect the faces on the screen:
Newman, Hoffman, Brando, Ledger
Pacino, De Niro
Penn, Caine, Dean
Fade out
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
It's right you know, really
spot on when someone throws that
phrase out, there being "no words for this
moment, no suitable avenue for a memory"
see
all they forget is the part with "no
dreams like these living in that beautiful head of
yours, no mixed laughter quite as musical"
but each is
always to finish with a soft fizzle, a hot shower
of sparks and touches,
it's no
fireworks show these minutes in the dark, even as
my heart "oohs" and "aahs" all the
same in the kaleidoscope that
surrounds you
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:55 PM UTC
Like a meteor at night,
The stages of life,
Come from darkness
No one could know.
There's the flash,
(and a fire)
The Oohs and desires,
Then
Pooof,
There goes the show.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
"Hi, my name is Sarah, and I haven't purged in almost four months."
That's what I tell group therapy sessions
Or online support groups
When it comes to my eating disorder.
Even better is when I talk about my cutting
How it's been two years since I gave way to the knife
Plenty of "oohs" and "ahs" and, my personal favorite,
"You're so strong"
Even though I still think about the sensation
Almost every day.
What I really am told
And sometimes even think myself
More frequently than not is
"My name is Sarah
The lying, conniving resident **** of my house"
Or
"My name is Sarah
Fat girl, so pretty if she'd just lose the weight
No longer ****** disappointing her family one day at a time"
"My name is Sarah
Just another basket case, pregnancy scare
One, two, maybe three times
How stupid can she be?"
"My name is Sarah
Child abuse survivor
Or is the appropriate terminology 'victim'?
Isn't she over it yet?"
That voice and the one that calls me
Strong, when the other calls me fat
Passionate, when the other calls me obnoxious
Potential, when the other calls me hopeless
Are constantly at war
Bloodshed is the goal.
Devil versus angel
Compete to be the main influence in my life
While really,
The only thing that I can say for certain is
"My name is Sarah
The human being."
And that is perfectly fine with me.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Marcus has gone, off
on some campaign
on Caesar's orders,
Annona is glad,
the bed has more space,
his smell of wine
and sweat and maleness
has left with him.
The bedding is fresh,
where he once lay his head
Amy lies now, her smaller
frame occupies his space,
her eyes gazing at Annona
sensing Annona's hands
feel along her tender thigh.
Not in her own lonely bed
now, but here in her mistress's
bed, here with warmth and
love and holds and kisses.
Annona senses Amy's breath
as she draws near, warm and
fresh not of wine or staleness,
she feels along Amy's flesh,
her fingertips smoothing as
she goes, kisses the lips and
cheeks and neck and downward
moves in slow passion, lips
planting kisses as she goes.
Amy kisses the head, the two
shoulders, the ******* feeling
a deep openness and entering
a thousand dreams explode
and flash, and words reduced
to ahh and oohs into the night.
Marcus had gone to his war,
Annona lies in Amy's arms,
feeling the safety of a lover's
hold, knowing the risk if sounds
are heard or someone comes
and sees their love or kisses
touched, but there she lies as
ship in harbour, resting after a
****** journey through rough
seas and knowing Amy's thinking
as does she: more more, yes please.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Hundreds of pairs of eyes are on you
As you rip the air right out of their lungs
While you dance slowly and masterfully
Beaming with passion and confidence
You merge to become one with the music
And gain 'oohs' and 'aahs' from beguiled girls
Daydreaming and wishing you were theirs
While your girlfriend spectates from a distance
The spell is broken as soon as you stop
To take a breath and take your bow
You sent the coliseum into a stormy applause
I found myself clapping along too
Backstage, you take your girlfriend into your arms
While I sit across you several feet away
You being taken doesn't matter, it never will
I'm too mesmerized by your dancing to even care
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC