"pate" poems
yun to khush hu mai bahut,
k tum pyar jo itna karte **
rahte ** door bahut mujhse to kya,
tum pyar bahut karte **
mai jab bhi kabhi rota hu tumhe yaad kark,
tumse kahta hu k paas aa jao mere,
tum nahi aa pate **
mai rota hi rahta hu,
tum bahut samjhate **
apni majboori batate **
par mai nahi samajhta ,
aur fir bhi rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **
kabhi kabhi jab dil karta hai k tumhare paas aaun,
tumhe apni bahin me bhar loo,
tumhe apna bana loo,
tumhe khud me basa loo,
sari duniya se door hokar tumhare sath ek alag duniya basa loo,
aur tumse kahta hu k sath mera de do,
aur tab kisi aur k sath tum hote **
haan tumhari marji nahi hoti,
fir bhi tum kisi aur ki bahon me hote **
vo tumhe choota hai pakadta hai,
mera har hak apna bana leta hai,
aur kahte ** k meri majboori samajh lo,
aur mai nahi samajhta hu,
rota hu aur tumhare oaas aane ko tadapta hu,
jab fir bhi khwahish poori nahi hoti,
tab mai rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **
jab mai khush hota hu,
to tumhe dil ki har baat batana chahta hu,
vo khushi khud se pahle tumse bantna chahta hu,
tum tab bhi nahi hoti **
kyunki kisi aur ki chahaten poori kar rahi hoti **
jab bhi dukhi hota hu,
to chahta hu k tumhara hanth mil jaye,
tumhari god me chup jana chahta hu,
aur ro rokar sara dukh mita dena chahta hu,
par tum nahi hoti,
kyunki tab tum kisi aur ki dukhi hone ki wajah mita rahi hoti **
aur fir mai rota hu jqb tak tum nahi aati,
jab tum aati ** fir se apni majboori batati **
mai cheekhta hu chillata hu,
pal pal tumhare paas aane ko tadapta rahta hu,
par tum nahi aati,
aur mai rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
"TIME to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And make my soul before my pate is bare.-
"And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'
And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'
"Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'
"And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace.'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'
5.7k
Bachpan ka samay kabhi na lautkar aata ,
Har waqt bus yaadon ka aasma reh jaata ,
Khelte the hum bhi khub dhul ko udel ko,
Maaf kr diye jate hamare sabhi galtiya aur bhul ko,
Jab chaha has lete they ,
Aur jab chaha ro dete they ,
Chhote chhote aankhon me sapne bade hote the,
Na kisi se bair,sare log apne hote the,
Par ab tou aansuo ko chahiye tanhayi ,
Chehre par sirf jhoothi muskaan hai chhayi ,
Zindagi ki tapish mein kab bachpan guzar gaya ,
Kab bachhe se bade ** gye zindagi ki daur mein nazar hi nahi aaya ,
Kya din they chalate they baarish mein nao
Ab khud ko chupane ke liye sochtey hain kha jao,
Na kuch paane ki aasha thi or na kuch khone ka drrrr,
Mast rehte they jaha apni hi dhun idhar udhar,
Koi lauta de bachpan ka sawan
Fir se mehak jayega mere dil ka aangan ,
Khelte they khilone se aaj khud khilona ban gaye ,
Bachpan ke sunhere pal na jaane kha kho gaye,
Maa se lipatne ke bahane bnate,
Maa ke aanchal ke chav me hi so jate,
Chhote se kadam se saitaniya bde karte the,
Papa Ki pyari daat pr bhi ro dete the,
Jab bhi rota mai,Maa apne sine se laga leti thi,
Sahlake haath sar pr mere muskura deti thi,
Maa ka dudh jaise amrit ka pyala tha,
Sach me hamara bachpan bahut hi nirala tha,
Amrit ka Ek ghut pi kar bhi khush ** jate the,
Duniya ka sabse bda sukh maa ke aanchal me hi pate the,
Yaad hai hume wo khubsurat bachpan ke pal,
Muskura dete hum jab bhi yaad aate wo sunhare bite kal........
4th collab. Poem composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Manish Shrivastva
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I'll scale the hairs of Lincoln's beard,
Leap to the bridge of Roosevelt's nose,
Balance on Jefferson's brow,
Then plead on Washington's pate:
*America, stop ******* up.
I'm slipping on the eyes
Of this granite outcrop*!
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
All i know is the ghetto
And scandalous tricks
In stilettos ya know
Jealousy follows that the
Black society creeds
N i bleed
Through pressure and pain
Since i took the throne
I embraced the reign
Heir of my past pioneers
Listen clear
J Hendrix dropped a tear
Out the sky catch the purple haze
Buzz contact
So all you haters get off my bozack
My folks dont know how to act
Quick to react
Bad temper with the barrel of a gat
Facin' death
Heartbeatin' faster than humming bird
Yup i seen a man die
So **** what you heard
This is for homies thugs drugs dealer
Murderers to serial killers
Representin' real hits
Penetrate the heart of the beast
WASHINGTON aint never been fair
So if you see us mobbin' yo hood
We dont care
But this is for my homies
I got a tear stained letter
From my one of my homies homies
Who got murdered by a 9 baretta
Cuz he came up short on the cheddar
Instead cuttin' em slack
He wanted his life back
But aint no reasonin' with a gat
Pointed at ya pate
Seen death servin' on his plate
Two shots execution style
The killer smiled he knew it was foul
But thats the way it is
Things will never change
It makes my skin mange
Wish i could rearrange
The game
But fools rather remain the same
Wither it be pistols to glocks to shot guns
There's always a soul on the run
I bet i can dance underwater
And not get wet
So go ahead and send ya death threats
Cold covert mission is eyeing me
Keep my middle finger to society quietly
Riotin' the scene
Takin' enemies along with me
If ya know what i mean??
But this is for my homies
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
There was an Old Sailor of Compton,
Whose vessel a rock it once bump'd on;
The shock was so great,
that it damaged the pate,
Of that singular Sailor of Compton.
2.7k
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone
Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.
Thief.
Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered
Pate..
Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles at the bottom.
Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee **** Buffoon.
Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.
The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.
The cant see the beauty of the Forrest for the treeman.
Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******
Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer
Cotton eyed joe
Constipated thinker.
Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.
.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
2.5k
Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .
Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.
Once upon a time, there was us:
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
Sometimes when I see what people have the capability of doing, I wonder if there is anything else besides blood and bones.
Sometimes when I like a boy. He always likes to twitter pate my friends hearts. Sometimes if my friend has no desire, the boys still come crawling, right past me.
This is not just a one time thing. This is a reoccurring event. kind of the like the bickering that goes on at my house during the weekends.
Sometimes it gets sad.
Sometimes when I open my heart and my love flies out like a bird leaving its cage for the first time, something goes wrong. My bird's wings maybe don't work. Maybe there was a killer just waiting to shoot down the newly free creature. Or maybe, my bird just can't handle the pressure and is crippled. Whatever it is like, and it is different in every situation, My heart is become such a raw sore. This is not because of one event. Let me be clear.
This is the build up of heartaches after letdowns and broken wishes.
Sometimes, on chilly nights like these. When I am cuddled up sipping hot coco and eating warm chocolate chip cookies, I just wonder. Why have I let my feelings control me for so long?
Why have I put myself through this? The only solution I can come up with is that all of these times that my feelings are torn apart by these creatures we call MEN, are just preparing me for my infinite love that I will have someday.
Sometimes I smile because I KNOW someday, I will be greatfull for the broken winged heart because I will have never had the chance to meet this future peice of my puzzle.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.
A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.
Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.
Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!
Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!
My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day
She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!
Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:32 AM UTC
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate
I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel
You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine
Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew
Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
1.8k
Back when I was a follower
I had a good friend Ed
He grew up amongst the Alps
His Pops worked for the Ambassador
Details left unsaid
Ed could climb the steepest crags
Like a mountain goat on ****
And ski the steepest slopes
Like a rocket on a sled
As I said
I was a follower back then
And my friend Ed
With his prematurely balding pate
Would chuckle at my dread
Following him up a sheer rock face
Free style climbing into outer space
Rappelling down the other side
No belay to slow my glide
I remember the first time
Ed led me wrong
Clinging tightly like a lover
Halfway up the face
Hugging tightly a giant rock
Like a gambler hugs an Ace
No holds left or right, up or down
Too scared to breathe or shout for help
Till there was Ed like a monkey scurrying round
A smile of reassurance
Laughing at my plight
“Left hand here, right hand there
“Right foot to the left, left foot to the right”
Till finally at the top
Sweating, swearing, trembling
Lying on my back
He sitting there without a twitch
Thanks Ed, you Son of a *****
And then we hit the slopes
Ed starting with the Black
Piece of cake he said
I thought I had the knack
First mogul flying high
Second one I kissed the sky
Third I began the tumble
All head and *** and skis
Face buried in the freeze
I knew it would come one day
Ed asking me to dive
He didn’t mean the water
Ed loved to dive the skies
Finally I decided
No more the follower to be
I repeated the grunts number one rule
The only things that fall from the sky
The snow, the rain, bird **** and fools
We shed our uniforms
Said our goodbyes and headed home
Me to the South and East
Ed further West and North to roam
Last I heard my friend Ed was dead
Jumping from a bridge
The final dive for my friend Ed
Deep into a river gorge
I think he just got bored
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Teen, sixteen, gazing into the mirror, adoring
Her smug self afore that vanity espying glass.
At her well favoured features she's ogling
With ****** grins, sans ****** feelings.
Everything was still in a pink state,
Like morn, from her sole to her pate.
"Time's winged chariot" flashes by, and she's
Turned sixty. That same structure luscious
Like seasons, from summer to winter,
sooner changed: gray hair hath taken over
With wrinkle surface, shelving ******* on
A frame frail. Her cherished hot form
Has sunk, as the sun, down the horizon
Of beauty for ageing, which doth man transform.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun
as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring
the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate
foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty
transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
Kyu?
Jab karte ** itni mohabbat hamse,
To phir tum chipate hi kyu **
Jab tum mere bin ek pal bhi na reh pate **
To phir mujhse dur jate hi kyu **
Jab tumhara dil mujhe pana chahta hai,
To tum use satate hi kyu **
Jab najare churani hi hai tumhe mujhse,
To phir mere samne aate hi kyu **
Tum kehte the na ki mai tumhari nahi ** sakti,
Jab mai tumhari ** hi nhi sakti,
To phir mujhe tum itna yad aate hi kyu **
~your smiling queen :)
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
The one black hair
That WE create
The truth which
We manipulate
We try to
control our fate
Kings and queens
Lie in state!
We believe that
We are great
Brother, we
HALLUCINATE!
We think we can
Build up... repair
The termites nest
The spider's lair
The web of which
We are aware
Beneath our skulls
Pate brown or fair
No matter how
We wish or care
We can't make white
one black hair.
SoulSurvivor
November 2021
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 4:45 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I am but the flower
nigh the wild fox's den
I feel earthen worms
that crawl about
my sultry toes and then
they move the dirt for me
relaxing me
I stand *****
in wait for thee
I watch the *****
nurse her pups
and though she has quenched
my love before
I desire a name and
something more
I so desire the honey bee
without her I feel untended
much unlike the tended progeny
of neighbor mother mending me
though standing guard
I wait for thee
to call my name
and fall on me
to drone a tune
and dance on me
and rob of me
the toil of seed
for a wildflower
by another name
should thenceforth
be deemed
a ****
'til the
nomen
falls atop
mine pate as
favor of the
honeybee.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
In the harbor of my sixty five years,
The tide is going out beneath the dock.
Ragged barnacles **** up my piers;
Gulls circle my bald pate in a flock.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Rod Serling In The Blue Finch Foie Gras
went peacefully when the proper Authorities arrived
to escort Him from the Pate' to the Patio
but was overheard trading barbs with a flat foot
florid with Aqua Velva; both eyes -
without Harps, Utterly.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
His head and his body were
Bald as an egg for all to see.
His parents named him Harry
But he did not turn out to be.
As an antonymic masterpiece
His name is rife with humor
But in poor Harry’s opinion
It was taken as a social tumor.
Every joke that would be said,
No matter how crass was made
At work, at play by everyone
Beginning in the seventh grade
When his baby fine blond hair
Began to hide on back of head.
It hurt his feelings to frequently hear
The things his peers all said.
By the time he reached maturity
He learned to accept his fate;
Everyday friends could not resist
Making light of his name and pate!
While it’s human nature all of this
It’s a constantly rather bitter pill,
And though he learned to smile
It kind of hurts his feelings still.
Bare Harry, bald as a shaved baby.
Plenty of tacky hairless jokes to spare
Shouldn’t we cut him some slack maybe
And focus on something besides his hair
Or the obvious lack thereof on his head
And point out his forgiving personality?
But sadly, that is just not the way
Of the reality of the world’s humanity.
Brent Kincaid
4/29/2019
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC
you’re not adams apple
the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the centre of the garden of eden
in genesis
yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare
and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant
the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead
and my guava-leaf begins to melt
thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation
the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body
used… and used… and used…
your smile has not yet become
stupid
so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start
there are the cutlets
and the bolster
they are not the only ones
to utter the last words
about the pill
i’m too
in this summer
trying to decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony
if any silent dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty
but i’ve no tongue
at all
all over the face there are only the eyes
and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever
so much blessings been available
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC