"pauper" poems
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.
I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
24.6k
Under the sheets of emotional armor,
A shy little girl masquerades as a martyr.
She’s the Queen of Deceit with her lies getting smarter,
While every tale told draws her self even farther
From finding out why she’s emotionally bothered
By all of the men in her life: like her father
Who only was trying the best for his daughter
And striving to be something more than a pauper
But coming up short. Who knows how much harder
He’d try if she wasn’t an argument starter?
The guilt and the shame from the family slaughter
Has made her insane and continues to bar her
From finding out just what the world has to offer.
Luckily she won’t have to be here much longer;
In fairy-tale land, there's nothing can harm her.
She suddenly finds herself all alone
With nobody’s thoughts to address but her own.
This is the time when she’d pick up the phone,
Demanding a savior to hear her bemoan
About all the problems that she’s ever known,
But what she doesn’t know is a friend can’t atone
For the lack of a man with his patience to loan
To a lost little girl whose bad temper is known.
All she needs is a strong one that doesn’t condone
All the treacherous lies and the hatred she’s shown.
It’s hard to deny all the reaping she’s sewn.
She’ll have to tread soft lest her cover is blown
And everyone finds out she still hasn’t grown
Through the hundreds of tempers and tantrums she’s thrown.
Hopefully soon she can bury the bone
And calm herself into a nostalgic zone
Where smiles and candles were filling her home
And love and affection were all that was loaned.
Enlightenment comes when you realize you’re prone
To the wrath of the heartache that comes with the throne.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
Dear Queen,
Are you real? Or just part of my imagination
Cos lately you've given my eyes an occupation
Staring at you is work, and everyone in the room is employed
That sharp dress cut my tongue out and got me speechless
If the dress could cut my head open and read my mind
The only thing it would see is a reflection of itself
Cos all I think about is you, and you may not be real
But you're true
The silence you cause in the room, when you walk in
People stop talking, its akward.
You're on stage, you steal everyone's attention, like a thief
Attention is really cheap, but not everyone pays attention.
Its crazy right? How a queen falls for a pauper
The only way I could ever leave, is if I ...
Stop thinking.
Yours truly
the boy at the back
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Disney didnt lie
You just haven't found the right guy
And I don't mean that "nice guy"
You know the one
That always wants to have fun
But always expectin sumin'
And sleeping beauty lyin in bed
Rattlin her head
Like Disney said i was a princess
But I feel like a Pauper instead
Because I havent found that kiss that opens up my eyes
And all these players out here are frog just tellin lies
In disguise
But I want a prince eric that goes into the ocean
I want me Aladdin that knows how to fly
But ofcorse Disney didn't lie
And I just haven't found the right guy
3 days to find love
But that ain't enough time
And im tryin to find a healing flower
That heals my broken heart
A genie in a bottle that would set me apart
Maybe one day I will turn in to a mermaid and live a life with music and art
But thats a farce
Maybe I will end up like elsa
Queen of the singles
Not needing to mingle
With the common folk
Sometimes I feel like Disney is a ******* joke
But I keep hearing that Disney didnt lie
And I just havent found the right guy
The guy that will give me all his time
The guy that isn't in it for the money
Or the glory
Or the crown
But im looking around and all I see are these clowns
And John isnt around to save his Pocahontas
Theres a long list
Of reasons I get ******
That flynn's not out here trying to give me a kiss
And I feel like my opportunity was missed
And I'm on the ground in some mist
Waiting for the dwarves to put me in a glass casket
And i just hear the same fact
****
That Disney didn't lie
I just havent found the right guy
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
I came home from your funeral dressed all in my Sunday best.
The shock of losing you is past and now I feel depressed.
Our house is large and empty now and silence roams the halls.
I remember the happier times before I lost it all.
Some weeks have passed and I’ve resolved to sell this place and leave.
I’ll get a small apartment with just space enough to grieve.
Of course that means I’ll have to pack and cast some things away.
That’s how I came across the box saved from our wedding day.
How beautiful was the dress your wore on the night that we were wed
I still can hear the music played when you pretended that I led.
The hand sewn pearls, the lavish lace, your falling auburn curls.
How rich a man this pauper was when you were in my world.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently,
And though thy birth-hour beckons thee,
Sleep the long sleep:
The Doomsters heap
Travails and teens around us here,
And Time-Wraiths turn our songsingings to fear.
Hark, how the peoples surge and sigh,
And laughters fail, and greetings die;
Hopes dwindle; yea,
Faiths waste away,
Affections and enthusiasms numb:
Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost come.
Had I the ear of wombed souls
Ere their terrestrial chart unrolls,
And thou wert free
To cease, or be,
Then would I tell thee all I know,
And put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so?
Vain vow! No hint of mine may hence
To theeward fly: to thy locked sense
Explain none can
Life’s pending plan:
Thou wilt thy ignorant entry make
Though skies spout fire and blood and nations quake.
Fain would I, dear, find some shut plot
Of earth’s wide wold for thee, where not
One tear, one qualm,
Should break the calm.
But I am weak as thou and bare;
No man can change the common lot to rare.
Must come and bide. And such are we—
Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary—
That I can hope
Health, love, friends, scope
In full for thee; can dream thou’lt find
Joys seldom yet attained by humankind!
3.8k
The grass was clear in the moist of the ruins moat
Twas dawn and all this hike, not even a city I could sight
The plains were sheer as the white satin coat I've seen
Clash, a clustering view from mountains down to hills
Shaking knees as I rise to pick up my bed of sheets
Then the breeze swept as I shivered to its grasping chills
Distant peeks; unbridled stallions are troubled free
The sunray spots the verge and brightens the darkest end
At lost in the moment, a nature's sage of imagery blends
A brown wren swiftly glides upon to rest at my tent
In the midst of the day like rain in June and blooms of May
Swans, Geese and white petals dancing to a bluish bay
Solitary to be, but with the rivers overflowing symphonies
We'd sing hymns to delight in an afternoon galore
A steadfast rhythm clinging as I walk with God alone
Euphoric army of billows cascading, a purple-orange scene
As I idle in the view of fields depicting a justful liberty
To smile and remember someone cared with all is please
Singing crickets and fireflies we're all a friend of mine
At eve I rolled endlessly, frolicking at the midnight meadow
Casting joys and crowns as the moon beams a silver line
To the hinterlands, life's a breeze and everybody twas at ease
An escapade I was wanting to get lost from life's reality
Meeting pauper's, gazing wonders, then we'd all fall asleep
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]
WHO says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are bleak and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet--
Our glorious past.
There's many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
They're all for sale!
And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.
You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work -- perchance our lives,
But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker's yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson's ship.
And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!
3.2k
On the cobbled stone streets you lead me,
as I walked with disbelief.,
on how beautiful this world I am seeing
its your world, that's where I've been.
Raised our voices, made our point,
cursed in my sleep, I felt alone
you were suddenly someone I despise
until you changed your mood and made it right.
Time passed by, some would say too short
but I found out about all sorts
of your craziness, I argue with my mind,
I slept unhappy I even cried.
I already saw that something in your eyes,
Something's unstable but I said " well, I should try"
I saw how you don't let small things pass
sometimes you're happy sometimes you're mad.
then you stepped into my floody world,
***** streets with sewer openings uncovered.
Yes you did walked those streets with pure disgust,
so opposite of the world you have.
there were times when I felt we're far apart
when spending time together was a job.
your standards reaching past the treshold of all standards
I should try to understand that you're a prince in a pauper disguise.
Though hard I still wanted to see
if you'll stay or run away from me.
I know its hard for you but you tried
I am so happy that you tried.
your patience lost, my soul is hungry
was it supposed to be like this?
these little crumbles feeds my uncertainty,
I beg you please stay high with me.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Measure my love in starlight
And set the sky ablaze
Measure my love in words
And eternal speak my beloved’s praise
Measure my love in raindrops
And overflow the seas
Measure my love in sighing
And make storms from a summer breeze
Measure my love in music
And hear all the world’s choirs sing
Measure my love in riches
And make every pauper a king
Measure my love in heartbeats
And deafen every ear
Measure my love in laughter
And banish every tear
Seek to measure my love as some might wish
By consulting the learned or wise
But each effort will fail, because such a scale
No mortal thought can devise
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
Sitting next to her in your pauper's bed.
She complains for the 50th time today about her stuffed up head.
She blows her nose into some tissue.
You wanted to make love, but her footy pajamas would be an issue.
This is the time when this beast is actually tame.
She screams at you and breaks your spirit until you jump at your own name.
She ignores you goes back to reading her book.
It's been ages since she has thrown you a smitten look.
She doesn't even have a cold.
It's 12 months out of the year that these mysterious allergies take hold.
They seemed to appear after honeymoon night.
When she knew you were in this deal tight.
Don't say I didn't tell you so,
remember you left me for her more beautiful soul
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 12:38 AM UTC
359
I gained it so—
By Climbing slow—
By Catching at the Twigs that grow
Between the Bliss—and me—
It hung so high
As well the Sky
Attempt by Strategy—
I said I gained it—
This—was all—
Look, how I clutch it
Lest it fall—
And I a Pauper go—
Unfitted by an instant’s Grace
For the Contented—Beggar’s face
I wore—an hour ago—
2.7k
The Mother’s Song
under the
horse-chestnut tree
in the shade
with my little darling
are the loveliest moments
Laugh aloud
sweet angel
Wave those arms
like you’d fly like a bee
in the open
Darling of my life
this moment
will always be in my mind
like a coin closed tight
in a pauper’s palm
The Child, now an adult, remembers the Mother’s Song
there were days
those were the days
when my mum held me in her arms
under the
horse-chestnut tree
in the shade
and there she sang me her songs
and whispered me her gentle words
and held me close to her radiant face
Those were the days,
that the time,
when my mother’s voice
filled the space
and my being
under the
horse-chestnut tree
in the shade
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
She came to him like a special angel from heaven
He had lost all faith, he was on his life number 7
She found a crack in his hardened armor
He was in disbelief, it was to his honor
They found themselves to be compatible
But his social graces where unconventional
Her beauty and wisdom sailed the seven seas
He never went beyond the forest and the trees
This Special lady tugged and pulled at his heart string
Witch made the melody of his soul dance and sing
She even stirred his passion with a big tight huggy
A thousand stinging bees filling his heart with honey
Her deep soulful eyes put a spell and made him pray
He just couldn’t stop thinking of her night and day
Putting him in a trance, not knowing what to say
This fine lady was in a class that has all that
This poor lad could only offer poems and a chat
The princess in this story was moving fearless and fast
He feared with his lack of nobility, the dream would not last
She drives, flies, floats, plays and stays first class
He always seems to be in a long line, to be the last
The feeling she gave him will forever in his heart last
He feels sad the best he has to offer, is all lost in the past
Dark mystery still surrounds this girl that likes white and black
He’ll try and sweep her off her feet with gifts of vanilla and lilac
Her biggest dream has to do with innocent smell, theses are facts
He hopes she’ll forgive him for all the thing that he poorly lacks.....
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
He shambles along picking the scabs off the street,
meet
the pauper
likes
Cyndi Lauper
and listens on an antiquated walkman
and he walks the talk man.
I met him in Stepney
a proper old Cockney
he asked me for cigarettes
I gave him
a quid.
Some say,
better to be rid of them and
by them they mean the poor men,
but if we did that who then
would pick the scabs off the street?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Dashing hither, dashing thither,
Dashing in the winter weather,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a hat upon his head
Not some lace cap fit for ladies,
Nor a bonnet stitched for babies,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a top hat there instead!
Never had a hat so fine,
So tall and silken, so refined,
Regaled upon the daily grind
Of prince or pauper in the Strand
Ladies stalled to see it's lustre,
Swooned and swayed before it's bluster,
Fell and fainted in a fluster,
Startled by a hat so grand!
Children screamed in dreadful fright
And yelping dogs began to bite
As crowds began to brawl and fight
And riots claimed the London street
In the chaos thus ensuing,
Folks began to run, pursuing
John the dashing haberdasher
Chasing him from Strand to Fleet!
John was taken to the prison,
Chided by the crowds derision,
There to wait the Mayor's decision
On his wanton heinous crime
Charged with breaching lawful peace,
He paid a fine for his release
And ordered to desist and cease,
He left his top hat well behind
Thus is told the tale of John
Who dared to bravely dash and don
A silken top hat high upon
His noble head in London town
Heed his tale and take this warning,
When you wake one winter morning
With desire to be less boring,
Careful how you dress that crown!
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Gaze on Aphrodite,
For I am complacent to sing alone.
Walking forward,
Your hair fights the wind.
The truth is bestowed upon me,
Like a bread to a pauper.
Spring turns to fall,
Beauty beheld, now lost.
Time is not sparing.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
Passion drives us to great heights and achievements
The passion drawn from the ****** position
The will to survive to take our first breath, to know life
The passion that lingers and stills the heart for a moment
To stand and stare at the passing wild flower
Passion shared by two in the throes of ****** hunger
That connects and binds and twines beings into one
Passion so felt within a heart
will make a simple person extraordinary
Passion to live beyond, just over the line
Taking risks, taking chances
Passion to love, to live, to dance, to eat, to laugh, to cry, to feel
Passion makes the difference
Between the millionaire and the pauper
Passion – everyone has it
It’s whether you want to use it or save it for later!
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Pestered and pursued
by unknown foes
A topsyturvy land
where snakes can have horns
and cows can have fangs.
Night'mares' where the day's stallions
make mountains out of molehills
A chance to witness greek mythology-like creatures for real
For dreamland tis a place for the unreal and surreal.
Those hair-raising scary scary dreams
beset with horrified silent screams!
We do try to interrupt nightmares, pinching ourselves
With relief wake up to see there aren't any horrid elves.
We also try to interpret dreams filled with mystery
But gifted dream interpreters like prophet Joseph
Are now part of biblical human history
All in all, dreamland's fascination
for extra-ordinary exaggeration
and tall-tale imagination
Where myth and legend come to life
An amalgam of fiction or real strife
Where assorted monsters of the mind
reign supreme in that REM sleep of our kind.
Yet on the other hand the wishful, wistful sweet sweet dreams
where fantasies form mirages bordered by fanciful seams.
Where castles in the air that humans build, float gently down to earth
only to shoot back up unto nowhere from the awakened one's berth.
In dreamland a pauper girl can be a princess or fairy fair
for daydreams extend into the night and linger on there.
A quote I took to heart and it to console all and sundry
'that if your sweet dreams don't come true, don't you fret
for atleast your nightmares didn't come true either,
so just heave a sigh, by and by.
Every night let us all just fly away and escape
And lo behold the extraordinary world of Dreamscape
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
*In deep psychedelic trance
his companion painted
canvases that mix past,
present and future, factually
as quantum physics would vouch;
all of it co-exists, don't turn
a blind eye, it's not fair.
"There is more past here
that try to unseat future,
than the presence of present,
we would make reality sleep
won't believe in its patented lies,
we'd create a present,
in its fantasy, see the future"
The narrative is pictured as fallows:
The Cat and the Mouse
stopped their games,
they invented as a past time,
and also serious business.
Lucky prince befriended
a happy pauper.
The beauty beguiled
the friendly beast,
both eloped and
lived happily somewhere.
The bored king hugged
the leader of the coup
"I was dying
to abdicate at the earliest,
you were my last hope,
good riddance" he yawned,
sounding like cockerel.
He looked much relieved;
uneasy is the head
on which a crown sits
like a ****** politico
at the moment of election result.
The painter watching
what is going on said:
"Well, the colors I selected
this far, were all wrong.
Now, I am going to look twice
before I decide"
But when she worked
on her imagination
her manifesto was thrown out,
she was far more spontaneous
there is the rub.
Can't say, whether
the philosopher was pleased or not,
one can't definitely tell
he only smiled and hurried back to
catch the last bus he missed.*
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
I have almost been reduced to a homeless pauper.
This fatal city, Antioch,
has consumed all my money;
this fatal city with its expensive life.
But I am young and in excellent health.
My command of Greek is superb
(I know all there is about Aristotle, Plato;
orators, poets, you name it.)
I have an idea of military affairs,
and have friends among the mercenary chiefs.
I am on the inside of administration as well.
Last year I spent six months in Alexandria;
I have some knowledge (and this is useful) of affairs there:
intentions of the Malefactor, and villainies, et cetera.
Therefore I believe that I am fully
qualified to serve this country,
my beloved homeland Syria.
In whatever capacity they place me I shall strive
to be useful to the country. This is my intent.
Then again, if they thwart me with their methods --
we know those able people: need we talk about it now?
if they thwart me, I am not to blame.
First, I shall apply to Zabinas,
and if this ***** does not appreciate me,
I shall go to his rival Grypos.
And if this idiot does not hire me,
I shall go straight to Hyrcanos.
One of the three will want me however.
And my conscience is not troubled
about not worrying about my choice.
All three harm Syria equally.
But, a ruined man, why is it my fault.
Wretched man, I am trying to make ends meet.
The almighty gods should have provided
and created a fourth, good man.
Gladly would I have joined him.
2.2k
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Shall I march into the sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper asks.
The light is lit; the wind is wound;
I have no other tasks.
The rains have cycled fifty times
Since they last turned on me;
Shall I bar the windows shut tonight,
or march into the sea?
Who will find me lost at sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper thinks,
When shepherds turn their flock indoors,
And the barkeep turns to drink.
I am the lighthouse-keeper, but
I do not have to be;
They'll find another keeper when
They find me lost at sea.
And if the sea won't take me, love,
The lighthouse-keeper sighs,
No candle on my windowsill
Is watched by no-one's eyes —
No shadow's crossed my threshold's bounds
Since I was thirty-three —
With stones inside my pockets
Let me march into the sea.
Give me no pauper's funeral,
The lighthouse-keeper sings,
Though scant be the inheritance
You'll cobble from my things.
If my debtors come a-calling,
Tell them, forfeit every fee —
Or, if they are truly greedy,
Let them find me lost at sea.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC