"petulantly" poems
Time is of the deception of immemorial agreement...
People, friends and family will get together time and time again -
To discuss what?!?
Most of the time, they petulantly boast about their own personal apotheosis -
What does this prove?
Where are they going with their abrogated thoughts?
The people speak with impetuous pertinence and achieve absolutely nothing....
An asundering of cryptic thoughts that fell into oblivion -
This is the sole reason why the inauspicious world will disintegrate and become a history book for worlds to come...
When time has come to overlap itself . . .
The world's clock stops. . .
Your heart stops. . . .
Time, the inevitable dimension that will carry on with no remorse
When we are gone. . . .
When I am gone..
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
oh, you made the common winter flu virus
jealous the way you dispersed yourself
inside my veins and refused to go without a
fight;
disheveling every fragment and fiber
that supports my frail bone structure,
provoking all 25 trillion two hundred million white blood
cells, rattling about in the stream that
keeps me alive and;
with this,
I noticed the way you ordered yourself to be
a bandage, but I soon discovered you stitched
it on too petulantly for my liking
Perhaps, you are the winter flu in bad times
but everyone knows that I’m
already sick for you
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
I am walking in the park
After a night of empty talk -
Looking for something beautiful,
I find myself reaching down
Taking from my pocket a piece of gum.
Now, I am actually chewing God -
I’ve taken him from the trees,
I’ve stripped him from the fields,
And I haven’t even tried
To look for him in town -
Why bother?
I've got him in my mouth.
Compact and easy to manage,
At worst he might get stuck
To the outside of my lips:
So what?
It's a small price to pay,
For the luxury of compacting all divinity
Into a single pointless blob.
Once, he breathed life into the world,
Now he breathes minty freshness
Up my nostrils:
What's the difference?
He was, at first, the nonsense of the universe;
Now he is the nonsense
That I ****** with my tongue,
For no particular reason -
Same thing.
I often imagine a little face
On his lumpy plastic body,
Whining petulantly
As I chew him with irrational force -
And I find this very funny!
But then I think:
Perhaps he does not mind
How hard I squeeze,
Because really he is sad
That his real home is, you know,
Everywhere,
And instead he's getting chewed,
Whilst I’m laughing at a piece of goo,
When I should be laughing at the world.
Now I'm not laughing
At my gum anymore.
Instead,
I've cast him out,
To this open graveyard on the floor -
And his epitaph reads:
'I was only ever paste'
And he becomes another God
Who I have no desire to taste.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
just a hint of fever
and he recoils
recalls
when first the malaria
hit him like a
a dump truck full
of iron garden gnomes
left him shivering
sweating
swimming
in pain deeper
than the greatest
Great Lake
before it broke and
he was smashed
flat
left crapulent and woozy
a still stagnant pond
where parasites
permanently
petulantly
patrol
awaiting their turn
to make another visit
and say hello again hello
~mce
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
“Rice ball!” Her voice, though soft,
works its way through my haze.
“What?” I ask. “Rice ball,” she says petulantly.
“Sorry,” I say, as I envelop her small, cold hand in mine.
We walk almost every night. If she had her way,
it would be twice daily. Perhaps more.
Walking is good for me and she makes sure I go.
This means she must come with me to make sure.
“Good for your diabetes”, she says.
Cold weather makes her shiver.
Cool weather makes her shiver.
Even summer nights out walking necessitates
a long-sleeved shirt to cover her arms.
“Rice ball?” She asks.
I have been silent for longer than usual and my fingers
have loosened since the last time I rice-balled her hand.
I close my hand gently around her curled-up fist.
Squeeze once, so she knows I’m still with her.
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
"They say it's the tallest in the country, you know,"
the older man smiles.
His companion's eyes follow the trunk,
smooth and sheer, to the clouds
in wonder.
The topmost branches sway
and he feels himself adrift
beneath a giant mast,
sails flapping on the wind
as feathered cirrus fly through the blue beyond.
Just then a carriage bursts through the forest
causing them to leap from the path.
A bilious face glares out from inside.
"Mind out the ****** way
"Or I'll have you clapped in irons!"
scream the spit-spattered lips,
chins a-wobble petulantly above a too-tight collar.
"Begging your pardon, your grace,"
says the older man, doffing his cap and bowing
as the carriage careers on.
The young man is speechless with fury.
******* he screams.
*******
But the old man is clutching his sides with mirth.
"How can you laugh?
"That fat pig nearly killed us!"
The boy's agitation is making him dance.
"Clapped in irons for looking at a tree?"
"No, no," chuckles the older, "for looking at his tree!
"The height that leads our eyes
"Up towards heaven
"casts a long shadow over his wallet
"And the weight which fills us with awe and joy
"presses on his shoulders every day!
"Ownership is a terrible thing, my lad!"
And they make their way home,
free,
through the forest,
their forest,
laughing.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
It was in April we met of last year
Never thought I'd hold you so dear
A curious thing I thought you were
Loud, eccentric, and certainly belligerent
Of my feelings, mostly inconsiderate
At odds were we from the start
With every argument we rip each other clean apart
We clash like demigods on the battlefront
I, petulantly persistent and you, cruelly blunt
I am stubborn and prideful just like you
An abundance of intense feelings between we two
Polar opposites in personality are we
But some of the things in you I see in me
Leery was I of your intentions
Following every reply with even more questions
See, no matter how hard I try can't read you
So handing my trust over to you is an issue
I've never had someone be so true
It scares me to death, because true people are so few
Even if you are not meant to be my lover
You'd be a genuine friend--like no other
(Even at times when we can't stand one another)
Patient sometimes you are with me
As I slowly release my grip and conceed to our reality
For whatever twisted reason there may be
I love you for you and you love me for me
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
In case you forget,
In all your darkest moments,
Warmth,
Sunshine dancing petulantly on the water.
I would like to share the majesty-
Windermere.
Endless lawns of forlorn, scraggly grass
Stretches and etches hills into life.
Formed from the hand of an artist,
Stroking the countenance
And beaming beauty into its many folds,
Little hovels of black, vert and emerald
Hide like mice and voles,
Shivering in the sanctity
And uncertain security
That the upside-down mounds afford.
The lane is a wash of blue,
Smiling delicately at a distance
Flowing as it waves,
Languid and gay,
Comfortable in it's age.
Island.
But one tree,
Standing helplessly,
Hopelessly, out of place.
Feeling content, in its lovely face.
Even the sky agrees,
For there is no quarrel
Between it and the translucent, ethereal colours
Flooding the canvas.
What is the work of man compared to God?
And how much more beautiful it is than anything I have seen
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:47 AM UTC
This amazing architecture of allure; awe-some
to behold , from beneath bed upon beautiful bed
of clouds, cotton-white, concrete-gray and crow-black,
this dangerous density diligently damning my dainty
existence; ever eliciting earnest
and fevered fallacies of false pride to be fatally felled by
this gigantic gale-mother, these gods of galactic proportions.
Hold me, as I help myself hallucinate about heaven in hell,
Innately inundating my lost innocence with it.
Joyously joining in jovially joking about our jubilation in,
Killing our Kudis and our Khaleesis in keeping with,
Our love of labeling lust as love and losing ourselves to,
Mankind's madness for maleficence. We manipulate
our naive needs into necessities, neutralizing all notions
Of obscenity, Obese in our omissions.
Petulantly, we punish any probability of penance or pity.
We will soon quiver and quake, while quail will fly in this beautiful quag,
Resting reluctantly and resisting the requiem of the realm,
That holds a sad semblance of the sky's seas.
Traveler, your traveling is less than trash if you haven't traced
This ubiquitous umbrella; untouched and untainted
By the viscous vice that voraciously vitiates the viscera.
Wait, weary world look up to the place that no words can describe,
To the heavenly xystus that acts as a xylophonic xylem to our xerical and xeroxed dreams.
Yearn traveler yearn, for your eyes to look yonder forever,
To feel the zigzagging zephyrs that witnessed every zenith of history, from Zoas to Zebras.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
Blood-rich, vibrant, swirling petals dance, swing
Around breezes, tremble petulantly,
Feeling power course: green heartfelt stems sing,
Wearing thorn-mail, blazon, nonchalantly.
Cruel thoughts drift timidly toward the wood,
Shady under-shadows conceal pollen,
Ash bees sing the Roses’ song- Ruby food
Feeding volcanic hearts, single chronons
Bounce between young cupid’s glass heart garden,
Dream half coloured mirage: Wood-Nirvana.
Water drips and sputters, flower haven
Calls from woodlands as Father to Maiden,
Calling gently to sail, meander home.
Rest safe in the halls of horticulture.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 10:33 AM UTC
Folds of mouldering
grey clouds enshroud a pale sky
like cold curdled whey.
Heaven holds its breath
then spits petulantly down
upon frowning Earth.
Swollen, sagging sky
that's filled with fat, congealed clouds
ready for the rain.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
Miniature tree
furiously fuzzy
pink and white
petulantly
blooms
between
curvaceous
imperial palms
reminds reverently
of a larger tree
in another place
and time
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Love is the crushed diamond white of summer snow, blemished with frost burned sprouts and the last of fall’s molding leaves. It sprinkles the road like powdered sugar, glittering in the sunshine and merging with melting rain. The snow is not perfect- It has little hills and footprints and muddy swirls, ringed by spring finches chirping petulantly over the bruised cherries that have rolled on down the hill. A worn red scarf loops round a carrot in a pile of melted frost, coal pieces staining the white ground gray. The footprints on the ground are from two people dancing to music that flows between them, sending the birds squawking and shadowing the flowers that twist and vine out of the winter, smelling like pure sweetness when crushed below twirling feet. The powdered sugar snow is not perfectly spread, but standing still has never been the best way to dance.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Life’s ostensibly dead weight pulls downward, maddeningly consistent in its campaign to fell him.
Its moribund song is maniacally hummed by he who seems to mourn with his limbs as he walks,
Soul skulking petulantly as suicide-bees formicate wildly beneath his scalp;
He dreams of his post-mortem feast.
Gazing intently at his doodle-strewn bedside wall,
Cringing as he reads those scribbled aphorisms he had erased the day before,
He wonders if the bees were ever really there in the first place.
He writes, *‘Ire-inducing idleness. Vapid, vacuous days;
He is man’s antithesis, ****** from sentiment.
His is the syphilitic brain of one filled with disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort,
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.’*
The elevator comes to a halt.
Exiting, he sees someone has left the door open for him.
Climbing cautiously to the roof, he is met with an angry gust upon stepping outside.
The solemn timbre of T. Yorke resounds as he drunkenly stumbles across the pebble-laden surface,
And as he sidles along the ledge he realizes that nothing is infinite.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
Now even my dreams inflict me with pain,
The dreams that once used to be my happy place,
Which once used to be my escape
From the bitter reality,
That I can taste constantly on my tongue,
That very tongue which I once used to say only honey sweet words,
But now speaks only unpleasant and petulantly.
Oh how much I am longing for just a taste of sugar,
Maybe just once.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 4:43 PM UTC
Hail squalls petulantly
against leaded windows,
as down in the midnight garden
unkempt brambles scratch
at cold night winds.
In the abandoned nursery,
where faded draught-blown drapes
brush dusty toy-strewn floorboards,
a broken rocking-horse moves faintly.
Upon a moonlit stage
where innocence long since died,
a legless teddybear stares
at a blind rag-doll.
A ***** harlequin
slumps drunkenly forward;
a crippled spinning-top
rusts beside a scattered jigsaw,
as mocking rhymes echo
insanely down the years.
Crockery elopes with cutlery,
suicidal mice run out of time,
blackbirds die oven-baked,
and the little boy laughs
to see such fun
as Old King Cole
steals your adult soul.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
we are all waiting for something,
a plane to land,
a response to be sent,
a love to be requited.
waiting is the hardest part
of living in this world.
patience,
a virtue seldom valued,
is not a value i hold near.
impatience runs within me,
why not now?
i ask petulantly
as if the stars should hang in the sky
because i no longer want to wait for nightfall.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC