"pishaw" poems
The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
"Arise!" I hear an old woman sing.
I could grumble like a glut
and pishaw her joy like an ungrateful
spoiled child ******
from poverty,
punches, and
poor grades.
I could arise dancing,
waving arms over head,
smile mapped from cheek to cheek,
feet tapping on a
chilly
tiled
floor.
drinkin' my oj,
shufflin' my good day,
off to school and away
up.
I could lie still
and wish to die
slow.
Never move.
stare out my bright
window.
Waste inside more.
Close my eyes,
go back to sleep.
I could middle ground,
roll out of bed,
turn to the left,
scratch my hair mess,
hate today, miss my dreams,
remember that one
plan I'd made yesterday
to see.
Turn on the music box,
find a harmonious voice,
cry from this strangle I'm in,
and hope for one more sin.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC