"piteously" poems
Every morning when I am making tea,
I wish most fervently,
To become an electric KETTLE.
It most certainly won't matter to me,
I'll accept it most gracefully,
Be I of ceramic or METAL.
For one moment I'm dancing with glee,
The next sobbing most piteously,
These wretched hormones don't SETTLE.
Once I whistled so daintily,
Now I breathe so monstrously,
No longer a rose PETAL.
I may boil, then boil most furiously,
Then click off automatically,
Before I sting like NETTLE.
Splutter, bubble, gurgling I be,
Then cool and calm..so peacefully ,
There I ..in fine FETTLE!
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Your eyes are sockets of disapproval
My eyes are sunk in their reticence
Would I be the flustering morning sun?
No I'm not, I only break the dawn
When, creeping from my slothing insolence
I enter the world afresh to some harried call
A new day stretching my body from contortion
To a slumbered, slouched hunch
With bags afrenzy under these eyes that stare back
Are portals to my soul, which is also empty
Reflections of woeful, haggard dejection
Which, in my mind's eye, which is yours,
Give me call to curl back to my hibernation
To recede like my own vacant eyes do,
To my seat of morose repose
Senseless, as I stare thickly into space
Beholding my dreams strewn before me
As I curl away from them, and they seem ever reachable
Moments ago, I used to speak to myself
A mutterance for the day's outlook
Something to find a more suitable reflection
Waiting for me at the day's end
A worldly philosophy, or mind set proposal
But a strange shame spoke back at me,
As I perceived my speaking of these words
That with each day's turn only mildly echoed
As I turned from monotony with each night
To mediocrity of passionless habit
With a pinch of thought each glance conjures
I look upon myself in years,
My futile vision, my rampant egoism
With which the twinkling eye discerns me
At my now stage, and with
Reassuring confidence tells me not to change
As with time's growth will I become you
But blink and I return to forever
For without vigor and drive will this image
Imprint and stagnate its glare upon this glass
My eternal face, my motiveless eyes
Which so piteously transfix themselves on wonder
But turn up only rubble and soil
Now, I turn in disgust, relinquishing my desires
And, turning to the hour, feel slowly
The weight of each second's thunder
Crash upon my shoulders as it is snatched from me
And now I must not lounge through this new morn
I must not lessen with the tide
What I have stored up in greatness
But instead find the key to my ghostly heart
Bring myself back,
Forward into each new life
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
I was going to write you a poem stating how your sound is
long, and arching like
leaves to the sun. How it
curls and soars like a bluejay taking
wing from an autumn aspen tree
or how it can flit, like a hummingbird
back to the columbines that bloom
violet, and sensual as May
…But I felt like a ******* idiot
comparing your sound to birds of all things.
birds are too easy, anybody
can write a ******* poem comparing
a singer’s voice to birds, for godssake that’s too
easy
I want to compare your sound to a cigarette, but I’m afraid
that comparison might offend you… what I mean
is that your sound burns
at the end, like
leaves, if you light them, and I breathe it
there’s not a better way to say I
inhale when you sing, and what comes back
out, to the air is an echo, but it looks nice
and in response I wave and clutch at the sky
piteously, but your song
pats my back, with heavy hand and says
that things are fine and good
and your sound
can rasp like flipping book pages
your sound can roll down a grass hill in June your sound
can rope the ****** moon down to where I lie
with stars in my eyes, and nothing on my tongue
And like poems about birds, your sound is impossibly easy
but like birds is nigh uncatchable
and, like the moon,
its light is fleeting
and like cigarettes, your sound
is likely killing my insides.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
lurking in every place that others, who also pose as poets,
lurk in--disguised as human beings--rather ineffectively.
Not even as good at deception as terrorists do
but they do manage easily to deceive themselves..
Writing in simplistic rhymes,their inexperienced and shallow
observations, that are made with the blindfold of truth over their eyes.
Pretententious juvenile and middle aged posturers,
that write excretable prose about their shallow juvenile longings,
to possess another completely,and always call it " love poetry".
Begging for a mummy or daddy figure to "love" them,
and thereby give their miserable existences value
and validation,energy-sucks one and all .
Crying out in immature and verbally comatose
stanzas, insisting that they are not to blame,
not me guv!--never met him before!,
can I hand you another nail?..
Still afraid of the "roaming soldiers" in our midst,
the paramilitaries of the Oligarchies that rule everywhere.
On their knees beseeching the one they met momentarily,
and who has walked away from them,
heaving with laughter at their chauvinism and sexism
and lack of integrity and lack of truthfulness.
Begging their various "gods" and "goddesses"to return to their grasping and possessive conditional love the *** object that rfejects them..
"Poets"(very few of them here and I am not a "poet") expose these thieves of others integrity and truthfulness,to the ridicule they deserve,
for trying to twist the shining shimmering slender thread
of unconditional love into a for life shackle
of the conditional attachment that they call love .
Whether they be Heterosexual or Homosexual/Lesbian
or Bisexual is if no account to these testosterone fuelled
inhabitants of the ****** free zone.
"Be all mine" they cry out piteously.
"You cant leave me like this" they cry unceasingly
as if some fictional "god"or "goddess" will fasten
the shackle around the "beloveds" ankle.
What a lot of horse **** to dip your quill into.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Caught in a web
Unable to break free
Trapped
Immobilized
My heart is a castaway
On a desert island
Always seeing an oasis
But never quite reaching it
No hope
Of rescue
Merely tortured survival
I have foundered on the rocks
Lured by the incomparable song
Of a siren
Deluded by illusory dreams
Longing to slake my thirst
To find some relief
From the searing heat
The soul rending pain
Hooks gouge my flesh
Stringing me up
Over a pit of molten fire
I have no strength left
Even to scream
I merely whimper
Piteously
Begging for an end
To this agony
Alas
No mercy is forthcoming
My sentence is eternal
Always just within reach
Of my heart's desire
Seeing clearly
But never able to grasp
To realize
No change
No hope
Only pain
I am stuck
In limbo.
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
What shall I speak
What caring words
Shall be the attractive
Collaboration in destruction
That will bury me in my death
What shall I speak
That will illicit ambitions
And by their presence
Renew my sorrows
What policy what stratagem
Must I employ and plead my passions
What shall I propose that has unfrequented effects
Where the eye may behold an honesty
Yes, where a charitable tongue
May offer a delightful engine off thought
To cure this unrecuring wound
Leaving speechless the voices
Of unremitting practice
Who would raise their arms in sequence
To hear what I shall speak
Words so piteously performed
Enough to swear all villainies to spotless chastity
Leaving all words to abomnibile untruths
That would shame stone angels
Yet friendly in their blind complaint
What shall I speak
That you may learn my thought
What shall I speak
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
There once was a tiny cupboard, where
We kept our groceries there,
Just enough room for two to squeeze
Inside, and under the stair,
And Karen would beckon me go to her
With just an arch of her brow,
She wouldn’t take no for an answer, but
Would say, ‘Just come to me now.’
Then I would go in and close the door
And feel her close in the gloom,
Her skirt would rustle, I’d feel her thighs
And would smell her sweet perfume,
She had such a sense of urgency
When she pulled me down to her breast,
But I would be telling old secrets to
Reveal what’s happening next.
But that was a million years ago,
It seemed the beginning of time,
When we were young, and I’d taste her tongue
Sweeter than strawberry wine,
Those nights were the nights of passion, but
Then nothing could really compare,
With the times when Karen called to me
To meet her under the stair.
But the years unfolded fatefully,
And Karen began to stray,
Her eyes that once had been more than wise
Would seem to have gone away,
She’d stare out into the distance to
Some place that I’d never been,
And when I’d ask her just where she went
She’d mutter, ‘What do you mean?’
I found her wandering down the road
Just down from St. Michael’s dome,
She looked at me, most piteously,
‘I don’t know how to get home.’
I took her hand and I led her back
Through the early morning frost,
And when we got to our gate, she said,
‘Oh God, I seem to be lost.’
The days ahead were a nightmare, she’d
Forget where she’d put the pans,
Then look at me like a stranger, when
I’d reach out, and hold her hands,
But worst of all, she would bring my tears
When she stood by the cupboard stair,
And say, ‘I seem to remember, but
Just what did we do in there?’
David Lewis Paget
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 12:44 AM UTC
I cry out to you in voices and guises,
and in many tongues:
Every morning and tiring night,
becoming the muezzin,
I cry out
piteously for you;
Sometimes I deck myself in finery
and offer flowers
and fragrances, bursting out in hymns
wrung in ancient tongues;
Draped in seraphic white,
I sing in a dozen voices of the soul
chiming in halls
adorned of ancient glass
Sometimes, I strip myself bare
and chant as I whip myself
in savage frenzy and sacrificial rage
in some forest cave or secret corner:
Yet I fail
the dune song in the desert
wave dance on a lonely shore,
bird flight in evening gust
I cannot love.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
When they spoke, I could not believe,
They are racists,
They hate Mugabe,
Nonsensical propaganda,
I went there and I could not believe,
They are all dark in complexion,
As if the sun only burns in their region,
They are scraggy and unhealthy,
As if they are mechanized skeletons,
They all look like they were born of the same mother,
A child cried piteously in one village,
Like a lazy mouse,
In fact she, battled to cry,
The poor mother just looked at her with deep sadness,
Shaking her tiny head,
She could not help,
The child was dying of hunger,
And the mother just watched as the little girl died,
I cried,
She died,
The mother had no strength to cry,
She collapsed,
I cried another cry,
So much I saw, it is unbelievable,
Thereafter, I hated Mugabe with a passion,
And everyday I cry for all of them,
And I cry with them all.
**** Mugabe.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.com
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com
That Chinese Spy Balloon
“Number Six is dead. Rover got him.”
-Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner
A spy balloon lurks over Montana
And nobody seems to know what to do
Against the intruder Top Guns launch themselves
But only circle around it piteously
They slink away, intimidated by a balloon
That takes its pictures and samples with insolence
Unmenaced by our Merovingian regime
Generals bemedaled like Russian doormen
Our leaders stumble over each other’s gaffes
While in Shanghai the Politburo laughs
Feb 3, 2023
Feb 3, 2023 at 1:01 PM UTC
The old man sat in a musty room
And his eyes peered on outside,
Where trees were lost in the evening gloom
With the rest of the countryside,
He watched the woman, tied to a tree
As she shook her golden hair,
And cried again, so piteously
In the essence of despair.
There weren’t so many, roaming and free
He thought, in the cruel world,
Not more than a few in captivity
And some, they called them ‘a girl’,
He thought of his faded mother then
Before they took her away,
And told him then, he was only ten
That they needed her for ‘play’.
He’d caught this one in a rabbit trap
As she crept in the depth of the wood,
Her hair was gold but her eyes were black
And she’d fought him, well and good,
He bound her wrists and shackled her feet
Before he could let her be,
Then carried her back to his tiny shack
And tied her fast to a tree.
He didn’t know what to do with her
He’d never had one alone,
Maybe she’d make good eating when
He stripped her down to the bone,
Out in the night he tore her dress
When taking her clothing down,
Then stood amazed with his eyebrows raised
At the extra flesh he found.
She couldn’t speak in his language then
But only could scream and cry,
He hadn’t hurt or abused her, when
She glared, and spat in his eye,
So he filled up the ancient cooking ***
And he brought her slow to the boil,
Then when she was dead, he took her head
In hopes that her meat not spoil.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
(
)
(
)
(
\/
/\
/ \
++
hey babe I see ya
••
after the years have passed our little lives by
And all we are ...?
( none dare say ! )
//
Futile useless memories
Of the love that we begged for
( so piteously and shamefully )
••
After the flood of pain has carried the whole world away !
••
Still
My love shall remain
True and unimpaired
•
after the memories of the love we begged for
Are washed away
•••
We shall walk empty streets with vacant eyes
And shall have no dreams
Only the hazy smog filled skies
Punctured by the cries of children
Being tortured in countless alleyways
|||
And every day shall seem like a long time
• •
Still
I will be there
With a love both true and fine
••
I will leave some food for you
////
I will perhaps sing a joyful song
/:/
I will still say
ANYTIME YOU WANT TO
YOU CAN BE FREE
/:::/
I know you won't hear me
But I will be there
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC