"pleasantest" poems
Minnow, go to sleep and dream,
Close your great big eyes;
Round your bed Events prepare
The pleasantest surprise.
Darling Minnow, drop that frown,
Just cooperate,
Not a kitten shall be drowned
In the Marxist State.
Joy and Love will both be yours,
Minnow, don't be glum.
Happy days are coming soon--
Sleep, and let them come...
4.6k
i feel uneasy when i act good
feel upon shoulder a weight
what if next time i ain't that good
and your expectations are not met.
there's a liability in acting good
for it easily makes you a brand
if next time you ain't that good
you invite a strong reprimand.
tempts me easy to act ever good
be the pleasantest man in the town
but lurks the fear if ain't always good
in all eyes i would soon go down.
it extracts a price trying to act good
as your image in no time shines bright
but for each instance you ain't that good
you walk the sharp edge of spite.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
He'll ask me why I'm here.
I'll tell him I don't know.
And that's true in so many realms, but
I'll keep the clichés to myself.
And there might be some
silence.
And then maybe he'll ask
if I've ever hurt myself,
or thought about hurting myself,
which I guess is
the pleasantest way
of asking if I use my cutlery for eating
or for breathing.
And I'll shake my head no
as I subtly turn my arm
face down.
Because that was a younger–
older–
shameful–
proud–
self-sacrificing–
but mostly
self-centered–
me.
And who likes to bring up
Her
in polite company?
So then we'll sit.
Maybe more silence.
He'll start asking questions
I don't really want to answer, but only
because they bore me.
And maybe he'll bring up ***
Or not, but
we'll end up talking about it,
and he'll read something
into that, like it's
always on my mind, but
it's not.
It's just
the only thing I know how to do.
He won't chastise me,
but he should.
And then someone might mention
school, and ah,
here's the real problem, he'll think.
I'll launch into my grades
and the fact that they barely exist.
And he'll ask me why,
but the most I'll be able
to tell him
is that school just doesn't really
do it for me.
We might talk about that
for a while,
but it'll get old quickly
when all I can repeat
is how apathetic I am,
one way
or another.
So
he'll ask me why I'm here.
And
I'll tell him I don't know.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 5:16 PM UTC
The pleasantest of Seasons' days
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall...
To capture beauty in them all:
First soft-falling snow; and fire's glow,
Northward migrants' call Spring enthralls,
Warm days, watermelon cold, Summer's gold,
Harvest color dusty falls when Autumn calls,
And every moment lends its hue
To every moment that I have with you.
To know that gold lasts but a day
Drives us to make it earn its pay.
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 7:48 AM UTC
If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather,
Serene and good and strong,
And they would not sigh and tremble
And vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poet
Is the poet who's old and wise,
With an old white beard and wrinkles
About his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbets
A-rhyming their hours away
They won't be still like honest men
And listen to what you say.
The young poet screams forever
About his *** and his soul;
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening,
Each one to his cushioned seat,
And there would be mellow talking
And silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
And the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chair
And that God's on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort
And he lets the world spin by.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
They hold so many secrets and have seen so much pain.
They have stared into the eyes of lovers and have felt the hurt of being betrayed.
They have gone through sleepless nights filled with so many tears,
And they have had the pleasantest dreams, oblivious of what is real.
"Oh, Blue Eyes, why all the confusion?
Why all the pain?
Why are you struggling to let go
Of the one that got away?"
She is strong and yet she's vulnerable,
She's a little bit of everything.
She is whole and she is broken,
She's a little bit complicated.
She's just a girl trapped inside her own mind,
Caught between who broke her and whom she is breaking.
She's just a girl trapped inside her own heart,
Incapable of not feeling...
"Oh, Blue Eyes, why all the confusion?
Why all the pain?
Stop holding on, it will soon go away.. "
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC