"pointy" poems
Cardinal
Oh, Cardinal
You great scarlet bird.
You hop along my porch rail
But you don't say a word.
Defiant
So Defiant
Of nature's camouflage.
There is no way to hide
Your bright red entourage.
Orange
Bright Orange.
Your sharp pointy beak.
Gathers the worms and the seeds
All the meals that you seek.
Feed
Feed her.
This mate that you court.
Such a noble young man
You dance and cavort.
Sing
Sing sweet
You and your friends
I'll love your songs every morning
'Til winter comes 'round again.
Babies
Your babies
I'll meet them come next year.
When in the Fall, they'll alight on my porch
And bring my morning's cheer.
Cardinal
Oh, Cardinal
I'm so glad you're here, you see.
I knew your parents and now you have come
Singing just for me.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
Elephant in the room, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay
Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal
Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries
Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears
Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see
Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores
Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs
Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days
Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest
Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen
End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...
Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Sometimes my eyes
Are the skies
Of the desert
Dry as the lies
That they told us
Sandy brown
On the ground
Parched particles
Pointy patches
Of cactuses
Insects and mole rats
Little lizards that run fast
And you may ask
Where is the metaphor
Well, everything is a
Metaphor for everything else
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
you can’t right the same poem twice
hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide
substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice
*the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each poem, drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create her"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing,
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily*
**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
The wee little troll
He licked my arm
I really don't think
He meant any harm
****** and disgusting
In his piggish ways
He moves very slowly
And begins to play
In his pointy shoes
He runs and frolics
Falls on his face
Wrinkles his nose
Decides to sit down
And begin to show
How he can behave
To receive his treat
Which is a nice rub
To his wee, little, feet
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Lost in dreams
You see them think
With strands of hair
That seldom link
Eyebrows with
A puckered kink
Eyes that cry
Will also wink
Pointy noses
For fragrant stink
In dismay will they
Often crink
Cheeks that glow
With hues of pink
Have dimples in
Their beauty sink
Lips that frown
And lips that drink
A tooth that aches
And teeth that clink
Even jaws and chins
All move in sync
Formed expressions
All lost in blink
Faces like faces
Can’t be inked
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
A rose without thorns.
A rose so beautiful as yourself. Who dares to clip your thorns? Those you use to protect yourself. Or did you just let them fall off in that lonely dark shelf.
What kind of rose are you?
Where are your sharp pointy thorns?! You were a devil back then, with those long and black horns. They protruded to my core, you stabbed me with a double edge sword that ran through my heart, leaving bittersweet memories and myself wanting for more.
So, let me ask you again
What kind of rose are you?
I see you have bloomed so well but no more thorns to impale. now I’m sitting next to you listening to your tales. I’m sorry to state but I must say farewell. 'What a fine gentleman you have found as your mate
What kind of rose are you now?
I guess you did let go of your thorns. You made me bleed and drop to my knees back then When I tried to carefully carry you, earth and root right off the ground
to make a home for you where you will be safe and sound.
Mother nature gave you that wonderful protection
which is my motivation
to keep going after you, because I know you’re not going to be easily handpicked by anyone.
Hm what a fine gardener he was,
now you’re in vase.
A rose without thorns
Withering without a base
Sooner or later he will think your just a piece of waste.
"Thank you for the view what a wonderful taste"
He would say.
Not I
I would fix your heart and never let it come apart.
So what kind of rose are you?
Are you the kind that has been grown by light
the one that has so much pride but doesn’t fight back?
Or are you the one raised below the shadow struggling your way out of a thin crack.
What kind of rose are you?
Whether you’re a rose whose thorns were clipped or a dead rose drowning in grief there always will be the right person who will protect you
and help you in your needs.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
There is a very secret place
That exists between day and night
If you're patient then some day
You may see the land of Twilight.
The gates to enter are so slight
If you see them it may seem
A trick of the sunset's light
A fairy's passing dream
So pay heed to the change of time
For lilac hues of coming night
Truly love to pantomime
The secret land of Twilight
You'll know when you've timed it right
For the spangled fairy wings
Will lend a softly shimmering light
To a host of other things
Pregnant dew drops standing by
Patiently awaiting night
Stars twinkling a lullaby
Before they take their dazzling flight
The creatures of the dark that bite
Are sharpening their pointy teeth
On the last of sunset's shards of light
Surveying what's beneath
Should the Moon, empress of this land
See you taking in these sights
She will take you by the hand
And lead you gently into night
And you'll wonder all your life
Was it real or just a dream
For in the secret land of Twilight
Things aren't ever as they seem.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
But how the realisation of my very existence
has grown like flowers, yet none beautiful.
I have somehow stopped knowing myself
long ago, yet I thought I did find me
just yesterday, but I assume I was only wrong;
For it was a pretending song.
I think of my childhood hours
proceeding to days, to years,
and how they won’t cease to haunt
deep inside of me, screaming
from locked up and shaky towers,
far up in an unknown pointy castle
built of fragile flesh - a stupid body.
But, oh, to only have the key to these doors,
to find my breath again longing for;
to feel my heart once more throbbing for
that what I once thought was everything -
the things that now seem nothing.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Unicorns with long pointy spiral horns.
Galloping & trotting along.
Everywhere they belong.
Never can they do any wrong.
Taking no risks.
A magical being.
Seeing is believing.
So graceful & majestic.
A warrior to guard & protect.
A friendship without neglect is what you get.
With telepathic knowledge & supernatural power. Evil will melt & devour.
The unicorn strength will carry you to the river bank.
Your one companion with no pranks.
A heartwarming love from below & above.
Your family to love.
A trusting loyal creature With enchanting stature & lovable nature.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
*No stabbing pointy bits
Comfortably thin and wide
Yet sharp, so precise
Unchallenged dexterity, ranging
intimidating in-sight
hidden held secret
Interesting restful beauty, with
a swinging-kissing-singing bite of genius
The Chinese cleaver
used since Cambodia
Joyous Valley Girl’s hidden past
a poetic heroic fame
Travel companion to my
extended Sashimi blade*
.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 2:12 AM UTC
i can't breathe
you're touching me under the stars with hands that venture too far while the moon smiles at us showing every row of pointy perfect teeth
you're touching me and
i can't breathe
you're holding me in a way too tight hold and way too strong arms wrapped around a place i'm supposed to call home with termites eating away underneath
you're holding me and
i can't breathe
you're kissing me with lips of nicotine and breath like fire embers and words of forever and tongue that's sloppy and serene
you're kissing me and
i can't breathe
you're following me in between buildings that shouldn't be this close together and its another dead end another dead end another dead end, why does the sidewalk get to leave?
you're following me and
i can't breathe
you're whispering to me because this is what lovers do, you scream this is what lovers do but i don't want to love you and my lungs ache for you to let me be
you're whispering to me and
i can't breathe
you're laying next to me snoring very loudly so that the neighbors can't hear the sheets suffocate me and i'm dying i'm crying i'm dying
you're laying next to me and
i can't breathe
you’re saying you love me and you’re pulling me so tightly into that lovely body built from forever's and never’s and i’m screaming in your perfect little ears over and over because didn’t you hear me?
i said i can’t breathe
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous
<>
*the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised
and so the job,
our work,
begins*
<>
five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned
the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati
like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless
yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!
your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate
now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din
quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day
and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully
luminous and dangerous!
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
I'm sorry I'm not 'perfect'
I'm sorry my hair isn't as thick as hers
I'm sorry I'm not as blonde
I'm sorry I need glasses
I'm sorry my eyes are almost black,
not blue or hazel or something pretty
I'm sorry my nose is big and pointy,
not small and cute
I'm sorry my lips are weird
I'm sorry I'd rather write and read
because I can't sing or play very well
I'm sorry I'm not curved in all the right ways
I'm sorry I can't afford nice clothes
I'm sorry I'd prefer to help the community
rather than get straight A's
I'm sorry I'm a really religious Catholic
not a really religious Baptist
I'm sorry that we're not twelve anymore
I'm sorry that I'm not worth the effort
I'm sorry I'm ****** up
I'm sorry I love you
I'm sorry I'm not her
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
I have my biggest enemy,
living in the mirror,
her eyes looks at me with disgust,
whispering poison into my bones.
She starved me with her demands,
shaped me with her lies,
painted over my scars
as if hiding me could please her.
She made me wear pointy heels.
Even when my back cried.
Just to fit the beauty standards,
She even turned my beautiful curls to frizzy straight.
No matter how I bent,
how I changed, how I tried,
she never smiled.
She always made me insecure.
We got into a huge fight
And I ended up hating her...
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
Skinny feels
Not like people think,
Bony, awkward, too lean
Bones protruding,
No more curves
Thin limbs, skinny hurts
Eat like a bottomless pit
Look in a mirror
Feel like ****
Skinny means no *****
No **** no hips
Skinny isn't muscular
It's the opposite if ripped
It's slouching in the hall
Pointy elbows and knees
Loose pants, shirts
No matter how much you eat
Skinny means
Feeling like a stick
Skinny can make anyone
Look small and sick
Skinny gives the impression
Of weak, shaky frames
Skinny makes me regret
The middle school nicknames
Skinny shouldn't be a goal
Thank God
If you look full and whole
Making feel as good as dirt
Everyone out there,
I promise. skinny hurts
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
We are pieces of grass
Not washing liquid, not pancakes
Our blood is green, not red
Our bodies are thick, with fibre
We are strong!
With the soil
With the fellow worms and slugs
We will rule nature!
WE WILL NOT DIE!
HUMANS WILL DO WHAT THEY DO
ANIMALS WILL DO WHAT THEY DO
HUMANS SHALL SQUISH US IN THOUSANDS
ANIMALS SHALL ****** OUR POINTY HEADS
But what we can't do
IS DIE!
WE WILL USE OUR BLADES!
WE WILL USE OUR TIPS! TO STAB!
WE WILL LEARN TAICHI!
From the bugs, the butterflies and that TREE!
PIECES OF GRASS WILL LIVE ON!
So, my fellow pieces of grass
What are you waiting for?!
LIVE ON, GIVE BIRTH!
GIVE WAY TO YOUR GREAT SEEDS!
AND PUSH, PUSH HARD!
FOR GENERATIONS AND GENERATIONS
WE WILL SURVIVE!
Look, look beside the nearest Seven Eleven store!
LOOK AT THAT FAT PIECE OF GRASS GETTING BLOWN BY THE WIND!
LOOK HOW HE SUFFERS, OF NO SOIL!
We are not like any other
WE CAN FLY!
WE CAN TRAVEL! TO CHINA!
To the most populated country!
TO **** THE MOST HUMANS!
We will have a secret weapon
We will bring so forth
PEANUT BUTTER!
WE WILL NOT GIVE UP!
WE MUST REMEMBER, who we are
We shall make something like no other
We will weave, A BASKET!
PEANUT BUTTER WILL NOT BE WASTED
BY THE HUMANS!
WE WILL GET OUR REVENGE!
WE WILL SACRIFACE OURSELVES,
TO LIFT!
THE PEANUT BUTTER!
INTO!
THE BASKET!
Until the mighty lump of peanut butter is plunged onto China
WE!
WILL NOT!
REST!
Our plan, WILL WORK!
Now, you may be thinking
That I am just a random piece of grass on the internet,
Playing a 3 millimetre laptop!
But I am not just any piece of grass
I CAN SPELL!
I have what is called,
A BRAIN!
DO NOT LET THE HUMANS RUIN OUR SPELLING!
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world
in lieu of flowers send hope
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
she sat, back to passers by,
just out of the pouring rain,
wet hair, feet too, both socks soaked,
through and through.
Her short blonde-dyed locks were more like a pointy sponge drying in the wind.
rearranging to find dry things to wear,
blue gauze dress dripping water too,
naked to her underwear, without a care,
she put on her polka dot pajamas,
that were meant for nights you played twister, with her.
But she was so alone. On concrete steel stairs at a mall
central to the city where being a street person is a
measured percentage of the population,
what frustration,
and with distrust she stared anyone down,
talked in an angry voice, to everybody around. But there was no one,
who would stop, three over stuffed bags of belongings
while swearing and tossing her
head, longing to be someplace warm,
away from harm. That got her to this point in time.
Her feet were covered, and maybe warmer,
she packed and repacked all that she had,
and she was mad, like angry,
and on concrete stairs, and on user beware, and on the bottom of the arc
of her life so far,
so far away from the dreams she had as a little girl,
so far away from the hopes that she now only copes,
from one breath to the next breath and smokes a cigarette in between.
Alone, she knows better not to despair, no one would care if she did.
©DWE012014
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
darkness extends its warm arms around
me and its fingernails trace the delicate
purple veins tattooed on my forearms
thin curlicues and tiny vessels of this very
thing-- this thing that reverberates and
reverberates and reverberates within
this tiny black knife makes its first vicious
forceful trace-- the curls becoming
faucets of this bluish purple liquid
a puddle which defiles the pristine floor
-- maybe this is a suitable cleaning
device-- a thin rod with this pointy
shiny silvery tip, collecting tiny mercury
***** from the puddle, as I rearranged
the puddle into the thing bluish purple
liquid curlicues just like that whence
they came
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC