"portmanteau" poems
My momma always said
"it's not how big the suitcase is, it's how much you're willing to carry",
and I carried your bag, with its patches
knowing inside was your ***** laundry, that you slowly aired over time.
Even your broken bits, and holed jeans became sacred to me-
the smell of you left after on my skin,
but, you never let me unpack the whole bag,
always kept a side compartment up your sleeve.
And my arm slowly became numb,
when I realized that I still held mine,
even though the clasp was broken-
bits of me strewn about, laid bare for you to see
Though you did help fold nicely,
you handed my pieces promptly back to me-
I wonder if some fibers stuck, some little bits of me,
like your neighbors dog's hair on your shirt
does my smell come back to you in a rush,
the feeling of our fingers brushing as I handed back your bag?
We are parting at the fork, both taking our separate things,
but are you giving up, or is this a temporary farewell,
before you fly through my door,
throw off your shoes,
set down your things,
and proclaim "sweetheart, have my bag, I'm here to stay!"
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
When two words meet
there is a crack
running like spilt red
wine from one end of
my room to the
other
there are voices
living in it
young girls that
scream and laugh
as they fly through
the air on swings
old men that creek
when they move
and breath heavily
as if the weight
of their decades
is a physical onus
before my train leaves
I stand in the middle
of the room and spread
my arms as if they
are wings
my fingers don't touch
the plaster, which is strange,
after spending so many nights
convinced that the
parameters are closing
in on my dreams
I was brought up
to believe in last
looks and I have
grown up to believe in
railway stations and
airports
looking back it seems
cruel to be told that
your address isn't fixed
that there is no point
in learning to live with
the cracks
I leave a pink post it
over the crack
'There's no place
like home' and as
I leave to front door
unlocked, I wonder how
full the carriage will be
and if the stranger
next to me will carry
a portmanteau
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
I. Prologue
Splash words across: images on canvas.
Before Abraham was, I am:
the cubist of poets. Mangled and tangled;
Here thoughts emerge, in reverent perspectives.
The real world: how many dimensions,
depends on who you ask; Monotone
in my unidimensions. Filter. Baritone.
Coffee-brown is the best colour around.
II. Love
Here we sit by two-arms distance. To north,
to south. Facing opposing poles.
There is an attraction.
Here are images from the industrial world
gone post-industrial. Broken commodes.
Outsource your misery here. The sky can afford
a hole from on here. As long as
there's none in my shoe.
Sometimes, I roll over in waves.
Sometimes, you wave over.
Questions still hidden in the corners.
III. Peace
All that's passed remains flickering
green like the wireless router
silently at nights: recover, play it over.
Flush it all up. Splash it all around. Cubism.
Art nouveau. Portmanteau. Now fruck the world.
Neon shades rippling through the smoke
riding out dancing to metal clang;
Crazy laughter like that of an empty skull:
smoke the pipe, brother,
spread the peace around. 2013, stupid.
Idealism died in 1967. And many times since.
Repeats always a farce.
IV. Spirit
Only one man died for the poor.
Who called the dead to life.
All other stories are about barons and hedgehats:
while the millions were ground over
to oil the world. While they roiled the world.
How the poor die under the heels
of those that claim to love that man?
Disagree? Drone. Agree? The throne.
Yes, we can, brother, we can defeat this
****** corruption. Brother,
be not corrupt.
V. Prospect
A sigh of disapproval, soft in sleep.
I come and lie, back to your back,
waiting for love to seep over.
Yes, we can, brother, we can overcome
bigotry vile. Brother,
say not, mine, the only way ever.
Happy lovers day. Shout out aloud,
peans more to the meek women's rights.
Forget not, there's some in your sights.
Two arms' distance is about the right in the day.
There are two faces seen in this bubble,
formed at the mouth of the tooth paste tube.
Peace to the world, every morning after.
Every little home by home.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sun + Shine
=
Sunshine
The sort of warmth that dapples across bared collarbones and shoulders.
Honey + Comb
=
Honey-comb
The scent of honey itself gently tugs the ribboned memories of summer.
Sweet + Mittens
The sort that are utterly perfect for hiding behind those little winks and sweetness peek-a-booing from that hell of a smile.
=
Smitten
You + I =
?
Could it be love ?
"Now, don't ask that like a question.
Say it like it should end with
a comma (,)
or
a semi-colon (;) at least!
He says carefully and measuredly.
His lips kissed the tip of her nose
like
a
full-stop
(.)
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
You: it is 2:10 am
Me: Eastern Standard Mystical Time, yup...
You: why are you up, writing?
Me: the drugs wore off
You: *** the drugs?
Say it ain't so, kiddo?*
Me: yup, I did engage
with some strong stuff
ce soir, the woman too,
and she is drowning in her dreams.
Easy and cheap,
scored some us some................
Asian Fusion
Thai Food, Indonesian small plates...
You: idiot!
Me: just answering your question
You: so where is this poem, shaman?
Me: You!
You: Me?
Me: yup.
You are my early morning poem,
which I have entitled Notification: You!
Notification
I am deeply unsure.
Am I notifying you,
or am I notifying myself?
Lost command of my
native language,
the emotions too strong,
Blue Java
the color of my word blood,
strong swirling,
uncontaminated by cow's milk,
but by cows jumping over the moon,
who have come to give me gifts of
Notifications.
*Hey ****** ******
The Cat and the fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed,
To see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon*
Perfectly clear to me.
I am the Spoon,
You are the Dish.
(Shaman, Shaman, hey man,
you still sound drugged,
we urgent need some clarifications!)
When I wake up,
uncertain about a slew,
a portmanteau
of important life~things,
*(Example: when should I
Capitalize a word,
a life, a me, a You?)*
there are strangers,
Strangers still,
yet strangers no more,
sending me uncoded messages
intended to decode me,
Notifications,
they are called,
and they
Explode me.
capsules of comments
that encapsulate me,
emasculate my speaking abilities,
reduced to rolling in the gutter,
guttural cries to emit and utter,
man, I got friends I never met,
and that's ok
we just notify each other
thinking of you
and no more words necessary
life is groovy...
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
The Bodacious Blonde
she is a portmanteau a blending of thought
voluptuous yes but yet down-home too
she'll bake you a cake or a sweet tasty pie
with flour on her face a bomb shell sacre bleu
she is courageous audacious and a spirited soul
fiesty like a hornet you'll feel her sting
graceful and kind be careful not to raise her ire
and please pretty please don't ask her to sing
she can haul out the trash and mend a skirt
carry large loads and cut the back nine
she doesn't mind playing in the dirt
but when she dresses up oh my god she is fine
her grey eyes sparkle bright in the light
her long golden hair down her back
it's hard to let go when she kisses you good nite
pressing against you with her incredible rack
a friend forever and an incredible lover
who wouldn't be proud to have her on your arm
although not a spy but great under cover
yes she is bodacious and her kisses are warm
Gomer LePoet ....
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
We are a portmanteau,
Two words together forming something.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
My handwriting
is like a portmanteau of my parents'
I think it fits,
but sometimes
I wish it was different.
I guess that's just the way things are.
But I can change.
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 12:41 AM UTC
I say, come out here and smell the air
just know the truth, it's no proverb
we'll walk in the same direction
an alliteration of great affection
let's become someting else
a new letter in the alphabet
one not needed but sure to bet
euphemisms to this bland world
a hyperbole for us to hurl
think and feel and get to see
a portmanteau of you and me
it may be a cacophony
enjoying the sun in a balcony
but in the end its all like this
no order in front, below or above
a sweet oxymoron
individuals falling in love
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
her heart was at a moribund
as she fell in love despite all his foibles
like a portmanteau
but her half was a deceitful equal
left vexed and nonplussed
forbearing a mellifluous tone
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
What right did I have to reach into her dimension,
Take and kiss her hand—pull it halfway through
Then let it fall limp between the panes?
By rights, she beckoned me from the end of a hall of mirrors called memory
The shards of which I tried to replace as best I could
After many shatterings.
Still, my world being real, my responsibility for circumstance held sway
Versus her whole ephemeral portmanteau called jealous rage
I nearly tripped over where it lay, backing out of that dark tunnel.
Looking back I only know the love I felt like rain on empty drums called desire.
When her mate and mine…mate, we can then work to make the pieces fit
From what remains, and I imagine happiness
Will reign in one world or another.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
she gave me white light
it looks like a light sword
making numerous echo in space
I did not ask for what ...I know
no ornamental word would do
futile definitions
flashy ads
waste of breath
15 minutes of clutter
15 minutes of fame
15 minutes of a life
yep Warhol was right
empty containers
to be filled up
to create -fillers
a byproduct of ego
of a selfless time
oh what an an illusion
I live in sometime
not knowing media as the bird's call
true technology is my received gift
with me inside or you
is there a difference?
we are all embodiment
carrier of the code
essence of eternal
not to hurry though
not to resist
resist resists the self just
I cannot trespass the chanting
I shall not think to try
thinking is my only sin
why do we fight?
mo and mu were the same guy
two incarnations in one or three
born at different times
their writers failed just
the difference definer
yes definer and not the creator
'create' remains holy
with a spirit – like words with
spirit-
running memory
activated by sound maybe
the difference definer sets bricks
of flamboyance
en route escape to escape lifetimes
invites the endless cycle of fight
could fray be for peace
and not by cowardice?
fear is my only sin
born from ignorance
of self
as in my- as in your-
not a portmanteau but
an affix by nature
so there is no difference
let fray be for peace
then A joker's viola
let it be a joke for
a joyous while
for a joyous halftime
you don't need do much really
if you can whistle once
under the golden sun
through your belly
somewhere in a cool place
selfless illusion fades
there is nothing else
no book could describe
as such
I have crossed libraries
with my starship
but the source light
not bound to time so yes
for whatever it was
I closed my eyes
slowly learning to dance now
along its wings
it has more to tell then its aesthetics
we cross dimensions while
we perpetually make some
the reflection the waveform
in a little note we harmonize
my fingertips- carrier of a glow
I - the particle of light
we pass
and yes after each turn
there is a you to learn from
or I to be.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
I truly, madly, deeply love you
but I insanely like him too
I wish you were both one
And not the two of you
To take a single direction
One I wouldn't regret - if only I knew
Or somehow be able to
Make a portmanteau of you two
Because it's breaking me
It's tearing me apart...to choose
Between you - my hurtful fountain of love
And a loving fountain of joy, that isn't you
I wish I could let a little time pass us by
So we all can arrive at the truth
Maybe it was infatuation, that would fade away
Or maybe, our love was meant to be doomed
I would rather take my time
For I cannot be untrue
I'm not the kind of a woman
To cheat myself, him, or you
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
she is waiting outside baggage claim
in blue jeans and a sweatshirt that says **** YALE
she is texting, frowning without wrinkles
her hair a thick braid to the small of her back
even among the smell of jet fuel and diesel fumes
her hair the scent of cedar smoke, campfires
picture it as a long furry tail
a meerkat, they’re cute, they’re carnivores
she stares at oncoming cars
she hops on one foot
I bet she’s really smart, really nice
she has an LL Bean backpack on rollers and a floral garment bag
she turns to me and asks
“Will you watch my bags? I need to ***
before I can answer she dashes in short steps
now I notice tall heels below frayed cuffs
the heels lift her *** nice ***
but she’s younger than my daughter
she trusts me, I feel elevated
she’s gone so long
the pack on wheels, could it be a bomb?
and me standing, guarding
leering old creep nominated to be smithereens of pink spray
but she looked sweet in an intellectual touchy-feely way
no lipstick, no eyeliner
I appreciate girls with no makeup
and nobody puts bombs in a garment bag,
totally against the bombing code
look there sticking out of a pocket of the backpack
a copy of a book, holy ****
my novel that went out of print thirty-seven years ago
which is twice her age
there was soft down above her lip, meerkat fuzz
my portrait on the back cover, a younger hairy me
did she see?
when she returns I will speak kindly
a bevy of bluebirds will fly from my lips to her ears
an SUV stops, a burly man in coat and sloppy tie steps out
opens the tailgate, throws the portmanteau inside
then the backpack with the book
should I stop him?
“Are you sure you have the right bags?”
I ask somewhat unassertively
the man looks at me like he’s bitten lime
and says, **** Yale?”
and I nod okay
and just then she bursts out the door breathless
hugs the burly man
not a glance to me, not a thank you for guarding the bags
she hops into the shotgun seat
the words I hear her say:
“Finally, at last!”
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
‘Be waiting up at the window,’ said
The note he sent by hand,
‘I’ll come and collect you at midnight,’
Said the note, ‘the way we planned.’
She heard the clatter of hoofbeats in
The courtyard down below,
And waved to him from the window
As she seized her portmanteau.
She quickly skipped down the staircase
Holding both her shoes in hand,
Trying to avoid the clatter as
She raced down to her man,
It only took but a moment then
To seat her on his horse,
And gallop out of the courtyard on
Their way to the watercourse.
A light appeared in an upper room
And they heard her father roar,
‘By God, you’ll pay for your insolence,
I told you once before.’
He’d promised her to a Banker’s clerk
Who had paid him for her hand,
Though she had said that it wouldn’t work,
She had bowed to his command.
But then the couple had plotted,
He was sworn to break her free,
‘If anyone is to marry, it
Will just be you to me.’
They headed down to the water where
The sloop, ‘The Esperance’,
Was waiting for their arrival
Before sailing off to France.
It took an hour to set the sails
And wait for the tide to turn,
They hid themselves below the deck
In a cabin at the stern,
But soon the thunder of hoofbeats said
They must have been found out,
For then they heard her father’s call,
‘It’s best that you come out,’
He ventured slowly out on the deck
To reason with the man,
Then saw the flash of the powder that
Was loaded in the pan,
The ball cut straight through his windpipe,
Left him sprawling on the deck,
While she was dragged from below, and screamed
‘All curses on your neck.’
He locked her into an attic room
And he wouldn’t let her out,
Though she would wail, and would scream at him,
And curse and yell, and shout,
She waited up till the early hours
Then she set her room alight,
The fire spread till they all were dead
From that single candlelight.
It sits as a blackened ruin now
With soot on the standing walls,
A testament to a daughter who
Refused to be overruled,
And still some nights when the moon is bright
There’s a whisper, close at hand,
‘I’ll come and collect you at midnight,
And we’ll leave, the way we planned.’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Contrasted
Occlude
Nutation
Turntable
Reclusive
Apathy
Portmanteau
Oedipus
Soliton
Inerrant
Tricorn
Inculcate
Ovoid
Nowhere
:/noun/ käntrəpəˈziSHən; A relationship between two indications when a Thing with affirmation of another are also a negation of the affirmation in the opposition of the other.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
There was a time—and this wasn't all that long ago—where I wanted to be seen, loved, admonished. I wanted to be some novelist casanova, women, movie deals, et cetera. And one day it changed. I wish there was some monumental event tied to it, some clear catalyst, but to be honest this opposite idea, this idea of erasure, came to me in a supermarket. In the checkout line the cashier didn't greet me, didn't ask the usual did-you-find-everything type questions. The transaction was wholly procedural, nothing human to it. The total showed up on a screen. I swiped a card.
And it reminded me of that part in DeLillo's—I know, it's always DeLillo—in his book Zero K where he talks about the origin of "alone," and what the word really connotes. The word is a rather simple portmanteau of the Middle English phrase "all one." And when you think of the word like this, all one, it gives you a different idea. It does for me anyway. All one suggests freedom from any tie or association. It's who you are minus geography, minus desire, minus friends, minus family, minus lovers. Many people would say there is no self if you were to eliminate essentially the entire context of your life, but I disagree.
I say all of this to say, I'm hitting the red button. I'm eliminating all my friendships to regain a semblance of an inner life. I think they've become responsible for a projected version of myself, an expected version rife with inconsistencies that I wish to no longer adhere to. I know what you're thinking. I'm going to be some half-assed buddhist of the plains, but this small world I've played a small part in shaping has become suffocating, and the only way for me to exist in this space is as a vapor.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
becalm, bestill, bequiet…
yes, a singlet. a singular mannerism
the language permits to adjudicate
the required emphases of the
urgency of a command, plea, a begging
bequeathed bequest and a request in
combination, with one exhalation,
these portmanteau, allinone, smashgrab,
blending of two words, to advise herein,
that we bring our kitbagofwords of
poetry to ourselves in order to
becalm, bestill, bequiet our kindred souls…
Jul 4, 2023
Jul 4, 2023 at 5:35 PM UTC
This poem, which will be presented to the American Dialect Society,
proposes the addition and acceptance of a new word to the English Language.
This word is a combination of the words "magnificent" and "marvelous,"
known only as "magnarvelous." The word "magnarvelous"
has a meaning that combines the definitions of the previous words
from which it originates from. Magnarvelelous is defined as
causing elaborate wonder, extravagant beauty, or expresses
the extraordinarily striking characteristics of an object.
Here are a few examples of magnarvelous in use:
“I am enamored by how magnarvelous your eyes look in the moonlight.”
“The sky during sunset was beautiful in a way that could only be described as magnarvelous.”
“When a film like ‘Troll 2’ fails in every aspect, it has accomplished a magnarvelous feat.”
“There was something magnarvelous in how he made her laugh.”
“Once we are old and married, could we discuss how the process of falling in love was
magnarvelous?”
As you can see, magnarvelous is more than just a portmanteau of
magnificent and marvelous; it is a profound expression for the unrelenting and
indecipherable beauty of the world in which we inhabit.
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 10:09 PM UTC
Le Cordon Bleu sommelier in the know
Discussed wine pairing with patrons aglow
"What does your order include?"
"Roast turducken frankenfood"
"Then I recommend a dry Portmanteau!"
© 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC