"precocious" poems
New words in old styles
Tracked on a canvas of brick
By a precocious kid
Sneaking on the lines;
The little *****
My morning art show
Laid out in illiterate words,
Scribbled by artists
Who failed art at school,
Then shat on by birds.
An exhibition of names
Written worryingly wrong,
Evident to the system
That failed before they
Even joined the throng.
We pause at one piece
Daubed in indelible paint,
White streaked on black,
A chaotic sprawl of letters,
**** al saintz".
I've been there before;
A nice school I thought,
Catholic of course;
I doubt the child gave
The saints a spare thought.
And what about Al?
Does he care at all?
Does he pause here,
On his way to work,
And dream their downfall.
It drives me up the wall
To see tracks filled with art,
But are they to blame?
We let them loose
And they play their part.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Vivacious, atrocious
Super capricious
Precocious and ferocious
Precious and gracious
Malicious and facetious
Long lashes
Gory gashes
Fiery slashes
Tunic mashes
Souls igneous
In the end, it’s all ashes, just ashes...
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
steel
oil
engineering
labor
converge
round a
Rocket 88
dead man’s
curve
prescient
precocious
capitalists
concoct
Edsels
Vegas
Chevelles
leaping
Impalas
leak
oil
staining
every
American
driveway
Pintos
chase
Gremlins
across
The Great Plains
gassing up
at
Rt 66
fillin
stations
scramblin
Midnight
Ramblers
detour to
take refuge
with Goats in
Big Sky
Indian
garages
440
Mustangs
nip
327
Stingrays
and
Mach IV
Cobras
get
snake bit
by Dart
wielding
Mopar
muscle
cars
long fins
chrome bumpers
and round fenders
still get bent in
Havana
but
Motor City is broke
nations outta gas
whole **** country
needs an overhaul
Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88
Nelson Riddle: Route 66
7/19/13
Oakland
jbm
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
she sat on the rocking horse
wearing the soldiers coat he had thrown to her as
he rode away into the smoke and thunder of battle
she pulled it tight to her
like it was a part of him
she had come down from the
north towns to make a new life
in mysterious places with
romantic sounding names
but she lost her money in the river town
and fell in with some dark men
who tried to make her take up in the
***** house
but just as they lead her down
a fair haired lad looking handsome
in his soldiers uniform heard her cries
and saved her
the intensity of her beauty
and the sweetness of her heart
so enchanted him
he asked her to be his wife
he was so wonderful and handsome
she said yes
but a soldiers life called him
to battle and as he rode off
into the smoke and thunder
our precocious girl
sat on the rocking horse
and sang a sweet song
for he had rescued her
in every way a person can be saved
and she was going to be his wife
so careful young maidens
of these carefree wanderings you take
for it was a bright day for her
it is not allways such
take care is all i ask
for the world dose not allways
favour the fair
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
No, no, no,
that's not how it happened at all.
Precocious children
have never been afforded that much influence
and Emperors, then as now
are largely unafflicted by shame.
And it's a good thing too
- why, if the story had gone
the way Anderson had it,
neither I nor any of the men of the town
would have our jobs
at the Magic Cloth factory
You do realise
that the trade in Magic Cloth
supports all the world's major economies now,
don't you?
Nor would the aristocracy
look half so stylish,
sashaying hither and thon
in the glorious altogether,
applauded by the taste-makers
and notably contemptuous
of child-like observation.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
*This poem based on a joke on eggs (!) is dedicated to Timothy, a fellow-poet here at HP….I was reminded of that joke about eggs by Timothy’s comment on my recent poem: “Corax versus Tisias”.
Timothy: “This is great, Raj, another humourous poem with a good meaning, if you are an Egg or a Crow, lol! Keep them coming!!!!~<3<3:):)☺♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫” …
Well, here’s another humorous poem, Timothy – and dedicated to you…*
Dad, the Kid, and the Girl Next Door
(1)
“Dad,” says 6-year-old Tim
back from the neighbour’s
*“Sandra next door and I’ve decided
to get married”*
Dad laughs…What do these kids know? he thinks…
*I’ll humour him, just kid along
with this precocious child of mine*
(2)
“But you’re too young, Tim,”
says Dad
“That’s OK,” says Tim
*“Sandra doesn’t mind I’m a year
younger than she”*
“Oh,” says Dad
*“but marriage is such
a huge responsibility”*
“Yeah,” says Tim quick and sharp
*“Haven’t you seen my school reports?
Teacher always says I’m hugely responsible;
it’s the same on Sandra’s card”*
Dad’s smile weakens
*“Well, what will the two of you
do for money?”*
*“Oh, we’ve worked that one out
We get $20 a week in pocket money
between us and we reckon we’ll take
on extra jobs:
I can mow our lawn;
and she’ll wash dishes at her home
Beside we’ll save a lot of money
since we don’t at all eat out
and lodging is free -
a week here and the next at Sandra’s”*
(3)
Now Dad has lost his smile
These kids have thought of everything,
he thinks. *I’ve got to do better –
come up with an objection that’ll strike fear*
“Have you thought, Tim,” says wise old Dad
*“about babies? Married people make babies –
what you going to do about that?”*
“Simple,” says Tim the kid, cool and unperturbed
*“We’ve googled all that:
Every time Sandra lays an egg
I’ll crush it under foot!”*
Dad sighs with relief…
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.
On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.
No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.
He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.
He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.
She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.
One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.
With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.
"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.
Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.
For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
I hunt antelope in human hordes.
I haul three brooms on one shoulder.
I don't clean up.
I dance with specters and minuscule magenta men.
I am the precocious girl in fuchsia heels and charcoal dress.
I am the humble man with stark white tails.
I pull drops of food from the ether.
I pinch seeds from flower's eyes.
I touch like feathers and embrace like mountains.
I take leave when I want to.
I am the shaggy oak watching his youth flash past.
I am the alabaster orb and the effervescent waves.
I eat the wind with a dash of cinnamon.
I exude thunderstorms from every pore.
I sleep with stingrays and the smell of wet hay.
I spend blood-soaked bills without a second thought.
I am the sinless murderer.
I am the woman with eyes that mend bones.
I fly with eagles in the cerulean.
I fight Irish brawlers with my eyes closed.
I capture hearts in nets of lavender and silk.
I climb towering opal obelisks.
I am the painter's muse and the singer's breath.
I am the hoary frost on ancient limbs.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
And is it yet enough,
the raptured heights of love?
when love would break your heart
with it's coy, precocious arts.
Oft hope will soar you high
and fly with you for miles,
then drop you like a stone
all bruised and so forlorn
and then who is to blame,
but your own foolish, lame,
deceitful heart?
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Her eyes and lips and waist are sad poems,
which he finds pretty, but hard to look at, due to
the fact that unlike anyone else in the world, he's
indulged himself in the words she's composed of;
he's ran his fingers over the black print covering her
skin, and, mesmerized by her story, found solace in the
melancholic stanzas of optimistic sadness.
A girl with eyes as wide as the moon, maybe even wider,
hides behind books and songs and movies,
which prove nicer than the real world.
He stands tall and silent, one epic poem too long for
the world to read. However,while he's
fast asleep, she runs her fingers over the words and
pictures he's made visible to the world. One long,
sad poem about the world, one the rebels would marvel
at, about what it really is and what it never was.
Tattoos starting at the nape of his neck,
traveling down his arms and back, ink spilled upon a
lonely canvas, displaying a sad but accurate portrayal
of him: the boy who grew up too fast..
They're both odd and difficult to understand;
they are the poems that do not rhyme, the ones with
breaks midway through lines. Scriptures written along
the brims of both their beings, about a precocious boy
with tattoos and a naïve girl with dreams.
Love and dreams and perfume and flowers,
stars and books and blood and tears,
tears and blood and fire and angst,
want and drugs and needles and hate.
But that's okay.
In their affair of little talks, awkward silences,
holding hands beneath tables and speaking with their eyes,
they make beautiful silk webs of words, which hang from
the ceilings, are strewn along the walls and cover them in
their sleep.
Words to lines to stanzas to poems to stories.
Never had there been a more bitter-sweet relationship than
that of two beautifully sad poems in love.
Where he won’t say ‘I love you’, and she swears she understands,
and he sits on the sidelines drinking, while she waits to be asked to dance.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
~for the wild child, daughter, wife, mother~
I am drifting into the tender part of the night, when deceit is pointless, and I argue with conviction within myself that in our lives that it will never be too late, but I know I contradict my prior musing...somewhere between the fact that time is a wasting commodity, precocious and precious, lives this idea within, that there is nothing that cannot be navigated, recompensed, even forgiven...
the argument goes on, the tide of battle switching back and forth, and for now I must be satisfied with the meagerness of I can’t give up, be at ease by acknowledging defeat, not just yet, and the fast arrival of a clean slate is a chance, a draw, a ticket to ride, and,
reaching
is a wonderful idea, full of compromise, out and in, extra effort, and tomorrow I may yet teach one of us, even myself, by reaching inside of what churns within, and then have the perfect words you require, for a desperate need, and a comforting that comes forth easily
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
Never saying that I officially have those, to be ficitious,
Cause I am breaking and pushing all borders.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
In school labelled as the kid who was mischievous,
obeying orders, so ****** disorded.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
hating social interaction, dark thoughts, labelled as malicious,
Still loving hobbies and education, still ambitious.
Suffering from Undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
Behaviours yet still suspicious,
is it undiagnosed mental illness and disorders, that are tralatitious.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
From Depression, Suicide tendencies, Autism spectrum and ADHD,
Taking medication that suppose to help, clearly does and doesn't.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
From Depression, Suicide Tendencies, Autism spectrum and ADHD,
I don't say am like every other who suffers from mental illness or other disorders.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
Obesity isn't always a disorder,
A Small part of obesity is generics or health conditions,
A large part of obesity is the choice based upon society.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
Laziness is a mental, gaming is now a mental illness,
Kids that want no job, nothing to achieve, no physician needed,
Kids thinking that they are doctors, internet search and diagnosis,
believing in self taught self hypnosis.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
Childhood, I was very precocious,
Leaving friends, family and parents, Ferocious.
Suffering from undiagnosed mental illness,
Also talks about other undiagnosed disorders,
behaviours of mine never when unnotice,
Angry was always explosive,
Never been seen for the symptom shown, never reaching an prognosis.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
By leading with heart
Using a guillotine
Is where some start
Following Zen
And learning to crawl
Through ration of arts
Savouring the indelible sweetness
Helps lead the precocious
Enjoying inclusions
Doesn't have to preclude
Seeing with eyes
Can lead to deception
Best plant the seed
Using inception
That's why the Queen of Hearts
Whispers off with your head
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
Passed the past,
Looking ahead beyond time -
One precocious step.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
Lethargic depressed insane inane speechless crazy alone loved.
still alone searching hiding scared asking hoping walking. simplistic.
connected living breathing-wishing I wasn't. Sleeping longing paranoid strange homeless judged.
stereotypes dependent wishing thinking realism tricks mental functions waves patterns medicine.
Staying awake. Crying, screaming, screaming, screaming, angst, anger, understanding yet misunderstood.
apathy
manic precocious processing watching waiting listening-not tasting. day mares. trains feet cars writing resting regaining energetic.
back down.
up.
down, staying down. staying trying attending pushing achieving descending reading.
surviving. impossible. surviving.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 6:20 PM UTC
I want to grow up,
for I am incapable to go back
and relieve the feeling of my carefree self
that I once enjoyed
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
in your high chair
you must have been precocious
with your alphabet soup
up there in that lofty charthouse
piloting gluten letters
through a steaming sea of blood red tomato,
making floating islands of toki pona,
"mi olin e sina"
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
Another wave of hopefuls arrive:
a sea of humanity, on board this flight.
Wide-eyed young with dreams of a future;
Broken men from no-mans' lands,
seekers of refuge and an identity of hope;
The student of science, the Yoga teacher;
Precocious and bespectacled
immigrant kids with foreign accents;
Anxious old on the first plane of their lives
out to meet their children, or grand-children;
man in traditional attire; relieved missionary
from his conquest of souls; All escaping
to the Ark of the world, on board this flight,
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
I used to be adorable
but now I do the adoring
I used to be precocious
but now I want my flowers to bloom slowly
I used to say the cutest things
but now I temper my wit with knowing
I used to be so smart
but now I am trying for wisdom
I used to pose for anyone
but now I am camera shy
I used to think the world was so huge
but now it is at my fingertips
I used to wish I was older
but now I am happy I am not
I used to insist I was always right
but now I give that gift to others
I used to feel greatly loved
but now I am a great lover
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
Rolling-Twisting-Wafting
Distorted cloudy mask
Seized-Enveloped-Constrained
Perverting wicked task
Tasteless-Loveless-Breathless
Compulsory tears are wept
Ambitious-Precocious-Delirious
Perceived utterly inept
Occupant-Observant-Defiant
Definitive answers slurred
Perception-Discretion-Revolution
Autonomy from the herd
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC