"quaintly" poems
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN
( for Brian )
"Your mum's an alien..an...
ha ha ha ha alien!"
the children chant
and taunt.
I see through tears
their sneers and hated
etched upon
their features
like a mask they
could/couldn't take off.
It is like a thousand years ago
all over again.
The Age of the thing
called Trump
when humans were both
orange and stupid.
Now we have computers
built into each whorl
facts at our fingertips
with just a finger snap
we can call up what used to be
called videos
of the Trump thing
teaching humans how to hate.
I, unlike my sisters
am not green
except for
a slight greenish
hue every now
and then.
I am more the chameleon
and can blend in.
I have the necessary arms
and the obligatory number of eyes.
Only my mum and sisters
look like a lurid 1950's comic
"THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!"
yet earth would not be
here if aliens( us )had not come
to save them from themselves
back when earth had entered
the Age of Dictators
as the history apps.
quaintly put it
Now is come again
the hateful hate
ma king Ame-rica
grate again
like a mind
grinding its teeth.
I'm sorry am
the English no good
and the spelling as well
we will
have to hide behind
our mind walls
that we had to build
to keep humans out.
My mother taking me
lovingly in her tentacles
stroking me and drying my eyes
and making tea
With a snap of my fingers
I bring up my favourite video
and a Kermit hologram
floats before my face
"It's not that easy bein' green!"
and I singalong like any human being
"...when green is all there is to be."
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
1575
The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings—
Like fallow Article—
And not a song pervade his Lips—
Or none perceptible.
His small Umbrella quaintly halved
Describing in the Air
An Arc alike inscrutable
Elate Philosopher.
Deputed from what Firmament—
Of what Astute Abode—
Empowered with what Malignity
Auspiciously withheld—
To his adroit Creator
Acribe no less the praise—
Beneficent, believe me,
His Eccentricities—
4k
Persuasive notions locked away,
in many minds that go astray;
When working along cryptic lines,
which falter during chaotic times.
While hidden in a separate space,
these musings tend to be erased;
Forgotten now in empty spheres,
dissolve as echoes of chronic fears.
Perhaps society has been foretold,
of magic tales so brave and bold;
Yet through the mastery of lies,
they disappear before our eyes.
Inside the quaintly shuttered room,
the words seem subtle but still in tune;
When wanton tales aroused before,
a complex world of closing doors.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Show me your heart,
And I'll show you a work of art
I'll make it grand
I'll make it with allure
I'll make it to withstand
Even time and the impure
Give me that pen,
I'll make the horizons broaden
I'll let you see
The wonders of the universe
I'll show you that you're not just any
For you are a blessing, not a curse
How about just a smile,
And I'll walk with you down the aisle
We'll write of our adventures quaintly,
Be it with pens or pencils
Even with the most unlikely
of writing utensils
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
Uniformed in creative black
Marlboro scented
Wonderstruck
Deliberately
Deliberate
Random
Pixie haired
Angel eyed
& brave
Daring herself to be
Enchantingly urbane
Zeitgeisty
Considerably
Considered
Aware
Pale skinned
Quaintly styled
& risky
A portfolio perfectionist
Absorbing influences
Ferociously
Delicate
Delicately
Persuasive
Scarlet lipped
Crystal tipped
& scared
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
The yellowed dome cracks upon the surface
Of the moistened soil that stretches to make
Their way, emphatically filling most base
Space between dried stubs of flesh - never fake
Fruitless fingers - cracking, brushing, but now
Healing by comforting the path I pursue
With the wake of the rooster.
Home left warming behind, I gallantly
Saunter toward more humid, fume-fed airs
While leaving the thoughts that so quaintly
Filled my head, forgot to ingrain, and failed,
Allowing growth to myself.
Sun hung, high-noon, the dew fades all too soon
Creating a creaky concoction kept
Together (of sounds) by bare breaking-bones
Feet against gravel, dusty, rocky steps.
Sky set so wearisome and pink, I fall
To my knees in the midst of high terrain
Marked by thin grasses and rolling hill plains;
As I beg for mercy, not from this all-
Endowed sight, but from God(s) who seem only
To make this life right - I'll collapse further,
My hands move mountainous dirt and holy
Diadems of twig, while I decide - worth
When shall I dig?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
You mean if I don't go extinct,
I guess I'm free,
as free as anyone is in this world,
with Destiny glaring at me from her Window,
Her eyelids fluttering in anticipatory teases,
and yet to flirt with her is to invite Doom into your pocket,
Even if she does gaze the glance of her blessing on you,
your date with her is, ultimately, set
the supper is bitter, and her wine that which lulls in the sleep of the ages,
until thence, she changes tables, and woos another suitor.
we all must have that sour meal with her sitting quaintly across, smiling demurely, yet knowingly,
So, until the time comes to sit at her table, wrest free from her shackles the very smallest bits of will
tho it make her jealous, her envy 'tis thus of you still.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
the mange of our fuzzy logic is squandered on the imbecile.
and genius is the gene splice of twelve comedies.
a rogue moon in a hooligan.
it jumps the fence and can't jump back. lacking the tool
that undoes the beauty of the obvious.
that quaintly dismisses the Oh ! My ! God !
we cringe in the ether of our ignorance, spooning the villain.
the Mind is the Common Sense Killer....
it dives and triumphs in the acetone conundrum
of our proximity to dissipation.
the bold features of our doldrums
are the perfect ugly perfection
of our flaws.
our love is the rigid agenda of a massacre.
we the people, are the juvenile, sprained wrist of a boggart !
a Fae dreary.
we have our business in the withers of dead horses.
we are well versed
in the tundra tongue of our flat humor.
we assume the rumors are true.
and the tyranny that freed you
is the misery you
love with
and your beautiful
doom
kissing
a
mirror...
a Thing.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
I
I juggle with shades and figures and also skulls
Vicious and virtuous
Sinister and righteous
Vile and saintly
And that goes on and on and on
Countless shades that conceal the sun and quaintly
Also the mournful moon withdrawn
Multitudinous figures who speak and screech
And conjure from the vessel adrift of humanity
Myriad skulls with freedom of speech
Or wouldn't they be inhumanity
There is insanity in my sanity
I like to be in the drift
To go with the flow
To be unattached of enlist
For lost causes and “shows”
There is insanity in my sanity!
I like to sail more than a smidgen
To grasp and see the proper bliss:
From fear comes religion
From insanity comes questionings, comes this
Oh, yes! There is insanity in my sanity!
II
I keep juggling with my depth and core
Hopping from one to another
Cautiously not to let any of them drop for
The stream of existence or it will be smothered
And I’ll lose my sense of course
Leading me towards my martyr
Wave by wave sinking my vital force
Until the border of overwhelming disorder
That is imminent but in slow-motion
For I’ve yet an entire ocean
To sail across before I diagnose if I’m:
**The death of my hero
Or
The hero of my death
?**
III
Sound waves of a drifting symphony
Leads me to where the curious compass points
For I'm a sailor simply for another epiphany
And to inscribe the momentum with paints
Of memories of a posterior I
Ready to retry
Indeed I sail through an immaterial hour
For I'm a sailor until the idyllic harbor
That arises in the unending horizon
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
Here a pitter there a patter
all swallows have scattered
hid as squirrels did and
then I almost splattered this frog leaping
narrowly missed my footfall he did
grasshoppers cricket
their back legs a mating calling
for the night a date so quaintly the
grass glitters on dew drop glittery moon lit glows
slippery silver lazing up above the Pecan tree
ripe from the summer making
flows
the squirrels in this pittering
pattering drizzle
wait inside their nests
to get
one day
the
sun comes
out,
next.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
I.
brewing and brawling, bronzing
she cries
the mighty blue-tailed
golden hawk of the skies
she screeches and crones
for the souls in her bones
that she hides away
bides away, flies away, souls.
souls she collects,
to tinker and check
to see if their wailing is loud-
loud as it goes
proud as it goes
an ego as big as is tall:
a square of dementia
and a sprinkle of manic
lead you to think she is largely just panic
frantic and tied
the souls she must hide,
to tide away, bind away,
find a way free -
free from the earth,
its land and its girth,
free from the sea,
its waters and needs,
free from the fire,
burning desire,
loosed to the air,
its wings without care
fighting and lighting
the sky in her path
the soul-binding hawk
slowly wanders back
II.
one by one
faintly they come
daintily and faintly
quaintly, they come;
the souls, how they tremble,
quiver and weep
through the slightest of all tiniest cracks do they creep
whining, entwining, smiling they float
burning passion and love,
all on one music note:
dripping and dropping
they dangle and sway
floating, just floating, ever slightly away
III.
souls having *** and souls bemoaning love
wailing and flailing, as soft as a dove;
perfect, he says, are the shape of your *******
lovely, she responds, i'm sick of taking tests -
no one will know, they like to pretend,
but obvious was their means to an end;
switching and curling, lipping they smack
the man over the head, whose head is on crack
and sad they all are, demented instead,
inside of their heads they are missing a *****
brightly, tightly, they hold on to their due
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
503
Better—than Music! For I—who heard it—
I was used—to the Birds—before—
This—was different—’Twas Translation—
Of all tunes I knew—and more—
’Twasn’t contained—like other stanza—
No one could play it—the second time—
But the Composer—perfect Mozart—
Perish with him—that Keyless Rhyme!
So—Children—told how Brooks in Eden—
Bubbled a better—Melody—
Quaintly infer—Eve’s great surrender—
Urging the feet—that would—not—fly—
Children—matured—are wiser—mostly—
Eden—a legend—dimly told—
Eve—and the Anguish—Grandame’s story—
But—I was telling a tune—I heard—
Not such a strain—the Church—baptizes—
When the last Saint—goes up the Aisles—
Not such a stanza splits the silence—
When the Redemption strikes her Bells—
Let me not spill—its smallest cadence—
Humming—for promise—when alone—
Humming—until my faint Rehearsal—
Drop into tune—around the Throne—
1.1k
There's never been a middle ground for me.
I can be terrifyingly drowning in my insecurities and self-pity one minute
then the loftiest songbird, soaring quaintly without worries the next.
The grey must be a boring place.
And in all optimism, surely there is someone who will accept me
for all my madness and sanity.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
The boat was moored
In a place in Norfolk
When Summer came
It was renovated
Ready as were the broads
For the sunny season
And trips taking places
Quietly,quaintly.
A favourite spot
To visit and find surprises
A boat of singular, solidarity
Splendouredly
Painted in the colour
Of a great philosophy.
Love Mary ***
Love Mary ***
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC
i feel your heat broke,
held back tears choked,
body mould vegetable like an artichoke,
rope burns, red raw, fingerprints imprinted
like an etch a sketch around the throat.
Hoping for forgiveness.
All you got to give is ambivalence to a kaleidoscope,
a spectrum of a sliding scope,
outpost, hides in a gliding cloak.
Invisible to the individuals
that provide the hope,
the inevitable return of the great white dope.
So,
Those fragments of the heart,
are an art piece.
Raw and uncut,
you came unstuck in your cuticles.
Nailing your beautiful mistake,
To a cross shaped like shoulder blades
holding up those younger days,
shades of the shadows past.
Like a puzzle,
someone will find your corners,
and pieces in between,
when it seems all is gone,
the heartbeats faintly.
Not all is lost.
quaintly.
the beep is constant
and,
your heart spoke in rhythm to the promised land.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
US Verse, after Auden
by Michael R. Burch
“Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.”
Verse has small value in our Unisphere,
nor is it fit for windy revelation.
It cannot legislate less taxing fears;
it cannot make us, several, a nation.
Enumerator of our sins and dreams,
it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings,
a little quaintly, of the ways of love.
(It seems of little use for lesser things.)
Published by The Raintown Review, The Barefoot Muse and Poetry Life & Times
The Unisphere mentioned is a spherical stainless steel representation of the earth constructed for the 1964 New York World’s Fair. It was commissioned to celebrate the beginning of the space age and dedicated to "Man's Achievements on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe." The lines quoted in the epigraph are from W. H. Auden’s love poem “Lullaby.” Keywords/Tags: Auden, unisphere, lullaby, verse, revelation, cryptic, legislate, enumerator, sins, dreams, value, love, sings, quaint, quaintly, lesser, greater
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 10:20 PM UTC
Oh dear, say it ain't so
I have tumbled once more into the Ensorcel rabbit hole.
Such beguiling charisma and perplexing dexterity wound up inside the man seated next to me.
Perhaps he has broad branching toes like a stoic Tarzan type, nesting in foliage and kissing the stars goodnight.
Or maybe, just maybe he's a beatnik poetic pulsating with the rhythm the earth has bestowed in him.
His finely aligned scruff and quaintly poised glasses may suggest his love for musical classics.
Oh treacherous day, what ever shall I do?
This man of such illusive origins glazed in nectarous morning dew.
Logistically you could precipitate more interaction to decode the cryptic fabric fostering this bizarre attraction.
But...
Enshrining and alienating yourself from said object is the best way to circumvent its truthful product.
He is feverishly contaminated by the condition of human, fettered by the society's rubble and ruins.
Ah, no matter I say. I can jowl upon my pumpkin pie and wistfully ostracize the pestilence shreds of reality away.
Anyhow, I do much prefer the aggrandized lofty plot of land transcended from our fickle mortal hackneyed plans.
A throne of land so void of reality my fabricated man could lie beside me in all his Tarzan beatnik classical music glory.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
Imagine figures of sanitation.
Drenched in ammonia and urination.
Insane perceptions purge in disfiguration.
Imagine ***** beneath blisterd bloodied feet.
Rest on alter sharpend blades.
that cut flesh quaintly deep.
Sick at sights of dreaded sheep.
Hahahahaha
In the woods once more to be disdained.
Pleasure be the self inflicted pain.
Druged up and floating far away.
**** everything.
Despair and anguish ****** up all things.
Rhyming words with words cause **** creativity.
Just pet the duck with that tweaked out sad lady.
It’s all just jokes that leaves even the ill laughing.
Yet once more reality and mockings become blurred in such confusion.
Living life laughing while crying in delusions.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC
the sun is a gentle hand whirling
softly past the opened windows
and I am a lonely furniture
sitting still beside restless shadows.
shall I give you my silence and
come back with fledgling beat?
or be fastened with the riot of the masses
pummeling the iron and striking blindly
like a palaver hurled in the middle
of the midnight riddled by stars and
nothing else? stones enisled conspicuously
like the hands of a mother have well-placed
pavilions into their order, the careful crunch
of trees in Summer, filling the brim of ornate eyes
with such redness hazily festooning the avenues
with the lissomeness of the Earth
little girls dressed quaintly on Sundays
the fragrance of mildew everywhere
you against all the surrounding scenes
that break vases, pound the halls and leave doors
opened, yourself crawling away
dragging along the weight of your own shadow.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
The hour
Heavy upon us
---
This one!
And the child over there
---
We die so quietly
So quaintly
...
In subtle rhythms
----
We do not dare challenge ourselves to challenge the system
__
We do what they ask of us!
We play OUR GAMES
---
Death stinks!
Yes
It is we ourselves!
We ourselves
Stinking up the place!
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Mania, as the sun hails through the breeze,
and comes to kiss the cheek of the depressed.
the winter is gone and quaintly I remiss about years of longing.
Flux, the ray places the warm degrees to skin and a feeling comes about and begins to spread. Happiness is here, yet it was not missed. Nadir, the sun is robbed by the winds and time, but the warmth still lingers; just to a lesser deegre.
May I miss the first sun of spring again.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 6:09 AM UTC
KINGS
KIND
INSPIRATIONS
NOTABLY
GRATEFUL
SPECTACULARLY FAITHFUL
QUEENS
QUAINTLY
UNIQUE
EVERYDAY
ELATIONS
NUMEROUS
SIGNIFIED STATUES
Deborrah Ann Stenberg
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
The girl's going to Michigan
staying with her family.
Please no Hershey bars
we're quaintly English,
an island race
of fascinating climes,
so no Atlantic conversions
to the new axioms.,
Learn to love tea again
persist with under statement
and long live queues
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC