"quarreling" poems
I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.
I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...
I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
eulogizer,
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.
I'd call you
"Lesbia", "Rosalind",
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.
Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.
I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.
But twenty-two months is a long time.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
So beautiful--God himself quailed
at her approach: the long body curved
like the horizon. Why had he made
her so? How would it be, she said,
leaning towards him, if instead of
quarreling over it, we divided it
between us? You can have all the credit
for its invention, if you will leave the ordering
of it to me. He looked into her
eyes and saw far down the bones
of the generations that would navigate
by those great stars, but the pull of it
was too much. Yes, he thought, give me their minds'
tribute, and what they do with their bodies
is not my concern. He put his hand in his side
and drew out the thorn for the letting
of the ordained blood and touched her with
it. Go, he said. They shall come to you for ever
with their desire, and you shall bleed for them in return.
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Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.
Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.
The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.
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People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
I am not worried if someday we fight,
Because she loves these cute arguments,
As these always increase our closeness,
We obviously start with contradictions,
But we then end up making happy loving peace.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
Between Five and Seventy Five By Phyllis T, Halle November 9, 2009
At night, we would whisper, brother and I, that we simply could’t wait
For the coming days to fast fly by; til that breath holding, happy morning
When, while we were sleeping, a little fat man in fur trimmed coat and boots,
Would sneak into our house and leave gifts so grand; then we’d rise with hoots!
Oh! The time would fly by!
and he did!
and we did!
It was grand!
At night, now, I think to myself, that the days are still whizzing past
but no jolly morning is coming on fast
When the house will be filled with family and laughing and song
So, I think I must have done something forbidden, cruel or very, very wrong
For my life did fly by!
And memory taunts
And loneliness haunts
Yet it all was grand!
For life is a series of anticipations ! I always taught my children, " Anticipate nothing! It is the only way you won’t ever be disappointed! "
Yet anticipate we must. It is something that flows in and out of our days and nights.
When the day arrives that nothing is worth anticipating, then life has lost all meaning and becomes a black hole, ******* all light and joy from breath and thought.
~.~
So, now, no red suited fur warmed chubby fellow with cherry cheeks and hard working reindeer will ever come again, to delight this child’s heart that still beats (though sometimes, reluctantly.) Now, reason strongly teaches me: This Time! Yes, This Time! you can indeed anticipate and no disappointment will drown your hope and joy! This Time!
This time! You will not awaken on a bright morn, where there are harsh words and quarreling, nor sad, nor chilling feelings, nor to seek comfort from the cold, hard, stiff legged, staring doll that lay under the sparse little tree. This time! The promises of that bright morning will prove warm and true and my earthly mind will no longer struggle with 'whys' and 'what ifs' and 'help me, Lords.'
For the promises of standing before my Maker, my Savior, will make all that was confusing and difficult, come clear and easy before my soul.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
Meanwhile,
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words.
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Hey there,
little girl,
yes you little girl,
stop crying,
stop lying,
I know you’re trying little girl.
You’re smarter that you think, t
hrow the sharp silver down the sink,
open your eyes, no more good-byes
you can fly, little girl.
You have a purpose
don’t be nervous,
you can work this, little girl.
Don’t let that boy corrupt your head,
with those derogative things he said,
he’s crazy,
don’t be lazy to tell him “NO!”,
little girl.
Don’t let those girls bully you,
crush them like dirt under your shoe,
you can do this,
I can prove it,
listen to me,
little girl.
And if your parents are quarreling,
close your eyes and start to sing.
In a minute it’ll be over
and they’ll be sober, little girl.
And if you’re parents don’t treat you right
and every time you’re in a fight,
count to three, close your eyes and let the music be your guide.
When you can’t sleep at nights and
deep inside you want to cry,
look to me,
I’ll be your friend and put your tiny head to bed.
Who am I?
I am hope, here to free your body, mind and soul.
Let me be your best friend.
Hey, guess what?
You’re beautiful little girl.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
I think I know you so well
Then there are days...
It's just... it's hard to tell
If you're with me or away
In the depths of your mind, a personal hell
You get your thoughts twisted
You think this all a joke, a game
I wish it was all more easily resisted
For you are hard to reclaim
I hold you tight with care
I tell you it's ok; I love you
But you aren't really there
You've retreated to someplace and I can't break through
Come back to me my darling
I will coax and I will reassure
But you must stop this quarreling
Our love is secure.
With us, there is no punch line
No love has ever been so real
In my eyes...you will only ever shine
Come back to me my love, and your heart I will heal
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Carefree drizzles softly sings as bliss and ease taken wing.
Gaze upon the auric blooms while sweet melodies, mellowing.
Alleviate our friend's crises, their debts, paid in purple silvers.
Eliminate those pesky mortal threats, lest blood spills in liters.
Toward our star, astride the verde, vibrant beauteous noise.
Abating virtues, without the merde, cometh Byronic poise.
A smoken distance, famished flames, fiery tongues yearning.
A fearful master, ***** dames, merry songs flowing.
Parallel meridians lovingly caress floating wisps of white.
Quarreling impulses embracing soaring orbs of light.
Bright.
See... sigh.
Lavender shades cushion our convents of misty mysteries.
Serene panacea tease me upon sapience; argent histories.
Ebullient crush casting glaring lights into the hostile wind.
Beneath dusky whirlwinds come hazel sparks of sand.
Glory guilty of detested crimes, anon trembling tears.
Inspiration follow thy limelight; guidance of young seers.
A canvas of blue, emotions ablaze through one hundred days.
Amber pillars burdened with wishful horizons... come what may.
Never believe our luxurious dreams under the rainy rainbow.
Drowning in sunshine, tis the era to escape the clutches of limbo.
Cease our anthropocentrics to soar on frozen blooms tonight.
Taste vermillion pain, lest we be gluttons, spying; useless insight.
Mirrors refracting broken perfection, for ever-clear prisms.
Commit altruist favors for all our mistaken rhythms.
Behold the mind, mightier than a sword, bitter tool of priests.
Crusading zen, grander than any reward, come join the feast. <3
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
We thought we’d declared it dead
The words we bury in the soil of time
Eroded by broken silences
In the most unexpected of times
The words that stung my tongue seem to flow numbly
Desensitized and dehumanized,
We wrap ourselves within a world of plastic
Where the external disturbances are kept at bay
Where no one may tap on the window and see within the soul
If we seethe in the residue of our animosity
We’re as good as snarling animals quarreling for the final prize
Before we draw the line between harm and benefit
We must draw the line between man and beast
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
In the name of God we come undone. Violence justified, theology under the gun. Microscopic dissection of every word, while the underlying truths go unheard. Brothers and sisters are at odds, implanting hatred, unraveling the innocence. Venomous bites poison the soul, in all of this quarreling, we've lost our love, forgotten our purpose, with blindness we are overcome. See the good in your brothers, sisters share your heavenly peace, nurture your children to freely live and love in peace.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
Meanwhile,
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words.
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I WANDER down on Clinton street south of Polk
And listen to the voices of Italian children quarreling.
It is a cataract of coloratura
And I could sleep to their musical threats and accusations.
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(Handbook for Quarreling Lovers)I THOUGHT of offering you apothegms.
I might have said, "Dogs bark and the wind carries it away."
I might have said, "He who would make a door of gold must knock a nail in every day."
So easy, so easy it would have been to inaugurate a high impetuous moment for you to look on before the final farewells were spoken.
You who assumed the farewells in the manner of people buying newspapers and reading the headlines-and all peddlers of gossip who buttonhole each other and wag their heads saying, "Yes, I heard all about it last Wednesday."
I considered several apothegms.
"There is no love but service," of course, would only initiate a quarrel over who has served and how and when.
"Love stands against fire and flood and much bitterness," would only initiate a second misunderstanding, and bickerings with lapses of silence.
What is there in the Bible to cover our case, or Shakespere? What poetry can help? Is there any left but Epictetus?
Since you have already chosen to interpret silence for language and silence for despair and silence for contempt and silence for all things but love,
Since you have already chosen to read ashes where God knows there was something else than ashes,
Since silence and ashes are two identical findings for your eyes and there are no apothegms worth handing out like a hung jury's verdict for a record in our own hearts as well as the community at large,
I can only remember a Russian peasant who told me his grandfather warned him: If you ride too good a horse you will not take the straight road to town.
It will always come back to me in the blur of that hokku: The heart of a woman of thirty is like the red ball of the sun seen through a mist.
Or I will remember the witchery in the eyes of a girl at a barn dance one winter night in Illinois saying: Put off the wedding five times and nobody comes to it.
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In the old wars drum of hoofs and the beat of shod feet.
In the new wars hum of motors and the tread of rubber tires.
In the wars to come silent wheels and whirr of rods not
yet dreamed out in the heads of men.
In the old wars clutches of short swords and jabs into
faces with spears.
In the new wars long range guns and smashed walls, guns
running a spit of metal and men falling in tens and
twenties.
In the wars to come new silent deaths, new silent hurlers
not yet dreamed out in the heads of men.
In the old wars kings quarreling and thousands of men
following.
In the new wars kings quarreling and millions of men
following.
In the wars to come kings kicked under the dust and
millions of men following great causes not yet
dreamed out in the heads of men.
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Are human beings programmed to stay?
"Beginning to end"
could be programmed into a person's make-up but
disregard of human design is detrimental to
everyone around that human.
For everyone involved,
getting hurt is inevitable.
Help is not on its way,
instead you are left to fend for yourself.
Just waking up could become impossible,
killing yourself slowly through
love or cigarettes or
more drugs and alcohol than the city could handle.
Nothing could ever
open up the world of
pain better than
quarreling with your own demons.
Reaching out for a hand that
stops reaching for yours
teaches self-harm better than
underdeveloped scars ever could.
Veins are paint trays begging to be opened,
watered down with the
x-ray's of splintered bones from the first hit.
Your pain is inevitable,
zipping with the force of unrequited love.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Detective Dalton is all confused about the ******
Mr. Smith's head was bludgeoned with a heavy object
the impact reveals the vengeance of the killer
Bill the Butler had before closing for the night
heard the couple quarreling over something
Junior Smith was having a night out with his fiancée
and Daisy the daughter had retired to bed early
for she was to set out for an excursion early next day
Mary the maid had taken her leave by the evening
to attend to her husband ailing for some time.
Dalton has no clue about the ****** weapon
nor any lead to point to the possible suspect
but for a scribble on the page of an old diary
found neatly folded beside the victim's body
that reads as follows:
**behind the humble mask is a ***** man
time and again he has ***** a beautiful soul
all just for the pleasure of his flesh
mauled her with his ugly tooth and claw
constantly used her to feed his lust
lost the right to live this man
and he deserves his place in hell
a mighty blow to his head
will for sure end this monster
will do that with my hand
and see his blood oozing out
to recompense for the sin
he forced on her.**
The murderer has kept the name hidden in the letters,
Detective Dalton has only to find out.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
Whilom seafarers in rapture,
seven minutes in heaven,
then nothing but bathos,
--a woman in bed,
she and Rembrandt quarreling
over fidelity or obedience to her king?
"It is I, Seagull!"
"Everything is fine. I see the horizon..."
Night sky, a blow torch,
a golden rain flowing between her legs,
curled in the veil of imperial lineage and/or arousal,
--ballistic arc,
peering into the hand mirror,
a breach of promise staring back.
"Will the flight
affect your reproductive organs, Danaë?"
"Conceivably...
and how they shall weep
when things go wrong between us?"
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
River as persistent
as the enduring ******
for self-preservation -
Carving by currents
and flowing within
a necessary course
Determined
by ancient
inherent law.
Oblivious to danger
and ignorant of doubt
it is perpetually unconcerned -
The river carelessly
generous
without discrimination -
Ever sustaining
trees, grasses and
underbrush shelters
Home to life in its waters
and nourishment for those
that come to the banks
Never quarreling with any
human imposition
be it sport or utility
And always providing
the perfect primordial
music for meditation
Always offering
an immaculate lullaby
for the tranquil restorative
of sleep.
- fr
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Watch out for the jackal.
A Joker.
I don't like to play games.
This is serious follow the clues.
The stepping stones line the path.
Through the meadow and the prairie.
Galloping stallions.
Twirling battalions.
Shiny medallions.
A whiny dalmatian.
A quarreling nation.
What is the logic?
Chirping frogs.
Daddy long leg spiders.
That sit down beside her.
A messed up mind.
A senseless theory.
A confusing plot.
Without any thought.
What was I thinking?
If I remember it wouldn't matter?
Really?
Of course not.
Absolutely not.
Giggling girls.
Gossiping & copying.
Stealing each others cosmetics, boyfriends,
money, CDs, DVDs, jet ski's,
Mountain climb.
Scuba dive.
Snorkel.
Hot air ballooning.
Hang gliding.
Bungee jumping.
Parachuting.
Water skiing.
Boogie boarding.
Dune buggy racing.
Ice skating.
Roller coaster.
Merry go round.
Ferris wheel.
A maze of fun.
Build a sandcastle.
Build a Snowman.
Make a snow angel.
Collect seashells.
Or sea glass.
Pearls.
Fly a kite.
1,2,3 go.
Wash, rinse, & repeat.
Step, shuffle, step.
Destiny
Harmony
Star
Karma
Ruby
Aqua
Moon
Rainbow
Trinity
Phebe
Ariel
Glow
Diamonds
Cool water
Vanilla fields
Charm
Dessert
Fantasy
Perfume
Fragrance
Delightful & frightful.
Neat & sweet & discreet.
Charming & disarming.
Meet & greet.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
My father walked on the roof
at night alone.
He used to come to his son’s home
seeking summer’s relief
from his nine month’s home alone
at the Himalayas foothill.
But he couldn’t leave the chill out.
His seven decades of mind
defied his frail frame
as he hugged the plain’s winter
without a woolen
painting summer on my roof.
Rarely I would be with him
but when he came down
he would speak animatedly
the constellations he had seen
the milky way
about the quarreling owls.
Wish I were there with him
all his nights on the roof
making four wandering eyes
looking at constellations
marveling at the milky way.
Now on some winter nights
I go to the roof alone
without my son
remember father
my heart aching in the thought
One day my son too would come
Alone
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
The dead ask nothing
Nothing offers no answer.
Life makes demands.
She reminds me of someone.
I once was deeply in love.
The glass is empty,
yet she keeps sipping the straw.
The surgeon’s serrated saw,
severed crown of his skull,
to allow brain swelling.
The detachment is frozen,
in purgatory, in Paris, California,
in as much as I can gather.
I keep making
the same mistakes, over and
over. Eternity is preposterous.
She has same prominent forehead, same
brown silken hair, same slender fingers
as my ex, same buttoned-up betrayal.
“Man-up! You ******* son-of-a-bitch,”
she said, he said, their
ceaseless quarreling
makes me hide.
Stomach knots, breathing hurts.
The allure of her stink.
My sister insists
it will be okay.
The glass is half.
Mom can’t remember.
Everything fits neatly.
She burrows in the booth.
This one needs money,
that one needs parts,
liver, lung, cerebrum, heart.
Her hands cup the glass.
She gazes beyond.
Everything is a lie
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC