"rumpus" poems
To its mistresses wish, the blade dances through till she has been pleased, leaving a mess by engraving the scars of death as a mark, Alike a shadow she does not crack, cavorting a masacre of cruelty,
Berserking she follows the orders, shedding blood in fountains of death and misery without chance for this rage to stop without order,
Emotionless, cold, time is for her to stop moving when her ****** devotion consumes her entirely, swaying in the dark, destroying,
Tortured with true or false everyone disappears, time flows again,
A phantom glides over the sea of blood, in a mist, scarlet red,
Observing this would cause a riot of emotions to rage in pure fury,
Her name already burnt away, as a new one was given to her after this rumpus had found its peak, leaving the mistress in bliss, joy,
Watching their attemps to flee as they reach their dying moments,
Until those who get to close have perished, nobody and nothing left,
Cricling karma surely will catch them, after this sacrifice is done,
Warm blood melts the left over snow, laughter echos and reverbrates through the unending seeming night, bells ring, it is only midnight.
In the end her loyalty and efforts, her energy and love for her mistress
Are but a ****** devotion
~ Umi
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
"Red chilly and spices in excess,
would burn your sensitive taste buds, no doubt"
his tongue contemplates the warning a bit
along with the taste, and decides,
"curry in a hurry is the perfect recipe for rumpus "
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
My room’s a disaster, and I am positive it is a reflection of the current state of my life.
But, I mean, what do I know?
My life is nothing short of scawompus.
And by golly, let the wild rumpus begin, I shout- to the heavens- instead of taking the time to clean a few things up. Instead I linger, just oh, so fed up.
What do I know?
I know for certain I am not the only one who would rather relinquish their life story to a stranger at coffee house than to their best pal on occasion. Truthfully, that’s probably a factor in humanity’s perpetually loneliness, makes me question the reality of godliness,
But that’s another talk for another day.
I know, oh boy, I know we’re all just lonely ******
and darlin’ ain’t nobody's life more glamorous than yours,
just step out of your head for a moment.
Because it truly is gorgeous out here, there is every reason to fear, but also every reason to simply say **** it, and lie back and enjoy the view.
But what do I know?
I know it seems askew, but the beauty lies in the few who learn to appreciate the new.
Oh, what do I know?
Oh yes, I know I am **** crazy, and **** weird. I know this because I am reminded daily by my family, friends, and coworkers, but I am also **** happy for how depressed I am.
But then again, what do I know?
Let’s be honest,
I wear my whole life on my sleeve and still, nobody ******* knows me.
And I think I’m badass. Skanking at ska shows, waking with "oh no"s, what am I doing here?
In a strangers house after a night of fun and honest to god I am still bummed.
For whatever reason, whatever I may conjure up, and I am left here feeling like i’m still floating up,
Up, up I am drifting
I am a drifter
And I still don’t know what it feels like to feel
I am a ****** to life in so many senses
My senses are unfulfilled,
But I am scared senseless of what my future holds.
And what THE HELL do I know?
I am undeniably bewildered,
Nevertheless, aren’t we all?
In that, who really KNOWS anything these days…
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
When the salt chuck was mine
I promised to dance as the ocean waves on the smiles you grant
For the sea I was a trap of destiny
To the sand I was too slippery to stamp
I embraced the wind bearing the taste of brine
I rendered a pledge from your bright eyes into the sea’s chant
Every edge of this tedious isle
You were the unending aria
At dawn, you would passionately rip the queen conch
The hush of the gale would turn into wail
The sun would set as the shore would reflect
Your voice a ditty, a glassy reverie
When the hurricane arrived
You were carried away by fright
A zephyr into a whirlwind
Drawing abyssal rumpus into ordeal
I tried to hold your hand tight
But you whispered “this is what it’s supposed to be”
You carved the salt into your skin- a sight of crystalline art
And breathed “i found a better shore than your stormy coast”
It was only a sojourn you said
So you left my briny, dull and murky
The salt chuck was a wreck
The queen conch was whacked
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Drifting....
waning, wandering away from myself....
electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
greeting me,
a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....
I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist, fleshy rocks...
memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
moonbeam embers glow
indigo guitar strings sing hymns
swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
a new age baptism.
My wings shimmer,
visions simmer and chill
the darkness returns
left with myself again
I flight right into another lightbub storm
as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.
Distantly, native flutes flourish
like rippling water rises slowly
into incandescent tides...
sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
washing
bubbles popping over pores.
and I rejoice!
a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
rejuvenated!
berserk bongos bump 'n thump
a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
vicariously lift my visage into everyone
at once!
astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
we laugh ourselves into ******
And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
On an evening of bleak winter chill
A lone knight rode to Bartonleigh Hill
Stationed there was his maiden cute
Plucking the strings of an out of tune lute
As she plucked the rats did cry
Never had they heard such a rumpus lullaby
Upon her door a knocker knocked
It was the lone knight minus his left sock
Oh! she said your foot looks blue
Come warm it in the embers shoe
He did as she requested him to do
Whereupon a marriage proposal ensued
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for better,
He thought he was doing right.
Antara found himself in a pickle
Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
From a melody, to a hiss.
Antara voiced his mind,
A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
Joy in agony and hurt.
Antara wrote for a nickel,
Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
With a rhythm and a rhyme.
Antara wrote a little and knew
His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
And on the rest went hot.
Antara wept and laid down tall,
Now out of breath
His dying words call
For life and for death.
Antara lived in rumpus
No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
A library and a street.
Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
And an ill-fortune expedience.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
12:39 a.m
At first I was trying
To make it rhyme
With no reason
Pushing them together
Those words
Those meanings
Drifting apart
One by one
I made everything
Sound spurious
Pretentious
Fabricated.
12:41 a.m
Two minutes later
I realized
There's no complication
It's me
Who's the stonewall
Preventing those
Words
From making sense
Creating a rumpus
An unnecessary altercation
Casting cement for my own bridges.
It was illegitimate.
2:41 a.m
Two hours later
I understood the power of words
I proposed an adamantine will
Purported to it
Maybe
But things were now clear
I wasn't lying to myself
I sounded reasonably correct
In my mind
Unconsciously pondering
Consciously oblivious.
1st January,2017
Now, it has been years
It was me who acted like a can of worms
All these years
Now it goes with the flow
It's difficult to tread the boards
Now my words
Are prepotent
Adequate
I stopped rhyming
Now the arrow hit the spot.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
My trained mind
Had me seated
Or rather sedated
Under drudgery’s spell
I was nobody
I was a mob
I was a failing man
I was a rising chagrin
Day by day
Year after year
Unknowing and unaware
Of my real way
I followed the path
That all did
Nobody comes telling
You in your face
That you are a lost case
Nobody knows what
To say at all
It is rumpus everywhere
As music is unfound
So one day
The bird came
And sat by
My window pane
And sang aloud
Her freedom song
No god set me free
The bird did.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 7:01 AM UTC
John sits
on the school coach
by the window
next to Goldfinch
watching the trees
and fields
and cottages go past.
Goldfinch is talking
of football:
who do
I put
in goal lunchtime
as Potts is way,
who do you think?
Goldfinch says.
Not me that's,
for sure,
John says,
his mind
isn't on Goldfinch
or the goal,
but on Elaine
sitting over
the other side
of the coach.
He looked at her
when she
and sister
got on the coach,
but she looked away,
and not at him.
He guesses she
was shy after all
the rumpus since
Elaine's mouthy sister
told everyone
on the coach
that he had
kissed Elaine.
But it soon
died down
and apart
from a few
How's the Frump Elaine?
When he got on
and later
when Elaine got on,
then it died out.
Now the kids
are talking amongst
themselves or listening
to the music
from the coach radio,
some pop song
about loving somebody.
Need someone
by lunchtime,
Goldfinch says,
whom do you suggest?
Green might,
he ain't bad,
John says.
Green? He couldn't
save a 1p
for Christmas;
someone else,
Goldfinch says.
John doesn't
care who,
he's thinking
of Elaine
and whether she'll
let him kiss
her again
after the rumpus;
he hopes so,
although he's
not sure
he'll be welcome
at Elaine's home now.
Why did her sister
tell like that?
He muses,
listening
half heartedly
to Goldfinch's talk,
it was just a quick
kiss not
too passionate
and it was only
while her mother
was out of the room
briefly that day.
He looks over
to where Elaine
is sitting quickly
to see if she's
looking his way,
but she isn't
she's staring out
the window.
Her sister
glares at him,
so he looks away,
and back out
of the window
and the passing view,
not sure
what to think
or what to do.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.
My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.
You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.
Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,
call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.
She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,
American made bullets.
But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.
My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
in the valley of our anon
you're not the only... but that's not your " what ? "
you venture forth of course
with less mad meter but plenty.
you gem your brevity
with terse goiters. you force no order of magnitude
to enforce your oblique corners.... your poetry
has it's druthers.
but alas -
we humans lack the knack to be twice true.
we acknowledge our acknowledgement
and stake claims we claim
we name true
and I've met you
in the cyber what
of our collective
**** the happy naked !
we rumpus in the gizzard
of a lost gator.
wrecking the Ruxpin
of our Teddy Rosey
welts.
Poets Know Who Hurt Happy and Joy The Next.
we are well met, yes.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
In the last days of school, the first days of summer, we pile into a car. All these people I'm not close to suddenly become my best friends. I'm contented to go where they drive, my head hanging out the front seat window into the distinctly summer-tinted air. We pull up to the city gardens with a pizza, dancing to The Strokes and the beating of the world's heart, alive around us. I make everyone clover crowns. He is the King, his thoughtful brown eyes outshining his careful smile. I am the Queen. One and Another, the Prince and Princess he with his pleasant, measured voice and her trills of brilliant laughter. And the too-old senior tagged along for who knows what reason, is the Jester, loathe to wear the effeminate flowers above his ears. We climb things. We somersault. We throw loving insults up to the wind like kites. We hoot and holler at the blue blue sky and the koi fish in ponds, dancing along the stone borders. So close to falling into the algae.
We sing the summer in.
The Jester has never known true right from wrong, he is learning to live on his own, with the scars on his arms and face. He is not welcome at home anymore. The Prince is moving back across a world into the arms of a now unfamiliar life, nothing waits for him there but the promise of his next powdery high. The King's mother has three months to live, all we can do is wait. The Princess and I, the Queen of the wild rumpus, finally lay down to count clouds.
We have nothing left.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
i hear you in your room
Wild Thing,
howling at the moon
swinging from your blanket vines.
it’s you who’s gnashing and gnarling,
growling and moaning.
give up your crown
Wild Thing,
set the yellow paper on the ground
sail across the sea in
your cardboard-box boat
and float back to where you belong.
i’ve waited for years
and weeks and days
Wild Thing,
for you to hear me,
watching the steam and love waft off
your dinner every night.
listen to my roar,
Wild Thing:
don’t let the wild rumpus
reach too far into who you are.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
I've got more issues
Than the daily news
You don't even know the half of it
You're so full of it
You said "last time" last time
I'm guilty until proven innocent
Everything has a shelf life
I'm ******* up left and right
Please excuse my bad taste
As I build my persona and reinvent the wheel
These are the paths we follow
These are the lives we lead
We believe in our own lies so hollow
Mesmerized by their majesty
You have allotted powers
And a cognitive prerogative
To appropriate
The procreate
We co-create
Something concrete
Awestruck by the rhetoric
And the ironic ruckus
Of the fire truck up in flames
And the destructive rumpus of the ambulance taking lives in vain
It's nature verses nurture
You're blessed with life
Premeditate
And respect your life
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
Some where between the perpetual isolation
that we created in the name of personal space.
The wounds that were never healed,
Because they never received the ointment of attention.
The misunderstandings
That pilled up into a giant rumpus,
And ignited the dubious disposition,
turning the intimate conversations into constant fights.
The love that we lost,
To the demonic darkness of our egoistic nature,
Still exists,
But only in the fragments
Of some moth-eaten memories.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:31 PM UTC
on an evening
of bleak winter chill
a lone knight rode
to Bartonleigh hill
stationed there
was his maiden cute
plucking the strings
of an out of tune lute
as she plucked
the rats did cry
never had they heard
such a rumpus lullaby
upon her door
a knocker knocked
it was the lone knight
minus his left sock
oh she said
your foot looks blue
come warm it near
the fire's flaming hue
he quickly placed
his toes by the hearth's side
thence gave a promise
to take her as his bride
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
It's been sixteen days
I don't have the courage to pick up a pen
And ink those thousand thoughts
I don't have the right words
I don't have the right thoughts
There are just too many of them
Crowding in my mind
Like a swarm of bees buzzing away killing my soul
They've spun a web in my mind
But in spite of this rumpus
All that exists is a void
White spaces and fine lines
Half written anecdotes
Two words on the screen
And a blank space
Now my eyes feel a white light passing through them
Those self destructed verses try to find a place
Somewhere
They need to be carved
They need to be read
There's no room for these unwanted thoughts I guess
The teacher says turn to page number 25.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
I rummaged through the cabinets
opening and closing
the cupboard doors,
sliding plates aside
and lifting up each coffee mug.
then, I checked underneath the sink
moving the cleaning supplies out of my way
when finally she asked,
“what are you looking for?”
“a girl who doesn’t think I’m ugly,” I replied,
“it seems to be impossible to find.”
she stood there silent.
it was the first 5 seconds of peace I’ve had
since I broke it off with the last one.
after that, I double-checked the oven
for good measurement,
found nothing
walked out of the kitchen
and back into my rumpus room
where I give up my endless search.
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 2:05 PM UTC
this wouldn't be the first time
someone's said that you can't
put a knife through the preacher,
even when he's not practicing what he's preaching.
he's a delicate flower,
he's just facing the sun and
praying for photosynthesis
Preacher's got a sunburn,
he's a silly dude, sittin' in the field
in the blistering heat
bright bidden barley
comes sicken roasted now,
like a frostbitten politician lectures a sandy hook victim,
telling his soft couch he just won't have it anymore.
who's the prophet today, anyway?
black.
all I see — is black,
and a glow -
maybe some tessellated patterns over screenlit skinforms,
writing like they think they know what they're doing
I love what they've done to me
but I hate what I've done for them
I want to curl 'em like I'm squeezing a lemon
I want to weave a web of thunder with my skeleton
Bend me like an antenna to get reception
I'll swing my hips to your
pulse's rumpus
tickle my neurons
with your featherduster delusions
sometimes I stare at screens
because the flow of photons
over my pupils form rivers
over my retinas that sound
a thousand frames per second softer than tears.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
harder biging
flowing digging
a river is hardly
adept
with numerous
able tongues
the land through
,with slithering,
rumpus silver
gloats
or meanders
unquickly a cordial slump of wet and wet
to comment
early lately
bending
straights
of lumpy
smooth
orchestral
(
)
)
(
8
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
Its dejavu
the things they do
writing the same poem
but for who?
**** near everyone starts
with the same words.
He or she
and what follows is
some heartbreak
or stroke of obsession.
As if their words
are possessed and compressed
into such tiny things.
Where once blue jays sang
as they softly perched
partly leaning over
where deeply green leaves grows,
now their heart moans
and their skin grows
silky red river scars.
Where once chipmunks
chattered and scattered
dancing around each other
in a wild rumpus,
claiming this ground is
theirs,
now she cries
a ****** without her
drug of choice,
not ******
but his angelic voice.
Where fish scales sparkled
and the pond rippled
in pursuit of what fishes do
while the water was
glimmering to,
now he is perplexed
about how complex
her brown hair is,
wants to know
how she tastes down there
and longs to smack that
backed upped ass.
Nature evaporates.
Philosophy and poetry
lose their edges,
while I sulk away
to wither in rage
and my own heartbreak
cause I know they are
so much more.
They are vast caverns of complexity,
deep seas of variety,
and a universe inside themselves,
but those are depths
they will not explore.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC