"scornfully" poems
One day my brother and I walked the path to the Mango Tree
I was so happy to go see my friend the mango tree.
How ever my brother was not…
“What’s so great about a stupid ol’ mango tree it’s never done anything for me!”
“SHH!” I said scornfully “She has feelings too, and she has done much for you. She has given us her fruit to fill our bellies and shade for free.”
But my brother didn’t listen to me,
He stubbornly went and kicked the tree repeatedly.
And yelled “Mango Trees do NOT have feelings!”
The tree shook violently and out from under it’s leaves dropped a bright green mango SMACK right on my brothers head and he fell dead.
Another juicy plump mango dropped at my feet like the Mango Tree was thanking me.
I picked it up and sat beside my senseless brother by the Mango Tree while devouring my mango and enjoying the silent scenery.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Impatience rode and passed me by,
I caught her looking down on me,
cuttingly,
with her gems for eyes.
scornfully,
sighting me
up
&
down.
Laughingly,
the sadistic mirth in her vision
spoke:
"Ha-ha,
Yes,
I've caught your attention,
how little you know;
a simple race with men
&
your limbs fail.
How then will you run with horses?"
I took wisdom from that evil look of thought.
In that moment,
I pulled
on
My Covering
much tighter,
that
Humble
but
Faith-full
Cloak,
I wrapped around me
firmly
averting my eyes
to the blazing
fire
before
me,
warming myself
in the comfort of its gaze,
patiently waiting...
…waiting
for horses.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Raindrops on golden hair.
They are brown spots, little spots
Scattered, wind blowing them
Left and right,
Towards her forehead, smooth
Save for two red bumps above
The eyebrows.
Towards her neck, little hairs
Standing, stubbornly, scornfully,
A protest against the
Rainy chill.
These freckles on her crown,
they are tiny constellations.
I want to join them up,
I want to find Orion,
Trace my fingers against Lepus,
Understand the lines of Indus,
But I can't.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
If I could be a fly on Einstein’s wall
I’d buzz about from chair to curtain
watch him check out plans and gadgets
and scratch remarks on his papers.
When the clock edged to noon
his stomach would growl,
he’d fold up the prints and say,
“It’s a relatively short walk to the café.”
With Albert out I’d take the run of the place -
practicing banks and dips and vertical lifts.
I’d munch on scraps of Brie and fowl
left fused to the edge of his table.
When the tumblers turned
I’d buzz back to my wall, eager to witness
whatever this sage would chance to say.
He’d go to his desk to file reports
and stack them neatly into a tray.
Without warning he’d rise from his chair
scattering papers across the floor.
“MASS AND ENERGY ARE ONE, ” he’d shout, -
“CRUSHED TOGETHER BY TIME! ”
I’d buzz and swoop and fly circles and loops
and taxi in on his collar.
I’d beat my wings to cool his brain.
But wait…Whose voice do I hear?
Oh, it’s you gentle reader.
“Stop, hold it right there, ****** pest!
It couldn’t have happened that way!
Have you no shame or respect for God’s truth? ”
But I’d stare you down with my compound eye
and scornfully twitch my wings.
Consider this, troubled sir,
you’re the one scolding a talking fly.
July, 2006
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-slope haircut sported since his youth.
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.
I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.
I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.
I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!
The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!
The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
songs of freedom in Kenya are paradoxical of themselves
they have become the songs of oppressive tyranny
they are not songs that were sang by freedom fighters
in the tropical forests of aberdares and Mabanga
they are blissful carols of powers that be
mouthed by the state poets in the deadly feats
of political sycophancy fuelled by cult of betrayal
and espionage, a real substructure of state dictatorship
they are not the true songs of mau mau
that were sang by Kimathi wa miciuri
they are the songs of the top crust of the tribal
and political powers that be in oblivion of
the cultural revolutionaries that countermanded
cultural Darwinism of European imperial gamesters
they are not the songs sang by Elijah Masinde
of Dini Msambwa that spirited up cultural aura
of cultural dignity;which cautioned certainly
an African against the cultural call of the white culturalizer
the African to balk and turn his back
and **** and spit scornfully at cultural trickster in the colonial ploy
to dance for Dini ya Msambwa in the spirit of war and fires of war
that is to be fought in preservation of democracy and cultural freedom.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
*A heart so pure -
but you are continuously rejected,
you give your all -
more than could ever be expected.
You have so much love to give -
but you are never accepted,
instead, you are gazed at scornfully -
you are thoughtlessly neglected.
You are left feeling hopelessly broken,
left-out, and ever so badly dejected,
but, still you smile,
even though your soul is bruised;
your state of being has now been affected.
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu*?
My dream doesn’t come to me,
my bed is divided,
my heart – dry,
fire is rankling me.
You’ll regret,
my beloved,
if you taste it –
outside it’s sweet
inside – bitter.
Twice more,
my beloved,
your tear will run fast
if you pass me by scornfully.
In my chest
I wear a diamond of snake,
a lion-hair on my wrist,
a wealth of Brahman
in my head.
Will someone take them, gifted
someone else but my death?
Ah, my beloved,
marry me.
*a round syrup sweet made of gram floor
The original:
Ходжата тича само до джамията
Ще отронваш ли с мене,
моя възлюбена,
късче по късче ладду*.
Сънят ми не ме спохожда,
леглото ми е делено,
сърцето – сухо,
огън ме гложди.
Ще съжаляваш,
моя възлюбена,
ако го вкусиш –
отвън е сладко,
отвътре – горчиво.
Дваж пъти повече,
моя възлюбена,
сълзи ще лееш
ако отминеш презрително.
Във гърдите си
диамант от змия нося,
косъм от лъв на китката си,
богатство на брахмин
в главата си.
Ще ги вземе ли някой дарени,
освен смъртта ми?
Ах, моя възлюбена,
омъжи се за мене.
___________
* кръгъл сиропиран сладкиш от нахутeно брашно.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
You find yourself alone at last
amongst the masses.
Out where the sunset sits
cross-legged in the sky,
staring downward through
the evening.
Such beautiful backdrop
for such ugly company,
all of it painted on canvas;
ochres, violets, varying
shades of autumn gray.
Find yourself bummed out
on the side of the curb,
sharing insults
with the passing traffic.
Even the devil has company,
but here you are alone,
sharing cigarettes and
cheap conversation with
the cement.
Night comes without urgency
and you are left in it;
bad breath and
a dense, colored
evening air that
burns the lungs
with coming winter.
The pub sign down the road
leans out from her window,
peering scornfully down
through her thick, iron grates.
Red and blue lights
blink disapproval against the pavement.
But maybe that rough pavement
can almost feel sweet
to the touch.
Maybe that rough pavement
can be soft; a woman's curve,
if you get it just right.
The old beer bottle
leans in and tells
you a terrible secret
before putting his cap
back on, strolling
off into that setting sun.
Skipping rocks
off an ocean of rubble
and asphalt
before they careen
into the grass.
Even the devil has company,
but sometimes it is
not so bad to be alone.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
A grim vision on prescription pills
A future you hope there's still time to avoid.
Because beneath all the cheery waving
And bubbling surface-level conversation
Lurks the same bad wound that won't heal if it's covered.
That itches
Just turns to stagnant mush
Sticking to the crusted pillow.
Yearning for fresh air
Aching for exposure, the sun and wind and rain and stars.
Desperate to impress, to repulse
To spread beyond the derelict tomb
To which this episode of history has been condemned to rot.
So become not the pitiful ****
Upon whom your judging eye scornfully rests,
And instead burst forth in a tidal wave
Of hot bile and vitriol
Dripping from the bloodied fingernails.
It will not be pretty
But then neither are you.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
She jovially jumped at the jester's jokes.
He scornfully scowled at her silly spirit.
Two people perpetually poised and primped.
Yet, so unlike, unique, and uncannily uncomfortable with one another.
The girl gleefully grinning at the grimace she glued on George's face.
George stomped away staring with stone-cold stature.
Young hearts unaware of their fate. Unaware that one day they would love.
Fiercely, furociously, finally falling.
Loving, lending, learning.
Together.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Oh ye majestic paragon of solitude.
Towering, glowering o’er un-named vales
Your heart of stone unmoved through ages
Your craggy features carved by gales
Soaring through clouds you ****** at the sky
Omnipotent master of all you survey
Your brooding visage sends a message
A warning at large to keep away
Yet there at your foothills, a challenge was forming
A small and puny little crew
How could such a small aggressor
Aspire to e’er stand over you
But on they pressed, and ever upward
Day after restless day they toiled
Till you shrugged them off with a mighty avalanche’
Your pristine flanks once more unspoiled
Though they be gone still more follow
Your ****** summit lures their souls
You scornfully dismiss their valiant efforts
Their bodies strewn and crushed like dolls
Alas, some day you will succumb
Mankind will trample your ****** peak
Your mystery a distant memory
As chairlifts carry the soft and the weak
But you will be harsh on the vain and unwary
Who will sometimes treat you with scorn and disdain
The grim reaper will visit on a regular basis
As you continue to give lessons in pain
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
when, requisite pains reside
in the heart of the poet.
awaiting release by the gaoloring, racontuer or racontuese reclining, scornfully, within.
it is then, it happens so,
upon the granting of the id's manumission.
memories, maudlin or immeritous
are rescinded from the bitter, saltfaced mine,
of personal history..
when such are finally granted jubilation,
given proprietary parole,
on, the nib of a pen.
they then, take time,
as of now,
as in the present tense,
to, relieve themselves, copiously, onto to paper....
leaving only an inkstained
jumble of letters,
for you,(those left to toil)
to decipher, as you may.
before on the run for freedom's wind
they go....
like..... lemmings off a cliff.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
She was one of the vaudeville dancers
he supposed. He had drawn back the
curtain and she was sitting there on
the stall one leg crossed over the other,
in that skimpy dress, white lace up shoes.
He had apologised, blushed, was about
to draw back the curtain when she said:
Oh, no leave it be. And he had and stood
there, slightly open mouthed, mind ticking
over, eyes stuck on her fine legs crossed.
They were nice legs he thought. Her dark
hair, parted in the middle was not well
brushed; it seemed as if she’d just got up
from a bed. Maybe she had. She gazed at
him, her eyes looked foreign. Odd to think
that, he thought. He wanted to drink her in.
Take in each aspect of her just sitting there.
I’m on soon, she said. Yes, definitely an
accent, he thought nodding. I’m a dancer,
she said. O right, he said. He thought as
much; the dress and shoes, the way she
had about her. White ankle shoes. Lace ups.
Not the sort to wear out in the street, he
supposed. Are you to watch the show?
She asked. Yes, I am, he said, looking at
her lips, the way they spread under her
nose, held in place by her cheeks, he
thought. What would his mother say about
her short dress? Far too short, shows her
backside almost, she’d have said scornfully.
Yet he still gawped at her. Her ankles, knees,
thighs. What a feast for the eyes, he mused,
trying to look away, but held bound, fixed
as if by some glue. The tassels on the end of
the short dress moved as she stood up. She
stretched her arms. Shook her legs back into
life as if they had died. Must be ready, she said.
Warm ups. Yes, of course, he murmured, and
turned away, walking off, carrying the image
of her and her shoes and dress and her dark
hair into his mind. Fixed there. Captured each
aspect of her being, placed in some room of
memory, for later viewing, in his secret seeing.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
I remember how the sky cried
The mournful day my Nene died.
It sobbed and grieved; thought not prolonged.
Soon sunlight, through the darkness, dawned
As thought the tears had simply dried.
At once I wondered, scornfully, "Why?"
How dare you cease your crying, Sky!
How simply could the world go on?
Then I remembered...
My struggle, isn't her's. It's mine.
I hurt because I'm left behind.
For she, you see, has moved along
A better place she's set-upon.
Therefore, with mourning cast aside,
I'll remember.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
When I have died,
Will the people I cared about come watch me
Eyes closed, unbreathing
In my coffin
Will people come and watch me
In admiration of what I had achieved, the course of my life
Or will they cast their gaze down onto my pale face
And say scornfully of what a terrible person I was,
And that they were glad I am no longer there?
Will people look at me pitifully
Pondering of a strange reason
As to why this beautiful human
Had to depart forever?
But after the funeral, what?
So what?
Will what they say matter?
Will their grievances be like sounds lost to the winds
Carrying them far away to other lands?
Will I be remembered by them,
So that when they’re having
A casual conversation
Over tea or coffee,
Or just happened to be passing by,
Maybe they’ll see the light grey dressing of the clouds
Who wore the same outfit to my funeral
And will get reminded of me?
But, no matter what, my death
Won’t be that significant.
Many people die everyday. So what if I die?
It is just a natural course of life,
Inescapable, inevitable
Why is it such a big matter?
In fact, let my passing be as natural
As brushing teeth in the morning.
Better get it done and over with,
So that everyone can move on and start with the day
So fresh a mouth that a breeze can blow into it
And carry the scent to faraway lands.
Will life still move on?
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
Was it wrong to ever...
Was it wrong to just...
Was it wrong to really fall
victim to sinful lust?
I see your face in every place
and yearn for what could be.
But hear you now,
you denote my pleads again?
Why not jump the edge...
for fear of loss?
Or fear you might find glory?
Why protest my bitter plea's
but scornfully brood on being but one...
Why not take a leap of faith
and explore the sounds
of sweet-sorrow pun.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Let’s take a trip deep on a ride
Into the mothership as i dip
into my minds conscious
flyin’ at light Speeds greed
fiend for the good life strife
seemed to followed me
troubles all in me
Cant get away from my enemies
since i was born
i was destined to die no lie cries
from my soul and heart tellin’ me not to part
Its demons vs demons
They tag teamin' day dreamin' im schemin’
lookin' for the position to plot
so my body can rott
deep in hell **** the holy grail as i sail
into another dimension need i mention
i got homies that want to join me two
so why don’t you too?
Uh aint nobody gonna miss you boo
So i look to
all types of weaponry to choose from then some
m-14,m-16 380 9s,to 249s
saws graphic i can’t wait til i be covered in plastic
white sheets visions to *****
so i had to be censored
not even the devil knew me
I know nobody woul feel me
kiss with death n soon we'll be one of a kind
feel the pressure from my brain cells to my spine
urgin’ for the flat line ,
Quarter pass 12 am in the morning
no yawning
load the clip up time for me to shut up
bullet to my head {Pops off} im glad im dead
body red stiff as a log as the maggots feed
off my flesh
I became a denominator
Cuz death seems much greater
now im restin’ scornfully
released my demons now they roamin’ freely
Prepare for the eulogy G
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Struggling to fill the sacks in my chest
Losing everything inside
And not just one form of mass
Trading the contents of the hour glass
Just to stay afloat on the soil
I am the quintessence of ephemeral
Egressing back into the atmosphere
Anchors are only for those of worth keeping
Yet I still scornfully catch myself hoping
The hand coming to tether me
The loving cauterization of your arms
The hive minded beat of your heart on my chest
All these share the same neglect
As I drift away from this lonely rock
I only have time for one last wish
As I soar from here to next
Please Neptune, let your image be what the moon reflects
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:32 AM UTC
Proposing to post a poem.
One that is my proudest
One written so peacefully
I found this instead.
Finding it more and more often
Posting a lyric instead
That doesn't match the song playing
In the core
Of me, I feel it.
Heart beating, heart breaking
Heart singing
Heart wasting
Wasting away in a scorned past
One that is not relevant
That did not last
To the poems seeking to be shared
Move. Or I will
Out of the way
Your emotions are far overplayed
They've been listened to
And addressed
I've been raw
I've been patient
Displayed my best
I've learned from the experience
Though now it's time to rest
Reside to your slumber,
Find a new host you call home
The house is empty
And I'm not alone
I will move,
It's my decision.
My actions
My light
Without attachment
Without possession
Without scornfully burnt tires
Without redemption
Without needing approval
Make way for light.
Move, or I will
Because I'm too focused
On what's under each rock
These mountains don't move
We navigate around them
Over them
Through them
Move or I will
So it looks like, it will be me.
I've addressed this mountain from every angle
And I'm still not making it home
Time passes
Fog clears
Seasons progress
And change
And it's still the same mountain
I'm ready for the beach
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
Frightening tides meet the roaring thunder
smoothly yet scornfully beating one another
onlooker's confusion masks nothing
and the devout plunder hopefully
noone sees, noone knows,
nobody ever gives a thought.
they seek to destroy each other.
Why? This is human nature?
Many quiver in the world's mirror.
They lost their innocence in the storm.
Peace will come in the calm.
How they all do want it...
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC