"scrupulously" poems
Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious april walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.
By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower;
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.
How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
But here -- a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into ****** motley --
A treason not to be borne; let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.
And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.
19.1k
Silently and scrupulously looking at my dad for a minute, I asked,
"What is it like to get old?"
He turned his attention away from the computer screen
Met my gaze
Took a deep breath in, and began,
"You don't realize just how fast life goes by, until it's gone.
One day, you look in the mirror, and realize that twenty years have gone by.
It's a different person in the mirror than what you expected.
Some days, I look at your mother
And it feels like I've only known her for a few months.
Other days I look at her, and she's just so different from the woman I met.
We've grown and changed so much together.
I am, to this day, learning new things about her,
And all of them make me love her more.
Yeah, she can't cook for **** and she talks in tangential circles
Which I just can't keep up with.
But since day one I was smitten with her.
And to this day I'm surprised that she actually chose
To spend the rest of her life with me.
Getting old with the right person makes getting old bearable."
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Lying beneath the stars longing to feel your honest heart beet.
Returning to the dirt we came from, I can feel your breath hot and sticky filling the gap between us.
Scrupulously steaming us vegetables.
I can't help but imagine biting into your savory peel.
Some say the skin is the most nutritious part.
I inhale the ripe droplets dewing across you,
and wonder what we'd look like mashed together.
Stuck in a blender.
Ripped apart and delicately reassembled.
And then I remember,
That we already were.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
here,
by the bustling west side
a vintage Rothko in the making!
as the setting red sun
smooches a shy, dark-tanzanite sky.
her succulent strawberry lips,
seemingly
nowhere in sight.
there’s gotta be a portrait of this rose
somewhere......
the search now
ever since this bird has flown,
is for the missing piece of me,
which i keep scrupulously looking for
on every street
© 2021
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC
I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life:
all the pictures you see of me weren't goofy moments
with friends and family whose cameras sympathize.
I'm not one for portraits or photographs.
And I don't do well with a candid capture
of the face I see every morning.
Each angle is meticulously planned and preordained.
Every gesture, the charming smirk you see in my smile,
is scrupulously rehearsed like a Broadway show.
Because lord help this man, if I let them see what I am,
there ain't a body who'd love someone like that.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
Would that my life
carried the pomp and confidence
of a bombastic poem
an overwrought daytime drama
that bad action movie with the guy
who’s too cool for this world
Would that my rhymed greetings
always trumpet a joyful salute
blasting awake the tired and sad
rendering all introversion moot
Would that an invitation
for a beer a my place
be a more coveted prize
than a free trip to space
Would that every whipped up snack
be a culinary masterpiece
gasping in ecstasy my houseguests
cling to their seats
Would that the very tone of my voice
render women to squirm and swoon
render babies to giggle
and songbirds to croon
Would that any awkward silences
be scrupulously sifted out
cold cut conversations segued from hours
to clipped and cleverly crafted banter
Would that I’d compose the songs
that bring young lovers close
that wrench tears from the eyes
of those more cynical than most
Would that the clip of my canter
be the cadence of the soundtrack
of enlightenment
Would that my goodbyes be
an epic flood of emotion
my friends and colleagues
all so grieved to see me going
Would that in life
I be bigger than death
and in death I be
bigger than life.
...
But what would all that be
would that even be me?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
She always sang smoothly,
startlingly scrupulously,
after studying the stanzas for mere seconds.
Anglerfish Annie I called her.
A voice as pure as heaven lit her lure,
the one-way ticket that swallowed those kids
into an inescapable abyss.
I watched as those thirsty jaws grew dull,
and that mesmerizing light died out.
Hanging over the windowsill, atop that disturbed building,
her hauntingly beautiful voice showered down once more,
reverberating through my bones as it always had.
As the last note hurried to accompany its creator to the ground,
It was shrouded by the yells and sirens booming from the Institution.
I saw all the lost souls pouring out of her mouth,
And thought of how they knew Annie more than I did.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
The fear of rejection haunts my taunting soul
The eyes of god illuminate through the illusion of hope
Silence
Misery creeps among the stars
Honesty lingers mindlessly around the moon
Anxious
Reality twists and turns
Insecurity starts to flow
Outbursts and thoughts dance with one another
Thoughts travel
From the mind
Through the guileless heart
Midnight skies thunder in contemplation
Omitted while resigning from solitude
Lighting beams impressions
And strikes unforgettably
Remorse
Rose are quandary veiled in thorns
Glamorized secrets
Planted with tulips in the Spring
Vibrations spirit forth the branches of trees
Fog
Masks the anthropomorphic perception
Triggers instinct of intuition
Rationality halts, wills relish
The eyes of god forsake hope
Fear taunts thoughts
Rejection haunts souls
Misfortunes recollect the bitter anima
Lightly, the amity surrenders in the panicked streams of night
Soundly,
Charitably,
And Sincerely,
Tongue tied she scrupulously riveted
Across the room she neglectfully obscured the chair that supported his back
Togging on strands of denigrated comfort
Grains of sand that endless lay the shore
Mindless their eyes gravitated in contact
thirty seconds of encrypted reflections
Breathless laid rejection
She consigned to oblivion
Gathered by curiosity he sternly attends the strength
“What’s wrong?”
Admiration beams from the brims of his eyes
Grim of Frustration leak from her ****** expression
Hesitated
Continuously and distract she roamed away from him his thoughts
And admiration
Paralyzed by fear
Silence drives her composer
deeply and thoughtfully she inhaled
Breathlessly
— “A cup of coffee would sound nice, wouldn’t it?”
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
My love, I cannot write to you a word,
For any word requires a treatise true,
Each chapter, then, a jury for review,
Whose jurors must be scrupulously heard--
Each letter would be faulty in its sound,
And seem to need another or one less,
A clause to justify would just digress,
And never would the proper print be found--
To write to you a play descends to plot,
A choir, perchance, would make an honest show,
Yet shows are sharp when high and flat when low,
So base a stage cannot portray my thought.
In love, I must allow mere words to err,
And credit them for carrying us there.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
The ripe fruits of language
call to my greedy tongue
I inspect each morsel scrupulously
all so delectable
I make my choice
and pluck it from the branches of ether
breaking the skin
I indulge in the sweet sound
as it rolls off my tongue
tumbles past my lips
and lands neatly at your unsuspecting feet
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
The stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.
-“TALE OF A TUB”, SYLVIA PLATH
But I, incompetent fool of mortality,
have appeared in the mirror as nothing
but stretched skin and pained bones
with diluted features robbed
from ancestors before me. Ah,
the recognition of prior greats; it
strikes me in the soul, knowing
that I will never live to the expectations
held before me, dangled above me
like raw, dripping veal over the unfed
lioness of my heart, plucked away one by one
like grapes being fed to Caesar. Appropriate,
perhaps; the phrase of “Et tu, Brute?”
slips from my disarmed lips far too often.
A world of nothing sacred leaves me
lost in the swirling cyclone of cracked glass,
where fighting only brings deep, jagged
lacerations of mind and body
with struggling glances of withered reflection,
of girl battling demons upon demons
on the brink of crippling surrender.
Bonded to this body of paper and lead,
but filled with notions of ink and poison,
the sight has become an old friend, breaking
through the fogged haze of glorified reality.
Brace me against the past, dear
strength, I ask of you, and allow me
to plunge beyond this frosted pane,
to shatter the veil of uncertainty in a manner
to be immortalized for generations of dust
to see, to believe, to trust more than the
painted smile dancing upon my haunted lips
in the belligerent light of the medicine cabinet’s bulbs.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet
Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Never trust a Prankster
on this Merry bus.
Heads;
And beats;
intellectuals and,
Flower children all.
In the heat of passion
or the distance of disease.
I mean what I say
and say what I mean.
But they;
With ill intent
or goodwill ecstasy,
Always in dissent.
Plague of lies
and ill begotten fantasies,
scrupulously denied.
Sui Generis.
Out of the Abyss.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Vacant Streets
Barren homes
Concrete rubble scratching beneath my feet
Am I all alone?
Towering viridescent leaved Giants
On the other side of the road
Wind swiftly whispering hollow secrets
Into the grove.
I intently observe the grooved bark of a tree
What species is it?
I don't know, but I would like to know
My eyes scrupulously make their way up to the reaching branches at the very top
Next to this tree I observe is a tree stump
It doesn't look like it was cut with precision, it looked like a flash of unpredictable lightning chopped it right in half
Incapacitating it to no longer grow, ragged shards of raw inner wood
Now blackened with death.
The difference between the stump and the outreaching tree was one proliferated while the other did not due to death.
I felt my heart in my chest and arteries transporting blood to a part of my mind neglected and depressed
As the realization swooshed and then swelled into my heart,
that these conditions of my mind and circumstances were not forever
But temporary lessons
Yes, that's all these bad things are,
Temporary lessons
A tree can be cut but if not cut through all the way to cause death, it will grow around that cut, and everything else about it will eventually become bigger than those few times it experiences pain
The key to all of this was to move forward, grow
With limbs outstretched to the sky.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
A wandering glare catches on those who pass
And judges them based on class
Scrupulously picking every soul apart
Based on the apparel within their shopping cart.
..................................................................................
He speaks of intrinsic worth
And models himself on Colin Firth
Despises the idea of beauty as a single minded ordeal
And clothing worn with the inability to conceal
And yet, every woman he dates is a stick
Well versed in ******* ****
With a mind as blank as an empty page.
And clothing better suited for a stripper's stage.
..................................................................................
She speaks of a lack of care for material things,
And spits in the face of wallet fuelled flings,
Says she cares only for the mind
And those who appear overly kind.
Yet, every man she dates is a ****
Worried only about gorging her on his *****
They all buy her every form of earthly delight.
And each raise their hand to her, as is a property owner's right.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Scrupulously second by second
A timekeeper sits at his desk
Near the tallest mountain
Riding a cloud one would guess
Tabulating only plusses and minuses reams of paper accumulating
Behind him
Keeping scores almost blind
Deaf and dumb
To secular or pagan
Reasonings and mores
No more
And no lesser
Just calculating
Everyman
For everything
Almost I want to help him
Throw in my impressions
But ignore
Me us
He does
Balances
The ledger
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
THEIR EYES DRESS MY OUTSIDE LOOK.
Give me a clean inside and l don't care
for all my outer state if foul or fair.
Let all the people say l am a thief
if l am certain that l lead clean life.
Let all accuse my honour and my name
and all my friends indict me for deep shame.
If l look inside and find myself clean,
I feel as fresh and pure as winter rain.
Nothing can disturb my inner clean white
if that pure ****** snow lives in my heart,
but whiteness can't be true when dressed as clothes
as it can hide the dirt that the heart loathes.
I scrupulously dress myself inside.
Let people dress me as my deeds decide.
If they have ***** eyes, that is their flaw.
That can't smear my heart or change its hue.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
I know how it may seem
Maybe a bit obsessive
To watch my flower
Nearly perpetually
So scrupulously
Noticing the tiniest change
Springing into action trying to fix
Whatever is wrong
I guess I’m just scared
That one day possibly
I’ll turn my back for a second
And my flower will be crumpled
Scentless and dead
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
In an act of offering, a century-old love was forsaken
The memories of naked showering now swim
In a tank of rapacity, in the suit of purity
Slowly from one end to another
Holding the scripture of ignorance
And intolerance
The collection of roadside fortuities, so scrupulously made,
Now also swims in the tank of rapacity
In the suit of cordiality
Slowly from one end to another
Holding the scripture of impatience
And negligence
In the nights of obscurities, climbing the ladder of lust
Sins are toweled dry
Hymning is performed, smelling delicious
When few more desires rise *****
Eyes are welled up in contempt, yet in compassion
Standing on the ruins of confessions, the promise was protected
The promise was protected, on an act of offering
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 1:55 AM UTC