"simpers" poems
And life came in, crowned in blood, kissed and messed,
announcing itself with a cry.
A girl-child, missing piece, fitted to my breast
her weight absorbed with my heart's sigh
She was fear personified, so heavenly blessed,
she made my terrified simpers her lullaby.
I felt my heart's core swell to absorb her scent,
and my eyes overflowed with love's cascading cry.
She cast light into my darkened chaotic hurt -
sparked a desire to wake, to live, to try,
clasping her whole fist around my ring finger,
holding me still; the whole world passing by.
And in her absence she left her shadow nestled in my chest.
And in my absence I hid my kisses in her sigh.
She grew with eyes of blue and a sympathetic smile -
all faerie dust on the wing of a butterfly,
an almost echo of a girl I once knew.
Except she didn't know that kind of cry,
wouldn't know anything less than rainbows,
than Christmas mornings and endless blue skies.
We tripped, clicked heels through the passing years,
from little girl to little woman in the blink of an eye,
till we were both wearing her shoes instead of mine.
And like Alice, she snapped from low to high
she grew - time sculpting curvy definitions
of who I hope and fear she will be.
She is golden curls and girlish giggles
ever wondering the where or the why
ever seeking to help, to heal, to try
to pour her heart into an undeserving world.
She has legs she claims to stand her ground
to be, to free, to hold her own.
And though like me, she is not me,
since she is so much braver than I.
Her finger is wrapped around her innocence
holding strong to consent or deny.
This life will make her cry her tears
and this world will realise her fears
but she will ever have the wings to fly
and I will ever ready to sing her our lullaby.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
AY, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri -
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and
she couldn't abide that Dundreary."
Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!" - a
phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise -
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for ME
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns?',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest."
"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let ME be Leander!"
But I lost her reply -
Something ending with "gander" -
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.
2.5k
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
A bleeding heart
expires posthaste
spawning a wretched,
once radiant face
The inequitable oracle
simpers her sardonic ways
and demands, stone-hearted
the temples of my soul
be razed.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
I'm downright parchy when you're icy
Slammin' wet when you're dulcet
So glum...lolled...you're nowhere onboard
Alacrity is farced as simpers scarce
Prolix spells ahead as your radiance effaced
Stunning silence!
Shan't be scraggy better be scoutty
Lame ruse meeds its match...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
She wraps the presents with cheap paper
on the desk against the wall, lit by dim
Christmas lights. All the unwrapped toys
are in the pink plastic basket at her feet,
and she stacks the finished ones at the
foot of the bed.
I’m propped up on the pillows, touching
myself and stroking my chest as I watch
her work, charmed by how her bones
and muscles move beneath her skin. She
turns around with a finished gift and
sets it down. Her eyes meet mine and she
simpers, biting her lower lip, then turns
and picks up another toy.
I leave the bed, careful not to knock
anything off, and walk up behind her.
She keeps working on the present as I
pet her shoulders and brush my fingers
along her back. I press my body against
hers, wrapping my arms around her
waist and planting kisses on her neck.
She stops working and places her hands
on mine, tilting her head back and
letting her hair drape my shoulder. I
move my hand down her stomach and
across her hair, and I rub her. She huffs
and brings my other hand to her *******
beckoning me to caress her. I circle
tighter, faster, harder, and she moans
and reaches her hand back to caress me.
I nibble at her ear, and she lets out a
heavy moan, and I whisper in her ear
“You are a wonderful mother.”
Her breathing slows, and she nudges
my hand from her. “Don’t say that” she
whispers. We stand there, frozen, before
she continues working on the present.
I stay there behind her, realising my
best intentions were a mistake.
“I’ll just go then.” I put my clothes back
on and remove the trash bag from the
bin to take with me to make sure her
husband doesn’t find my condoms.
“Merry Christmas.” I close the bedroom
door and leave her home, careful not
to wake her kids.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 2:19 PM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
North winds come early,
Beauty simpers before Fall—
Lone swan on the lake.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
I had my daydreams,
my exhilarated sentiments as I
stood before the flawless soul;
Our story would’ve been written
after sunset,
before fluttering candlelight,
amongst the slow dance of shadows-
His sudden endearing simpers
akin to vibrancy in
pink tinted yoghurt kept in the
tight embrace of a glass cup;
delicate yet strong.
We’d be paper cranes – kept afloat
by the taut arms of a thin string
holding on with the strength of a tightly
tied knot; the closest we’d feel
to empyrean happiness.
A groggy gaze at the still night sky
separated by thin glass
and abruptly the constellations in the sky
are fathomable;
leaving the desire for sufficient courage
to profess my fondness for his unblemished,
endearing self.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Wake up with the sunlight on my face
Fell asleep without a hope, without a grace
Cold nights, thoughtless and bare
No love in the alley ways
When your only company
Is a street rat
That simpers his way by
Last lunch , was from the trash
I'm not looking for pity
Not looking for another's tears
Just looking for a place to rest my head
From these troubled days
Never begged a day in my life
Wouldn't start today
Won't look for a place to die
Searching for a place to lay
I'm a survivor
I won't give up
I'm a soldier
I'll fight on
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
.
We are born,
There is some joy
Lighting a tiled room
And the first cry echoes
In the spray, sterile hollows.
A woman simpers, flush
And torn, whimpers, softly,
Under the phosphorescences
Of terror and delight, where
A man sees his own doom
Fast approaching as he weeps
With measured happiness
And one foot by the door.
Little creature, welcome
To the world, make up
Your presence known,
Bulbous and brightly
As melons in the sun,
Waiting to be plucked
With another lover
Indifferent as you,
Arbitrary as any name
Grasped for, looked up,
Placing you into this
Home of strangers,
This globe of shadow,
Shining dimly, eyeing,
To name you quick,
Holey, somewhat
Real.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
Belgrano
Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.
I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.
Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts.
Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
.
We are born,
There is some joy
Lighting a tiled room
And the first cry echoes
In the spray, sterile hollows.
A woman simpers, flush
And torn, whimpers, softly,
Under the phosphorescences
Of terror and delight, where
A man sees his own doom
Fast approaching as he weeps
With measured happiness
And one foot by the door.
Little creature, welcome
To the world, make up
Your presence known,
Bulbous and brightly
As melons in the sun,
Waiting to be plucked
With another lover
Indifferent as you,
Arbitrary as any name
Grasped for, looked up,
Placing you into this
Home of strangers,
This globe of shadow,
Shining dimly, eyeing,
To name you quick,
Holey, somewhat
Real.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
Harsh geographical tongues,
Set up against the asphalt gleaming in the bright light,
The A Crowd betwixt and between- efforting that cool knowing stance to cover the fear reeked knee **** bloodthirst their inadequacy always spawned.
The B Crowd simpers aghast at what unconscious desires to adopt the life husk of burned out hucksters has wrought.
The sentimental inspector dutifully tweaks the scales so we all have a tighter grasp on true value.
Postscript: Lord grant me the grace to disguise the portentous notions that I am anything other than what I pretend to be...
[Rolloroberson copyright 2020]
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:53 PM UTC
This old fashioned simpers in my hand
Sweet and sharp, Bitter and Blight
it calms my everything
to a point
where I cannot
Deal
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Took, passing, as
my chosen word
a comfort-food of preference,
celestial confectionery,
indulgent mewl of movement.
It's a prudent lie
I stir myself
this spoon
of porch-light parable,
a home-brewed benediction
simpers, intimate angelica
infallible
as love....
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 2:48 AM UTC