"sired" poems
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
was leading a lonely life working nights
at the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory
where he was in charge of loading crates
full of fukfoorfiffenfimmers, onto cargo cars destined for the city of Cincinnati.
There was such a huge demand for fukfoorfiffenfimmers in the city of Cincinnati,
poor Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer worked his hunnyhush to the bone.
On one of his few holiday weekends,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer went to a hair salon for a trim.
Here he was attended by a hairdresser named, Henrietta Huckhellopolis.
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer instantly fell for the husky-voiced hairdresser.
Gaining enough gumption and gallasisgoppingguff needed to bypass beating around the bush of courteous courtship,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer asked Henrietta Huckhellopolis if she wanted to leerlumpaloomp later that evening.
"I would love to leerlumpaloomp later this evening," she replied, batting her long lashes lustily.
And how those two leerlumpaloomped!
They leerlumpaloomped long through the night.
They leerlumpaloomped so loudly,
the neighbours ended up sticking stuffystoils
into their sensilivities, in hopes of drowning out the noise.
Nine months later,
the lovers were blessed with a litter of lullaloonillies—wot with the loud leerlumpaloomping and all.
But, of the seven lullaloonillies, four of them had two lumpalots instead of one.
Bolstering himself against drowning in despair at the prospect of having sired freak lullaloonillies,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer helped design fukfoorfiffenfimmers especially meant for lullaloonillies who have two lumpalots instead of one.
As the double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers
were Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer's idea, the owner of the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory gave Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
a forty percent cut of the royalties.
*Fortunately some fairy tales come with a happy ending, because the city of Cincinnati was hit with a record number of lullaloonillies
born with two lumpalots instead of just the one.
The high sales of double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers,
enabled Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer and Henrietta Huckhellopolis
to quit their jobs and buy into the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory.
Yes, after getting married,
Harry Heironymous and Henrietta Huckhellopolis-Huffenhoffer
lived happily hever hafter.
So did the lullaloonillies....
including those with two lumpalots instead of one.*
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
I am a fighter
Because I know someday
That things will be brighter
And I will find a way
I am a lover
Holding on to the possibility
That I might discover
A person that has virility
I am a romantic
My desires are unwired
Trying to be sycophantic
Easily I become sired
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
What a name! what a joy! To have her called by Mrs yours,
What a beauty! to load over a a man,
Nayanoi is the name, brought up by a mother who is embedded to tradition,
It carries all fame and this is not a game but another ingredient to tame monstrous heart union.
There is indeed touching love after perennial failures,
Rejection over rejections builts emotion-shielded heart,
It kills dangerous emotions,it destroys
barbarians.
Such is life, don't you know,
Nayanoi demonstrated the saying,
Marrying a man not for money but love,
I have came to admire the Maa community,
They don't fake around they are what they are.
Unlike ******** who are really cheap indoors,
But fear displaying it in full glare of our cameras
Nayanoi won my heart, As a true African woman,
She is the wife of my kinsman.
Am not lusting for her, she deserve all the earthly praises,
A woman sired and raised perfectly,
She wears all the smiles in her face,
Knowing she is a beauty queen and not a braggart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
Like a warm breath of air
He hovers in my memory
No superman, a meek soul
Not one to squander his time
But one who worked day in and out
To feed those
Whom he loved and sired
What was he?
A teacher, a farmer or an artist
I cannot say precisely...
All I can say;
He was each of these
Rolled into one
On holidays I saw him
Shut in the loft
a brush in hand
His fingers moving over the canvas
The steaming tea by his side
Untouched and getting cold as ice
Unmindful of everything around
He sat by the easel in the attic
Focussed only on the strokes that fell
When a distinct image shoots out
As the moon from behind clouds
A wave of satisfaction would gleam
Across his face,
His frantic nerves at once hushed
Bearing the look of one
Who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms
He would view it from different angles
Never seeking anyone’s opinion
But gloating if he saw
Our admiring eyes fell on it
Being artistically inclined
He lived more in the world of art
But gradually things changed
To his fright, he found his hands shaky
And the lines on the canvas
Going tremulous and disjointed
Couldn’t hold a brush!
On diagnosed of Parkinson’s disease
His world abruptly lost its sheen
He saw the disease weeding
Its way into his life
Suddenly grown old
He lost interest in everything
We saw him sitting in his armchair
So immobile, for hours on end
His eyes stretched to a far horizon
We displayed before him
Paintings once born of his imagination
To see if his world would brighten
And it worked!
Recently, in one of my dreams
I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo
To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
In his life time!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
I wonder what makes up the landlord’s heart
For it is merciless, capricious and poisonous in fibre
It manufactures terror like a Chinese toy factory
For only to be administered where none is needed,
Most selfish and mightily crafty in primal setup
It is the heart of the landlord all over world
It derives pleasure from agony of the tenants
It is maximally sadistic to no match of creation,
It derives joy from harms like rent hike
And terrible evils as lien on beggar’s property
Where misfortune of tenant brews such all
The wine of the land is the blood of the poor
Cursed be the womb which sired the landlord
And yes be it the milieu that nurtured him
For they gave the world a gnome of generations
Feeding on human sweat like vampire of vampires.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
slightest of her sight
was such it's gravity's might
wholly my heart shook
such was that compelling look
left me utterly sired
tangled like a tainted wire
heart crumbling
feet stumbling
blind by her aura's light
such was it's bright
my heart melodiously sings
trapped by her angelic wings
like she came from pretty moon
for me was she a boon
her rolling eyes something they meant
for I was hypnotized by her saccharin scent
wore exquisite crimson dress
that showered roses with zest
I knew one thing for sure
this love was veritably pure
no dream no fantasy this was
to aquire you my only devoted cause..
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
HOW I MOURNED MADIBA IN EXCESS
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Rationality is antediluvian
Emotionalism is post napoleon
Shrewdness comes with the queen
Slyness a game of head boys
Strength ist meine Kampf
Bad dirgical mourning is mine
The dark son of Africa
My billow is love for humanity
Giving a **** the tick where it is due
Mourning heroes of the world
That battled for songs of freedom
In which cradled I the son of zinjathropus
To day Nelson Mandela is born
He is sired a new and again anew
Not the son of a chief but humbly
In humility as son of humanity
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Mountebanks and madmen
And marvelous maidens
Populate and pollute politics
Which joss sticks cannot chase
Or alleviate the electorate
In its counter clockwise swirl
Down its own bathroom drain.
Only morals don’t ameliorate
It only exacerbates, enervates
Rather than eliminates the pain.
The pain is felt by franklins,
Never the nobles or magnates;
They go on and make play dates
With other multi-billionaires
In debonair pied-a-terre lofts
And scoff at the peasantry
While exchanging pleasantries
Over gold-laced desserts
Thinking nobody gets hurt
If they pilfer and pillage
Far off village and town
Tearing down and razing,
With life grazing scorched earth.
To the rich, nobody has worth;
Voices that implore are muted
And garbage-chuted in the press.
Nothing to confess, the smile;
A mile of porcelainized teeth
Made more intense by pretense
That importance is impotence
In the face of extreme wealth
When stealth cease efficacy
And delicacy isn’t required.
The moral judge is fired.
A new wife is squired
In hopes a son is sired
To take over the empire.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
i am the ******* puddle
sired by a spilled drink-
a brackish mix of
anxiety and ineptitude.
last night looms in the morning eclipse,
regret stews a visceral broth;
vengeful, my gut reminds me
nausea is the world's truest thing.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
She sailed across in 1882,
From a town in Cork called Skibbereen.
To work and save was all she knew;
Just a lass she was, only eighteen.
She wed a fellow **** a charming sort,
He sired three children, then he left.
She had no lawyer had no resort;
He left her broke, marooned, bereft.
My mother told me stories of her Irish Gran;
She said the woman had a brogue;
When she got old her hair was white as sand;
The no-good husband was a rogue.
My mother asked her many times about her life;
“What was your childhood like in Skibbereen?”
“Ach, it was nothing but hardship and strife;
The times were harsh, and meals were lean.”
She never went back across the sea;
Never set foot in her country again;
Lost touch with the whole of her family;
Was penniless at her life’s end.
And now my mother too is gone;
She died with one regret;
She never got to see the place;
The house where her grandmother slept.
My mother, I did what you could not,
I made this trip for you.
I touch the stone in the very spot
Where the root of our family grew.
It’s nothing much to look at, a ruin in a field;
But I take a moment and grieve;
This is where our fate was sealed;
When that girl decided to leave.
She left her homeland, all she knew;
Sailed off to the great beyond;
The one thing she could never undo
Was the rupturing of the family bond.
My mother, you made us hold our family dear,
To promise our love so strong;
Was it because you saw so clear
Your grandmother’s pain so long?
I bow my head and say a prayer,
And ask for a portion of grace;
For you and her, travelers over there,
In a foreign, mysterious place.
I hope you’ve met her in that land,
And maybe now you understand.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
and she spoke,
and her lips were myth;
her tongue, song:
forehead scar shone
lodes of rune
re-membered ember
of yesteraeon soot cooked
sitting fire in ashen ire re-sired
without him
her self
felt, *********
clod alive
tooth of skull
culled forth
bone spoken
tomes uttered
and i felt her light enter
this dilating space
of ebb and ruin and alone
stile of mine
thresheld, again
footfall of wynd,
blown open
into dope field sprung swim
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC
not all **** videos are equal
one searches the index,
hopeful a screenshot
pinpricks the eye and the peculiar
peculiar need of the moment
like most things good and appreciated,
sifting through the chaff is a learned skill,
required but not intuitively sired,
not every new word in the dictionary
delights, insights, triggering a welcome!warning
the sifter’s handle fits the hand uncomfortably,
requiring egregious prodigious turnings,
till the flour is silky and manipulative, ready,
pleasure is work, luster need maintenance
you passover, skippering,
a search for the next and the next,
treasured island is constantly on the move,
it’s coordinates require GPS updating
rerouting rerouting rerouting
what does this reveal about you?
there are no simple single path pleasures,
the first bite delight is ultimately worn down,
recalled but not equally fully restored,
so we need, insistent for new thrill pathways
to get to the same old pleasured places
the body acts, the body’s acts, the body’s reacts
familiarity is a museum collection,
everything human requires updating,
especially essentially by
the imagination’s perpetual swiping
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC
The Hills Are Alive!
Alive I say indeed!
They aren't biased, or judgmental,
or are they filled with greed!
The hills are alive, enjoying each day as they come,
they don't mind the feet that tread on them,
it doesn't make it worrisome!
The hills are alive,
can you hear their sweet melody?
Well, sad thing is, I bet you can't,
if you're only stuck on the Telly.
Zut alors, what sad bunch we've become,
when we need someone to tell us,
(us!) that we don't have to be dumb.
Of course we don't,
none of us do,
but what do they say then,
when they happen on something new?
Gone are the days,
where vigor and work was required,
now we're only used to,
being beckoned or be sired!
The hills are alive,
and they weep,
weep I say!
As they watch the playful children that once were,
now inside they stay.
It's a shame,
a shame,
when the hills must really cry,
when all they're good for now,
is a peaceful place to die.
Let it be no more,
it's time to change,
and venture out through (indeed!) the door!
The Hills are alive!
Can you not hear their call!?
Or are you tuned out to the music,
the sweet music of it all?
Let it not be so,
my dear, dear friends of mine,
go out, breath in and out!
Enjoy the blessed sunshine.
For the Hills are still alive,
well and waiting patiently,
for the one day,
or more,
to gather children playfully.
The Hills are alive,
so why aren't you?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
He comes out of his house, off into his ****** limousine,
The pride and glory of American handicraft,
Drives away past his main gate, guarded by a Luhyia national,
The nation from which watchmen are mass manufactured,
The gate is banged closed with a sharp emblem dominating;
tafadahli umbwa kali, please fierce dogs are in don’t dare enter,
when no piece of a dog is in, hen pecking husbands perhaps,
He drives away in low spirit, like the tail of a snake,
Sharply contrasting his tiger thoraxed debates in the parliament,
In defence of state corruption; Anglo leasing and her sisters,
The wife has chased out our state officer, his sole Succor,
of the night and chilly loneliness so nameless ,in the streets of Nairobi,
Is the epiphanous street of koinange, after Mbiu Koinange
The colonial orchestrator of intellectual globalectics,
He sired political immorality that sired social depravement,
To rove his avenues as the state and money capitalist
Convert beautiful daughters of the poor peasants
Into defenseless protégés of class misfortune
Roaming the back streets minus
Any lingerie in their bosoms.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
He gathers tales, sings them for a pittance
Holds peasants spellbound on the brink of fright
With weird myths that bewilder, if one might
See their meaning past the poet's flagrance
But all are in awe of his strange presence
And lend their ears until it is midnight
And the stars start to shine cold, distant, bright
With an ancient sentience, in silence
Come dawn and he leaves, do not dare follow
For this man treads where no mortal can go
To the stars that sired him, he unveils
A vista of a repugnant hollow
Where above all, you hear their great bellow
It is here the Old Ones tell him their tales
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 1:09 PM UTC
Deathlike is our love.
Tired, expired, stagnant and numb.
I'm through playing dumb, treated like hired help.
When we met my pulse it fired, now like death it has expired.
We lie in bed side by side like corpses in a morgue,
inanimate, undesired, tired.
I'm sorry if this hurts but love it can expire, lose its fire and it's flame.
I wish that I could say we're both to blame, but you my love you sired elsewhere, and expected me to understand that you were desired by another and now I'm expected to play the role of second mother to a child,
innocent though he is of his father's shared night of tireless passion with another!
And so it fell to me to prepare this fine repast, forget about the past,
look toward the food cupboard and make a dinner of herbs.
A pinch of hemlock, a touch of aconite, a soupçon of strychnine and a
drop of arsenic. All prepared by mine own fair hand, it's bitterness shone in my tears, as you praised my cooking and my fidelity to you, begged my forgiveness and took me to bed.
Now, cold you lie.
Forgiveness I could give, it was the forgetting that did both you and me in. Like Romeo to his Juliet, a moth to a flame, a drop of wolfs bane,
your Belladonna has had her final fling
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
1.
Ye knew not me
As passing by
On yonder shore.
2.
No query of tongue, m'Lord
Canst let scales fall down.
3.
Sired was I nobly
Yet....
Thy Lady
Fall'st
To Papa.
4.
Desolation reaped
While trust is placed
And honour
Forever lost.
S T, 11 April 2013
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
we were born by the gutter
we had litter in our gumption
we had message bottles fastened to us
we were lost in the sewer
we had skeleton key fingers
we had listless macabre sockets
we were offered to the tides
we had salt water tears in our orifices
we had grits bones in our teeth
we were consumed by the gutter
we were defaced in the sewer
we were sired to the tides
we were fetal in the ocean
we were atomic to the sea
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
You breathe the word of love
You show me the reason to live
When you said those three words,
my heart enwrapped to yours
and boy, I'm sired
you're my one desire
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
twisted, turned and pulled taut
that's the state of my broken heart
it hurts worse than a gunshot
least expected and **** it hits hard
subconsciously falling apart
the thought of disregard
simply stones my aching part
parting I simply do not desire
for my being lusts for you, i'm sired
honestly, I think I'm just getting tired
& I remind myself that this soon, will no longer dire
it's hard though, to not feel
to not care for you, it's a cartwheel
going in circles, without directions
false hope my stone
makes me yearn to quickly be on the other side of the globe
far from thee but still,
what my heart desires will eventually perspire
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
She said he was wealthy,
owned several properties,
endowed several churches
and sired seven children,
all of whom he disowned.
For her, evidence that wealth
doesn't always trickle down.
He left it to foreign missions,
teachers of intolerance.
Tattered black and white photo,
his eyes glare from crackled glaze,
severe stare, pefected
through lifelong practice,
or simply hypocracy.
Malevolence sparked her old, blue,
hooded eyes as she told me of his death.
He claimed he did not suffer
because of his righteousness.
She bore her story as a curse,
relieved to pass it on to me.
Now I pass the burden on.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
***sandpaper reflects our damages
radio stations weave eternity into sound bytes
yet one bite is enough to give you rabies
so back the F@$! up
and listen to your luck
allow for music to flow effortlessly
unglue yourself
from the tragic and stuck energy
i am logic forging itself
in a fire of shiny metals
petals of diamonds
remind us of collapsing realities
undiscovered colors
and passages out of this dimension
into etheric waters
surface temperatures
are rising like lightning
from the ground up
find trees to hug
jumping from knees to feet
and hands to mouth
round them up and get out fast
sound is music
infinite tunes
dancing fumes of vaporous intent
sent from heaven
let me at them
remind me of the sediment
and the contract we signed before dying
high as a waterlily
proud as a wasp
rested and assured of our death
your sentence is fragrant like a vagrant
stamped with burning jettison
turning reticent
hesitant to accept this love
as gifts from above
rub our souls and polish our hearts
i am tired of these games
training wheels may save lives
but a hundred miles later
she ate her last waiter
sore as a dancer
with a heart of a champion
our uncles were dandelions
sired in springtime’s basement
i choose medicine
not this heady nonsense
resume your poetry
and abuse yourself not me***
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
(the more knowledge
gleaned
the less instinct
weaned)
once witches
small perhaps
eccentric somewhat
and followed
by thrush
sang
spied by curious
mice
sat on by old
ticks
munched the
fly agaric
and roamed
the nightly forest..
or flew into
great red skies
howling through
storming cries
screaming to fell
or styled vertical
with two
black tusks
glinting
to caste hex
upon foe
and scatter the dead
to perform abomination
with here little cat
perched behind
skull and moon
bat and croon
o the wind wild
o ancient chile
evil prays so
the great eye
the **** crow
the spite
and soon
o baal
sired the morn..
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC