"spruced" poems
Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.
They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.
If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.
My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.
Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.
Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.
They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.
My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.
7.2k
just knowing you’re back
in time for the falling leaves,
perks up these pink roses in my room.
this city’s tap water feels a tad wetter,
even the meek new moon seems a lil’ brighter.
as the evening zephyr waltzes
across this moody park,
it seems to carry with it
a message of love, a beaming smile and knowing’s silence,
spruced with a whiff of those black orchids.
© 2021
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 8:59 AM UTC
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:
a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)
all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
retrospect.
you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
falling as lithe as poppies in spring
only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.
i imagine you anything but lustrous this evening.
there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.
i imagine you all soft and plump as a word of salvage
without the vigor of blandishments when you start with your
own way of moving i imagine you as blunt as a dull knife
plunging into me – i imagine your sidereal satellites fail in their coverage
over impossibly the blackest of skies in February,|
i imagine you anything but clean
and all white and spruced up with the most
drenched light, real to the touch and swiftly moving across the afternoon
like wishing you all but perverse and anomalous
and strikingly beautiful.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
On the far corner of my hall hangs a giant poster. Janeway is leading
her crew through the unknown. Spruced up so nice, you could
mistake it for a wall. My cupboard of skeletons. Beware, uncover the secret
at your own risk! Sometimes though, I wonder why we don't just accept:
aren't we all about the mean? Good man. On average, I am. White crows,
do exist! Everyone knows but crows are black. Of course the extent counts.
Of deviance I mean. But trust, you must. I am a monkey that learned to
think. So are you. I learn my religion, I learn my culture. I learn to act:
my part in the Play. Life is a rule-bound game we choose to accept.
I rebel too. When the rules aren't fun no more. Isn't that true of me
as of you? Meantime, meanwhile, mean love. On the average lets seek:
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 10:23 AM UTC
Not quite a teen
Land of maple syrup, winter dreams and moose
Everyone polite
Into the scene
Five star escape to fancy cars, spruced beverages and limousines
Arrived tonight
Me and cousin Simon
Lets dive in cuz I've done nothing but sit for like forever let me loose
Age hour long flight
Got your towel son?
Yes Mum see ya later be careful yes mum you're not to be out all night
Yes Mum alright
Lets be foul
Bets and dares, knock n run stitch ups, wreck past the elevator take the stairs
Switch off lights
Hello hey you, we're new wheres the pool?
Not far you'll need to go below the lobby down the hall past the breakfast bar
Turn right
There it is after all
I was first, whose that girl she's pretty like her hair dunno probbly older don't be daft
Shes a sight
Lets be bold and impress her
We'll do flips you go forward I'll go back bet mines better you're the worst who cares
Smack
Ow my head
Has it bled no its fine, i like her lips one more time with style
Splash
Nailed it
Did she see my dip did you see her, did she smile she didn't see
Smack
Jesus that hurt
Is it bleeding no it isnt, think I slipped need to jump in further to the drink
Splash
That was something
Oughta be worth a glance no chance you're a drip, oi lets fly then dont be scared
Smack again
Doesnt hurt it's fine
Its bleeding no its not dont pretend, hey look shes sorta staring with her friend
Hey whys the water pink?
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
I've fiercely rejected the monotonous
monogamous
mainstream
madness,
for a forest of lovers.
I've asked for a bouquet of boys freshly cut beaming above my bedside table.
Spruced alongside sprinkles of sensual femininity offering scintillating chatter as I slip asleep.
As I am many galaxies in one girl,
giving myself can be quite gaudy;
One wooer would soon wither away under such wavering weathers.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
Shadow keepers and whisper-mongers
dressed up in hallowed head gears:
An eternal flame weeps
that leads to the heart of the republic.
Fly-by air drills and tableau thrills,
mighty state on display,
don't delight anymore;
Who's the guest of honour
taking the salute this year?
Who cares - this is
a republic in distress.
Dusty statues of heroes past
that gave their blood for a vision
that freed, spruced up today
weep in their silhouette.
One stands accused
of subverting law for partisan ends
Another owes everything
to a last name and what else since?
What choice - this is
a republic in despair;
Crisis everywhere.
But sadly, no one seems to care.
Happy republic day.
There's a new pub down the road.
Exciting malls on the way.
Drink, brother, to wits' end.
The republic don't care.
The republic in decline.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
Toward the end of it all
my knackered earth beds
sit dishevelled
like a mother’s rushed haircut
tufts of the next growth
brace for another brown-grey winter
while the last redcurrants hide,
blood dark rubies
tucked in dying leaves of neighbour bushes
in the middle, the supermarket spruce
of three years ago
waits its turn
growing done in the throng of all
while the sun played favourites
soon, in the cat pad darks
the ground will be given back to rule,
cold, empty and silent
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:38 PM UTC
Tripping on the fumes from an oxygen tank
Loaned out from the local lenders bank
Grass lit dreams of focused thought
Drifting off, apparently, on the spot
Confidential whispers while waiting
Reverse synesthesia heard in a painting
Chivalrous misconceptions of past life holdings
Spruced up to latch onto misplaced moorings
The intake pulsed with the remnants of entombed regrets
Final draw, for a flattened pack of cigarettes
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
A flinty gaze made me lose my poise so easily.
Never in life had I been such a dauntful gentleman when it came to approaching a lady I had eyes for.
I asked God for a blessing before I made a move.
She was spruced up in a Cinderella dress.
And wafts of her perfume made the romantics play in every corner of my head.
She was a fairy that blew my mind away.A lily among thorns when placed together with other ladies,one every hasty man would fall for . Suddenly the "mission impossible"track gave me that chimera of love.
I was only words away from asking her to be mine,when the sound of a bullet killed the silence.She fell laying on the floor.I screamed out loud.
Opened my eyes and it was only a nightmare.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
I'll peer through the flaxen strand
of night
with your color that excites,
and think myself the blue pither of fire
or a flummoxed stone left unturned.
it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
beast or the common grip
of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.
it's the way the queen moves to all
corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,
and then like a child with almond eyes
spruced up, spritzed this morning's
incandescent dye,
the lapping of strange tides revealing
fish with dreams of brine
or that one moment when you had
at first light, the hot flush of coming
into, recognizing insatiable appetite,
whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back
at mirrors.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
Underneath a star-spangled night sky
All thoughts coalesce toward eternal bliss
No moment spared to catch a sigh.
Every possibility for longevity is worth a try
As we care to relive the moments with a kiss
Underneath a star-spangled night sky.
In the grand scheme of things, we are small fry
Even though we plunge headfirst, fast, into the abyss,
No moment spared to catch a sigh.
We won’t shy away from rich servings of apple pie
As we expend all efforts to ensure nothing’s amiss
Underneath a star-spangled night sky.
When life catches us in a lie
We’ll rise above it with finesse, it’ll form part of our reminisce.
No moment spared to catch a sigh.
Amidst all the lows we won’t miss a high
Everything spruced to perfection with practice
Underneath a star-spangled night sky
No moment spared to catch a sigh.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 4:55 AM UTC
cast death to who hears it most reverberating.
he hears it at noon, at sundown, at the
raising light of moon, half-mast set
glaringly through a pond of the word.
he hears it goad through the synagogue,
the pew, the assault of avian,
in the most chilling cold, in the ferocious
water of heat sinking ships to
their metallic deaths.
he heeds it now, fencing thick air
attended by the densest shadow,
he moves with it, its compelling invitation
from darkness to darkness, the faith
of contrition fizzles into the splintered hour, moves with it, moved by it;
he writes, tottering animal of furious wording; the hill there yonder draped
by heavy cloud, rinsed by rain salting
its *******
cast death to who feels it most sensuously.
he opens his eyes and darkness is infinite.
he opens the window and no light
lifts, awakens.
these juxtaposition of roads, the feasting
of the lamppost, feeding the wick with
infinitesimal flame, quickening the twinight, the courtyard, the amble of strange populace.
he words the earthenware, the figment of deepest abstract, says her name,
Martina, he has her gone in
the ashen hour, the wind that once blew
spruced stillicide on the roof of this home has dithered away in the inexorable.
he squints to inconsolable brightness
Martina sheds trembling in her
eyes ready for ever now,
and then writes as time trickles from
the ephemeral gush of spigot,
slivering the horizon by the unending stream of the familiar dawn, repeats its hymn, beheading the garden.
he will not name the end of all,
he will not count the hours dead
wearing the hand like a glove,
a word from stiff dark to flagrant one:
cast death upon him who knows not.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
take a stride in a room full of lurking shadows,
appalling wails and whines and spellbinding
sensations that make my chest wander for the
nth time in this walled twitterpated stead of
ours — of mine.
let the intoxicating fragrance of cigarette mixed with spilled coffee of lies and sham
disguised as loud kisses and delicate nights
guide you and be enthralled at how spruced our pictures are, together with the reverie
turned into shattered dreams.
but cautions must be taken — never stay for too long for it resembles a sanctuary of invisible arms drawn around my body that reminds me of how well loved and protected i am even in darkest times, a completely stupid hoax.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
Years pass by
like how weekends go,
As Sunday bids goodbye,
Monday jeerfully comes along.
People eventually,
They eventually come and go,
Some forever, while others
make it seem like forever.
And for all that is to say,
Nothing has been said,
As time, the red-handed villain
continues to run,
Run free—wreaking spruced ruins in its wake.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
By evelight lay lackless when by happenstance,
Moved to stoke fires by a wordsmith's en-trance.
Salute you Oh Scribe whose savour words evoke
Mellow cheese, crusted bread and drippings fire smoked.
_And on to kitchen with hungergreed,_
_Then to see what we shall find._
Greeishly seeking ** hum! Hubbardmum!
Remorsal to not spy no plump honeycrumb.
Hoardings bereft of gorgeulent fripwhips,
Desumed save for wholesmug and blandiment pips.
_And on to bed with hungerneed,_
_Then to dreams alone to dine._
Ill-matched vestements, quick-foot before routine,
Grogful from slumberfast, not spruced nor clean.
Green of the wind that bites first to incense,
Cornflaked under boot, toiling towards drudgcompence.
_And on to secure with hungerspeed,_
_Then to home with food on mind._
To sizzle, not to bake, fits the need to be sated,
Though the tangs now unaired bring relief once it's plated.
From first ****** to last spurt no sooner guzzied down,
With all gourmeaches now quelled and all yearnishes drowned.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC