"spurns" poems
hey you!
yeah you!
i’m talking to you!
i’m a big fat bus
with
A!
BIG!
FAT!
BEAUTIFUL!
YELLOW!
BOOTAY!
i say,
NOW!
YOU!
Yeah you!
YOU get outta MY way!
go on now
get outta my way
hey hey hey
get outta my way
way of my
big fat,
fat big ,
beautiful yellow bootay
hey hey hey!
BIG FAT YELLOW BOOTAY!
hey hey hey
fat bootay
I say
Outta my way!
hey hey hey
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
492
Civilization—spurns—the Leopard!
Was the Leopard—bold?
Deserts—never rebuked her Satin—
Ethiop—her Gold—
Tawny—her Customs—
She was Conscious—
Spotted—her Dun Gown—
This was the Leopard’s nature—Signor—
Need—a keeper—frown?
Pity—the Pard—that left her Asia—
Memories—of Palm—
Cannot be stifled—with Narcotic—
Nor suppressed—with Balm—
8.1k
1427
To earn it by disdaining it
Is Fame’s consummate Fee—
He loves what spurns him—
Look behind—He is pursuing thee.
So let us gather—every Day—
The Aggregate of
Life’s Bouquet
Be Honor and not shame—
2.3k
It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow’d, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,—
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
2.3k
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
2.1k
The Night Draws Near,
An Age Of Endless Despair!
Our Toils Would Spurn,
Our Ocular Lids A Drowsy Lot!
The Moon Rekindle's A Shadowed Sky,
Birds Of The Air:
Owl Who Knows, Crane Who Talks,
And Fire-flies,
Their Lights They Shone!
The Night Draws Near,
The Drifting Cloud Spurns Sour Breeze;
Adrift The Lair Of Open Windows,
Caresses Men With Blissful Treats;
Where Milder Soothing's Would Her Morning's Loath!
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
I waited too long
to mow my lawn
biopsy my lung
yet lived long enough, anon,
however long is long.
Whatever. It's not wrong
to count along
while busy living. Sing
and stay strong
absorb the sun's photons
and store them in your bones.
Those bones
outlast slights and spurns
are white as lightning and strong
as sticks and stones.
Inside is one's
spirit, soul, the nameless one
the one that's never known.
It has no cell phone
can't communicate or even moan.
Therefore. Why complain?
Have some fun.
Soon
I'll be undone
subterranean
my garden burned down.
So what. John Donne
died and so did Milton.
Emerson too, and Whitman.
Get over it. Vote. Love. When
the train comes in the station
whistle with it, wish on
stars with passion
or careful hesitation.
Anything's fine, within reason.
Season by season
things get done.
Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington.
No taxation
without representation.
A gun
in every den.
People will be governed
one way or another, by a sovereign
or trusted friend. Corporation.
Men
are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than
to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are
resigned.
I'm too young
to die! I cry. My generation
cannot outrun the sun
but I want to see what happens
next, a tsunami or tornado, rain
and wind beyond our comprehension
hit in the head by speeding debris, irony
of ironies! plastic contraptions,
rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain
in the baby! Moment's
notice. None,
I notice, live long
enough to see the end. Amen. A million
years hence
human sense
has so modified and mutated among
other moons
we share one mind
and everything's remembered by everyone.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan
is possible, and work is fun.
I'm going there when I pass on
because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fission.
About suffering, religion
was right (and wrong) all along.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
This world is no friend of uniformity,
The man who calls her beautiful spurns her all the same,
they take interest in her till they find new game,
Some tolerate her,those she is closest to,
others cannot but they smile at her too,
She is the passing of time in its best and truest sense,
ALAS! uniformity, how could she be so dense?
She lives in a constant conundrum of they love her or love her not,
but then again if it was true love she wouldn't have given it a second thought.
Why is this world ever condescending yet ever so polite,
Why do people smile sweetly at their victims with bloodcurdling spite,
She may appear strong but she is the timid child in the dark corner of the room,
this world is no place for uniformity she is destined for her doom.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
The ocean holds me in her arms
Though I am hesitant to venture
Crystal waves draw me in, how fast they disarm
I push off from the boat, the salt, my body burns
Face plunged in the water, breath sharp, seeking out my center
The ocean holds me in her arms
Blue water is pure, yet it still churns
Eyes fixate on bright schools of fish, stout and slender
Crystal waves draw me in, how fast they disarm
Stray flipper to my face, thick water in my mouth, and it spurns
So, I turn to avoid the offender
The ocean holds me in her arms
Back to the lively landscape below, sea turtles and sea worms
Words cannot recreate the beauty here, no matter how I endeavor
Crystal waves draw me in, how fast they disarm
Back to the boat, I climb the ladder of the stern
Pause to admire the scene, air tickles like a feather
The ocean holds me in her arms
Crystal waves draw me in, how fast they disarm
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
There's a regret
So grinding, so immitigably sad,
Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .
Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone
Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due,
Till there seems naught so despicable as you
In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old shoe
The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie
About the beach of Time, till by and by
Death, that derides you too--
Death, as he goes
His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray,
With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;
And then--and then, who knows
But the kind Grave
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and ***** and crave?
'Poor fool that might--
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to me
In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
1.1k
Hope has no merciful face.
It bludgeons us harder
Than despair
To which it turns
When the result spurns
Our expectations!
Yet ironically
Most adored is hope,
A sauce for the sufferer
A spice to spruce up
The leftover
From the last despair,
Never really tidying
The ashes of shattered dreams
But staying back
Till our last breath
Goading us to hold onto it!
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
I’d love to find myself a suit,
drive 12 minutes and
sit on a barstool that won’t
stop screaming,
be able to smoke
inside again,
**** in *******
stained toilets,
push on locked
stalls and trip over
high heels that reach
out from under like
ashes ready to be flicked,
have makeshift conversations
with a 62 year old
old bartender who throws
an ashtray and a glass
of jack on the bar
at 9:12pm every day and
spurns at irregulars,
harlequin nods
at pseudos and
tire at denials,
pay a $13 cab-fare
and let him keep a 20
for listening to me *****
about how I should be able to
smoke inside the cab,
find myself questioning
every single piece I’ve ever
written while spinning
beneath my sheets,
wake to work
and work to 5,
I dont yearn for much
just a kiss for when
I leave and one when I come
home, if she's still up.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
Every note
Every word
Penetrating like a sword into
The wounds you leave
When you deceive
The injuries you inflict
Objectifying her
And her all too human needs
She cleaves to you with all she has left
Needing only tenderness to keep
Her roof from caving in
Never saying what you mean
Because her life is strung up
From the ceiling by thin
Knotted strings
Each thread to be
Tread carefully as not to shake
The limb upon which the nest rests
You don't seem to know her anymore
The muted throat you knew
Before has learned to counter
Whilst still hiding from
The uneven voice that
Spurns justified unbelief
Beyond the sum of inability
To combat or rather to retreat from
Bigoted obscenities which do not
Quite fly overhead instead
They are spat with no discretion
And blatant direction
From cavities in prejudiced faces
Into the ears of one whose self
Is bottled up in a medicine cabinet
Next to the antidepressant
Falling into disrepair
And sinking deeper into despair
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
Behold the spurns of life and chance,
They turn, they turn, with happenstance
Heart asunder, light and blunder,
A cloth so right, I might come under.
My eyes reach far, my vision spread.
Crossroads of fire, where might it have lead?
To hell and back, paradiso once more.
I choose the one of ill-fated lore.
Unorthodox, and unkind, it yearns for life,
Calling for mine, unyielding strife,
For you, I love, the world I give,
Don’t let me die, but let me live.
Live more for me, than I for you,
I miss our nights, the things we’d do.
A love so pure, remarkably so,
Bring us to our all time low.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 8:04 PM UTC
I’ve been watching for some time
From afar the deep and low valley
Watching the leaves fall
Of what hope they can rally
For not ray nor beam
Nor excitement I seek
Only the bejeweled recluse with the golden hair
The blue eyes and tongue abounding, yet meek
A beauty not to sever
From the mountains of my youth
Against all attempt
My failed past endeavor
To bring those impartial arms closer to my own
But, alas, she proved far too clever
And escaped, perpetually I bemoan
And where you took leave
Still spurns the suture
Dark blood freshly drawn
I bleed for another, though soul turned to pewter
And I stumble weakly like invalid fawn
The gauze did atone
Anesthetized my brooding
Until the reclaimed throne
Did sanctify its queen
Too little, too late
A penance not paid
Impatience could at surface readily sate
And showed me in acetic recollection
My folly not to wait
But, escaped your grace, my grubby hands though groped
And words did not flow forth as I had hoped
Simple gesture; a wave or two
And the separation broadened again, same as the first time I left you
But, I’ve been watching for some time
The creeks and the crags
Knowing the leaves will always return
And the fawn thus wanes to mighty stag
In hopes for a band of our own from the pitch of time discerned
I fashioned this life for you
And encircled you in my mind
That what persona I do beget
I was just hoping for you to find
A poor choice for but one of many
An ill-conceived and hasty plan
All done for you, my beauty
Planning for a future
Before it even began
And now, after I’ve waited for what feels like millennia
These clipped wings refuse to span
And this valley wracks me with mania
Spirits sink with the sun
Ink drips from the vein
Turn to verse written in vain,
Smears through the valleys
Like eloquent stains
An escape from memory, dazzling and dun
But the valley vast, maw is wide
Too far, too unwilling to outrun
The Beautiful, the flitting
Inescapable Morgan.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Part One: Wolves and Chokes
Children are such wolves.
A day is a fledgling lamb
That can be crowded, cloistered
And clawed.
I used to speak to you and
Run with you.
You in your red coat
And I with my white throat.
Suspect nothing.
No tooth was fear to me
For a pack does not stack
Its white edges against itself.
Yet still I must have itched
A miracle of irritation
That cannot be ignored.
In the night, my mouth
Is drawn wide.
Like a fetus, I am transparent
And cringing in black situ.
Then a bite, and then a bite.
Then you see what is inside.
A one I love the best of all
Is loath to see me live.
The bitter taste of childhood vow
Comprises all I give.
I’ve broken you, you say.
With a box of fools I never sought,
Always galumphing back to me.
You broke me first, I think.
What posturing, straighten that halo
That chokes me rightfully.
Of course there is no way
To seek out your paradise.
Not if sinners cannot speak.
Part Two: Sebastien
Your hysteria is a fine rope.
My tree stands ready at the dawn,
A line of men and my
Brick wall that chips and splits
When bodies fall.
Even the sun is watching.
No one swats the stinging gaze
Away and no one dares offend.
But I stand.
I shall try to be as salt.
Salt stands even as dust.
Salt sneers at wounds.
Salt loves only the earth.
And the earth will love me soon,
Championing me as her lover
Which is an irony too ghastly to feel.
Rain in the still air, in the sun.
Silence that grinds a heel onto wrists
That steals from me.
A second, then a heartstring.
Thousand and thousands.
Eyes and minutes.
A billion is still only a tenth.
Release.
It is the boundlessness of the sky
And a chorus stabs their shovels,
Stabs the vein with silver mirth.
god touches me.
I am touched by gods.
I am born
And slain by daylight’s pink
Hands.
Every iron finger
Every one a steely tongue
Every cut a golden affair
And the spurns too hot to hold.
I fall and fold and dim.
My hour is burnt
And still your eyes, your teeth
Go with me
To forge both of my decades with
A gilt life of ecstasy I never
Touched but saw.
I saw it in the face of god.
And heard it as a note
That echoed through the days I lived,
And every word I wrote.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
pale lady, full moon,
spurns a million suitors' winks;
sits alone, brooding!
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
2B or not 2B -- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to trust
The estranged memory of my parked car,
Or to take arms against the flight of stairs
And, by ascending, remember. 1A, one floor --
No steps -- and by 1A to say we end
The footache and the thousand natural shocks
That heel is heir to -- ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 1A, one floor --
One floor, perchance no callis. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in these shoes of death what callis may come,
When we have shuffled off these mortal streets,
The lot must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of memories.
For who would bear the sores of party shoes,
Th’ endless rows of resting vehicles,
The low ceilings and countless steps,
The insolence of the inebriated, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might end the fuddled search
With a local inn? Who would challenge the stairs,
To grunt and sweat under buzzed breath,
But that the dread of someone waiting at home,
The undiscovered disappointment from whose bourn
No party-er returns, shaming the conscience
And makes us rather storm the steps to 2B
Than face anger we wish we knew not of?
Thus a spouse’s fury does make heroes of us all,
And thus the reality of ten more steps
Is boiled in the evening’s song and merriment
With little regard whether the car is parked in 1A
Or perhaps upstairs in 2B. -- Harsh you now,
The ground that catches me. -- Cushion, concrete bed,
I think I shall rest here.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
From thigh to eye
the wind whistles your name
The echoes collide,
Inside.
I think I feel
the same again,
a distant voice,
A broken wheel;
sharp glass gloves and a clenched hand holds nothing
For you to know me.
Still.
The urge to tame
That which is seldom glimpsed
by what right
is that by man alone by night;
a quivering pulse
Untainted since
a moment when
I too,
held someone tight.
Too late to stall
An hourglass bears the name
grain by grain
its fleeting
Too slow to move,
To re-direct
a moment’s peace;
I call your name
each time
I’m breathing.
Some secret place
A shelter from the storm
a place unknown to me
Beyond this haven;
a miniature maelstrom
Return (again)
to reflect on what could have been.
Now
I Am
Slowly dying;
These moments
maybe lost forever.
A whispers tears
in stealth marks a sullen face.
In memory,
drifting aimless, still,
I call out your name;
the space the echo fills
is left speechless and misplaced.
What spurns you on?
What last reward?
Enlighten me
My Queen!
Upwardly fast
slice through old paths;
this bramble bush
of broken dreams.
From head to knee
unbeknown, I chase thee
For these fragments
lost and stolen
Till then,
My Love
I shall remain
and
I will always be
meaningless
and
swollen
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
On wave and shore
Beauty... and more
This one I cannot have
We might sing
But for my ring
I long to see her laugh
By day she spurns
at night she burns
and opens up her heart
And on White Sand
She takes my hand
And splits my world apart
So many years
No thoughts or fears
Of losing what I'd had
And then this one
I come undone
Dumbstruck, anxious, sad
I'll have to leave
I'll have to grieve
And reunion be my salve
On wave and shore
Beauty... and more
This one I cannot have
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Anger
sometimes it burns
a passion in a heart that yearns
imperfect
we all have our turns
different ways to speak of concerns
dialect
sometimes it spurns
without understanding of certain terms
emotion
that the heart discerns
is seen only after the understanding returns
Composure
it's hard to keep
to be angry without making a peep
careful
not to get too deep
the price of turbulence isnt cheap
forsaken
the tears you weep
the hill of forgiveness is mighty steep
despised
for your leap
i guess what you sew is what you reap
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Pain in my head
A bit mislead
My insides dead
My life I dread
Body unfed
My arms like lead
I should switch to another thread
Too much to think
Mind out of sync
My throat to sink
Missing a link
Afraid to blink
Just want to drink
I think it’s time to change the ink
My mind it turns
My chest it burns
Bad luck returns
Stomach it churns
My heart it earns
Bad thoughts of spurns
Yes, I do have some more concerns
Don’t feel to fit
Feel not legit
I want to quit
My brain has split
Cannot commit
I lost my whit
There is more I need to submit
Feel out of time
My spit like slime
Stopped on a dime
Mute like a mime
Covered in grime
Feel past my prime
Ok lets go for one more rhyme
I cannot fight
My back is tight
I lost my sight
I’m full of fright
No more excite
Don’t feel polite
I cannot talk, just choose to write
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 5:52 AM UTC