"stodgy" poems
Specious speculative salacious spectral season
Transmogrify trapezium traverse torsion treason
Erotica errantry erectile endogenic emblazon
Ghastly gnashy grotesque gristly garrison
Larcenous lecherous lascivious latent lesson
Entelechy ethology exsistentialize extant epsilons
Spurious spry squabble subtle specialization
Transient transitive tour de force teleportation
Encephala enunciate endeavor executant emulation
Garish gaudy gambit glitch granulation
Lurid livid liaison limpid laceration
Extravaganza expletives expeditious equilibration emendation
Sly stodgy surreptitious spatiotemporal solicitor
Taciturn tactile transcendent tertiary torpor
Euphoria eminent equivocal exserted emancipator
Garrulous gustatory gung ** gestational gesticulator
Lyricism lilt liberation lambaste levitator
Escutcheon exergonic epaulet exodus extrapolator
Starkness staunch spectacle stolid stultification
Telepathy tantamount tractive tellurian transmutation
Exonerate euthenics exegesis entourage eradication
Groaty gnarly gruesome gristly gastrulation
Licentious lewd lacunar laconic limitation
Extemporaneous exigency embark embargo extradition
Slinky slick sultry stoical snout
Transubstantiate torturous temerarious tumultuous tout
Eucharist extortion enmity epithet eke out
Gross grit groin grove grout
Lentic leister lotic lothario levity lout
Execrating eventuation evocative evitable excerpt bout
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******** like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.
How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy ******* shit-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .
Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the **** why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.
Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 5:56 AM UTC
When I grow old, I hope I have wooden bones
that chip with a sculptors chisel and decompose
into the same soil as the dirt underneath my nails.
When I grow old, I hope I've found my green thumb,
and haven't forgotten Eden's hum, to have a garden to
drink coffee in.
When I grow old, I hope I still smoke tobacco from a pipe,
and read by candlelight, I hope I look back on life
and feel at peace when I go to bed at night.
When I grow old, I hope I find company in a woman with
grey hair whose somber, but bright eyes still stare at the Robins through the morning sun's glare. I hope she hasn't forgotten
how to smile when I'm being senile. And her joyous laugh still resonates deep in her stomach.
I hope we talk about the weather, how last winter was
better, and that we grieve well growing old together.
When I grow old, I hope the young ones will take my
mundane advice, and even if they find it trite,
pretend that it's wise.
I hope I have granddaughters and sons who'll be
just as excited for the sunrise as I, sharing the same
childish wonder for dawn's light sky.
When I grow old, I hope I still hope,
and haven't sunken into the stodgy bitterness that
plagues old men,
but still remain with fiery kind eyes that yearn
to turn earth into God's garden again.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
*The Clothed Maja, sister of The **** Maja (both painted by Goya, and both enjoyed by Raj Arumugam), speaks:*
Hey, you boys…yeah, you…
OK, all of you good boys, if you like…
come see me in my white dress and golden shoes;
see me reclined in my luxurious couch…
Look here…I’m in this room…
Oh, you adorable, silly boys;
I’ve been hearing you the last hour
as you searched one room after another
and all you grown men giggling like little boys…
while I’ve been waiting here all the while…
And you’re Frank? And you?
Sean? What a **** name you’ve got baby…
Oh, hmmmm…you should be…O Patrick,
you think I’m cool?
I was made by Goya, how can I not be?
And come on other boys at the door, don’t be shy…
Ravi, Kesav, Eliot, jp –
my, my, what a short name you got;
you can get it long too? ...jp…lovely name…
and Jack Chappell, and Sean Critchfield –
and why didn’t cheeky Raj come?
Oh, leave him, he’s probably just best left ogling
at ***** shunga pictures
from Hokusai…
So welcome boys all…
Yes, yes, you can come close
You can’t resist the scent can you?
O, my name? Just call me Maja -
Maja pretty and well-dressed
and I just love good company and wine
and pleasure and fun
…what?
You guys think I’m sweet, and seductive?
Oh, that’s nice of you…
**** too?
Oh, boys! Oh, you boys!
If you think I’m ****
Oh wait till you see my sister, my double –
Oh, yes she’s always reclining in a bed too
unlike that stodgy Mona Lisa
Well, my sis didn’t want to come
but really, I’ll tell you a secret -
my sis, she doesn’t wear clothes -
and she hasn’t been in clothes since 1800!
Oh, you guys got to go?
Reluctant, but you must go?
Yeah, you can always see me – just google Goya
and I’ll always be there
and my sister?
Oh, you naughty boys, that’s who really want to see,
don’t you?
and that’s the reason for your sudden hurry?
Well, she’s always placed beside me –
I’m always The Clothed Maja and she the Naked one…
See you soon, guys –
see you at Goya...
Hey, come back here boys –
the least you can do is to kiss me goodbye…
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 2:32 AM UTC
Performance Management!
Yes, that's what I'd like to mention
In case we have a school inspection
But not the stodgy paper filling invention
Where evidence of professional skill
Is demanded to prove you follow the drill
No! I mean the superlative performances delivered each day
To our attentive audiences who appreciate this played out measure
Of rhetoric
Of our managed one-act stage-shows
With dynamics that edify, illuminate and encourage the questions
That plumb the depths of our pupils perceptions
And we cannot deny these feats and endeavours
Nurture our own sense of self and self-worth,
Deep touching that place in our psyche
Of being, belonging
And yet still longing.
Scurrying to classes we prepare our acts
Weaving our subjects' underpinning facts
Into the drama we call the lessons
There can be who we want to be
Command the floor
We're teaching professionals
And, oh, so much more....
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
Cocooned in groggy haze
swamped with torpid emptiness
jaded sea of inert vacuum
laden with muzzy loneliness
sharp tick-tock of the weary wall clock
I lie awake with my eyes shut tight
striving in vain to dream dreams
caged in a mute indifferent night
inertia of stodgy listless being
wait is long… no sight of dawn
Exhausted ceiling-fan rotates
loose rusty rod, old dusty blades
creaking & groaning every two rounds
lazily it swings & sways
just like fan & the clock
I too am a mechanical zombie
wobbling thru’ the night... barely alive
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
i am rare arrogance brilliantly
caked in sinuous batter inexorably fluid taught
grime, as the invited breath of salt pillars in my
nostrils. like god, like christ's woefully placarded
woody drizzled body the autumn is also every sign
of poesy and the imminent closure of flaming stodgy
existence
his season is waiting at the fore. ready to mass swiftly
white exuberance snowly at the behest of gray freckled heavens
long and talking paleness, in tiniest majority, flakes
flakes abounding footing the asphalt gardens and the naked
arbor flesh by the lakes. by the lakes
says some trees, "we are and justly so shall be, for a time longer than
thou who are more temporary than we. like grass, wither succulently
afore the mounding **** of time; eroding assuredly thy pink
sack of viscous organisms in unnoticeable obvious certainty."
and they said so, the trees, they said life
and i said
i said "axe"
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
A nettlesome gnat
dipping
dodges past
rote swipes,
remote-controlled
flickers,
and in the stodgy
middle of milk-
spilled glass,
a waning wink
glimpses
the faded
bicker
to its midgy sink
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:31 AM UTC
I’m feeling a little sunken,
Lurking here at the bottom of the
Ocean wallowing here in my
Muddy slime-filled pit.
Feeling rather lumpen,
Stodgy, awkwardly unblended, I remind myself
Of things unstirred, of things
That cause the upper lip to rise above the teeth.
I have formed a second skin, like congealing coffee,
Overheated, I am clammy, and I wish to shed.
Scrub me, I am just dead skin,
I am something to slough off, discard, and rinse.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
we haunt outmoded roach motels
tacky hermit-drab shells
ready to burst
in all the random, lonely corners of the universe
and coroners
wander stodgy corridors
and remote old waysides
as we rot,
filling the ground's vacancies
tangled up and diaphanous
flaring up in the wind and burning
the godhead ached
and his stomach growled
and time had ran its course
as we wandered next door
left to idle, awkwardly
to savor the flowing ennui
in dirtied decorum
fearful, molten paradoxes
waxing ecstatically
at the moment
our distance dangled in spacetime
it was plastered on the front window
of the dusty, remote, old dollar store
on crabgrass he fell
Charlie horses galloped, tenants of seashells cried out
as it was always much easier to recite
dull, signifying nothing
while determining everything
we're wandering, bleary-eyed individuals
in the loneliest location in existence
relinquished in internal fisticuffs
crumpling the paperthin walls, as the
****** of a moving tire whines outside
and the living backdrop blurs, falls away
and the universe hastily reroutes itself
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
*Goodbye Mr. Chips
England 1920
I’m well in my eighties now you see
The life of a school master was for me
Brookfield School is where I have been
A private school for the sons of Englishmen
I was a young man when I first came here
For years a stodgy boring bachelors life
Then in my middle age I met my darling wife
She brought me joy my heart’s desire
Having tea and scones beside our fire
She had the faculty eating from her hand
She got me noticed and life was grand
I became the head of these hallowed halls
A part of Brookfield like the walls
The boys all loved her she had such grace
As well as having the most pretty face
I think I was the happiest man on earth
Then I lost her as she was giving birth
All alone at Brookfield in my pain
Never to take a wife again
Then the war, the four horsemen rode once more
A war like nothing we had seen before
All my old students fought for the King
After Sunday chapel as hymns we would sing
I would read my boys names who gave everything
The war it stayed for several years
My eyes burned with the salty tears
To see my boys grown into young men
Dead in battle never to come home again
But the war ended and we survived
The sons of the fathers came to Brookfield alive
My years went by until I retired
Now I lie on my bed, my time expired
I hear them talking, outside my Door
Old Chips is Dying, it’s such a shame
He had no children to continue his name
But that’s not true.
I had a thousand little joys
And they were all my Brookfield boys*
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
Nine angels
Care and naked simplicity
Future weal, to remind in open quarrel
Speed is a having guest, to avarice when implicitly...
A heart of darkness
And the cares of calling a friend to the table
Rued gestures of candor, a candle of secrets
And the stir of something greater, than a justifiable...
Looking hard, for a salient generosity of ply and can
Will a shared eye, begin here, or in the meet
Of promises told to take their time, a stodgy plan?
Letting boding become a shame? taking a seat...
Ten angels
And the blindness of voices attuned to a pitch
Vice and curiosity to tender a vantage, well
Who is the other side of privilege in the dark, so rich?
I am, says one, the truth in terrified gifts...
Is a language we can afford; a hatred of hearts, and nix?
With a nobility of silence, we have adjusted might's to is...
A hearkening joke, the only way to survive the day, ad sic.?
All flee, but the one, and the need of cause serious
To remember the taste of couth, complimenting the hour with aim
Did, says the one to remain, the word of composure is ours furious
Adding, says the rest to a whole comfort, I knew by the very name...
Mar 16, 2023
Mar 16, 2023 at 2:03 PM UTC
portraits kissing in moonlight
you have our stares.
mouth open over unfinished meals
there's passion in pasta,
pleasure in pastry
Tongue down throat
she stands up to kiss
smirks go between us
and we giggle at their lust.
These dates becoming almost daily and still not with you.
you're continents away
and I'm not content without you
I wish it could be us.
I want that passionate pasta
with hands behind my waist as I stir
stodgy rice,
that lean over my shoulder,
tender as you watch me
make a mess of a meal but
always leave a clean kitchen.
recall the
over salting of a starch,
the almost poisoning of your father
recall my confidence in
"Yes more salt"
"No, not enough”.
I eat nothing but *** noodle stew
With extra defrosted veg.
We were all those fragrances
with somewhat sliced fingers
but always
fingers through fingers.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
surreal music audio with spooky, coarse voices, singly or together announcing: ''roses stiff as bark
gardenias stained brown
dahlias of sharpened spikes threatening needle marks
irises weeping sticky blue tears
camellias their corollas swollen in black slashed tones
african violets stodgy hunks of colorless kelp
lilies shriveled to mere paper cones
squinchy petals underfoot emitting a sodden bouquet
merriment slayed by some wrongdoing along the way
dare the clouds above assemble in grace?
the sun in tranquil splatter
bless another day?"
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Its just me and you and everything in front of us, or behind
especially if gravity operates like chemicals.
Let's go exploring, if you'd like,
or sit like lumps and metastasize on chocolates.
The stage, the fame, the beer, the strife,
All the things we wanted don't matter in that
wonderful white space ahead. This hill can trail
off to the worlds we'll create, so utterly shapeless
– impossibly white –
yet filled with color and sound and romp.
The airplane we rode, just the first or last few frames of the film
(you should start wherever you want)
it had the new world in its sights to open up the stodgy filth
and land us tumbling into the great unknown.
We walk ill-prepared, like our fathers,
only so far as what they know.
A harsh word.
These legs will take me to Tøyengata or Nieve or Las Ramblas
and that street to the river
to the train or the bus
to a frozen tube of horrifying humanity
to land on familiar runways in New York or Albuquerque
catch you in your mother's Civic
and bound away.
Where we'll speak – concisely.
That's where intimacy lies: in codes and twitches,
and very little soft sweet words;
and, the more we love the less we say,
'cept to remind each other we're ready to go cartograph again.
Then speak endlessly, drunk in each other's words, and move brazenly, tromp the neigh-sayers and know-it-alls,
stumble our way across frail little ropes,
sprint through orchards to catch smoke.
Through the door, into bed.
past the last frame.
past that sweet little line –
to let this placid chaos slide down the hill
and trail off
into madness.
I'll be waiting by the sleds.
You know what to do.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Slices like its margarine,
not stodgy like its butter
They know we like it warmer,
So they exploit us much colder
I wish my limbs weren't wooden
like fleeing a fierce dungeon,
There's no oil in the engine
If though, it would only spatter.
The punishment,
I wish not to reave
wish not for belief.
Silent sadness regret,
a river of flowing trespass.
I get eaten,
every sun-day at mass.
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 10:28 AM UTC
Jimmy told me
they were giving out
Actress-of-the-Month awards again
down at the local chapter of the VFW.
Down there, those
stodgy old codgers
sit around
drinking vast amounts
of aged whiskey
mixed with soft drinks
& watch Turner classic movies.
Last month, Marilyn
won the coveted honor,
but the jury is still out
on this month's winner.
I bet it's going to be
Sharon Stone.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Trapped, among the sharp- edges of tainted memories and sharttered mirrors.
Broken, upon a stodgy shallow heart.
Faded in a mist of tears and despair.
Like leaves swept by the wind.
Like waves hitting rocks.
Lost in the ruins of a heartbreak wrought.
Losing grip beyond control.
For all I know, for all I could, losing my whole world when you stooped down and pulverized all my dream to ashes. Watching them fly away, to an unreachable place.
A journey without return, without cause, leaving me with no reasons for being.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
The skeleton
of a story
without a discernible
tale,
scampers through my mind,
bouncing
from synapse to synapse,
thoroughly irritating
the stodgy demands
of responsibility and decorum.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Everybody you encounter
Is fighting a battle
That you know nothing of...
That red-faced guy who's always yelling
Is probably on the verge of tears
The anger is a facade, put up as a defense against the world
And its crushing weight
Mike was that guy
He was old school
A stodgy codger
Life dealt him a tough hand
He lost his son seven years ago
I went to the calling hours
So incredibly sad.
I think he gave up then
What was the point anymore?
Meaningless, meaningless.
Since then his work ethic declined
Understandable.
I think he gave up seven years ago
I wonder, would I do the same in his shoes?
An ******* to some,
Belligerent to many,
His struggle was heavy and real
Last week he chose Hamlet's second alternative
He chose not to be.
My heart grieves for his wife, remaining son, daughter, and mother.
I pray God will rest his soul
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
Specious speculative salacious spectral season
Transmogrify trapezium traverse torsion treason
Erotica errantry erectile endogenic emblazon
Ghastly gnashy grotesque gristly garrison
Larcenous lecherous lascivious latent lesson
Entelechy ethology exsistentialize extant epsilons
Spurious spry squabble subtle specialization
Transient transitive tour de force teleportation
Encephala enunciate endeavor executant emulation
Garish gaudy gambit glitch granulation
Lurid livid liaison limpid laceration
Extravaganza expletives expeditious equilibration emendation
Sly stodgy surreptitious spatiotemporal solicitor
Taciturn tactile transcendent tertiary torpor
Euphoria eminent equivocal exserted emancipator
Garrulous gustatory gung ** gestational gesticulator
Lyricism lilt liberation lambaste levitator
Escutcheon exergonic epaulet exodus extrapolator
Starkness staunch spectacle stolid stultification
Telepathy tantamount tractive tellurian transmutation
Exonerate euthenics exegesis entourage eradication
Groaty gnarly gruesome gristly gastrulation
Licentious lewd lacunar laconic limitation
Extemporaneous exigency embark embargo extradition
Slinky slick sultry stoical snout
Transubstantiate torturous temerarious tumultuous tout
Eucharist extortion enmity epithet eke out
Gross grit groin grove grout
Lentic leister lotic lothario levity lout
Execrating eventuation evocative evitable excerpt bout
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 10:11 PM UTC
There are times...like now,
when the summer sun is fading;
when the slant of light is on the windowpane,
underneath the awning, things are shading.
When the grass is freshly cut,
and lies basking in the field;
the earth seems graced with wonder,
at what the season's yield.
There are times...like now,
when the afternoon is ending;
when the twilight does her thing,
and the world keeps tilting, bending.
I welcome in, the evening,
when the roar becomes a lull;
discovering life's magic,
never stodgy, boring, dull.
There are times...like now,
when the fill of life is grand;
and splendid are the views,
from the spot whereon you stand.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC