"straggly" poems
He sat in a small compartment by
The window, on a train,
The passengers huddled around him
Saying, ‘Tell that one again!’
He spoke in a low and measured voice
As they held their breath, to stare,
Watching his hands, as they described
Vague circles in the air.
There wasn’t a sound outside, except
The carriage, clickety-clack,
A sound that would tend to hypnotise
As the train sped down the track,
In every one of his listeners
Was a picture, in each mind,
That spoke to them of that better life
Which had been too hard to find.
And seagulls circled the skies above
As he primed their minds with ‘If…’
And led them all in a straggly line
To stand at the top of a cliff.
The sea was blue and the clouds were grey
And the rocks below sublime,
As they teetered there for a moment where
They stood, at the edge of time.
For then he’d show them a garden, with
The form of an only child,
Who seemed to be so familiar
That most of them there had smiled,
The scent of a pink wisteria
Had wafted the carriage air,
And then their tears rolled back the years
As they whispered, ‘I was there!’
He showed them a woman in mourning
With a cape, and a darkened veil,
Who knelt alone by a headstone,
Each listeners face was pale.
The bell of the church began to toll
As it sounded someone’s knell,
His face was the face of the gravedigger
As he held them in his spell.
The carriage was filled with waves of fear,
The carriage was filled with joy,
He’d tell of the death of a mountaineer,
Of a child with a much-loved toy,
Their tears they’d dry as the train came in
To the tale of a Scottish Kirk,
And one by one they would rise to leave
And head off the train, to work.
But the Storyteller would stay on board
And close the compartment door,
His restless hands were trembling still
As his eyes stared down at the floor.
The train heads into the future while
The past is deep in his well,
He sits and weeps in the corner for
The tales that he doesn’t tell.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Everything fades as you slowly walk with your feet cushioned underneath by tiny particles of softly shaded sand.
The ocean waves mist you as they gently collide into the thick mass of denim-blue water—
Strands of straggly hair get tangled in the quiet, gentle breeze.
Your mind clears as you walk into the distant sunset of gorgeous colour.
Nothing can come between your spirit and the peace and harmony.
You feel so free and majestic; it almost seems as if you’re soaring over the ocean blue—
Like a pearl white seagull with nothing better to do.
You halt and splash into the sea for a fresh fish meal.
Feeling slightly heavy after indulging the innocent creature, you flutter your wings, slowly ascending into the night sky.
Down below you can hear the tiny footsteps of a strange, little girl.
She notices you as you float down and land on top of a small, wooden post a few inches in front of her.
She stares into your bright dandelion-coloured eyes.
Something very bizarre and unusual happens, a weird yet fascinating connection.
Your feathers crackle, and the girl cripples.
Both of you form into one beneath the sand and wait for another lost soul to come across you and join the cycle—
The cycle of peace through a demented one’s eyes.
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
Once a five oclock shadow, now an unkempt beard
This reflecting familiar looks a little weird
My straggly hair, my unwashed clothes
My lack of self confidence grows and grows.
A lack of interest, no get up and go
My personal hygiene at an all time low
So many plans I have lodged in my head
If only I could turf myself out of this bed
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
Darkness engulfs me and I sink deeper into a sea of sorrow
Summered by the hope of no tomorrow
Heart beat is faint pulse is weak
Will this pain induce my eternal sleep
Liquid emotions run from my eyes
As I look into the mirror at this pitiful demise
How could anyone love such a worthless existence
Costly a straggly with suicidal persistence
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
When Christine heard
that he'd tried
to hang himself
in the men's crapper
desperation bells
began to ring
inside her head
then she saw him
on the locked ward
sans laces
or belts
or anything
he may use
to repeat
the performance
and he sat
in the big chair
his eyes dull
and his hair untidy
and with that loose hanging
dressing gown
minus belt
and in pyjamas
like some
Auschwitz guy
and she said
what the ****
you in here for?
sitting in the armchair
next to him
broken heart
broken love
lost love
soul crashing
through all gears
to get back
to base
who knows?
he said
like that huh?
join the club
for what it's worth
we're all ****** up here
like driftwood
on a lonely beach
on some deserted island
she said
he gazed at her
disinterestedly
as if a gnat
had landed
on his hand
they lock
the doors here?
sure do
all the time
what about visitors?
once a week
Sundays
he looked at her
at her dark
long straggly hair
her dull eyes
why you here?
he said
some ****
left me
at the altar
all dressed up
like some nun
in white
she said
he must have been
mad to have left you
anywhere
he said
well he must be
because he did
opposite
an Indian woman
sat crossed legged
picking
at her toes
a red spot
on her forehead
dressed
in long gowns
of bright colours
a plump woman
walked by smoking
eyeing them
suspiciously
foul mouthing
the nurse going by
so how long
you been here?
he asked
week or so
how long you staying?
until they say
I can leave
when will that be?
when they think
I’m better
or cured
or able to be
balanced again
when will that be?
how the ****
do I know
she said
sorry
about the language
anger gets
to my tongue
before I do
you're not going
to hang yourself
again are you?
she asked
don't know
who I am any more
don't know jackshit
about myself
whoever myself is
she nodded
looked at his
handed in slippers
the scar
on his left wrist
not your first time then?
she said
touching the scar
guess not
he said
welcome to Purgatory
she said
he sensed her finger
on his scar
the female touch
he wanted something
whatever it was
something
to hold on to
O
so very much.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
She leaned propped in the corner,
That elderly lady with the long straggly hair,
apparently unwashed.
Her hair,
it wasn't shiny white liken to her dignified friends,
it was almost dreadlocks,
It didn't smell bad,
nor did it smell good,
surprising I hear you say.
The handsome guy,
He dashes in.
He grabs her round the waist,
He chucks her head in a bucket of water,
pulls her hair and rings it out,
chucks her hair on to the floor,
and rubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more.
The linoleum now,
is glowing clean,
pristeen,
sparkling,
smelling fresh,
looking like it's nearly new.
Just amazes me,
what a good looking younger man can do,
when playing in the lady poet's imagination!!
(C) Livvi
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
i have seen you
in different
unfavorable moments
after waking up
with sleep in your eyes
doused with water,
straggly hair, a drowned rat
after long days
completely exhausted
sick, with a feverish glance
during *** totally caught
in poor light
in awkward poses
unfavorable angles
it does not matter.
it was you every moment
and anytime
i loved you
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
My love, my sweetheart
she is as white as cold milk
at will as transparent as glass;
her lips are red, as red as dripping blood
she wakes me up each night
with a newly-plucked out
still-beating heart
of all varieties of human emotions:
"Breakfast in bed?" she croons
O her every word is a scream
her every look burns the spirit
she shrieks and groans and moans
enough to raise me up to the clouds
O her very touch is icy cold
her embrace is as delightful as being
in the arms of Queen Winter -
O...Ooo...wwooooh...should I compare her in a sonnet to a Winter's night?
but that would be groundless
for she excels
every unpleasantness
and horror, and she breaks all form
My love
she screeches like car tyres in a sudden stop
she scratches down my back
like a tractor on farm land
her eyes are hollow
and we exchange worms when we kiss;
her ears pop out
of her dry, unkempt straggly hair -
O she drives me into long howls, that wild wild
ghost of once a woman
O eternity, eternity with my cold, cold love
O what would I not give to be always
and always
in spirit with her -
O I could die forever
to be in the cold, cold embrace
of my hollow-eyed screamy love
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
you extra fry in the bottom of the bag you sleeping in on a tuesday morning you good hair day you all night drinking with no hangover you warm towel straight from the dryer you new friend in the back of a new york taxi cab you misinterpreted abstract art you lost concert ticket you frost bitten fingertip you half dranken water bottle you misspelled word you unwanted bouquet on valentines day you deadline yesterday you uncashed check you college rejection you cannibalistic praying mantis you paper cut from an envelope you coup de tat you cat got your tongue you swallowed words you split lip you straggly strand of split ends you broken vase you five missed calls you broken necklace clasp you half hearted apology
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
She didn’t want her to be with him,
She wanted Anne for herself,
Since ever he had been on the scene
It was like she was on the shelf.
Anne never called for a girl’s night out
As she’d done in the days before,
So tears had streamed in her nightmare dreams
And Cathy had said, ‘it’s war!’
She painted her lips and shortened her skirt
And tied her hair in a plait,
The hair that now was a lustrous blonde
Not the straggly brown of a rat,
She sprayed some perfume under her arms
And more down under her skirt,
Then pulled on stockings with straightened seams,
A suspender belt that hurt.
She rouged her cheeks till she looked quite flushed
Like an innocent girl at play,
So when she wanted, it seemed she blushed
Pretend to be looking away,
Mascara darkened her cunning eyes
And dimples formed in each cheek,
A pencil arched where she’d plucked each brow
And her lips would pout when she’d speak.
She tried it out when she went to town
And bumped right into her friend,
For he was hanging on Annie’s arm
Like a drunken man on the mend,
He clung so tight it was surely love
She’d be lucky to tear them apart,
And Annie smiled as she told her friend,
‘My man has a lovely heart.’
But Cathy stood in the fellow’s way
Her bodice spilling her *******
He seemed to stare at her open cleavage
This was the ultimate test,
He didn’t flinch then or look away
And Annie gave her a frown,
But patted him on the wrist, to say,
‘He seems to be looking down.’
Cathy turned as to walk away
But then looked down at her shoe,
And bent right over, her skirt rode up
He looked, but what do you do?
‘You should be careful,’ then Annie said,
‘You’ll show someone your behind,
It doesn’t matter to me, or he,
My darling lover is blind!’
David Lewis Paget
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked
via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons,
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety a plenti
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Mud brown eyes and bent nose
***** skin and straggly hair.
Calls unanswered
Ignored and unwanted.
2D, flat, plain and uninteresting.
Nothing to contribute
A collection of roles, services rendered
And monotony personified.
Empty, devoid and boring.
Mar 9, 2020
Mar 9, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
The day came to an end as the fiery embers of the burning sun hung low and hid behind bruised clouds, setting into the darkening ground far off into the horizon. I looked down and checked the aged and black shaft of the arrow that I absentmindedly twirled between the worn life grooves of my hand. It had been shot many times and taken just as many lives but still remained true and sturdy. The broad head could have used a little sharpening but was still sharp enough to tear and rip thru the thick flesh of most big game. I muttered softly and straggly as I checked the nock. The hoarseness in my voice telling me that it had been a long time since I took a sip from my flask. The smell of courage hung in the air of my breath after a few small gulps; enough to feel the warmth spread evenly over the taste of my tongue and into my bloodstream, coursing it's burn thruout the extremities of my body. I watched out of the broken tree limbs, thorn bush, and **** grass makeshift blind and kept my eyes peeled on the decaying sunlit landscape for any signs of movement as the hunger in my stomach grumbled it's ache aloud. I took another drink to quiet it down and notched the arrow onto the string of my Hoyt compound bow, reading the arrow and my nerves for the **** that I had been anticipating and waiting for the past twelve hours but had also been waiting and anticipating for many days of my long and tired life...
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
Smashed windows and ***** doors
Broken exhausts on uneven floors
Uncouth youth making a noise
A sorry reflection on decent boys
The Magpies stumble on straggly grass
Clever birds avoid the glass
Wandering around with beaks up high
In busy times it's off to the sky
The Magpies flutter and roll along
Black and white wonders seem to belong
The Magpies talk in their own little voice
They say this place is a little bit choice
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
sometimes
when i feel really lonely
i dream of your lips
so soft against mine
noses rubbing
and your eyelashes tickling my cheek
i dream of your moans
small gasps for air
as you bite your bottom lip
trying to control yourself
i dream of your hand
clasped to mine
of your laughs and giggles
or your tears and shouts
of your amazing body
immersed in warm soapy water
your hair straggly and wet
and your cheeks red with heat
i dream of your voice
quiet and velvet like
as you whisper my name
and the pronunciation is perfect
i dream that i know you
more than i know myself
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
toward thee spunky gal,
whose impregnation and debut appearance
way to brief a tale for Aesop
cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted),
out the birth canal aye did bop
analogously compared
to a mealy mouthed measly crop
a spindly tangle of arms and legs
radiated (starfish like)
dangled and would uselessly drop
like a raggedy ann male counterpart
(raggedy andy - how original)
with limbs that didst flop
and tis no small wonder, thyself as one
newborn baby body electric
easily confused with bony glop,
which skimpy weight
leant convenience as sigh grew older
to alternate jumping
(ala pogo stick mode) and hop
from one skinny spindle shank leg to another,
and manifold orbitz whip
sawing round the sun
bore witness to puny laughable specimen
of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight)
grew long straggly hair,
which NO ONE (except me) could touch,
nor most definitely NOT lop
off (this fetish) compensation
for very slight physique
in dewed time begot
pencil necked geek milksop,
now at an age prowl lix sing viz
dragging, crawling, battling...
slight abdominal bulge
unlike widower octogenarian biological pop
whose once strapping superman
like build atrophying (sad sight)
since grim reaper put objectionable stop
upon head of harriet harris,
whereat two and a half score years
her longevity did top.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
now, comb may tooth how zen,
sans eight plus ten
'twill be thirteen yars
when me late mum agonizingly relinquished
an indomitable loo ving life,
which strong fighting spirit
(spittle and vinegar) yen
reached a juncture,
(sans metastasized ovarian cancer)
forewent heroic measures, which ken
not avail bottled anger within this sole son
telling thee, he didst love ye
never communicating NOR often!
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
I woke up on the hard concrete
I was lying face down
Gravel stuck to my cheek
How did I get here?
My mind started to race
Fear swallowed me alive
I wanted to run, I wanted to hide
I picked myself up
Looked all around
No one was there
I could not hear a sound
It was cold and dark
Dreary and damp
In the distance I saw the lamp
I dragged my body to it
Turned on the light
What I saw was a horrifying sight!
Dead bodies hanging, like sides of beef
Some bodies looked fresh, others were bones
I need to escape, I need to get home
There is no door, no way to leave
The stench is overwhelming, it’s getting harder to breath
Then I see you
Standing there
Fire in your eyes, long straggly hair
You come closer
I have nowhere to go
I’ll be hanging here too, and no one will know
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
A guitar case with no music in, owned by
the old woman who can't sing.
He sweeps the comb through her straggly hair,
What no money and nobody cares.
He wipes the burning tears from her pretty eyes.
Listens to her worried sighs.
She's concerned about a lack of dosh.
Christmas is coming, oh golly gosh.
He, is the fellow with the overgrown belly and the beard of white,
Waiting for Christmas eve.
Bring on that night.
His name by now you must be aware is really Santa Claus,
This year he's really scared.
With no toys for his haversack.
Due to lack of funds.
A sleigh in need of service.
Reindeer nibbling rotten carrots.
**** Horrible.
And the sprouts are full of wind.
His workshop staff redundant,
More silent, than a winter's night upon a turkey farm.
Outside,the local families gather beneath last year's yule .
This year, everybody's skint
Lit the bonfire with stones of flint.
Perfect purpose,
Free fuel.
Carols echo noisily outside the house next door.
"Disappear" she said in a very loud voice.
Wait a few weeks before you rejoice.
It's way too early,
"Go", she said.
"Please, please, I beg of you no more.
As yet, at least.
It's much too soon.
Wait until December, to have a cheery feast.
I guess it's your choice."
(c)LIVVI
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose
And declared with overacted surprise,
It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The **** before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
but instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, And appreciate every second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, Another **** in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
I saw Enid’s old man
go off into the Square
cigarette in his mouth
swagging on his way
I watched him
go down the slope
and out of sight
into the evening's
dimming light
Enid was on the balcony
just over the way
she waved to me
we met
on the concrete stairway
with the electric
light bulb above us
he's gone out then I see
I said
yes to the pub for a drink
she said
why did you watch him go?
miss him being there?
she looked up the stairs
then down the stairs
no just making sure
he went
she said softly
the light bulb showed
a bruise on her chin
been at you again?
she rubbed her chin
hit my chin on a door
she said
the door he pushed at you
or the door he pushed you into?
she said nothing
but walked up the stairs
to the balcony
outside my parents' flat
I followed her
she leaned over the edge
and gazed into the Square
it was quiet
the kids gone indoors
the moon bright in the sky
stars shining
it was an accident
she said
he didn't mean it
I studied her
the dark hair straggly
her dull dress
her eyes rabbit-like
in fear
mustn't tell no one
she said
looking at me
I won't
(I told my mother later)
she rubbed chin
with her fingers
it must be me
he doesn't hit
my big sister or brother
he glares at me
she added
in a whisper
I moved closer to her
she smelt of damp clothes
if I were bigger
I’d punch him
down the stairs
I said
you're 9
she said
he's 35 and twice your size
I looked at her
and smiled
I had him in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
the other day
and when the cap went
BANG
he nigh on messed his pants
she laughed
then looked worried
did he see you?
he looked up
but couldn't see me
through the metal grill
she relaxed
and leaned her head
on my arm
next time
I’ll use my Wyatt Earp rifle
and get him in the back
she nodded
and I gazed
at the sky
turning black.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
I’d seen her wander along the street
A number of times, or more,
And know I should have approached her then
But she might have said, ‘what for?’
I could have asked for a date, but then
I left it much too late,
And saw her then with a guy called Ben,
But he looked like spider bait.
He had a straggly beard and hair
That stood up straight in spikes,
I don’t know what she could see in him
For my first response was ‘Yikes!’
His frame was thin and all caving in
And his clothes were contrabands,
But he clutched at her with a bony paw,
With hair on the back of his hands.
She went to stay at his cottage, which
Was set at the edge of the wood,
More of a tumbledown shack, I thought,
Not right for that neighbourhood,
It lay half-hidden between the trees
With their foliage hanging down,
You had to push past the bushes that
Enclosed the whole surround.
She’d sit out on the verandah with
The sun about to set,
While I would creep in around there
For a glimpse of her, Colette.
I thought, perhaps if she saw me there
She might come out to see,
And once I’d managed to talk to her
She’d fall in love with me.
But Ben would never let go of her
Nor let her out of his sight,
He kept her there by the spiders that
Would weave their webs each night,
From every dangling branch there hung
An orb web in the breeze,
And in each centre a spider that
Would make Colette’s blood freeze.
I think he must have been breeding them
He seemed to take delight,
In pointing out how the thousands seemed
To weave there every night,
Then she began to withdraw from him
And refuse his coarse demands,
Whenever he went to reach for her
With his scrawny, hairy hands.
The webs ballooned and they hit the roof
Formed a blanket from the trees,
They covered the little cottage and
I heard her frightened pleas,
She couldn’t leave the verandah though
She said she’d have to go,
He said that he was a spider man,
And that’s when I heard his ‘No!’
She didn’t come out again for days
And I heard her cry at night,
‘I hate this place, and I hate your face,’
But he said, ‘You’re my delight.’
A week went by and I heard her sigh,
The last sound that she made,
So I burst through all the gossamer webs
With an old and rusty blade.
He was knelt beside her form supine
In the corner of the room,
While she was wrapped in gossamer fine
And looked like a large cocoon,
I lashed out with the rusty blade
And cut off his evil head,
When thousands of spiders scurried out
From his neck, and over the bed.
I cut her out of the tight cocoon
And peeled it back from her face,
She hugged me in the gathering gloom
And said, ‘Let’s leave this place.’
I’d like to say that she went with me
But I’d left my run too late,
‘I’ll never look at a man again
Since he made me spider bait.’
David Lewis Paget
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 4:45 AM UTC
these years go quicker
than you would’ve believed
five years ago
now the others
seem to be doing well
this one other
I look at the pictures
they have elected
to wallpaper
their pencil-case sized
portion of the web
and yes
between the shots
of leafy streets
meals reflected in mirrors
an emotionless selfie
one in every six
it is clear
they have gripped
the big city
or the other way around
and here
in your own mirror
straggly tufts of hair
glints of silver
sewn into teeth
thin crimson pitchforks
in the whites of the eyes
you wouldn’t know a life
like that if you walked into it
shook its hand
over a strangely-named drink
in a poky but affable bar
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
I can only tell you
what I have told you before.
The rain drops
from the smoky sky,
pewter pellets.
It is quiet
except for the sporadic
crackle of a shout
from a neighbour.
The postman is a bloom
of red outside the window.
Straggly wires sprout
from my chin,
the phone rings
and nobody answers.
Headlines slide
across the television,
repetition.
Newspaper stains
my fingers,
a journalist’s black
perhaps inaccurate words.
Another day
becomes another day,
another month.
The sun rises
and falls,
indecisive light.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Wynken Blynken and Nod???
(ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee
barked up the wrong tree –
reed don my mongrel friend)
This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag
to take digs on front page
headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag
nab bit significant dysfunction prevails
when ****** energy
does shutterfly like a black flag
without rapid eye movement,
this lix spittle chap
feels like an old hag
whereat every friggin bone (er)
in this straggly,mangy, and creaky ship
of state feels like jag
head shards piercing thine flesh
with pronounced jet lag
and reacts with
the slightest provocation
like a curmudgeonly
cranky compromised nag,
yet, this muttering mouth foaming
flea bitten doggone chow barker
bows down in (toto) obeisance
(like an obedient Dachshund)
tail wagging, trump petting,
and snout sniffing out provenance
on par with the smell of new sofa despite
fur vent angry ma
stiff masta paws zing
aghast at dog eared, glom haired,
and icky stained new furniture,
how petty, versus slumber
lest awakening the Cerberus within,
hence faux long enough
to excel as the top notch mix breed
boxer golden retriever terrier
male delivery postbag
(as taught at canine obedient school)
upon spilling contents,
the bulk of printed material
detailing importance,
sans letting sleeping
Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed,
especially after a bath
when pooch resembles
a limp dish rag
all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant
topics for instance,
when feeling sleep deprived
detailing how to shepherd
and summon the snoop doggy dog
inchoate hounding gnarly
Marley elusive dream
fostering feigning fearsome nightmare
asper getting lost without a name tag.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Ageing
Ageing is the strangest ****** phenomenon.
It’s sneaky, going ‘long
With universe’s basic law of change.
We hate it cause we cannot change the change
With choice, with voice in matters
Dealing with each atom looming over time.
You watch a documentary of a famous person you once loved.
What you see is change or interchange.
Voice now gravely, hairs now straggly,
Mind not gaga (maybe),
But the teeth, fat, skin itself deranged.
It’s all so strange.
Invisible the first half century,
(If you’ve been so lucky)
Then they come: the boom of bombs begun in womb.
The stealthy hum of failing health a-zooming in,
The forms of everything you took for granted
Changed from light to odium
Enchanted idioms of youth now faint or quaint.
And the damnedest twist of all
Besides what’s going on outside,
Visible and tactile,
Is that life has lied.
You thought it stretched ahead forever,
That it never stopped
And then you’re bopped on your old head:
You’re dead.
One’s left to speculate and ponder
Where does life go on from here?
Where and if…
Ageing 9.11.2018 Birth, Death & In Between III; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin
I’m often asked by readers whose native language is not English. Here are a few words of which they might like to know the meaning:
odium; general or widespread hatred or disgust incurred by someone as a result of their actions:
tactile; of or connected with the sense of touch: vocal and visual signals
bop; verb (bops, bopping, bopped) [with object] hit or punch quickly: Rex bopped him on the head
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:38 AM UTC