"titch" poems
Buildings for the most part are boxes square.
But Pentecost circles and spirals,
they turn and burn wild.
Of those who would tame
and make comprehensible any fire--
apt tongues have gone titch titch
and beautiful catch 'til words and music
and parlor diplomacies fortify
much which is untrue.
Fear has no finish, even in our dying.
The path is a cliff edge.
Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves
of civilized persuasions. Usher
Earth's children into primordial worlds.
Water shall love and receive us, as it always has.
The naked ground will speak up,
into our touching feet.
Listen to the tongues of the wind.
Unhinge the body, which is you.
Let all creation fly.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
Friend and brother
Father and grand father
Great grandfather husband and lover
To all who he knew he was someone
A godfather who cared
A husband who nursed
A man who was for all seasons
At 92 your god came for you
And I hope you meet up with Joan
Goodbye uncle Titch
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
Oh Rafa, You're such a *****
Some may call you a witch,
Because you're such an itch,
Just like every other titch.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his *****
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his *****
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got ******
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
I was just a teenager with a blackened past
I could have went off the rails, as I diminished 'o' so fast
Someone heard my tears of pain as I cried myself to sleep
Because they sent me an angel with tiny little feet
It was the birth of my first, wow I was amazed
I couldn't stop touching him, I was truly dazed
This tiny little human, he had just come out of me
The scar on my tummy was worth his life you see
I called that boy Darren, cause I just loved that name
Not sure if he loves it as much, if not that's a shame
He was blonde and blue eyed, just like his mother me
Beautiful skin, and lips you want to kiss, lots he gave to me
Then along came another set of tiny little feet
He too a beautiful baby when him and I did meet
A tuft on his hair, darker than his brother
He looked more like his dad, but also me, his mother
He was a natural birth, with my mother by my side
We both looked at number two and hugged him with pride
Dean I called this angel, for Dean was a name I did love
I was blessed to give birth to them both, sent from the heavens above
The saddest thing of all was that I was 'o' so young
I found it hard at first, but a natural I had begun
I swore I d give up my life for them If ever was needed
Bring them up the right way, and god I have succeeded
I have been so lucky to have brought up two fine men of age
Even when I was depressed and my whole life was a rage
I protected them with every inch of me, no one would bring them harm
I look at them in awe, and think they both have such charm
If I never had them, I would not be here today
Externally I had no words, but inside I did pray
Please let me do this right, for I truly need to find the way
To make right the wrongs that others pushed on me each day
Guided by unseen forces I did what I needed to do
I fought all the battles, to bring up my two
I survived my depression which tried to **** my heart
But each day I loved them, made each day a new start
I love them with such passion, I love them ever more
I love my kisses and cuddles each time they go out the door
I love how they joke with me, and even call me titch
I may not have the money, but with their love.. I AM RICH
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 3:52 AM UTC
once upon a clock
my house was but a pile
of cards
dealt badly to me
or so i thought
but as time rolled by
riding a mossless rock
i was inclined to think
i could rebuild my deck
using a straighter arrow
and some crazy glue
and make a cosy nook to
theorize and dissertate
on the new and better
portion, for to sit on
my plate.
for as the wind blows
it can bring fortunate things
of gilded dust and dedelian
wings.
sonetimes it is the choice that matters.
and somtimes it is ok
to just sit on the dock
and watch it all blow away
but don't watch kettkes.for they are just introvert and shy... now the toaster however
is a pop up kinda guy.
ok so now this garden path is leading somewhere a tad weird
down past the zen all calm and white mountains
to the quirky and a little bezerky secret garden
wall and locked where all the gnomes have ned kelly beards, and the lions are dandy and a titch randy.
the dragon snaps are snippity and the roses
are just **** posers and the camelia's would **** for a good cup of tea.
but enough of the garden tour,
we needs must be giving attention to the
matter at hand tho sleight as it be
we have a house of cards to rebuild
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
There is a certain lady who's the mother of them all
Although she's only 4 foot she's always standing tall
In a town called Beccles the pose is a good call
When she has a lighted *** the ashes always fall
To her son and daughter she is known as Titch
But her name is Fagioni the boss and the top *****
Her smoking is an art form a craft just like a Witch
If its Cigarettes or roll ups she doesn't mind the switch
You may not even see her through the clouds of smoke
The plumes always surrounds her like a big black cloak
If she has run out of smokes to her it is no joke
Her **** are her companions she's not like other folk
She is big on **** just like cheese in macaroni
So what I am telling you I'm not telling you baloney
As far as smoking goes she is definitely no phoney
With her tobacco and her **** she is Titch Fagioni
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his *****
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his *****
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got ******
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed?
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
The sight of jail is beyond frightening.
It's locked doors.
It's watching guards tear our your freedom as if it's nothing.
It's blue outfits you're forced upon your will to wear.
The smell of jail is the smell of the girl ******** her insides out.
It's the smell of half cooked meat, but hey at least it's food.
And it's the smell of musty deodorant.
The sound of jail is the sound of T.V.
It's people yelling.
Guards screaming at you.
The feel of jail is cold sheets and a mattress just a titch too hard to sleep on.
It's the feeling of isolation and depression seeping in.
It's the not so quiet feeling of sadness.
The taste of jail is lemonade that's ever so sour and gross.
It's the taste of blood because you keep biting your nails.
And lastly, it's the taste of your own fingernails. Because it's the only thing you can do to pass the 17 hours you have all 4 lights on.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC