"titters" poems
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
6.3k
This transparent veil to cover transparency is suffocating me.
I want to rip off this fabric and know that when I touch your flesh you feel the compassion, not the contact
I want to knock teeth when we kiss and hear thundering laugh and not the muffled titters of nervousness
I want 10 minutes to go by and we're already buried deep in our conversation via messages
Because I don't care. I don't care that there's this new found stigma that caring is out and mysterious is in. Because I don't care if you text me without a reason, because oh hey! I was just thinking about you! Because I like your company, because I'm tired of deciphering ambiguous words. Because life isn't a god **** code. It's thrilling, it's open, it's here. I'm here.
I want you to know I'm here.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
My heart is pounding
I rush forward
Faster than a cheetah
I jump
I drop like snow
The ball rolls around the hoop
Tips on the edge of the rim
All eyes are on the ball
Titters into the net
With a soft swoosh
The crowd erupts
Whoo-whoo
I just scored
The winning shot
I toss
I turn
It was all just a dream
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Her smiling that was too crazier,
In me fond of love emerges in thousands,
In whirling pleasures my mind fainted,
In gullet there too fondant love stricken,
Her smiling that were too crazier,
Her rosy lips that were frenzied more than ever,
The love in them that titters forever,
With that joy my heart speaks love
Far sweeter than melody.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Suicidal
Homicidal
Alike but different
Each is permanent
**** someone in rage
Or **** yourself and leave behind a page
Your level of madness is measured,gauged
But why do I banter
Im as mad as a hatter
Nothing even matters
My life in tatters
A knife to me throat
Toss me in the moat
A bullet in the brain
Nothing to gain
Sometimes relief other times pain
The blood will be taint
Burn and Burn
Ashes in the urn
The worlds will turn
The stomachs will churn
For all you see is fake
And they will continue to take
An illusion
To launch you into confusion
A ruse
To light your fuse
Our lifespan
Throughout man
Short and bitter
So many of us quitters
The rest of us let out titters
While they gnaw on us, the critters
Bite and Bite
Fight for the light
To die in the moonlit night
To cause each other so much fright
Our 'Gods' tell us to **** each other
Our own brothers
Let the blackbird fly
High into the sky
To cause the gloom
To signal our doom
Our demise
Of the human enterprise
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
We did not ask for agreements or signatures
even a due diligence, check out each others
entrails, internet outcomes, criminal records
social security numbers
marriage licenses, children's ages, moles
on our mountains of doubt
even a fingerprint on a bare breast
phone numbers, mates and mistresses
drinking and smoking habits
salad preferences, vegan, bogan or whatever.
We did, however, listen to that heartbeat
the words we spoke, the pictures we drew
finished, the colours that we painted
between rainbows
and the children we dreamed
who would look like you and me
if ever born
and how smart they would be
and as naughty as those little titters
of laughter, that cleared every checkbox.
on this shopping list for a mate!
We knew that this partnership existed
there was nothing we could do
to unbreak this bond that grew
from a tiny little seed
into this one big giant momentum
of togetherness.
That's a worthwhile partnership
several levels above commercial simplicity.
Author Notes
The romance continues.......
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.
When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.
As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.
They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.
The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
Behind a person's success is a sacrifice;
Would you love to know the tale behind?
Actors and actresses preparing their act,
But behind the curtains there's a hidden fact.
Heels and shoes are filled with shards of glass;
Behind dress and tuxedo's there's a hidden blast
— Withal on the lights, they genuinely smile.
Let's move on and see the richest person alive:
They lurk abaft the gallanting suits and tie;
No day their feet cannot step on bars of silvers and gold,
Constantly crediting the humanity's sliver of hope
— Supported by government for the economy's growth.
Do you know someone born to be Einstein's child?
—A person whose thought process is unbelievably wide,
“What are emotions?” They frequently asked;
“Are those things related to a logical fact?”
Feelings are hindrance towards a brighter side.
We all know the people whom we proclaimed as leaders—
Behind the tall, wide walls they silently titters:
“Citizens are corrupted with money and blind rights;
This nation will never survive in a war nor in childish fights.”
Some politicians bought their roles, drinking leisure on their seats.
And there's someone like me— a bit higher, on the top—
Words are magical, making an astonishing plot;
Thy pen bleeds thread, weaving a wondrous craft—
Who knows they withhold theirs and other people's life art,
They'll keep going as long as the threadmill continues to spin.
Their tales are narrated a bit later, a bit little;
But that was a telltale with lots of missing details,
Are you willing to share the secrets found in the middle?
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
The sweat from my brow is racing the shadows of a late evening sun
and somehow they both drip into the tightening grip of the night.
Though the night's still to come,we all know that it murders the sun every day
and gets away with it.
I'd like to sit in the gallery with Winehouse's Valerie and tend to her needs,if the night feeds on the sun why shouldn't I have some fun too.
If I flew into the eye of I don't know when why,would I know where I'm at,would it matter to me if I was where I'd be or in some other place I've yet to see.
Has the cuckoo flown, after been shown the error of his ways,does he feel the sweat of his endless days in the madness of a madness of being out of phase.
The sweat drips from the end of my nose which I blow
and the devil may go where the fancy will take him
I will sit and revolve while the world spins off with any resolve I may have had,not to go quite mad.
And the hammering in my head jabbers on,like some crazy woodpecker that titters at dawn and cracks open its beak to sneak into a tree
will I,or the woodpecker ever be free
does it matter to you,would it matter to me if I knew?
The day finally goes,falling under the spell ,and the bell for a midnight tolls
I roll my eyes looking skyward and there's nothing to see
except an image of me and a woodpecker
in a tree.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
I am a wicked witch
With black hair, crooked teeth
My friends call me Myrtle
My cat Jinks, who can’t spell, calls me Keith
I can turn an ugly, fat frog into prince
When I spend my nights making spells
But it’s much funnier and more often, than not
The prince is turned into a frog, don’t tell.
I am a wicked witch
I have princesses knocking at my door
Looking for true loves first kiss. Yuk!
So, they buy apples and spinning wheels
Hoping to find their prince, tough luck!
The princes are living in my pond, eating flies.
But I tell them eat the apples, ***** their fingers
One day their prince will come. Wicked me, what lies!
I am a wicked witch
The king has arrived at my door
He isn’t looking happy. I best make ready to run.
Witch Myrtle, he says, I need your help
I don’t know what to do. You are the only one
That I can rely on, no-one else can do.
A Dragon is roaming the kingdom
He roars fire, eats sheep, I need you.
I am a wicked witch
But I say kindly, my King there is no need to worry
I have the just the thing that can help
But you must promise to do everything I say
You can have no misgivings, no doubt
I have a sword that will cut through dragon scaling
And flame-proof armour, nothing like you’ve seen
So stop your crying and no more wailing
Now listen carefully. Good, he seems keen
I am such a wicked witch
Word has come back from the town
Telling of the meeting between the king and dragon
How the king stood tall and proud, despite the titters all around
Dressed in a flame proof diaper and holding a green snake tail rattle
How the dragon looked at the king, before slowly falling to the ground
People say in all their years, they had never seen the sight
Of a dragon rolling in laughter, there is no stranger sound.
Oh dear, I am a wicked witch
The king sent solders to arrest me. But I have sent them back
As rats dressed in ballet shoes and fluffy white tatu’s.
I am sure the King will like them. But then again, maybe not.
I think it’s time I left this house and pack up all my things.
I am ready to go with Jinks on my shoulder. But this broom’s too small
So, I call in a favour from a friend, and he is happy to oblige
Because dragon, really is the best way to fly, after all.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 6:44 AM UTC
Sunbeams dancing off the ends of leaves and
dropping to laugh along the rutted path,
running up my legs and tickling my tum,
sunbeams are fun.
We all think so except for grumpy caterpillar who only ever complains about headaches and hemorrhoids and pains in the chest.
His Mum's a butterfly and doesn't know why he's like it, blames his Father, the red admiral, 'he was always at sea', so she says.
'I'll be a sunbeam for you', we sang and the woods rang with titters and the twitter of birds,
'just storybook words', Mother said, as she tucked us up in a flowerpot bed and the day will be bright again tomorrow and so we borrowed some sleep from the moonbeams that keep the sunbeams 'til morning comes courting.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
Yup, that's right.
Don't be offended or upset.
It's very environmental,
recycling words.
True, the quality of literacy,
(have mercy on it!)
is getting quite strained
(not-so-good poems
*droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven*).
Certain words are grumbling,
talking, overworked and overuse,
in poems that say nothing new
(they got their pride too!).
Rumors of unionizing going around,
increasing the minimum wage
to a passing grade,
and something like
a penny a letter,
and double for words,
not of the English language...
The ringleader I'm told
is the word itself
Words
tired from being in
59,649 poems (plus 1 now)
*Death, heartbreak and depression,
scars, cutting and sad,*
the most overwrought ones,
the children's beloved,
their never-ending
plastic ones trending,
under the weight collapsing
of boring and from
the pressure of overuse, bending.
The words have brought
the unrisen, alabaster body
of poor dead (oops)
Love (137,207 + 1)
as evidence of this
too long a verbal
season of victory.
Make no mistake,
among the guilty we be,
our sweet tooth
for these miscreants,
documented in black and white,
resting uncomfortably,
among our total of
171,500 words we've purportedly
recorded and employed.
The Writer's Guild,
all a titters, arms, up and akimbo,
the cries of poetry poverty
among the living thundering,
no longer
suffering silently,
ere the mendicancies cries
from Ye Olde York emanating,
seeking contributions
and donations,
minimum on PayPal,,
one whole dollar!
Well I have paid my dues,
much more than one
and much more than once,
would so again, annually,
as I could no more
surcease this gig,
for where to find
another profession that
pays so handsomely?
Let it not go unnoticed
like so many poems
left footed born,
themselves, unread, unnoticed,
that the ever increasing number of
Poets
is a good thing for the universe.
So many new humans each day,
from the black forest of
daily life's lessons emerge
choosing poetry to
conquer life's ailments.
For they bravely
having taking the
*road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference,*
and the world,
a better place for it...
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Alcohol encourages unusual behaviors,
As many may attest;
The fruit of drunkenness,
Embarrassment.
When I was ten, I saw a thing,
I've been reluctant to report,
But 45 years have come and gone,
And I find I have to tell someone
The tale of Christmas at my Gran's.
The neighbors came by invitation,
Arriving in style for a rural celebration,
In steady form, as alcoholics will maintain,
Little wobble in their walk,
Little slurring in their conversation.
What struck us into consternation,
Was Charlie's hairpiece, new and black,
Banded at one end, a horsetail piece,
Inverted and trimmed into a toupee,
How he'd figured out the thing,
Only alcohol could say.
The evening was funny,
With everyone not staring,
Taking sideways glances,
I'd say, "Please pass the peas,"
And look the other way,
Grinning slyly at my brother,
I ignored the warning glares
Coming from our mother.
The dining room grew warm,
With food and warming ovens,
My father trying to lead a conversation
About cows, and horses, Grandma's fritters,
Anything to keep the room from titters.
When old Charlie commenced sweating,
The crow-ish blackness of his hair
Revealed its shoe polish beginnings,
Trickling down behind his ears,
And then a rivulet released its flow
To wend its way beside his nose,
And dripping, dripping down, began
To drench his shirt, first the collar,
Vaulting lapels to his middle,
Until a river of black sweat
Drove to his belt, and trickled in.
T'was all that I could do
To look the other way,
To put Gram's napkins to my grin,
As Charlie's horse tail wig ran threads
Of shoe black down his nose and chin.
To this day, I cannot recall
Just how the evening ended,
I only know that afterwards,
For years, the family extended
The tale of Charlie's Christmas spree:
White shirt, horse toupee, and black ink,
Caused our parents to bring warnings
Of the dire consequence of drink.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Into the folds of the dress and the mold.
Though he is old and he has no more sense.
You've never heard this, it hasn't been told,
Of the babbling coot: his all-seeing eye.
Drooling over his woodcarving he waits.
The boys find him, his eyes rolling circles.
Old man! Tell us. What's in this box of dates?
Another box, old mans says, just a box.
And within that box? A little boy grates.
Another box, the old man says, just a box.
The boys chatter with glee at what truth sates.
They run off, "Old man ain't crazy! Just old."
Talking to a black bird, the old man sat.
The boys find him: bird nodding agreement.
Old man! Across the sea! How old's old Pat?
A scratch of the chin. "Why, she's fifteen, boys."
The boys, perplexed, walk away; that was that.
"They'll bury him there," old man said. Bird squawks.
Rocking in chair, whistling his old, old tune.
The men find him looking young than ever.
Old man! Been years! Where's the pirate's treasure?
The men drunkenly wait for the magic.
Old man whispers in the ear of the eldest.
Eldest pulls out map; his eyes almost burst.
The men run off as if chasing the sun.
A shovel shakes off its last bead of dirt.
Tears, precious pearls of sorrow, ease burdens.
The men, swathed in finery, mourn for friend.
"Old man!" New eldest asks, "You knew didn't you?"
Old man titters, "I only saw, boys, see?"
New eldest grabs old man. Birds squawk in trees.
Black clouds ooze across the sky overhead.
Winds rattle the old man's house... death rattles.
The men pull new eldest away from there.
Old man drops to ground. He stands up to stare.
The spooked men run off back to their home town.
A black bird swoops onto old man's shoulder.
" 'Twas my box of dates they showed me that day.
Twas my great grandchild Pat who they spoke of.
And 'twas my gold they were all looking for.
My eye only sees what belongs to me!"
The old man sat down in his rocking chair.
In the moonlight, a glimmer of gold eyes,
spoke of a soulless pirate king's riches.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
A voice is heard from far away,
beyond my concious fears.
It titters on a solemn song
that many others may hear.
Still my mind renders itself solitary
among the conductor's notes;
the rising octaves, the falling keys,
the lines on which they float
into a final crescendo,
all my fears brought into the light.
The melody halts, the ink blots
and so does end my strife.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
A dream wrapped in a silver cocoon
Sunbeams coax it out of its gloom
It trembles in the light of day
It spreads its wings and flies away
You pursue it with a feverish passion
Your heart, your soul full of wanting
There's nothing better and nothing worse
Nothing in your head but verse
About this dream, this little monster
That makes voices in your head grow stronger
That tells you life now isn't real
That to be you, you must feel
This dream fluttering in your hand
This dream will love you and understand
It will break dawn on endless infinite night
Open closed eyes, grant Earth light
You leap, you reach, it's in your palm
The world stops still. A wave of calm.
Your vision is blurred, it glitters
Cruel taunts dissolve to girlish titters
But the silver colour crumples to fade
And a cloud over the sky gives shade
And butterflies wings weren't made to touch
Still you hold on to what you loved so much
What was once a dream, a hope, a beauty
In your grasp dims to reality
Under your helpless eye
This butterfly in your hands must die.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
She concedes to curiosity.
"Who are you?"
"Why, I am the devil!"
the gentlemen purs,
face rich with dark hilarity.
As questions form on bewildered lips,
he titters:
"Would I lie to you?"
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Slowly the space makes me quiver
The moment i wake up, i descend
I bestow rust upon words i could remember
Scrutinize titters, like they've done the impossible
Tape covering my eyes
A spoon to feed me lies
I try and try, so futile
I try and try, i negate
Eleven passages, heart horrifically corroded
Sat with me with my dinner
Ignorant to light, everyone seems benighted
Yet you glimmer
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
The Board
by Michael R. Burch
Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood:
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Colonel Klinks, defend the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.
The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.
Keywords/Tags: poetry, accessible, rhyme, traditional, muse, Seuss, Mother Goose, misreadings, discrimination, prejudice, revenues, sales, copies
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
Miriam
sips her cool
Martini
I drink beer
the disco
music's loud
people dance
we just stand
by the bar
both smoking
and drinking
Malaga
the place where
Picasso
was born in
and she says
how about
we drink more
then go back
to my tent
and have ***
what about
the plump dame
you share with
won't she mind?
I ask her
she's gone off
to Tangiers
by ferry
and will meet
us later
at the camp
Miriam
says to me
o that's good
I tell her
I didn't
fancy the
idea of
having ***
with the plump
dame as well
she titters
as she drinks
her red hair
of tight curls
is shaking
I watch her
standing there
her figure
scantly dressed
I thinking
of the time
in Paris
that first ***
on the coach
at the back
Beethoven's
music on
the coach
radio
all others
asleep or
occupied
by the sights
of Paris
going by
the windows
let's go then
Miriam
says to me
so we leave
the night club
and wander back
hand in hand
to her tent
but there by
the tent flap
the plump dame
changed my mind
she utters
drunkenly
stay the night
go with you
tomorrow
I gaze up
at the sky
of the night
and ask the
o big why?
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
A moment to inhale the truth,
In the cusp of being damaged,
And being broken; although lost,
In the darkest daydreams unto pleasure.
When the brighter hues was tethered,
On the dark colors of crooked smiles,
And all that was left is a loud belch,
Of titters and quiet sobs.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 3:06 AM UTC
A peacock wanders in your thoughts
In such a curious form
It jumps and leaps or limps and struts
And goes not whence it's come
It seems at first as if it's whole
But then a closer look
Reveals that it's just half a fowl
Or half an ugly rook
On half a pair of legs it trips
Then half a fall it takes
Half a drop of blood then drips
And half a squawk it makes
Half a flight and half a heart
And half the thought of it
Serves to tear my mind apart
The thought of half it's meat
Or half the sleep it takes when half
The night had passed and then
I feel as if on it's behalf
I'd dream like half of men
The tides of nature push us forth
Toward affections shores
Past the storms that ****** mirth
And fill with fear our pores
And life's boat seems to seek to sink
And fall with ease beneath
The waves -it titters on the brink-
That cut like fearsome teeth
Half a pair of hands that rows
Must seek another half
A helping hand that feels and grows
Comforting with a laugh
Perhaps to safety both can sail
Perhaps to greener lands
The half might not when one half fails
Perhaps it understands.
I wished to make this half it's length
Or make this line it's half
The peacock turned whole when it learnt
To find it's better half
Half of me and half of you
Could make good poems and more
Our halves become more real and true
More worthy to adore.
I love you.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 5:53 AM UTC
Your father short and squat
like some mafia boss
tells Benny to sit
got a joke to tell you
he says.
Benny sits on the sofa
looks at you
then at your father
who sits in his armchair.
Your mother is in the kitchen
preparing lunch
muttering Polish noises.
A couple who died
before they could marry
go to the gates of Heaven
your father begins.
Benny stares at your father
deciphering the Polish
tinged English words.
They see St Peter there
we wanted to marry
the young man says
but we died
before we could
can we marry now?
St Peter said
wait here
I will go into Heaven
to find a priest
so he goes off
and the couple wait
your father pauses
warming to his theme.
Benny looks at you
wondering what
the punchline will be.
They waited for years
then St Peter came back
with a priest and said
sorry about the wait
but I had a job
to find a priest
your father grins.
Benny laughs softly
unsure if it is a trick
your father maybe playing
to catch him out.
Your father titters
and you join in
imagining the couple
standing for all that time.
Your mother enters
into the room and mutters
lunch is ready
in her Polish tongue
giving Benny a stare
wishing probably
he wasn't there.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
monotony
has sunken
and broken me
piece by piece
this dismal
abyssmal drag
smoke that i pull
making life pour
into a paper cup
stuck with pins
and left out
in the open
for when it rains
its no concern
because my brain
it cant discern
****** needles
and happy titters
from gnarly shivers
and ghastly sniffers
its the curse
subhuman almost
theres no purpose
i grow in riches
but tar black pus
secretes from my soul
such is life
do u wanna get high?
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC