"tomfoolery" poems
A hairy ball of energy
Who loves to run and play,
Whose tricks and tomfoolery
Would brighten any day.
Almost hyperactive,
Without doubt lively,
Incredibly inquisitive,
Exploring constantly.
Chewing on everything,
Peeing everywhere,
Not fond of house training
but slowly getting there.
Extremely mischievous,
Just wants to have fun,
Loves to get pets from us,
Each and everyone.
Yapping so excitedly
At everyone and everything,
Such an incredibly funny
Lovable little thing.
Who looks at us imploringly
With great big brown eyes
That we fell in love totally
Should come as no surprise
This lovely little puppy
Right from the start
Became one of the family,
Captured every ones heart.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
A living breathing inauthentic dialect of amalgamated spirituality mixed with an ever so pervasive mix of tomfoolery and diluted astrotheology
An inexcapabley unexhausted aproproptraiton of extrapulated constipation
homeginzed and watered down to make it easier for the minds of the masses to swallow it down.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
let me begin my salutation to you
by expressing my angst about your ghastly night experience
that you go through when in the hands of the policemen
who often walk around in the name of security patrols
while in truth they bettle terror in the show of evil mighty
they swop you down and arrest you spreadeagled
asking for bribes substantially the money of your proceeds
from the ware of your trade your body the temple of christian God,
Wherever your lack money
your beauty saves you as they go on to **** you in circles among themselves
as they glorify the power of your bossom in their policeman's slang,
where beauty , tyranny of bossom and your bribe is absent
you are forlornly arrested from the streets of Nairobi and Lagos or Johannesburg
then rounded down to a dingy police cell to be charged
with heinous crimes of prostitution and vagrancy,
when the true origin of your fortune's tomfoolery
is powers that be as they glorify anti woman crude cultures
beseeching a girl child into despair and depravement,
they are these men who refused to see you as a beacon of glory
they always link you to the filthy bedrooms from which you ennoble not.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
alexander k opicho
(eldoret,kenya;[email protected])
Theodorousness is now on me
it will eat me with aghast ravenity
where will I hide my body
an ugly and ripe corpus of my tomfoolery
where will I exile my gadabout heritage
flipping the world in quest for cultural bliss
when Masculine theodority is relentless
in the Armour of intellectual masculinity
determined to thrash the sludge of flappishness
out of my rectitude heart that is pulsing in derogatory fear
where will i pigeonhole myself from the theodorous theodoristy
of herculean Theodore
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.
Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.
The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.
The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.
What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
There comes a time when tyranny of numbers,
Evaporates into tyranny of idiosyncrasies,
Especially when the ethnic tyranny tyrannizes
Voice of reason the matrix of humane inclusivity,
When the malice in the enormity of clan numbers
Worships brutality of foolishness that purtains
In the group of the over sized ethnicity
To cement the tyrannical tomfoolery.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
I like to play with your belly button
'Cause it makes me giggle and laugh
I'll let you play with my bellybutton
I bet it makes you giggle and laugh
Exactly as it does with me
It makes me laugh hysterically
I know it might seem rather silly
But I love to do it willy-nilly.
Sometimes I like to blow on your belly
And make that almost obscene sound
It's worth it to hear you laugh, really
Then both of us roll around on the ground.
We laugh and play like a couple of kids
And make no excuses for silly things we did.
Others make love your way and we ours.
We tickle and blubber on each other
And have our kind of fun for hours.
I really like the way you wrinkle your nose
It makes me laugh hard and not for nothing
It tickles me a lot that you wiggle your toes
When you let me play with your belly button.
I'm very happy to be able to testify
Some things in life are meant just for fun.
Belly button tomfoolery, I promise
Is one of the very best kinds of fun.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
our relationship
is me wanting to cut off all my hair
because you Let me fall
asleep to you stroking
it,
.
our relationship is
ignored texts
&
read receipts
.
our relationship
is a horrible,
uneven mix of
realism and your romantic tomfoolery,
I don't know how I'll
ever
quit it
.
coffee and cigarettes
on the frosted sidewalk
classical music at 3 am
borrowed
and returned(?) sweaters
tedious and enthralling questions
mutual humor
under the breath
shared breath
streetlights and sunshine
appreciation for life and love
substance in emptiness
.
gossip
harrowing and defiling and
sneaking its way into every interaction,
judgments and standards and
I'm never
ever
good enough
to be like them, those
significant and aware and profound and charged girls
.
it's good for nothing and
I'm afraid
nothing will ever be as good
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
A sign of desperation
Of envy, of misery, of dejection
Of hopeless yearning for nothing lifelong,
As almost everyone can barely notice.
Worldly desires, oh futility!
Images of true vainglory
Captives of fake reality
Stuck in their reverie
Of exaltation and flattery
Fishing for praises so badly
Insensitively, so unrelentingly
Without a thought or two.
What do you hear? What do you see?
These people sound so thirsty
Of approval and regard and dignity
Capricious predisposition, tomfoolery!
Looking for love and delight
For honor and respect and might
For grandeur and luxury
For anything but worthless beauty,
For a way not to be left behind or aside.
What a surrealistic find!
Amuse me; let the world drool for thee,
But like a century-long malady,
Such an absolutely incurable affliction
It is nothing but merely, purely,
Just as trivial as this poetic entry,
Vanity.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
<>
***"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^***
the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please, somebody help us, almost
an inevitability
the possibility of a realizable event,
as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability, right ready for scheduling
offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?
as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part
my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness
but
not to me
for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer
find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected
no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale
I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up
but seriously,
don't
I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck
I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous
this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor
so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:
6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late
confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery. and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Mhmm...
Mhmm... yea!
Mhmm... ey-yeah-ey yeah yeah yeah mm... mhmm
Mhmm... mhmm...
Mhmm... yea! yeah
Mhmm... ey-yeah-ey yeah yeah mm mm, mhm
Hey, yea-yea, yeah-eh-yeah-eh, yeah-eh-yeah-eh
Hey hey-yea-eh yeah, mhmm
Professional or beginner doesnt matter
Every sinner is a prisoner in a body that is subject to time
Now my entwined mind tries to form a straight line
not like twised scoliosis of the spinal chord
Construct
Cross eyed carpenters are cuttin' crooked lines
Can't construct
man-made shrines when the winds and the water move sands of time
Many minds on a deadline, yet live life like a live wire
I'm not tired!
Of blood and fire
Spirit's moving higher than the green grass ever lifted me
Spirit's moving higher...
Than anything else ever lifted you
Mm, see
We got spirituality
It's living in us like one in three
Injustice is concerning me
in the non-linear eternity
I'm speaking paradoxically
but you can nod your head now when you understand me-e-e-ee...
This is for my free men
whose backs wont bend in the lions den
now with their eyes on the ending
This is for my free women!
They fight with their love
The bearers of our children
Free men whose backs wont bend in the lions den
now with their eyes on the ending
This is for my free women
They fight with their love
The bearers of our children
We shine like lights exposing
what lies underneath decomposing
Unearth those chains that are rusted
my sweet Lord, is that what i trusted in?
That sin? That tomfoolery? Ugh!
What it is is mental jewelery that I adorned myself with
The enemy's gifts, the man-made myths, the ignorant bliss
of marijuana spliffs and alchoholic fifths
I got so sick and tired of it
Delivered and redeemed
by christ i mean
It's time to start livin'
and get a reason for the rhyme
I dont wanna be dead-wrong on the deadline
Standing on the dark side and all out of time...
Like a blind pantomime's fantasize
climb up his own ladder to the sunshine
Nothin's mine
that hasn't been given
No one's alive here
that hasn't been risen
For 19 years i was trapped in a prison
Feeding my escape by means of derision
but every man-made attempt just failed
when trapped in a jail
of my own guilt, shame, and iniquity
I was looking for freedom
How'd I find freedom?
Oh! Oh, freedom...
from all of this
He said believe
He said believe
Who are you telling me to belei-e-eve... yea
'Said I'm the Christ
Oh!
...he said I'm the Christ
So I believed.
Freedom!
Mhmm... yea
Mhmm... ey!
Mhmm... ey-yeah-ey yeah yeah yeah eh, mhmm
Mhmm... Hey! No, no no
Mhmm... yea!
Mhmm... Yea ey-yeah-ey yeah yeah mhm,
Nah na-na-nah
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Do you remember the first piece?
Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb
hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on
for silver or gold?
Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes
hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until
body heals and holes held open stay open
for hoops and dangles
Is it worth your face in gold?
Does he bling too, that black boyfriend?
Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain
blazing bronze or phat platinum
Did you two star gaze for long
at rocks and stones and coins
stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery?
Did you ever put his glitter on
and how long did that ice last
before melting down to a memory?
What would it mean to leave the house naked
no sequinned cloak covering
no shiny ear lobed shimmering's
no solid gold hood hangings
wearing just your skin to hold yourself in?
Cloth does not count, it is matterless–
would you be worth your face without gold?
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
This always was an acoustic gig;
A wood and wire affair
Steeped in the fresh folklore
And worn wool
Of our little streetlamp operas.
Our voices would ring rustic
(And rusted like tarnished brass)
Out open windows,
Through the rustling of haloed leaves,
And down into the streambeds of romantic recollection.
Our coffee was stiff;
Mixed with chicory
And spiked with shots
Of sure-footed tomfoolery—
But richer than our years should have allowed.
All the goodhearted ladies
And all the rye bottle boys
Would smile warm, backs reclining,
And sing out for all the years.
And we knew our songs well;
Our highways west blacktop ballads—
Our San Joaquin sunset sonnets--
Our arms-around-you-till-the-end tunes—
Our songs for new companions—
Our eulogies for our dearly departed.
Yes, this always was an acoustic gig.
But there’s no sense in penning an epilogue
To a story that’s still alive (though wounded).
So let’s continue the tale, friends,
And usher in another folk revival.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
at most points of your life you have to take a stand
this usually means propping up your own causes
in a way that allows everyone else to take a step back
the myth of the strong individual
every once in a while you have to shed a tear
when young, as a means of attracting attention
as you age, you cry toward yourself
as true maturity takes over, the plaque of the years
puts an end to this ridiculous practice
truth is unknowable
the unicorn just told me
so I spread it around
coldly, life is based on shared lies
how anarchy lifts the soul
great heights of blessed freedom
from you
of course he was right
we are built for small communities
where information dribbles in
in a process called understanding
not this ever accelerating gyre
it is just too **** big
so what good does insolence deliver?
well, it can be very inventive
and people are left confused anyway
no matter what you say
or how you say it
whats a middle finger for, anyway?
maybe there’s a point to all this that everyone has missed
everyone but Voltaire
and he still ran out of time and space
I thought I was finished but I was mistaken
you see, warm air can hold more moisture than cold air
and grass grows in the direction of the sun
fences tend to separate things but cannot go on forever
and once you see a fractal, that’s about all you can see
there in the cinema
everything is staged for a purpose
maybe comedy or tragedy or adventure
then its all edited in order to present its very own meaning
that is not art
its tomfoolery
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
I think back to 5 years ago,
To those days in northern New York,
Where my life felt like some coming-of-age tale,
Coming into my own.
Each day was its own chapter,
Shenanigans and hijinks,
Bar room brawls and short-lived loves,
Drunken tattoos and crutching on snow 2 feet deep,
Barracks parties and field exercise tomfoolery,
Oh, how it all seems like such a dream now.
Fleeing from authorities,
Cackling with buddies as we disappeared into the crowd to make it to the next bar,
Showing up to work on Monday with a recently broken nose, blackened eye, and shit-eating grin,
With my buddies sporting similar signs,
Our First Sergeant taking stock of these injuries,
And walking onward with a little smirk.
Walking through Watertown,
Feeling the age of that military town,
Filled with secondhand stores and oddities,
My God such a surreal dream.
Stuck in bed,
Knee wrapped up in bandages,
Protecting all the stitches beneath,
Looking out the winter at the blizzard outside,
Craving a working leg more than the percocet,
And knowing that the dream was coming to an end.
Jan 7, 2023
Jan 7, 2023 at 12:40 AM UTC
Android is bipolar and the polaroid is paranoid, I'm paralysed by all the lies and your dinner's in the fridge.
I'm cracking through the middle and the edges fray away and I'm loving every minute when will Auntie come to stay?
The treatment doesn't work and I wonder why they try, perhaps they'll give me some more capsules and I'll float off, getting high on all the fumes.
I love it and abhor it, want to **** it or adore it but can't make my mind a slave to the thing I want to ****** you can save me from the sermon of Mr Luther King the German though I knew he knows it all,
I just like to bang my head against the wall to make some sense, yet all is chaos.
Android's just the scam because the man is very shy and he hides inside his metal shell to watch the world go by and bipolar's a tombola, get a ticket win the prize, but still paralysed by all the lies, your dinner's in the fridge.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
Are we free anymore? I’ve asked myself lately,
Sure, it seems so, but a few things are shady,
Well, more than a few; in fact most of our lives
Are controlled and well-governed like dogs kept on lines.
Last week my own neighbor was caught and arrested
For owning plants curing her cancer, depression,
Science speaks truth but the Law doesn’t mind
Their care is your sentence, not the healing inside.
We’re ruled by fear, I’ve come to conclude
It’s limiting consciousness, limiting mood
Forced to pay off all those bills in the mail
Or they’ll haul you away to community jail.
It’s not always this way—look at it like this,
We do have a large sum of freedom as kids,
We can eat, speak, dress, and play how we please
Before the real world arrives, subjugating this ease.
“Get good grades in school, be quiet, and listen,
Better cut the tomfoolery or end up in prison,
Repent all your sins or you can’t go to Heaven”
...Are drilled in our heads by the time we reach seven.
Yes, it is fear; now much clearer to me,
Yet sadly too subtle for the masses to see,
Some of us hope that things will get better,
So we dogs may finally stray from our tether.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:12 PM UTC
No poems care to comfort me
No words are willing to clear my head
No thoughts come flowing from my pen
No dreams will deign to share my bed
I used to sleep with company
To doze with dainty desires
But now it seems my mind rejects
Those floating, smiling sires
Instead my head’s been filled with fluff
With engineered tomfoolery
No longer can I find my thoughts
Amidst this heavy schoolery
My florid fancies and swooning sighs
Have decomposed under scrutiny
And inspiration has been so choked
That is has no will for mutiny
I’ve calculated, demonstrated
Extrapolated and oxidized
So now I’ve found that feelings too
Have fallen overanalyzed
It feels surreal, to sit with you
While my mind sits far away
The distance slows my synapses
And causes heart delay
Thoughts, I’ve found, have been rewired
Connected where they shouldn’t be
So silly things cause tears to spring
And trivial words to bother me
I wish my poems would return
To put my mind where it belongs
To weave my dreams so I might sleep
To erase for you my careless wrongs
I wish my words would scamper back
And put my tangled thoughts to rights
My feelings, too, so I might breathe
And finally make peace with restless nights
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
Ebony...
Coco...
Sun-kissed...
A gentle tone of brown that left in in the blue...
Feeling sneaked in...
Creeped in beneath my unsuspecting skin...
Every color seemed brighter...bolder...
Chance or be it fate...?
endorphins combined fused with electrostatics of the mind...
Or a new tune to a previously non rhythmic heart...
At glance the eyes drew the stars nearer...
For no insensible reason the skyline of semi light houses bare song...a rather smooooth velvety song...like silk through every note...
I say and "quote"...
"Leave nothing to chance for that might be fate at first glance"...
Tales long told foretold magic fading with post modern belief...
No fib or tomfoolery...
This at best be...the unmentioned
I dare not use the word in-vain
Best it remain unwritten
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
Written outside an OXXO
I took a bite out of a Milky Way last night.
If you're playing god then you have to delve into such tomfoolery...checked Google news...checked NASA websites. No news is good news!
No headlines are good headlines, so I finished it. Tossed the wrapper, was still buzzing from the corn syrup...so I went back in and grabbed a Snickers...the glycemic index is a little different on this one...wonder what Google news will say about this?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Blue lights, pink answers,
tomfoolery all about --
Feel free to join us!
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 2:38 AM UTC
I love our story
It hurt sometimes
But we've collided again and again
Reached bliss
And we still fight off evil
For evil cannot be destroyed
Only change it's form
But our love
It prospers
It is stronger than anyones
Tomfoolery
We are meant to be
Some are just to blind by evil and hate to see.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
I’m not trying to turn water into wine here,
That’s been done before -
Out with the Old, and In with the New.
I pray to the morning dawn,
but the moment is temporary, fleeting -
I feel I’m always chasing time down,
Attempting to bring forth a permanent reality,
but the Cosmos laugh at permanence -
Such tomfoolery is of human thought,
Not Angelic, not Zen, not High
Just human thought - everyday mundane thought,
Synapses beauty, leaking subconscious pitter-patter into form, into life,
And I sit twiddling my thumbs waiting for death,
waiting to have my body disintegrate before my eyes -
Watching the molecules lose their magnetic pull
And have the atoms dash off,
making quantum leaps,
forming new bodies, in parallel worlds.
I’ve been here since the beginning,
If there even was a “beginning”,
after-all, the Universe doesn’t believe in Time,
but I know also that I’ll be here for the end,
If there even is an “end”.
Something must have a beginning to have an end.
And something must exist within something else to be labeled as an individual “something”.
So if the universe is a “something”, where is it located?
Tell me, please, for the sake of humanity, where is the universe located?
“Here”, you say.
The sky smiles. The ocean weeps.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC