"trifle" poems
*be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit
give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration
so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction
more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying
speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them*
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
The day that I was christened--
It's a hundred years, and more!--
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
For your fine young whelp.
I give her sadness,
And the gift of pain,
The new-moon madness,
And the love of rain."
And little good to lave me
In their holy silver bowl
After what she gave me--
Rest her soul!
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1013
Too scanty ’twas to die for you,
The merest Greek could that.
The living, Sweet, is costlier—
I offer even that—
The Dying, is a trifle, past,
But living, this include
The dying multifold—without
The Respite to be dead.
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************ the ego
tis seen as a trifle banal
the odd big cranial bloke
belongs to this cabal
tirelessly they stroke
the head to a maximal size
as the inflated phallus
doth give them such a rise
************ shall always be
their pastime of infatuation
as they are so in love
with the ego's glorification
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
1670
In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.
A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I’d not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—
The very string with which
I tied him—too
When he was mean and new
That string was there—
I shrank—”How fair you are”!
Propitiation’s claw—
“Afraid,” he hissed
“Of me”?
“No cordiality”—
He fathomed me—
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.
That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.
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A mere trifle, this thing that troubles the lid.
Forever in fear, unable to compose
Vision stoops to comprehend this failure,
Pride doesn’t.
A glimpse of blindness,
With the ardor of helplessness.
De facto, it is in the eyes of another
Where you were mistaken.
The red in between
Defining ties of the wicked, wise
In stupor and pain, in insomniac lethargy
The poisoned gaze, returns quietly.
Sun shades, remember
Anger cheats as much as it destroys.
The flaming ash of a cigarette,
Another excuse for a Gimlet.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Edna's alter ego ORLOK advises you not to trifle with him in his 8th poem
Who would dare to mock the great Count Orlok,
Mighty vampire bat and ace sodomiser?
No one at all, I tell you, my old **** -
Against that I'd be a strong advisor.
But if anyone e'er dared to steal my poems
I'd surely rip their ******* throat apart;
They'd be opening a veritable can of worms -
And who cares if it were a guy or a ****
So beware of stealing aught from this wicket bat
Who flutters above your house by night;
I'll surely find out just where you're at
And then may Satan pity you in your plight.
Anyone who steals my poems is condemned to Hell
And their death pains will be truly grotty;
Since, in spite of the really awful smell,
I'll stuff eight inches up their dying botty.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Which of your Favourites you take to Trust
And hoping One of them will fill your Void
So Alone, though in Many you Adjust
Though their trifle pertinence you carry
Those Nerds ahead just consider you Strange
Yet Groupies counteract with their own Praise
Now who is Correct? They sit at the Lounge
Then settle to offer your own Fresh Space
That around your College are Ideals formed
When Some in Prayer may publish their Book
Took you as a Model; And Critics scorned
See their Used Lives in a Better Outlook.
You just have to Smile; And Happy you did
Fan their Frustrations of that Love you hid.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
* * *
Interjections come bubbling down
To burst the mind.
Choral injections,
Humming injections -
Mean, mean, mean clowns:
Dancing madly in kaleidoscope gowns
They shamelessly grind
The last grains of my sanity.
The reality is quite snippetty -
And thus parallel worlds are designed.
Oh! - let me go, let me go!
To where Alice is Queen.
To where she sits
Among her kingly mirrors
And teaches the art of
Being seen
A trifle here and there,
And always - everywhere!
(c)kRu, 11.10.-17.11.2006
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
As I look around my home,
In my garden, I see gnomes,
Sitting on their little domes,
Do they think, these gnomes?
Are they philosophical, I wonder,
As garden weeds I plunder,
What are you guys staring at?
I'm gardening, okay, that's that!
Consider the garden gnomes,
Sitting there on their little domes,
Cute, but ugly, little misters,
I find them a trifle sinister............
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
This sherry trifle with clotted cream,
that tray of sugar cookies there.
My best laid plans to lose some weight
are thwarted by this time of year.
I shouldn’t go for my arteries’ sake
to Holiday parties with frosted cakes
As it is, I can inhale
chocolates quicker that I can Kale.
Each holiday brings treats and beers
and another roll of fat appears.
Perhaps before I’m too far gone
I ought to switch to Ramadan.
While not convinced about the rest
Self abnegation should be stressed.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the ***
Northumerland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.
Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?
"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!
Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be,
How the Guards came through.
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ripe fruit unconfined to the width of fruit
frightfully absent-minded of it's metaphor
burgeoning with sweet to burst-
...’The slowest devastation of a perfect sphere.
Bloated in the sun
at the peak of yes
a trifle to a god; and everything He meant.
the raw sub conscience of Love Itself.
Forest olde and valley wide
heeps of time upon time in a bramble of lush
vast with green enough to burst
...the joyous vegetation of a perfect world.
Garrulous in the sun
at the peak of yes
a testament to god at His first attempt.
the sheerest genius of Love
Thyself.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 5:40 PM UTC
as i sit here,
eating yet another
bowl of trifle,
that is rabbit-like,
in it's ability,
to seem neverending.
my thoughts lollop,
with leperorine grace to,
fibonacci
and his box of bunnies
multipying and multiplying....
....ad infinitum...
another spoon,
to my mouth.
stop....
the sun's gentle rays,
sparkle through,
jellies translucency.
as tastebuds swoon
at sweet sugar's mango rush.
synapses hop and pop within
my head....
and in my mind's eye,
i see flopsy, mopsy,
cottontail..boy and paul.
(not peter..copyright laws)
cavorting with fibonacci's
numbers,
1,1,3,5,8,13,21....and so on.
playing leap frog, in a hedge
maze.
they play and add and hop and
grow,
in an unending trail,
spiraling off.... into the west,
in a sweet smelling lavender haze.
at this point, i'm now thinking...
just, how much sherry did
aunty beryl put in this magic
trifle....
if i am honest with myself
and with you as well.
i will open my heart to confess.
to three new,
believed abstractions:
one;
after all these years(47)
i am still enamoured of beatrix's
cute little rabbits
(but i must still claim
miss jemima puddleduck
as my all time favourite)
two;
fibonacci's numbers still rule
(what an extraordinary mind
this man owned and used
to the betterment of man kind)
and three;
....much more prosaically..
you see...
i fear i am having a moment of
metenoia ....
with regard to the trifle...
and the amount of it's delctable
connsumption.
i can now clearly
and a tiny bit queasily,
see....
what it is to be a glutton!!!
and i find repentant thoughts
of never again will i eat so much...
(in one sitting)....
are stomping on the rabbits.
(fortunately the rabbits are
getting out of the way....
...quick little fellas aren't they..
...no rabbits were hurt in the filming
of this imaginary sequence...)
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Just sitting back kicking back kicking facts on a track showing no slack never whack rap isn't just black is universal and that's a fact it's like when I write I direct My own movie like spike Lee it seems to me that loose leaf abuse to ink is therapy not hairapy it's not the hair it's the brain underneath it I believe it when I see it so by all means come kick it or split it down the middle with a complex riddle or rifle not to trifle with
This niche of my life is hell bent or heaven sent I'm not sure which I know there's a plan for me I can't see it yet but you can bet I'll do my best to fulfill my expectations without jealousy infidelity or me disrespecting you blatantly or indirectly
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
*your coming in with the rising sun
in soft morning light and glistening dew
made me think life could be a huge smile
and that nothing about you could be a trifle
conversation with you was like lyrical poetry
full of measured tones and profound emotion
words are wholesome food when one is enamoured
you sip their oozing nectar at every sugary pause
your voice was like a heavenly harp magically played
by expert fingers dancing to an inspired melody
that only i and they could hear, and cherish like a dream
thus see me now with my face still ravaged by possibilities
but alas, you decided to take your leave with the dying day
and i knew my bewilderment would last the stretch of eternity
you walked away into the twilight and never once looked back
those who go away with the setting sun do not always rise with it*
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
#
**Where will you be
twenty twenty
I've got news for
you aplenty**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
You might as well leave if
you're looking for contrition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
**Liar Liar
tongues on fire
can't put out the
forest fire**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me drop my ordnance
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
Get in my crosshairs
You'll be headed to perdition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
Here's the facts hard cold
if I may be so bold
if you really want to win
you'll have to wait till I get old
**One step forwards
two steps backwards
Once released you
can't take back words**
© 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
#
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 12:22 AM UTC
*A river flowing against its course
As if to floss
Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity
A notable case study of ambiguity.
An estranged lover unceremoniously
Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly
In cold blood
For having been dragged through the mud.
The undercurrents of change overriding
Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding
Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs
Care not to be caught in the crosshairs.
A hopelessly optimistic romantic
Head over heel in love with the mystique
Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by
Her, she indeed worth a try.
Myriad circumstantial conundrums
That is cause of the inevitable humdrum
So characteristic of life
Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.*
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
life takes many forms
many shapes and sizes
choose the one fits you the best
make this judgement not in haste
whether in slums
or in palace
whether in BMW
or in auto
whether your clothes are branded
or not
matters a trifle.
if you born poor
not your mistake
if you die poor,
certainly
your mistake.
life has twists and turns
nothing back returns
thus prison your precious life
in an autobiography.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon
I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay
But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc
But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz
And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch
As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau
It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?
If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?
In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Children of Gallifrey, the children of gods
Who were destined for greatness
Fate laid out in the stars
Lords and Ladies of Time
Hands in the fabric of reality
Theirs to push and pull
Change and preserve
Life and death, mere trifle and whim
Immortality
Insanity
Minds warped with power
Who were fearful of change
Pompous and arrogant patrollers of time
Making laws of fear and oppression
Jealous and Bitter
They would rather **** than share
No interfering, no helping, no hurting
All the time in the Universe
But no time at all
Betrayal and Pain
Secrets and lies
Starving Souls, robbing trust
Storm Clouds are breaking
Time is at an end
The world will burn
Though it died long ago
When ambition
And lies
Strangled the children of Gallifrey
Sealing their demise in the books of time
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
the isle meets us gruffly,
ferry over rough seas, meaner winds,
bay size puddling lakes
a/k/a local flooding,
roads littered with tree debris,
all saying an uncoded message:
"see humans, you come to stay only with my forbearance"
But I know that familiar voice, disguised as nature,
a first derivative of the alpha of that god who comes,
torturing me with requests for forgiveness
I am nature too, I am human nature,
and I too,
am not in a forgiving mood, and one-word reply:
Barcelona
ashamed,
the ugly skies ease off and
next morn,
an August beauty provided
but I am neither assuaged, bought off, forgetting,
address the hiding-in-disguise master of the universe:
"*you trifle with us as if we could not count, keep tabs,
and weary be at the newest sabbath carnage never ending
give me storms, keep your glories,
fell trees, drown us, if it pleases,
we are neither perfect nor innocent
but take impotent responsibility
set us not one against the other,
there, here, Charlottesville,
keep your false free choice that
always comes with a wink and nod,
a little nudge, and exclaims of humans doing your work*"
I light a candle
not to you,
but for you
and be terrified
when I no longer do
<•>
Aug. 19, 2017
12:14 pm
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC