"ursula" poems
she is
a very naughty girl
she never follows
policy to the letter
she always
does the wrong thing
she needs some discipline
she's proficient
at defying the law
she knows not how
to get the message
she doesn't
listen intently enough
she fills many charge sheets
with her misconduct
she is a girl
with a streak of wickedness
she has all the hallmarks
of someone who is naughty
I speak of Ursula
in the above list of bad deeds
and there is a hope
that her bad deeds
can be quickly remedied
the hand of an authority figure
will bring her back into line
as she has too often
strayed from that line
whence appropriate corrections
are implemented
all her behavioral problems
shall be circumvented
then and only then
a change will eventuate
and she'll no longer
be showing her bad traits
really naughty girls
such as Ursula
can become more like
a pleasant seaside peninsula
watching her radical transformation
shall be a sight to see
so we'll keep our eyes focused
on what Ursula shall soon be
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
Señor Garcia Marquez
Whatever did you mean
When you wrote of life
And of death by family
I'm in love with
Prudencio Aguilar's ghost
Roaming about the Buendía household
Hole in his throat
Washing out the wound
But what did you mean?!
I'm in love with
Do it yourself chastity belts
And Ursula's fear of ***
But why is this even a theory
Your concept behind biracial inbreeding
And Señor do not get me started
On Melquíades and José Arcadio Buendía
Because that friendship was
Fated to be doomed
I mean no disrespect in all this
I just want to know
Why use Macondo as an allegory
For the Angel Gabriel
You're genius, really
But your run on paragraphs
Infuriate every ounce of my writing soul
You're a Columbian Tolstoy
I mean that as no insult
Your works are tremendous and outstanding
But what am I doing
You're now just an old dead man
"Under the ground"
So now I belong to figure out
Why Pilar needs to fill a void
Opened by a ******
And why Colonel Aureliano Buendía
Thinks of his fond memory of ice
Just before being killed
I've paid my respects to your work
Please pay respects to my search
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
for Dr. Ursula Goodenougth
To better view the fairest the stars of
Genesis, Keats or Kepler,
the priests of vertical transcendence
built towers over clouds -
beyond the touch of worldly toil.
Standing below in soiled boots,
newer prophets citing
the universal brotherhood of
mitosis, chromosomes and DNA,
urge a new transcendence
spread on a horizontal plain
where bridges are preferred to ladders.
Muffled distant drums,
beating somber warnings
of poisoned waters and global heat,
summon us down
from our lofty towers of denial.
Murmuring rhythms of forests and streams
and all species of flora and fauna
line out the same life beats
as the engines in our chests.
The God without is the God within -
nestled within our nuclei.
With global death within the grasp
of our reckless finger tips,
and bullet fever
infesting our earthly villages,
are we ready yet
to yield a measure of our trust
to the healing power
of horizontal transcendence?
May, 2007
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
So much to say, so few words find my lips
It’s like I kissed a girl
And gave her all my words
At first I thought it was my breath
She took away
She spoke and I listened
In awe,
Of the way her sentences glided from
The back of her throat, tongue, teeth, lips-
Lips.
I once kissed a girl
And left all my words on her lips
Like some weird- ****** up- **********
Little Mermaid
She was Ursula and Prince Eric
Stealing my freedom
My voice but still
My captain, knight in shining armor
She was the prince
The sea witch
Everything I was warned of
Everything I still dreamed about
When Ursula took Ariel’s voice
She used it for another
But she used it for me
On me-
But the good words got used up
They were on a countdown timer
Without restart or pause
Then there were only bad words
Then none
I once kissed a girl and gave her all my words
Now I have none left.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
"
There are two kinds of space exploration:
One: you do with physics.
The other: you do with poetry.
The best astronauts I know
Defy gravity with words.
And it gives me hope
That maybe I don’t need
12,000 kilonewtons of sheer force
To know the universe where I belong.
"
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
What if the fairy tales happened today?
Would they still live
Happily Ever After?
What if Belle asked the magic mirror to show her the Beast and when it did it revealed that he wasn't there alone?
What if Jasmine found out that she wasn't the only one Aladdin was taking for a ride on his magic carpet?
What if Ariel checked Eric's phone and discovered Facebook messages which proved he wasn't over Ursula?
What if Tiana learned that Naveen was still a slimy frog, catching anything he could with his tongue?
What if Snow White wasn't the only who the Prince was Charming? Following and charming as many princesses as he could on Twitter!
What if Sleeping Beauty woke up to find Prince Philip Tindering while she slept!?
What if Mulan found out that all Li Shang really wanted was to come over for nothing more than "Netflix and Chill"!?
What if Pocahontas kept in touch with John Smith through snapchat and all he wanted were photos of her wearing nothing but the colours of the wind!?
What if Rapunzel was left in the tower because Flynn Rider wasn't bothered to climb the tower, suggested they FaceTime instead!?
What if Cinderella discovered dancing at ***** was just a one time thing? That her happily ever after was just cooking and cleaning for the Prince in a bigger castle!?
What if living Happily Ever After is as old as the fairy tales that created it!?
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
.
Hello **archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.
Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
cascading like salt on
an empty**
wound.
**With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;**
“Leave me,
lowly poet,
Your pity is unbecoming.
I am the 13th fallen sister,
so linger here
no longer.”
“Death is an old friend,
I fear not his company,
nor his demise.”
**I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.**
“I’ll **** you.”
“Darling, I’m already dead.”
**Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.
I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and** rhapsodic presence.
“Are you my friend,
poet?”
“No,
I am much more.”
**And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.**
“Poet,
why must the most beautiful
people die?”
**She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:**
“When you’re in a garden,
which flowers do you pick?”
“...The most beautiful ones.”
**I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,
from the house of god.
I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,
I ignored their tempertantrums
& discord.
That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.**
“What are these?”
“Wings.”
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
What if I tell you a story
deeper than a true love’s kiss,
One in which the truth prevails
and it leaves your soul abyss?
What if the mistress of evil
trusted a human once,
An innocent girl who left her solitude
just to watch her wings get burned.
What if Ursula’s deal was fair
all she wanted was to sing,
Are only royal blood allowed to dream
Is that why she was banished by the king?
What if Snow White was in pretense
a girl who helped others mend,
And right after the poisoned apple
Evil Queens heart was under her bed.
What if villains were just humans
without lamps or slippers or prince,
They live without a fairy Godmother
and are deprived of fairytale endings.
They don’t get a knight in armour
or magic genie on the street,
They survive all alone
waiting for their demise to meet.
They walk on broken shards
while the princess attends the ball,
Can you blame them for wanting
to watch the fairest of them to fall?
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 5:51 AM UTC
If you’re new here
I don’t like my body
And I don’t know how many more ways I can say that
All I know is I haven’t found one that transforms me into a fairy
Haven’t found the magic words, that if I repeat three times fast and click my heels
Will melt away my visage
Make me ready for the ball
On nights like tonight,
When I really don’t like my body
I try to remember that the apples are poisoned
That taking a bite, instead of a dinner plate
Will not make me the fairest thing in the land
That running from big bad wolves
Is not about burning calories
That I shouldn’t look for big bad wolves to run from
Just to try and fit into a red cape
I don’t know how many ways to say
That I don’t like my body
That I feel fat,
Like my stomach has 7 little dwarves sleeping atop it
Like if a prince found me in the woods, I would be the beast
Not the beauty he was looking for
So here I am,
The incompetent one in the Disney movie
While the heroines and heros are drawn impossibly small
Jasmine with her tiny waist,
Mulan in her slim figure
Elsa with her narrow shoulders
The incompetent ones,
Ursula, all darkness and big body above her tail
Russel, with his house of balloons and naivete
The Queen of Hearts, crazy off with your head woman
Even a fairy tale metaphor, can’t bibbity bobbity boo
Away my torn up relationship with my body
I guess these aren’t the magic words
I guess I don’t get magic words
Maybe I would,
If I was small enough to be the hero
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 9:21 AM UTC
opening up an eclectic ruddy random selection of books to the sound of classical concerto dimmed to 'whelming' (neither under nor overwhelming), is like entering point after point to perspective to new brain after old brain after subject to object to alluvit, the few, the many-- 'on July 21st, 1936, Lockheed test pilot Elmer C. McLeod, with Amelia as copilot, took the new Electra up for its first official flight..' 'This is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel..' 'A block away from the museum doors, the guards still follow us, until a new group of guards from the next building has us under surveillance..' 'More and more, I suspect that Buddhists and shamans are correct..' 'I liked Bloodworth and in the spring we were going to play outfield together on that Lowell team, he whose name for years had mystified me when I saw it in Lowell High and Lowell Twi League boxscores-' 'if the world at large found it impossible to believe the truth of the Holocaust, even when provided with incontrovertible proof, Berliners presented with piecemeal evidence, rumour and hearsay were bound to dismiss such talk as enemy propaganda, or perverted fantasy. As Ursula Von Kardoff recalled after the war: 'we were realistic and pessimistic. But Auschwitz?'- '"Twenty-five centavos."
"Twenty-five centavos," repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.'--
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
You cannot buy the revolution.You cannot make the revolution.You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit or it is nowhere.
~ from The Dispossessed
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
One of the best definitions of an anarchist comes from Ursula K Le Guin:
"One who, choosing, accepts the responsibility of choice."
When was the last time you chose, regardless of the propaganda of the state or any other hierarchy, to ignore a stupid rule and accepted the responsibility for your choice? That's when you were an anarchist, whether you knew it or not. The more often you do it, the more of an anarchist you become.
Another comes from Robert Heinlein:
"I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do"
If you have a heart and mind that long for freedom, you are an anarchist.
Welcome.
TANSTAAFL!
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Amber was an atheist,
she thought the world was dumb as hell.
Britney was a botanist,
who had a fertilizer smell.
Candice was a coroner,
a scary passion for the stiffs.
Diana was a drummer chick,
that knew a few guitar riffs.
Evelyn was evil, man,
all leather suits and chains and whips.
Farrah was a therapist,
got in my brain with swinging hips.
Greta was a gunslinger,
she'd give most anything a shot.
Hannah was a homebody-
shy as hell, but twice as hot.
Iris was an Ivy Leaguer,
thought I was a total fool.
Janice was a juggler,
who liked to play with power tools.
Kimmy taught karate,
who dated me just for the kicks.
Louise was a lyricist,
who wrote about how guys were *****
Marilyn was mostly mean,
she liked to fight and then make up.
Nancy was so negative,
I had no choice but to break up.
Opal was an occultist,
who liked to gossip with the dead.
Paula was a **********
that made me pay to come to bed.
Queenie was inquisitive,
the questions were too much to bear.
Rosie was a recluse
who never shaved or brushed her hair.
Sidney was a sinful sort,
with toys and gadgets 'neath the bed.
Tina was a twisted chick,
with thirteen voices in her head.
Ursula was uber-cool,
always on the latest trends.
Vicky was on Vicodin,
and we all know how that one ends.
Wanda was a wanderer,
that left to join a circus troupe.
Xena the exhibitionist
liked to do it on the stoop.
Yolanda was young and fine,
and nearly cost me everything.
Zoey was a Zombie fan,
she got hot when he would sing.
I'd like to say I've settled down,
but since the alphabet is done,
I'm gonna met an Ann or Anita,
and give it all another run.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-turd
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
orange peel
foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
a tambourine tabernacle
with st. thomas ********* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
cunt's ouch
five multipliers mono
********
softy
doughnut
peach;
'bitch where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
steam;
choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin ************
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-dong of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Ursula-my friend,
My quiet, distant, rarely seen friend
From days of yore.
How calm you are.
how you glide through your days
Keeping your private thoughts to yourself.
How the urgencies and anxieties
That plague every life
- are so well contained in yours.
And in your soft green eyes
I feel a happy acceptance, born of time.
Born in my brotherhood of your Sam.
My very European friend,
Made in the turmoil of youth
And so warmly regarded then, now and beyond.
Ursula my lady, always a lady,
You posess a tender spot of pleasantness
In the corner of my mind.
With affection
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 8:20 AM UTC
As I open the rusted - thumb folded pages of your tales,
burdened with grief of your passing and stories that fail.
Oceans' might is the witness of your altruism ,
you've bent sky and straighten tentacles beyond reasons.
Known you since you were a mermaid and little,
until the curse turned you into black-ink celestial.
Holding kings pride; leaving Kingdom and passing Eric's heart to Ariel,
crowing yourself as the villain despite being the ocean's pearl.
Land only remembers the voice you burgled from Red,
Diluted in water; Fight for Triton's Life - a battle unsaid;
Lost father’s acceptance, Eric's love, and Vanessa's legs to run -
A cruse from Triton only Eric's kiss could have undone.
Oh Ursula, you forgot, Magic comes with a price,
you lost your tail and the throne for your sacrifice.
You raised him from dead, got him life,
destroying yours and the mirror's sight.
I wish I was there to rewrite it differently
but, I am only a freckle in someone’s imagination’s epiphany.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
Graceful Suffering
By Ursula D. Jones
Palindrome Poetry (Mirror Poem)
November 6, 2023
Suffering gracefully is always giving in gentleness,
Smiling cheerfully in enduring pain and grief.
Learning wisdom in silence and loneliness,
Pensively guiding and directing frivolities composed of youthfulness.
Only healing for longing, wounded, and lonesome hearts,
Friendship offered and taken. Never returned companionship.
Suffering graceful, with happiness for all, never jealous, nor spiteful.
Peacefully—
spiteful, nor jealous. Never. All for happiness with graceful suffering,
Companionship returned never. Taken and offered friendship.
Hearts, lonesome and wounded, longing for healing only.
Youthfulness of composed frivolities; directing and guiding pensively.
Loneliness and silence in wisdom learning,
Greif and pain enduring in cheerfully smiling.
Gentleness in giving always is gracefully suffering.
Oct 22, 2024
Oct 22, 2024 at 7:30 PM UTC
I thought I saw Ursa Minor in Lampe Park last night,
but the trees blurred my vision to the point
where I couldn't tell whether it was a constellation
or a phallus ******* on a posy of roses.
Stars don't make sense.
If amateur philosophy has taught me anything,
it's that they can't be social constructs
or a figment of your imagination
because they exist.
They're dead,
but they exist.
and they'll be here
until all my jokes about cancer
or death in general
catches up to me.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
What drives people crazy is trying to live outside reality. Reality is terrible. It can **** you. Given time, it certainly will **** you. Reality is pain. Reality is suffering. It is the condition in which we live. And when reality arrives, you know it. You know it as the truth. But it's the lies, the evasions of reality, that drive you crazy. It's the lies that make you want to **** yourself. If you evade the pain and suffering of reality, you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will never know what it means to come home to yourself. ~ from The Dispossessed."
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
"The only questions that really matter
are the ones you ask yourself."
- Ursula K. Le Guin
For some of us
the universe
provides
a long list
of questions
and a short list
of answers.
Our work,
the real work,
the only work
that matters,
is filling
in those blanks.
A hard blessing,
but a blessing,
still.
- mce
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
exquisitely righteous to have the embodiment
of each and every one
standing before me
for all to see
packaged up (I can't say neat and tidy....but all in one place anyway)
it seems reasonable that one person has one or two
but to find them all in one place....
astonishing
I see you
*Superbia
Avaritia
Luxuria
Invidia
Gula
Ira
Acedia*
they all ring true as they emanate out of you
we all know what happened to Ursula
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
why is it that home doesn't have a official plantation
for my heart to grow? when all i want to do is expand,
i shrink to make room for the negativity and the shadows
of me are becoming more relevant than my actual self.
i sleep out in the foyer of every person's life, where
god forbid i open their doors because i'll leave them ajar
when their wounds are at their deepest. i'll be the fish
struggling to adjust and train their lungs to breathe with
no water. i'll be the person, struggling to breathe thirty
feet under water without an oxygen tank because i fell
in love with a mermaid, and ariel has already made a
deal with ursula for another. here's to my 21st birthday
coming up, where the first three shots will have your
name written on the tiny plastic cups. here's to you,
suiting up in your best attire for prince charming.
here's to the home i have, where home is not exactly
home and smiles aren't always that honest.
- kra
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Hello my old friend.
I guess it’s nice to see you again.
You’ve been visiting me so much lately.
Nothing in my head is forming anything straightly
It’s all jumbled and clouded and mixed.
I don’t know how this problem can be fixed
Writer’s block has gotten a hold on me!
It just won’t let my writings be!
I used to be able to write poem after poem,
But now I’m lucky if I even get a quote done.
Maybe if I shoot myself in the head
The creativity will spill out all over my bed.
I want to make a name for myself!
But right now, I just see my book on a dusty shelf.
I continuously tap key after key
Why won’t any nice rhymes come out of me?
I keep on searching and searching
I do all of my researching
On the topics I need to write
Yet nothing in this poem seems right
I want to write about my personal experiences.
But right now my book is on clearance.
I don’t feel good enough to make it in this industry
I don’t want to let this blank mind stop me
Yet it feels as if I have no choice.
It feels as if I have lost my voice.
Writer’s block is Ursula in the deep sea
She made this contact with me
I grew my vocabulary but lost my voice
Why did I make this choice?
It’s just mismatched words and no originality
Where is my creativity?
I used to have such a loud mind.
But now everything’s quiet and I mind.
Of course the full first poem I’ve written in a month is about not being able to write.
Sounds like me, I’m just the type.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
"The mystery, the Door of the Woman, is the root of earth and heaven..." Translated by Ursula LeGuin, Tao te Ching
Big bodies, you say,
don't belong here
woman as big body is
big failure to most
but your naivete begets you
and would have
you believe in such silly notions
Woman as bountiful and
big was made that way
She was born to breed more than babies
She houses the righteous dust of us
and all the gall she could muster
to free us
She is all of
us and nothing more
but the bigness she sees in her
large, black eyes
She swells more and more each day
counting the days when she will
scatter as gargantuan as the sky
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC