"warty" poems
Deep within a leafy dell
There lived a hairy fairy
Who very often cast a spell
That was frightening and scary.
The only friend the fairy had
Was an old green warty toad,
He never thought the fairy bad,
Just lonely and old.
So he’d sit with her and croak
And watch her practice magic.
She very rarely often spoke,
This to him was tragic.
The fairy dress; the fairy wore
Had seen better days.
It was ***** tattered, creased and tore
The hem hung loose in frays.
Her head seemed always in a cloud,
He never saw her smile,
Her wand no longer taut and proud
But still she was not vile.
Somewhere inside he saw her love;
He longed to be her mate,
So he prayed to God above
And asked her for a date.
She thought he saw her as a joke.
He was playing with her heart.
Up she went, in a puff of smoke,
That gave the toad a start.
Never having seen this done before
He had a mixed-up feeling.
His warts and looks she must abhor
And she found him unappealing.
For days he waited there for her
Because he was alarmed;
A toad and fairy love was rare
He thought she might be charmed.
If she would only hear him out,
That he may just explain.
Then she, he felt, could have no doubt
His love just would not wane.
But if his looks she hated so,
Then this he’d have to take.
He’d just hop-off; away he’d go,
Take bravely his mistake.
He realised, ‘how sad it is,
I never asked her name.’
With one loud bang and mighty ****
Back to his side she came.
“It occurred to me, you might be kind,
My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried,
“And I can read your mind.”
“Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied.
Then she kissed him on his cheek
A shock that made him wince.
Before he had a chance to speak
He was a fairy Prince.
She was beautiful and young,
Like his clothes, hers were new.
A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong
Especially for these two.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:13 AM UTC
My Prince Charming has turned into an ugly, old toad,
but that’s what happens when you choose this road.
The road so traveled by all the toads before;
makes me wonder what you see at the ****** door.
I would think by now it would be rotten and smell,
but that’s not where my thoughts will dwell.
Why are they always uglier than me?
It can’t be because you like what you see.
Is it because the ****** like to drink beer?
Or is it because they’ll **** on your spear?
You’d think by now all of you would have warts.
You know the kind that stays in your shorts.
You think you’re so handsome, have you looked in the mirror?
One day soon they won’t let you get nearer.
But by then you will not make me cry
and they’ll look like they were put up wet to dry.
They may be younger but you keep getting older.
What will you do when you get the cold shoulder?
What will they do when you run out of money?
I bet they won’t think that it’s very funny.
Or how about when the pills are all done?
I bet a fight will be caused over that one.
Nothing like pill-head ****** to ***** around with.
To get them drunk, does it take a fifth?
An eight ball of coke, that ought to do it.
When it’s all gone I bet you don’t get in it.
I may have been with you through thick and thin,
but I ain’t touching that warty skin.
We did have magic for so many years,
but that was before the coke and beer.
One day I’ll see you all and grin.
For you’ll have caught the clap: what a payback for sins.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.
She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.
She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.
November 2014
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
"Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
Then Said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
"Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.
Dayhreak and a candle-end.
"All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.
Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.
"That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candlc-end.
2.2k
she could not bring herself to kiss
the ***** little frog
not getting passed his green slimmey face
and warty splotchy skull
never handsome enough to love
in spite of his viscous sincerity
and
her
own
yearning
snail fish
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.
A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.
Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
The drone of voices
surround me
controlled chaos
manipulated mayhem
confusion raises
his warty head
as we all
scramble ahead.
Chuckling, chatting
talking and mocking
this office, these people
this here my strife.
I can't wait
for this to be over
I cannot wait
for the silence.
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
On the best day, she did not wear a dress,
She had work and was under unusual stress.
He had the day off, but there was so much to do
With all those chores, he still found time for a surprise or two.
The house was clean, and the groceries bought
And when she came home, the first surprise was got
Pumpkins, pumpkins everywhere!
Big and small and warty and fair
Her favorite day had pumpkins galore,
With pumpkin macaroons made to match the décor
Her man loved romance, and was charming to boot
He was crazy enough to share in his pumpkin loot.
She loved his quirky gesture, done solely to make her day
So when his second surprise came, she knew just what to say—
When he hit a knee and said, “I mustache you a question,”
Her brain was slow to understand the desired accession
With adorable ardor and love in his eyes,
He declared his love, though his anxiety was hard to disguise
He pleaded and begged and made himself look a fool
Overwhelmed, her heart answered before her cheeks could cool
Instead of pity and shame at his ardent endeavor,
She smiled and made this his best day ever.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
If you go searching through the bush
And look under some rocks,
You'll find a little fairy sprite
In bright green stripy socks.
Upon her head she wears alei
Of bright and colourful flowers.
And when it rains she collects the drops
And that is how she showers!
She wears a dress of golden silk
She's spun from cocoons in the trees,
It's glued together with native honey
She's stolen from the bees.
But if you try to trap her
And keep her for yourself,
You'll be turned into a warty toad
By her friend the elf.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
We're all looking for a fairytale
A prince or a magic spell
Though they don't always happily begin
Everything's alright in the end
Not always sunshine and roses
Sometimes there're witches with big, warty noses
A frog turned into a prince
But it doesn't matter since
It's a happy-ever-after, after all
When the princess goes to the ball
But in reality
We can't have that mentality
Things don't work that way
Doesn't matter what they say
True love and fairytales
Don't always prevail
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
pije! kurwa pije! co mi
wiepsz prawdy w twym chyba niby? ?
jak masz dziecko i przypisz rękopis
w grze.... kurwa! po co mi taki bachor!?
ja nigdy z nim w ramach ojcem! spierdu du du;
na wal równych w droge kończeń koni,
aby ludzkiej myśli począć zaraz! prawde snu
w obudzenie jako dalszym snem w obietnice spełnione!
o karo! o karo! o karo jednego uścisku ust! o karo!
krucjato! o karo! od tej ja szeptem myśli wołam:
wolności mi trza! i tak od niej uciekam, bo nagle repliki
mi nie trza skrobać w ogień! lecz ogień skrobie i
proch wkoło - tyłem posąg, a przodem duch?! nie
duch, lecz szept, niby myśl, to pierw nie zmuszone
impromptu - a nie zmuszone bo, posąg warty kolan
i modlitw - i ta wyryta droga ku ozora
ślimaków, w kieszeni nagle w dal oddać
znany obszar wachaniem ręki jakby pisać, owszem:
zapomnieć o tym co w świecie było,
jest, i będzie.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
I watched a hopping little frog
He bounced across the road
He landed upon a mossy log
My feet got wet in the smelly bog
It looked to me a warty toad
I watched a hopping little frog
I heard the barking of a dog
Casing after a ball was throwed
He landed upon a mossy log
T’was hard to see through the growing fog
I considered a shade of green unowed
I watch a hopping little frog
Just a piece of the ecosystem, a cog
Dashing across grass freshly mowed
He landed upon a mossy log
I sipped a glass of eggy nog
And thought of pictured I’d been showed
I watched a hopping little frog
He landed upon a mossy log
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
Todd feels a toad
Ugly and warty and full of slime
Potential lacking everywhere
Cannot see his own beauty until forced
Yet then, he becomes the
First to stand
First to call out
First to cry,
"O Captain! My Captain!"
Throwing aside his
Gag and shackles
Stepping up and
Taking, the leap of faith.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
Ezra clamber’d o’er the crest
to seek the way which he knew best
which, passing by the yellow tares
and turning at a grove of pears
set him at ancient fungal oak
where upon a branch he hung his cloak
For on some odd-nights within his mare
declared a warlock and his maiden fair:
“Spindled by the peary copse
after fields of shammy crops
stands that vile toady oak
shading torpid mystic folk
“Percieveth thee the one with warty beak?
‘Tis to him whom you must speak.
Rouse him from his slumber, Ezra,
pray of him your task."
The wizard with the moley snout
reclining with a snoozy pout
snored upward from that moldy bark
and whispered “yonder peasant, hark!
“Ezra, deary, there’s a bane
The shepherds hold in some disdain
for sheps can’t herd bereft of sheep
and this bane ingests them in their sleep.
Do strap on hip your faithful blade
and into swampy depths do wade
so to provoke this shepherd's foe
and smite him lifeless head to toe.”
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
ty czyń mi co polak polaku... a nie ten skórwosić bólo-błąg łamania oczy-dam mattce i reszte pśym-ganagu! ty z zapomnienia by teś powiedzi łamane goobye: ja ci kurwa krewnym? ja ci kurwa krewnym?! spirdalaj tam gdzie cie mongoł łaskocze czołem wyrytym ambicją modłu wersją w dywan; lachu'hu'ju! albo to, albo kurwa: Wieden.... ja nie tobie krewny! o! patsy! polska slachta sie obudza! chyba cas na: sejmik... tak, pospolicie mówie... bez akcentu: po wiejsku! czy tam szwinsku! krew we mnie zastygła: płynie jeno rtęć... ja sam putin kiedy wabie polskie media poza exodus w anglii, na swojskim gnoju.
słów wedle ognia ojca
na czyn ten
zapomnieć
wtargwienie...
skupą u dna..
bez dnia...
nie ty jeden ubity
oddechu martwy i
warty braku łzu:
krokiem kruka:
nie tyś ostatni wichrem na tylko:
by zaznać gnatom łomonym,
a wtór! kałczugą łamany, to co:
śmierdzi opałem, i piwniccą!
bodaj jutro, i chybył: rodzaj zza
kwestją powiat...
bo to ci gniew: bogiem zgra
rękąpis wątek bydła,
ku wnet liczidłem w słowo....
nadać iskr: szumu mieniem wiatr,
martwa skorupa oddechu da,
co o myśl wątku wyda tchłu: wakacyjna gwardia
czołem i kolanem w pacierz,
zbyt, nabity, i tym, wymuszony;
skragi: ostatek.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
The warthog is terribly warty.
It has a million and forty.
You might think it would seem
A dermatologist's dream
To catch one while out on a sortie.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Somebody said it was Halloween
I hadn’t a clue till then,
But the street was full of pumpkin heads
Carved out, with the candles in,
And the kids kept saying ‘trick or treat’
Though I didn’t know what for,
They must have thought I was pretty dumb
As I shooed them away from my door.
Then Mandy came out dressed as a witch
With a cloak and a pointy hat,
And waving a broom they call a ‘swish’,
‘So what is the point of that?’
‘Tonight the witches fly to their mass,
Under a harvest moon,
Shut your eyes as the broomsticks pass
Or they’ll put you to sleep, till noon.’
I thought I’d better prepare myself
So broke out my scatter gun,
The moment a witch would show herself
I swore that I’d have some fun,
With Jack O’ Lanterns the only light
As the night grew evil and dark,
I almost forgot that we lived next door
To the Mountainous Ski-Lift Park.
There wasn’t a Moon that eerie night,
It must have been hid by a cloud,
I could hear the chatter of witches, laughing,
How could they be so loud?
At midnight all of the chatter stopped
And everything went so still,
Just as the Moon popped out of the cloud
And the witches flew over the hill.
I saw their shapes up against the sky
Riding their broomsticks there,
With warty noses and pointy hats
And horrible tangled hair,
I didn’t think, I just raised my gun
And I blasted a spray of shot,
And watched each witch as she fell to earth
Whether they would, or not.
Mandy screamed and she seized the gun,
Ripped it out of my hands,
‘Have you gone crazy, what have you done?’
She wouldn’t cease her demands.
‘I saw them flying, up on their brooms,
I blew them out of the air.’
‘They didn’t fly, they just held on tight
Under the Ski-Lift chair.’
Whenever Halloween comes around
I tend to stay in my room,
And woe betide any witch that tries
Approaching me with a broom,
While Mandy locks up my scatter gun,
(That’s the one thing that will chafe),
Then goes to the witches at the door,
‘Yes, the Ski-Lift chair is safe!’
David Lewis Paget
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
Then said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
W B Yeats
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 3:26 AM UTC
An errant knight
In days of old
With hazel eyes
And skin of gold
Did venture forth
To seek his fate
To rob, despoil
And desecrate
Through dusky wood
And sodden glade
His course was true
He never strayed
An ebon steed
It bore his weight
Advancing at
A steady gait
So when upon
The second morn
Astride the very
Cusp of dawn
A winding tower
Came to view
And from the window
Right on cue
A cry for help
And then redress
As from a damsel
In distress
A call to save
A maiden fair
With rosy lips
And saffron hair
To bear her forth
And find the witch
Who'd locked her up
That warty *****
To **** her minions
Stone her crows
Thwart her wiles
Then break her nose
Our noble knight
Did pause for thought
For many witches
He had fought
If you've seen one
You've seen them all
With matted hair
And tatty shawl
He took a view
That fair was fair
He'd only take
His rightful share
He left that maiden
To her plight
To save her for
Another knight
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
I knew she was a filthy warty old witch
Come to me a ****** beauty
••
(The eyes of envy upon me as
We strutted thru the corridors!)
••
Even as her deseases started crawling
Painfully thru my body
••
••
Now I lie hideous and hidden in black woods
And knowing that I
Shall never die
••
Remembering
Remembering
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state
sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing
semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification
dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits
steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers
deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle
relegates human husks,
viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked
witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Tonight, the sweat of the earth hangs heavily in the thick August darkness. Standing in the yard beneath the fat buttercream moon, I muse on the emptiness of dusk, on the lifeless hollow of another quiet night.
At my feet, deep within a thick forest of rye grass, a hidden world writhes. The swollen moon has awoken the tumescent locust, who lunges, twitching through densely packed pthalo blades as he presses toward the siren song of a distant lover. Leaping forward, he startles corn borers and cabbage moths into flight which scatter upward like petals caught by the ancient wind. Abruptly, one petal is plucked from the sky, dragged back to the dark earth by the silent toad, soft pale wings disappearing within a vast and warty grimace.
Tangled in the rhizomes and soil below, earthworms labor, purifying the fetid remains of the surface world, while grubs feast upon the great network of roots, preparing for inevitable transfiguration. Pouring from subterranean colonies, waves of ants toil under leafy branches and plump rotting fruit, then return to their telepathic mother, abdomens distended with nectar and saccharin honeydew. Nighthawks and barn owls sit perched above, their gleaming eyes recording the squirming earth as they plan their swift assaults.
Amidst the chaos, amidst the living breathing wild I stand, a blind giant musing on the emptiness of night.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
oj nie, nie w mej "parafii!" po prostej: spierdalaj z tym dziwatswem, jak naj dalej ty potrafisz! kiedy by to znało swego ojca, by tak samo zamordowało swego nosiciela, kiedyś zwaną matkę: nie kuś... nie kuś... to nie prosze: to groźba!
to trza ducha trzymać -
i swą odpowiedz dać;
gdyby to nawet w mgle,
w ogniu,
w czerni lochu
dna bałtyku!
czy też
w węndrówkach
cienia: wiatru!
o czym, boga memu,
ja z tobą mam o czym do
gadania?!
czy ty wreszczie zrozumisz
ten żal, mego serca,
kiedy powiem ci:
kiedyś raz,
teraz "czasem",
a wkrótce nigdy!
ponad ten jeden bolesny
lecz piekielnie warty raz...
nigdy! wiecej!
wraz z swą morde:
zór kluskiem i kołyską,
a kwit zęba na poczęcie
gryzu...
aby to dziecie:
nigdy nie widzialo zwyżu:
ani ksziężyca, ani słońca!
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 7:31 PM UTC
'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
Then said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
W B Yeats
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC