"waspish" poems
Call me by another name.
Call me waspish,
or boyish,
or fountain-mouthed.
Prate about the crooked,
curved curls of my red-ribbon tongue.
Whisper myths down spidered-ice hallways
about the melted wax love games
fixed between dust-dressed candlesticks,
and the unfaithful rumors
of wine-stained table cloths.
Call me by another name.
Call me button-eyed,
and hollow,
and brittle-garden crucified;
Bind my face with burlap
and replace my spine with
a wood-splintering post;
dry my veins gold
so that my flannel fetters in
the tornado-dry breath
of fraying hay.
I'll fight off autumn winds and
the gossip of crows.
Don't fuse my footsteps to the echos
of Lightning Bearers and Stilt-legged Shadows;
Fasten my shoelaces to the
anchor dreams of drowning cannonballs
where I will only spell stories
with the sharp skin of coral reefs.
Call me by another name.
Call me typewriter-toothed,
or backwash,
or eight-legged.
Just prescribe me a name
that I can live up to.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
She's all lies with lies with her pretty little smile,
her petite waist and waspish figure.
She's got the whole world fooled, including you.
You think she's perfect, a flawless, fallen angel.
When really she's the Devil in disguise,
with her all seeing, jaded eyes.
Behind the glitz and glamor,
is a girl burning with rage .
The black widow has come to play
She tells you all the things you want to hear.
She uses and leaves you, without any tears.
She'll break your heart just so she can smile.
Loving is something she can't do.
You think you are the exception,
boy you are the fool.
The black widow has come to play
You've become caught in the web of her deceit
The black widow always needs something to eat.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
The moon dangled hard through the city
and the moth-lamps hummed discord with the wetness.
The dripping stars like accidents in spilt milk,
waited for a mop.
Walking home I hallucinated men
coiled up with the smoke-stacks.
They pressed through the brickwork and
as shadows flickered in the street-light.
Though my torch cut them down like saplings
and the moon ripped off their heads like scarecrows,
each man was a sermon,
a vastness straining the borders of sight.
A tailored uselessness hung there arms,
waspish currents tore from their mouths.
Starlings turned on their cross-wind,
as messengers of some sleeveless silence.
The moonlight fell on them like whorls,
like hurricane petals, hostile
were the shopsigns, they moved backhandedly.
The gulls raged. The crows filled silence they left.
The shadows all danced to the back of my head.
And when I turned they were gone.
I'm plucking for life and a body.
That shrinks the world to their size.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
Your waspish smile
Stings me
Like a hypocritical barb from a jaded glance
A subtle trip, within a slow dance
Alas…
Your Poison ain’t what it used to be!
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 6:59 PM UTC
*No matter what new trick he tried
A new deodorant or mouth freshener
Sideburns, swagger or rascally scowl
She yawned, wore her pretty little frown
And swore that he was playing the gem
When he was just another line in her poem
No matter what new-fangled idea he brought
She told him plain and square in caustic words
He wasn’t an iota of what she wanted or sought
So he went back to nights of pining and misery
And morning vigils for the postman’s delivery
Hoping to be more than just another line in her poem
Thinking and believing he could leave and learn
He went abroad to build his sunken profile
In places where none could ever him deride or stifle
Since there’s always some safety in anonymity
But when finally he landed on their shores again
He was still not more than just another line in her poem
So let's live and learn to read the writing on the wall
No matter what; and no matter how this order might be tall
For it matters not what fantasies or novelties you conjure
From what exotic lands or eccentric peoples far and wide
She remains spoken for by the high ideals of her imagination
And you forever will be just another line in her waspish poem*
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:29 AM UTC
scream absolute violet
the vehement throat of night
blisters insanity
and some little reds
what talk like death
wriggling skulls
full of strobing darkness &
angry blood
scarleted in superficial heat
a thrombosis
aligned rickety knees knocking
weak lipped fire
, at sonorous clouds waspish dint
resting aggressively supine starlight
in crusts of vibrant tears
spotting ardently the quavering note of black
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
Their waspish comments pierce my soul
Like needles injecting poison of some sort.
The girl who greets me in the mirror
Has flawed features.
Maybe people were being honest after all.
Maybe I am what they say I am - fat.
Never before have I come across a situation so abstruce.
A desire to be be made of plasticine fills my mind.
Imagine!
I could mould myself with my fingertips
Remove faults, gain perfection.
I look around for a quick remedy,
Something to divert my mind.
Now that I've found it- thin, sharp and silver,
I hold it firmly and drag it
Over the soft skin of my hand over and over again.
It smarts terribly but it feels like the pain within is fading.
From fear of death and weltering, I leave my wrists untouched.
The scar remains as a constant reminder
Of the sin I committed,
Of how weak I was,
And of how I could not handle criticism.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 5:23 AM UTC
when when when
and the more I say it
the more it sounds like
another language, archaic
german or synonym for
rice bowl in mandarin
the more I say it, the more
it fades from minor burn
to casualty, from rhetorial
question to plea, until I'm
sweating out in my apartment
angrily slamming clothes hangers
into the closet, shakily raising my
voice at God like a waspish child
and tearing dresses over my head
proclaiming see? see? I'll never
get to wear this one either.
curling my fingers into the bedspread--
around bottles of tea tree oil and dragging
an old kabuki brush through peach blush
holding my lips this way and that, when?
when will it be enough?
When will it be enough?
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
There were sisters three, and they all were free
In a town called Tavistock,
Freer than they would want to be
As they stared at the Town Hall Clock.
‘Our time is running ahead of us
They will soon call us ‘Old Maid’,
Said sister Jill to the younger Phil,
And the eldest one, called Jade.
‘So why don’t the menfolk look at us,
We’re not that hard on the eye,
Certainly better than Betty Watts
Who married the stable guy.’
‘I danced with him, did you know?’ said Phil,
‘By God, he’s a clumsy oaf,
He kept on tripping over his boots,
And stamped on all of my toes.’
‘I had a line on the fisherman,’
Said Jill, ‘and I thought I’d win,
I’d give it a month or two to set,
And then I would reel him in.
But Nancy Croft got her hooks in him
And I see they’ve tied the knot,
I said, ‘but you were going with me!’
He said, ‘Oh! I’d forgot.’
Then Jade had turned with a waspish look
And she said, ‘Well, look at me!
I’m the eldest and should be wed
By rights, the first of three.
There’s only a single guy in town,
He’s the only one that’s left,
I heard him say he’s going away,
He’s an army boy, called Jeff.’
But Jill and Phil said, ‘He’s not yours,
It’s the one that gets there first,’
They were in favour of drawing straws,
But Jade had stamped and cursed.
They said they’d ask him around to tea
They’d cook up muffins and toast,
And then they’d see what they all would see,
By whom he talked to most!
He came attired in his uniform
His scabard by his side,
Placed his sword on the mantelpiece
Where Jade stroked it with pride.
‘My, but you’re a fine gentleman
And I see you play the fife,
How sad, you’ll march to a battle cry
Without a beautiful wife.’
He sat perturbed, and he looked at them,
At each one in their turn,
‘If only there were three of me,’
He said, but his cheeks had burned.
The sisters jostled to catch his eye,
Were heated and dismayed,
‘I know a way we can settle this!’
And Jill had reached for the blade.
She swung the sword and before they knew,
The soldier lay in halves,
She’d cleft him, clean through the waist, and then
She’d cut off both his arms.
To Jade the head and the torso went,
To Phil, arms worn like a shawl,
Which left Jill what was below the waist,
(She had the most fun of all!)
David Lewis Paget
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
Let's have a picnic under the trees.
Between the grass blades, a hay fever sneeze.
We can watch bumblebees dancing on flowers, they're floating on air.
We can eat sandwiches, loaded with tuna and cucumber for a few hours and delicious cream cakes.
Then came forth the wasps, not so pleasant, they bothered us.
Much more than the bees did before.
Toasting summer with ma, who sat on the grass, lemonade sipped by my mother and me.
Mother said" sit still and they 'll let you be".
Me being me, just had to flap.
Waspish creature got stuck under my cap, tangled up in my sweet lacquered hair.
I panicked and ran, flicked him out of my hair, out he flew.
Straight up my swirly pink gingham skirt.
Little beast got me, my how it hurt.
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
On the seashore
Her back an arrow
She marvels at nature’s flawless flow.
Luxuriant hair cascades to caress
Her waspish waist as if to stress
The point that it’s a beautiful mess.
As the waters make fleeting
Acquaintance with the seeming
“Stationary" shores, her figure’s spellbinding.
Her dress hugs her lithe frame tight
As all manner of inconsistency takes flight
And what remains is an ethereal sight.
It’s clear as crystal that grace
Is outstanding and seldom commonplace.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
For obvious reason:
There was once a lady name Annie
A very loveable, respectable Nanny
Her only wish was to become a poet
Without getting the terrible headaches
Until, she discover her grammar was uncanny
The beautiful tone of the poetess seems waspish:
According to the urban dictionary:
Once there was love
That left a light feeling, in one’s heart
It keeps us cheerful, even as ones recites bad hip hop lyrics.
Now it’s leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth
It came in from nowhere: out of left fields:
Ones can still pretend to like swimming in the winter time
Where bathing suits are 75% off the original prices:
In the Y.M.C.A the water is still in the swimming pools:
Ones’ ear is blocked with swim plugs:
Another problem, another loss of the game
Because, it’s still twenty below on the outside:
One’s heart misses a beat for the hundredth times
Warm body, cold hand and feet: not a good treat
Once there was love:
Now it's the emptiness of perception mode:
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC