"weensy" poems
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a cautionary in a coal mine
choking on fumes, next to the garden hose, all snakes and power-lines
entangled in the turbulence of absolute calm , a rarefied catastrophe
an asterix, just to the right
of the meaningless word
you would say
to me.
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a lost tomb.
teensy- weensy bones are polished
very close to microphones.
i would have to be the nothingness,
just for the night
[ followed by the longest day with you. ]
jimmy the lock
and fish out the quills;
we'll write a new desolation in cuneiform and iron will -
throw out your kinsmen
if they be discontinuous...
to shave a few hours off
time wasted
delirious.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Adolf ****** was a German I'm sure you all well know:
He was born in Austria but lived in Germany a long time ago.
He was a man who was fuelled by patriotic ambition,
(he had other things on his mind apart from big **** and coition).
The German people were the victims of economic recession,
Caused by the French government's revanchist aggression,
And der schoene Adolf promised he would sort out the place,
And would restore them to their rightful position as ze Master Race.
With stirring speeches and a fantastic propaganda machine,
His political opponents and ze Jews he loudly demeaned,
And thus, plus a teensy-weensy bit of naughty oppression,
He was able to fulfil his great and glorious mission.
Although some Germans re ****** were a little bit unhappy,
Most of them thought he was a really top rate chappie;
The rest of the world remained relatively silent on the matter too,
Not realising just what old Adolf really intended to do.
In the USA they gave him place of honour on the front page of 'Time'
Which surely sent out to Adolf quite a hopeful sign;
And secretly millions cheered him on when they got the news
Of what he and his cronies were doing to those Jews.
When a man like ****** you choose to blithely ignore
Then you should work out that what comes next is war;
Which is what happened with a Bang! Crash! Boom! and Thump!
But Hitler's not nearly half as ugly as that awful Donald Trump.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
I saw your wife at the coffee shop
You know the one I always talk about
It's up East Main, la-la-la-left on Crane
You should join us some time
You do love your caffeine
Your wife reads cook books
Did you know that?
I can't even fry an egg
Green brown sunny side up or
Unassumingly most usually down
Even with her gray hairs,
She looks younger without you around
what a shame.
Did you know that if I could find a reason,
I'd slink out of my chair and I would say,
"Nice to meet you, I don't believe I know your name."
As I think about introducing myself
It dawns on me,
She probably knows who I am by now
so that won't be necessary. Besides,
nothing makes me feel like
I'm wearing glass shoes
more than you
Honestly, Honey..
*I don't want to destroy the last page of the storybook
you've written for yourself and what happiness I've found
what teeny-weensy little bit..
suddenly meaningless.*
I put the shoes back in her closet
Woman's eight, half size too big
Shut the light as I leave
None of this ever belonged to me
Not literally or figuratively
Put the keys in the ignition
and I'm home free
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
Moi Saint Paddy Fake Trump Petted Family Irish vignette
At the tender age of fifteen years old, Aaron O’Harris boarded the Dublin gangplank and made a mental note to drop the “O” as this paternal grandson faintly recalls such anecdote told to me when just a wee itty bitty teensy weensy whipper snapper of a lad.
His decisive gait echoed across the wooden walkway.
Straight away (on that blustery march dawn – circa late twentieth century), he briskly boarded the ship that would shortly depart from the Emerald Isle and take him to America.
My paternal grandfather quickly wiped away stray tears at the prospect of severing ties with a large brood of siblings.
An abusive alcoholic father and passive mother would hardly notice the absence one son among a dozen plus offspring.
Matter of fact, a voluntary choice to become an immigrant in the Matzoh land of milk and honey would translate as one less mouth to feed.
The journey across the cold waters of the Atlantic began in earnest once the captain and crew pulled up anchor and instinctively oriented sights toward an invisible point thousands of miles distant.
While on board the long journey, he (known in traditional Gaelic as Sainmhíniú) kept the tedium at bay and kept himself occupied with divers pursuits.
An accidental trait eventually discerned in him from others to be a natural born leader by other passengers.
A good many of these other fellow countrymen and women (many with small children in tow) shared the common goal of starting life anew in the United States, and discovered him to be adroit at not only playing such games as checkers, chess, cribbage, but adept with singing (in traditional Brogue), and performing fancy foot work.
Improvisational songs (based on tunes from the home of Eire) evoked sadness at leaving the motherland (steeped in a rich history steeped in legend and lore), yet also excitement about beginning an adventure with countless opportunities to witness potential fortune or fame.
Visions of streets paved with plenty of golden wealth brimmed and danced supposedly available and within easy reach for those who possessed pluck.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
there was a tiny girl
who lived in a shoe
she had so much footwear
she didn't know what to do:
itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy
sneakers and pumps
and microscopic oxfords
that made her heart jump
the little clogs she wore
were custom-made in france
they went well with leisurewear
like her blue capri pants
she loved her ballet slippers
(the ones that did not pinch)
and preferred stilettos with heels
a sixteenth of an inch
her favorite choice of footgear
was a gift that could not be hipper:
a resplendent miniature pair
of magical ruby slippers
and she looked quite lovely always
wearing a minuscule diamond crown
and was the belle of every ball
as she twirled in her wee princess gown
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
Dear World
You never wanted us BUT They are constantly putting us in packs of 12, 24 even sometimes 64. I do get used every once in a while on black paper and it makes me feel young again. So if i were to have one wish it would be to use black paper more often ! OR even just to give me a head massage use me on white paper. I’m just so tired of being tall while others get worn down to teensy weensy stubs. So PLEASE hear our plea and use us more.
Sincerely
The White Crayons
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
II
Just let me flip the sign,
There’s no need to be disturbed.
Now that you’re inside, Sir,
Please,
Please, have a seat-
Let me have a tiny peek
At what you need
What you seek
Inside your mind,
I won’t tell!
Privacy
Is guaranteed
For my clientele
If you gaze into the crystal here
Your wish shall then become
Crystal clear-
Just a joke, my dear customer
To lighten up your mood
Now tell me every fantasy;
Everything you wished to be;
All the wonders you want to see
Performed for you today!
Oh?
What’s this we have here?
What’s that pretty bauble there?
Is it your pretty lover fair
With emerald eyes and raven hair?
I can spin a dream from that-
Are you sure there’s nothing more?
Nothing exciting in that head of yours?
It’ll be your dream, after all
Why not look deeper in my crystal ball-
You’re already here, within my grasp,
Surely that’s not much to ask-
I only want to help!
Did you ever seek to be a king?
Or was being rich a flight of passing
Fancy in your thoughts?
Ah, well,
It’s your decision, after all
I’m just the lever that makes the pieces fall
Oh-so-neatly into place.
That’s a good lad,
Reconsider, all your wishes
Can be had-
I can make them real today!
With a wave of my hand
I can make it all yours!
That is, of course,
After we discuss my fee-
I’m afraid I don’t deal in money,
Nothing so droll,
So normal and dreary
Really appeals to me.
But what I want, dear boy,
Is simple enough, and can suffice
Just a teensy-weensy, small
Tiny bit of your life-
Come now, come now,
Don’t make that face
Like you’re abhorred;
You’re young and virile, with much in store!
I wouldn’t think of taking it first-
Nothing so ghastly, I’ll take the worst!
Just a few years off the very end
You won’t miss them at all, my friend-
Time from when you’re old and grey,
Your body past it’s glory days-
You won’t even notice, I promise.
Of course,
For a slightly steeper rate-
Forget the dreams! How ‘bout fate?
Live the rest of your life in luxury
In control of everything you see
And anything your heart desires
That sets your mind and soul a-fire
Can all be yours as well!
I see I hold your attention,
Did I perhaps, forget to mention
That little trinket of knowledge?
See right here,
The back of my card
Underneath the moon and stars-
It’s fine print, I know it’s hard
To read;
I do the occasional miracle on the side
Completely, 100% certified-
Or your money back. Guaranteed.
You can put your trust in me.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Time does canter forth,
as inky blotches stain the ground -
violent panic whizzes and fizzes
within this wonderland now ceasing to astound
for the Rabbit was late
and Luck has fantastically fallen at the final hurdle -
the fragile hope that did keep me going
is now starting to throw-up and curdle
for despotic ink oozes from the sky
bleeding woes and pities into the barren sands,
as the sun shines on, the shock settles in,
I wipe away the tears with shaking hands
t-trying to ignore the screams (oh the cries!)
as my family burn within our flaming home -
with a slight flick of a match
everything I have ever loved has lit up and gone
five corpses of the familiarity to which I've been accustomed (smoking)
drowned out by the new stories forged -
amidst the loss Death lounges, burping and bloated,
satisfied by the life that has been gorged
("Oh my that was stunning! Now what next, toffee pie or treacle pudding?")
alas my mind shatters //-
-- // CLATTERS //-
eensy-weensy shards that a-pitter-patters
to the stale ground -
the howling wind tortured cries of the living
searching for the deceased that are never found.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
I find myself in odd moments
repeating a nursery rhyme
out of the blue
complete with the hand movements
Crazy, you say
for a 41 year old woman
to be singing about a rained on spider
without a small child
anywhere near?
I was starting to think so.
But then I realized
that it has been a season of
spirit drenching rain.
One catastrophe biting
at the tail of the next.
So my inner child came out to play.
Smile, she said.
the sky is blue, she said.
The rain brings new life, she said.
. . . and the eensy weensy spider went up the spout again
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
(now a penchant with less Zionist trenchant ululation to vent.)
Not a peep passed thru mine -
aye vaguely attest
what ten? eleven? twelve? age
of following anecdote at best
guest, but no
doubt yours truly
with figurative heart in chest
scared puny meek boy
tight lipped silently confessed
to foiled attempt, sans trying
unsuccessfully to steal a yoyo,
inviting tummy prepubescent
unbuttoning, a substantially
sprawling Holy skype sizing breast
of mine upon be nabbed,
thus aye didst detest
foolish kid ploy, and
(prematurely nipping
in the bud) messed
up potential life of crime
with first and only
shoplifting heist jest
for getting caught no a pest
key yoyo, mama would
(IF FOUND OUT)
axe me no quest
chin, but whack me itty bitty
teensy weensy derriere lest
quickly putting to rest
any Robin Hood
fantasy life of
high stakes crime pressed,
and squeezed out the noggin
with apropos punishment addressed
thankfully, neither parent
got wind, nor ever guessed
their beautiful darling
boy did test
petty theft, never
matured nor didst crest
into a profitable "yoyo
string Ponzi like
scheme," thus ballsiest
dare devilish and bitterest,
and laughably noble lest
act yours truly ever attempted
immediately ceased to shelve bravest
sleight of hand find
delve during broad est
daylight, I immediately
didst shelve, when clumsiest
initial foray into
the world wide web
tubby come cleverest
lad, this side of
Lansdale, Pennsylvania
many damnedest
yesterdays ago, never
took another earnest
tempting gamble since security
detail nearly wrest
head possible zapped feeblest Ames?
to pilfer from other
Department stores if pressed
for money no matter,
I might miss an enforced
hated ballet class,
with abs salute zest!
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
the city
filled in
the small
pond
in the middle
of my tiny
poem.
all the ducks
came to
my door
and complained
i am
simple
i agree
in the meekest
of language.
that they
have been
unhomed.
it is
my duty
they tell
me as a poet
to open
the door
of my
small poem
and let
them swim
in my bathtub.
i agree
it is tough
to be unhomed
there should
be plenty of room
in my weensy poem
for such
a small flock
of fluffy ducks.
the periods
are silent
because
they must know
something.
the ducks
fill up my
bathtub
as they quack
double sestina
to the pond
that has been
filled by those
unfeeling humans!
it is
hard to work
in such cacophony
such repetitive
quacking repetition
words
like floating wood
float to the surface
of my eye-ear
in spades.
often i type
my meager haikus
on my typewriter
with missing
chrome keys:
typewriter chrome keys flutter cure
clear water within pond flows pure
ducks like ink letters rise into line.
no
says my
inward-sparrow:
“that is an englyn milwr
not a haiku”
bless
you sparrow
i tried again:
typewriter keys clatter
rises like letters in moonlight
ducks swim on round poem.
Then the tiny bell
vibes
as my typewriter
comes to the margins
and quacking subsides.
The ducks come
to my study
and complain
that my typing
is quite distracting
to their
swimming.
The periods
can only chuckle
like crickets.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
When I was casting about
for the title of my autobiography,
Innocent Bystander was one of them
until I thought that, well,
none of us are all that innocent, really.
We can’t blame everyone else. Can we?
That would have been almost as bad as
Not Entirely My Fault.
Then I thought of
In the Thick Of It,
even What the **** or
Jeez, That Was Close.
But I started to think that Completely By Accident
would be best because, well, everything did sort of happen
Completely By Accident. More or Less,
Even though I suspect I also had
Some Role in Their Execution,
which was another title I thought of.
Dismissed Out of Hand was yet another possibility.
I also decided not to use Completely ******* Weird and
Diving for Deep Cover.
Outrageous Fortune didn’t make the cut, either.
But do you get the feeling sometimes that we're
dealing with Outrageous Fortune
and Forces Outside Our Control?
Just a teensy-weensy bit?
So then I wondered What Are They Going to Say At My Funeral?
Which is why I thought I should start with
Get Your Say In First.
But You Can’t Get Away From the Truth,
which is why I haven’t decided on a title yet.
I Need More Time.
Which is probably the best title of them all.
When You Think About It.
Mike T Minehan
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
t'was many a year ago I had eyes for these twins
named teensy and weensy,
I had problems telling 'em apart;
really, i liked both them equally
they were eyefuls, like bucket fulls of buttermilk skin
both teensy and weensy,
sang and danced akin to
the buttermilk dough boy in drag
They , teensy and weensy were like night and day
though, for once I put my arms,
mistakenly, around weensy
and got my face slapped.
I think I did it on purpose,
you know how we men are
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
i just read your poem Anne
about your desolated masturbations
after you fell through
into that atomized monoxide
dream of pantomimes glittering
vague shapes and black holes
where slumber sinks
and silence rolls
we couldn't follow
you into your
receding suicide labyrinth
of timeless echoes
past those dire meadows
of serpentine fires
and shrouds you saw
where life eclipsed
by cosmic law
so i read you
one of my black little pieces
of erotomania
headless Barbie ejaculations
all Marquis De Sade
shadow fantasies
of dead play toe tag
and spilt milk
kisses' true
under Habeas Corpus
sweet dead you
you made me giggle
like jumping jellybeans
and *** honey
I'm so glad you liked it
and your cute comment
about how my poem
made love to you
like multi chromed
teensy weensy
**** candy throat ticklers
at a careless Halloween party
where everything forbidden
in troves
is hidden by the hidden
how you loved
dancing with Night-gaunts
from temples of the astral
past those incessant ruffling whispers
past shadows flesh
somewhere high up
beyond the glimmering headlights
of muttering pastel colored boulevards
that flicker contorted images
of the resurrected living dead
still warm
in your dreadful toxic bed
so tell me dead girl
till the day i die
is it better now
beyond father time
no more words and wounds
no more toothaches
and lunging depressions
pulling you helplessly
into gloomy vortexes
shadowed cups
of looming spacelessness
with no downs or ups
instead you say
you're published
in the Dead Leaf rag
where words like shrouds
blur ballooning solicitude
of indecipherable
mirrored reflections
under tongues of crystal ethers
where life lives backwards
and you just
write beautiful
white
nothings
like flat eyed Phoenician ghosts
beyond the ages
in windless skies
on empty pages
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 12:46 PM UTC
(Me slippery fingers slither,
slip and slide splashing ala
Jackson ******* sans slap
dash experimental, swiftly
tailored and harried writing
style, yes on par with purging,
spewing, venting...unexpurgated,
unexpressed, unexplained...
words, which this Engelbert
Humperdinck singer/songwriter,
(whose name inexplicably popped
into the mind of this Dadaist)
offers "FAKE" apology for any
self inflicted, or sadomasochistic
flagellated cranial contusions
out of utter futility to make sense
regarding following gobbledygook!
GOOD LUCK!
Mine groovy palmar flexion creases
forever moistened by porous size
**** leaking levees provoking deluge
outranking Biblical flood - handy history
(in miniature) replete with Ark keel
logical artifacts discovered by hall n
oats marked wainwright - about 10 stone and
5 pound huckster, circa Fin de siècle,
when callous ten hooks (calisthenics,
eh) caught without Noah shadow of a
doubt proof positive by Matthew Scott,
(amat sure his surname) linkedin to storied
testament rivalling epic of Gilgamesh,
nee the entire spoilers alerts since
dawn of civilization writ small impossible
mission to decipher indelibly etched,
(what appear as Egyptian hieroglyphics),
methinks his perspiration contains
preservative agent, (a natural formaldehyde
like substance) generated nsync to maintain
eternal youthfulness, which stumps
medical community, and earned him
hashtagged "hotmail" (eagerly sought
after human commodity), a blessing
and curse palms plagued with chronic
wetness, yet lines (little flushed streams
of consciousness) rowed by itty bitty
teensy weensy merry daydreamers harkens
back when life held faint promise for
scattered (contra) bands of bipedal
hominids fiercely competing with trumpeting
(Taj Mahal sized) beasts (donned tousled
windswept hirsute trademark) Euclid
heir'm barreling along barren steppes
all around the one straggly mulberry bush,
where one pensive monkey (protohuman)
chased the weasel all around the world wide web.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC