"wenches" poems
During a walk through the hallway
of the primary school
I find hallways
filled with turkeys and leafs and stiff scrawled characters.
What is Mr. Smith's class thankful for?
Flowers and toys and cars and dresses and pink and purple and soccer and skirts and barbies and family.
How could you sum up all of the things you are thankful for in one word?
At the end of the hallway I am faced with a choice:
*What are you thankful for?*
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What am I thankful for?
Happiness, and family and security and nature and
friends.
I am thankful for friends.
I am thankful for laughs and chatts and cries and sobs and games and smiles.
I am thanful for ****** contortions and 80s dance sessions,
for inabilty to speak.
I am thankful for hobos, eating on the side of the road,
and for devious scheymes of intoxicatation.
Hep beni anlayan bir arkadaşım var müteşekkirim
and who listens to my sob stories.
I am thankful for singing in the rain.
And styling hair in the sink
for screeching and howling
and hissing.
I am thankful for obkirchergasses,
for Ströcks and for ice cream plarlours.
I am thankful for mentos,
and walnuts.
I am thankful for bad lip readings and hilarious youtube vidoes.
I am thankful for unknown languages and nymphs
and for eloquence.
I am thankful for good taste in music
and for strong opinions.
I am thankful for dancing indian pirates with demon chicks and fireballs.
I am thankful for two-headed teenagers and barbeques.
I am thankful for God and healthy choice prayers,
and Hawaii get aways.
I am thankful for huge, hanging sweaters and crazy, funky leggings.
I am thankful for deep talks about the world's lack of beauty
and for poetry buddies.
I am thankful for dodgeball playing mice,
and poor old wenches.
I am thankful for pirate and mermaid adventures.
I am thankful for the looks we get:
looks of loud disapproval,
and whispers of quiet exasperation.
I am thankful for golden men and loud singing,
for crazy dances with crazy cousins and cute brothers.
I am thankful for Aunt Jemima.
I am thankful for banging on metal bars with rocks and shouting at the top of our lungs.
I am thankful for climbing over gates in order to not step on cracks.
I am thankful for amazing humanities teachers.
I am thankful for a laugh when the day is over.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How those kids manage to fit all of their thankfulness into one word is beyond me.
Even the one-word things we are thankful for, must be described with a million words.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.
She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...
She is royal.
She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.
She is powerful.
She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,
Because she is royal.
Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...
She is priceless.
So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.
She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.
Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...
She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle
She is royal.
She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...
Because she is godly.
Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--
She is virtuous,
She is royal...
She is you.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her ***** feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
4.3k
In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang’d with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
3.8k
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
Strolling down the dusty road
I reached the path of an abode.
The Black Shamrock an Irish pub
I stopped inside for a pint mug.
One mug topped off with ale
That next to Guiness Stout
Looked pale, A Pilsner in the glass.
And down the bar a drunken fool
Sat staring with blurred eyes and drool.
A sassy colleen tended the bar.
And if your hands were free,
They wouldn't get far, for
If they reach to the wrong place.
You'ld a bar wenches Slap.
Across your face, and a spot of red
For all to see, that you got the Hand.
Of Molly McGee, a fiddler Bowed.
An Irish Jig, and a penny whistle.
Carried the tune to the drunken crowd
Within the room, a game of darts is made
While cribbage by old farts is played.
And the pints are emptied by the hour.
As the clock rings out in the churches tower
As drunks are Roused, and doors are closed
Old friends will stumble down the road.
All in an Irish night
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
Arrrh, here we be again
at "Talk like a Pirate day"
we'll spew our gaffs and have some laughs
slappin wenches bums, while we're at play
We'll have some grog
mockin the captain's log
reading lines of sea bound times
and cabin boys, he's flogged
When the eve be ov'r
and drunken we'll awake
it's out to sea, we'll all be
nursing our headache
Our love for wenches stowed
miseries bandon'd in the hold
mainsail's set, we'll not ferget
we be pirates, young and old
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
Bevelled slick edges,
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
There's many pairs I've fathomed
A poets stock and trade
A thousand couples counted
And a hundred poems made
But I'm awash with bafflement
A word eludes my wits
My sleep is interrupted
And it's getting on ****
Nothing rhymes with 'women'
I've run fresh out of words
I'm sick and tired of 'wenches'
And bored to death with 'birds'
It's hard to write a love song
To 'crumpet' or to 'totty'
Yes, nothing rhymes with women
Those women drive me *****
There's loads of rhymes for 'menfolk'
And equally for 'men'
’Aggressive' goes with 'Passive'
And 'Possessive' now and then
My brain is drained and knackered
And almost rhymes with 'lead'
I'd like to rhyme with someone else
And leave them in my stead
For nothing rhymes with women
And I loath abbreviation
There'll surely be no rimmin'
Or unsightly punctuation
The odds are stacked against me
So, exhausted, I persist
To find a rhyme for women
A word to coexist
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
dragons in my dreams
drag queens on my streets
where was I to hide?
falling
through toxic clouds
of atomic belched aphorisms
holding my nose ‘til my lungs
screamed primal screams
that nobody ever heard
with their ears stopped
like the rowers of Ulysses
while he listened to the
sirens
I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them
faintly,
like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the ****
but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches
and smell of cat ****
naked enough to have me covet
what they are not
I want them, I need them
for I don’t know what bliss is
bliss, bliss, bliss
is that what I sought?
is that what sages taught?
when they had me kneel
and put a wreath upon my head
told me to chant, silently, inwardly
told me there was no shortage of truth
I heard them, cherished every word,
no matter how absurd
because I thought they could help me fly
but then I choked on the smoke
from their farted anointed flames
that filled the sky I was told was blue
it was not only me
to whom they lied
who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts?
but when I awoke, they were not there
and all that was left in the waking world
were the scabbed burns they left on my soul
the dying crownless queens
who roamed the oily streets
the stench in my flaring nostrils
and the bit in my teeth
no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds
that would rain vain vapid truth on me
for the rest of my unholy days…
the rest of my unholy days
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
I quite like plastic sandals,
**** shaped candles,
and big assed women in my bed,
I like artistic folks and ***** jokes
and piccalilli on rye bread,
I like big gay men and Tony Benn,
loud mouthed scousers and Steven Fry,
I like The small faces whisky chasers
and come home Lassie - made me cry.
I like the upturned curl
of ******** dog lip
the hurl and swirl
of big girl hip.
I like Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
don't let *** take yourmind, bound together, bridge space and time. make love lick your souls behind, let it know where it comes from.
be subtle and sweet, bleed only for the ones who put food on your plate, never dull your blade slaying wenches for french fries.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
A Fool’s a gutter trap of drink,
Where wenches and songs a flowin’!
For none can even stop and think,
With “Hey ho’s” and music a blowin’!
A Fight, a brawl! A ****** nose!
Men knocking their heads to the ground!
Then laughter and shouts, oh so it goes!
Brotherhood and joy all around!
Oh men, we are so foolishly wrought!
A cry, a laugh, a smash, a groan, a grin!
Why the hell would I get on my knees and pray
When my heart longs for me to proudly stand in sin?!
We smashed the door and jumped the fence,
Sweet Jesus! The wind it was cold.
A snicker, a snip, nevermore were we tense!
The drink it was taking its hold.
We grabbed our tools and made our mark
We will never try to resist!
Why should I strain to contain my bark?!
This ******* world will know I exist!
Oh men, we are so foolishly wrought!
A cry
A laugh
A smash
A groan
A grin!
Why the hell would we get on our knees and pray
When my heart longs for me to proudly stand in sin!
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
###====(==O==== )
Troubadour’s lips do tell his tales,
to Kings and Queens and Princes.
With lute in hand his tune entails,
wine, women, war and wenches.
But alas his heart is heavy with pain,
from ballads of loves gone wrong.
Too real the lyrics, too sad the refrain,
for he has become the song.
###====(==O==== )
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
he waved her down to where he stood
but lost her in the neighborhood
of several hundred thousand other people
and by the time she found him there
his drink was lost, she couldn't care
she stood there drenched in sweat beneath the steeple
whining eyes,
like her mother
he never knew it, but she cries
like no other
he'll see her through it
'til she dies
oh no~
and never mind the dusty ground
with legs to watch, and Stanky Brown
is dragging through his medley, nasty fella
next time, carry her own chair
and iced cold water, put it there
a shady spot, not hot, beneath the 'brella
whining eyes,
like her mother
he never knew it, but she cries
like no other
he'll see her through it
'til she dies
oh no~
it's better now, she doesn't care, he'll find her here, or meet her where
the mist is cool, and nearer to the porties
she only wants to find her place, a laggard in the human race
and rather cold, she's old, for in her forties
whining eyes,
like her mother
he never knew it, but she cries
like no other
he'll see her through it
'til she dies
(bridge)
sometimes it takes you years to learn the smartest way is not to burn
though some folks like to hang out in the trenches
next time she will plan ahead and carry her own banner head and wave it high above the other wenches
these whining eyes,
like my mother
I never knew it,
but
she cries
like no other
I'll see her through it
'til she dies
oh no
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family
And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan
There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal
Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover
As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love
With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage
They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy
It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires,
Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates
Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money,
Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song,
Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue;
Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove!
Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove!
Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile!
Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu!
Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve!
By-Alexander Opicho
(From Lodwar, Kenya)
[email protected]
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
" The world does not need any more white saviours. As I've said before, this just perpetuates tired and unhelpful stereotypes. Let's instead promote voices from across the continent of Africa and have serious debate. "
Ah David, oh David my son
don't you know by now that white supremacy is the old black
they don't want the educated black like you
they don't harbour the progressive talented intellectual black
only place acceptable is the sports field, the drug den and their beds
but please remember.......
your only worth to them is your enormous member and passion
your hot chilli drive, your fabled great stamina and that shiny
gleaming mahogany hue, the stuff of dreams, no brains required
NOW YOU BETTER KNOW.......
if you dare turn down a bed invite in East London by cockney wenches on heat
Say good-bye to any life you had and welcome hell's miseries
How dare you, who the hell do you think you are
You think you're better than us, you think you're superior
We will take you down a ****** strip, we will make sure you'll
never have another woman in your life
We rule the world, you better know it, you black *******
How dare you
We will wipe you out, erase you, swat you dead like a fly
We will make you wish you were never born
Bro, you're not supposed to talk back
Know your place even though you're an MP
You are still a TOKEN, still a minority, still a ****** blackman
Just thank your lucky stars and shut up!
WE are the Supreme beings and we rule your ***
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
plagued by lethargy i am led through the internet
by an unseen monarch whose name is Boredom
until i go cross eyed
what does the good king Boredom seek?
not wenches or jesters or feasts to quaff.
the good king Boredom seeks to cease
but it isn't as easy as that
a battle looms...
Boredom rallies his armies with the deafening cry of a tyrant with a cause
and we descend with the dull and vacant hum of somebody who has work in the morning
storming the gates of the internet
we google things and browse youtube
we play meaningless games
and curse our broadband.
all while scrolling through a virtual popularity contest
a bottomless cesspit full of our hobbies, our thoughts, and pictures of us on holiday
we sit and judge eachother
the stench of jealousy and false smugness hang in the air
facebook is indeed, the great masquerade of our generation.
a battle ends
no wars are won
still the good king stands tall
still he looms. we are enthralled.
and so the cycle continues,
a swirling void of
acronyms and bigotry
of arguments and fallacies
no empathy, all lies.
stopping us from doing anything productive
or real
and like lambs to the slaughter
we are sent to our doom
by the good king Boredom
his cause is just, but he'll never learn
take advice from myself,
and instead of spending time doing something useless
find an outlet for your creativity
i ****** out a load of hyperbole
and here i am now
free of the Good Kings reign
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Somewhere in the world my loves.
Love is missing.
Missing in ministries, filled with the cry of the heartbroken wenches.
Stuck there perhaps for ever.
Muddy trenches.
Lined with lace.
****** soldiers losing face.
Their whips made of satin strands, taken from chocolate boxes.
Locked up in closets from the school of hard knocks.
Long lost in mines, emptied long since.
Little old ladies, with cute purple rinses.
A receipt signed in dragon's blood for the pain that they gave.
Save for the memories of snowdrops in June.
Once he stood there in doublet and hoes, a classless cavalier, who left much too soon.
At the base of his mountain from where she once fell, lived a tale on a lion and that I can't tell.
Only the lion can, the lion he's the main man.
(C) LIVVI
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
he waved her down to where he stood
but lost her in the neighborhood
of several hundred thousand other people
and by the time she found him there
his drink was lost, she couldn't care
she stood there drenched in sweat beneath the steeple
and never mind the dusty ground
with legs to watch, and Stanky Brown
is dragging through his medley, nasty fella
next time, carry her own chair
and iced cold water, put it there
a shady spot, not hot, beneath the 'brella
whining eyes,
like her mother
he never knew it, but she cries
like no other
he'll see her through it
'til she dies
oh no~
it's better now, she doesn't care, he'll find her here, or meet her where
the mist is cool, and nearer to the porties
she only wants to find her place, a laggard in the human race
and rather cold, she's old, for in her forties
sometimes it takes you years to learn the smartest way is not to burn
though some folks like to hang out in the trenches
next time she will plan ahead and carry her own banner head and wave it high above the other wenches
these whining eyes,
like my mother
I never knew it,
but
she cries
like no other
I'll see her through it
'til she dies
oh no
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Battered, beaten, bruised, Torn and scorned.
Women In the boardroom,
Or be you a nursing mother;
From the Alley to the gutter;
From maid to servant, wife or slave.. Lust and shame, follows our names No way to say no, No-way to explain Mothers in the church, they pray and sing
Keeping time with the music we play. Whispers in the back of us, as we shout And pray. Had so many children.. To care for, that we bore;
Life for us just one big ole' big chore. Circumstances dictated that we live in shacks, No indoor running water, in the shack Just a "spickit" and a toilet in the yard outback. From the age of fourteen until well in our fie birth to our little brown babies.
We smiled, sacrificed, our happiness, and our own lives, Pretended to hold on, when our faith had long died. We'd wash cook, sew, clean, garden and teach. In hopes that the children we bore... Knew not, nor suffer the same strife; As we met in this life.
When our children saw the wounds And the pain we've endured. We asked God "let them not be bitter nor dismayed" Let them succeed, and by his mercy be cured.
As the light in our eyes, now dim, is soon to be snuffed. The Average Black woman had been through enough. Battle after battle; We survived every war. Some women were self-made, others evolved higher In spite of the odds.
Though the abuser at Home did not want her to score.. Battered and beaten; She still held her own; Though she never saw Jesus, Somehow she still soared..became Professors and Doctors, surgeons. Inventors musician and clergymen. Scientist, dentist and politicians, Bed-wenches and ****** We did what it took to survive, we Even Scrubbed floors.
Disaster after disaster, there's is Nothing in this world; The Black-Woman Has not conquered and mastered. When she crosses over and is on the other shore... When her days on earth are finally done, And she wants to cleanse her soul.
She'll Tell God of all the things
That hurt her most here in this earthly life. Was being battered, bruised, and beaten... By the man that called her Wife.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Group think in unison disarray
morons looking for Camelot in mob's dive
we spoil for mind war but pray lend us our minds
in cloudy storms of magical red rains our brains were washed
to pristine white
Our masters tell us
its a remote affair so show us the moat
we will swim float and jump
masters says its a revolution
we are revved up but spare us the elocution
Some are saying this is mindless but we could not care less
though those wenches were careless
when they stole from the Moor
who was not from the moors in North York
A bright spark said its a vendetta of thieves
they cut of his tongue and said his brains had not
been washed proper
that he was calling a ***** a *****
yet the masters had taken our pitchforks and cudgels away
them dumb masters keeps on saying remote remote
and then control, control, then, power, power
now if you ask me fellow hicks in unison
this really is no time for **** roll
neither is it a time to go to the moat, what's it with this re moat
then they say its tower, tower
in Cromwells' name
are we being told to go via the moat for a **** roll in the tower
don't blame me they washed my brains a while ago.....
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 2:45 AM UTC
Barbies
their heads come off
so easily.
so i'm sitting in my room
pretending that i am
a ruthless
King
and these ***** wenches*
have all broken laws.
and they need to
be punished.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 5:44 PM UTC
Obviously,
the path
to salvation
took a detour
and missed
my house.
That's OK:
rather Pirate Hell
than Christian Heaven.
Finer wenches
down there,
better beer,
and anyhow,
I am allergic
to clouds.
~ mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC