"windbag" poems
There is an old story that my father
Told me and my brother when we were children.
It is of the windbag
Who now haunts the ancient diamond mines.
It goes like this:
"Boys, have I ever told you of the old windbag?
How about the diamond mines that poisoned it?
Well, this windbag was a miner
Who wore his diving suit and large pickaxe with pride.
Indeed his suit was pride,
But the golden diamond mines were lust
Lust that the old miner paid no mind.
For every strike with his large pickaxe
Was every moment his mind left sanity.
He wanted more wanted more wanted more
Always always always dreaming of glittering diamonds
That shrank his soul to stone.
He left this world no longer a miner
But a windbag lingering the mines possessed by diamonds
With its diving suit and large pickaxe.
One dark morning the windbag was mining,
It was mining mining mining,
Yet it could not hear the diamond mines shatter, crumble.
Its coworkers heard, but it only heard diamonds.
The windbag stayed in the old diamond mines,
Trapped in its diving suit
Trapped in its large pickaxe
Trapped in its diamond mines.
It continues to clink and clank
As it lurks amongst the silent diamonds,
Making only physical contact."
This story my father told me and my brother,
Haunts me more than the clink and clank
I hear while walking by
The ancient diamond mines
That swallowed the windbag.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:35 PM UTC
Fish heads for dessert
Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch
Canned laughter for snack
And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast
"But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag
"But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick
Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick
"Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag
"Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick
In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts
They picked their teeth with proven points
Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel
Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone
As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
that crazy man Rodrigo Duterte
best watch out or he'll end up muerte
if he keeps on being a windbag
he might find himself sporting a toe tag
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
You hate me with love,
And yet, and yet
It seems the heavy is the latter.
But how can I tell when you wear green
In a forest of pines.
The see-through skies,
confined by miners' windbag,
leads a thoroughbred
to a puddle
of muddy sand.
Do you, darling,
Understand?
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
Sometimes the ride is all that matters no direction has suited me most my life.
I listen to the music of the night and smelt the ocean as I tasted the salty winds embrace.
I'd come to an understanding of emptiness was far better than the false comfort of another's secrets were better off left buried with only one lost soul serving as the map.
I sat at the bar for a while not speaking to others as I found it far more comforting to be lost within my own lies and illusions insanity makes for good company.
Far better than the ******** of some ego driven windbag.
We were always happy in the moment but it was alone that let the demons wreak havoc upon our memories, why couldn't I ever just get over ******** and leave the past a corpse to rot within the ground?
In depths of your own thoughts you will find the truths that are not mired by your own lies.
A man's ego is but a wildfire soon to be out-of-control and so easily snuffed out by another's manipulation.
I couldn't give the answers when asked questions anymore, **** if I cared to answer I just struggled to exist let alone fix others.
And my vices were given the excuse they so desired.
Why can't we just be like this she asked?
Because moments my dear are simply that.
And time is a ******* of a friend who exist only to bitter you and where down your soul like the sun does to the old man's skin turning fresh intentions to worn-out leather hide.
Maybe I'm a ******* maybe you're just a ***** maybe were all flawed and I was simply looking for someone more ****** up than ourselves.
Stroke our own ego and say well at least I'm not that ******* bad.
I never care for the destination I simply exist for the trip.
Maybe I'm running from something maybe I'm just happy to escape, maybe I'm just a fool to life but I've seen enough to know the blindness of passion and the deceit of a well intending heart.
We drove from miles happy to exist and content not to speak.
Sometimes the silence says it all my friends.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Class action
**** the faction, fender bending
Render useless
Car crash contusions
bruised, burnt, alive
Crying from the pain
Pail full of optional rain
Falling unjustly
Criminals mostly understand
Benefits eat up micromanage nymphos
Following photos sold and sod off
Getting ****** time and time again
Sawed off block head
Chopping block
Reset
Rest again
Hospital bed
...
I woke up crying
Time to try something new
New age medicine
Stomach out the world
Something out the blue
Moving too much
Shut the **** up
Blunderbuss meets bell
Barely able to hear
Noisy as hell
Death is quite near
Airbag lining
Windbag silence
Far too much
Plastic in my lungs
Wind for the sails
Bailing out the titanic with a pail
Pale, like formaldehyde
Toxin lawsuit
Not a drop to spare
Do you got the time
Nine months to a dime
Rebirth is off the table
Eat the pie (If you're able)
******* mistake
I misspoke
Slowpoke, speed up
Runt
Get stunted from birth
Mirth in the face of change
The fire's still burning
If you'd sacrifice a turn
I'd be more than grateful if you could
Rain on my parade
For a ounce of gold
Cleaning out my brain
And the thoughts untold
Over protective claims
And I'm lying back
Lying bout my name
Just to make it back
Wired shut jaw
I mean that two ways
Split it up right
Money and pain
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 4:14 AM UTC
The wolf is at the door. He's menacing, a hungry predator out for blood, out for a meal. Death and destruction are in his sights. He's looking for a way in, any weak spot that he can find. Make no mistake--he's a skilled enemy. There's no shortness of determination on his part.
So he huffs!
And he puffs!
And he'll blow my house down!
...or so he says
But I just called out his bluff
He's full of hot air,
And nothing more
I used to cower at his threats
Until I realized that our God is greater
Than an old windbag
An infamous trickster
My house isn't made of wood
My house isn't made of straw
Nothing flimsy or cheap
No, my house is built on solid rock
On the solid foundation of
God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit
The story ends in that the wolf takes off like the coward that he is. His tail is between his legs, for he knows he couldn't stand a chance to devour and destroy my home. Try as he may, he's likely to be back, again. After all, he's a predator. But, to reiterate, my house isn't made of wood or straw, of nothing flimsy or cheap.
Is your house built on the Rock?
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 12:14 PM UTC