"wishy" poems
old hunger makes us sick
forget who we are and
where we're going
how to see thru fog
how to pierce the sky
where's the truth in all this
mustard gas and lies
translucent silken shadows of people
wishy washy wistful thinking like
'o look at big sophisticated words dribbling across page - verbal *****
great philosopher all expression and
thought purge speaking in a vacuum'
petulant little lines for liar's lurid heart
petty little fines growing large from the start
what is this point you speak of and how do we get there
if it is really about the journey and not the destination
then can i get off right now
or
can i be seal eye headlight hi beams
is there trust enough left between us two
to go on down this road together
or part ways at lightning fork in path
no
i go into petrified forest bog
to hide and melt and decompose
bucolic rot under stalwart stoic onlooking trees
you go to riches, glory, ******* and now sprouting planted seeds
misgivings all forgotten like
irreverent, irrelevant childish deeds
and
i grow bitter and ferment
starving gut absinthe
filled with frozen wormwood lies
like Poe and de Quincy and all the rest
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I try to write a poem,
but poems are too hard
Rhyming is for losers
and airy-fairy bards
To put a pen to paper
and write about your life
I've had enough of all of those,
they only cause me strife
Free-verse script is awful,
for fools without a beat
Repetition's far too simple
just repeat, repeat, REPEAT
Those lovey-dovey ode-things,
that wishy-washy crap
And poems about hatred,
you all deserve a slap
Spare me all your ramblings,
I don't care how you feel
Your self-expression surely stinks
of mouldy day-old eel
To tell a tale of wonder
never ceases too be trite
To sing of magic wonders
is nothing but pure *****
Your metaphors are useless,
your imagery is vile
Your sense of diction makes me gag,
I cannot stand your "style"
So save me your quotations,
please spare me all your rhyme
Shove that poem up your rear
and cease to waste my time
I look at what I've written,
this jumble of clichés
Looks like I wrote a ****** poem
so I'm the one to blame!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
There was nothing I was ever so ashamed of
that I dumped it in a river to drown,
but one time my best friend accidentally tossed my pink fishing pole
into the bayou when a spider dangled from the line.
We were eight, everything was wishy-washy
because she called herself a mulatto like it were an insult
and my older friends kept mentioning that my mom walked herself
to a liquor store very late at night
twelve-packs bruising her German-colored shoulder.
I did not tell them my father had hidden away her car keys.
Girls teased me and I still wanted to kiss their cheeks at goodbyes,
The Little Mermaid featured at our sleepovers
saying, “kiss the girl,” so I did
but we stopped talking when I bought my training bra,
it proved what was in my skirt, my lips could not touch them again.
You cannot kiss a girl if you are a girl,
even if Disney movies say it is okay because Mickie Mouse
has no ***** to be ashamed of though a wife of the opposite ***
I learned important things until I turned ten
and Hurricane Katrina unraveled the bayou into my house
and I existed in four different classrooms in my fourth grade year
where nobody had enough time
to learn my name, much less the way it is spelled.
Now, in therapy, the certified insists
that I am a girl who kisses other girls because my mother
only put her lips on a bottle.
But maybe I wear striped dresses just because mold grew that
shape in my home on Camellia Street,
mud decorated the fallen refrigerator so it looked like
a cow some punk tipped over.
I just wish the sidewalk I use to rollerblade on hadn’t flooded.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
By serendipity's sake,
There mine eyes beheld her
Grinning with serenity about the lake,
Peeking from just around the corner;
Ineffably with a novelty luster,
Treading about wishy-washy skies,
Epitomizing all her ethereal grandeur,
That felicity exuded about mine eyes.
Alas! Only to turn around as to behold,
Vividly behold such novelty pulchritude
About her gown and crown of gold,
Than when it didst dawn upon me:
"She was discreetly decamping yonder,
Leaving me a desolate, in a vale of pain,
Down the dumps & a lonesome wanderer
Wishing to catch a glance at her again!"
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
I am stubborn as a seashell.
With persistence,
I keep washing up on your shores,
begging you to keep me
and hold my hollow bones like precious stones.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
Be so fractioned
my split personality be split
Never know who's comin' out
Kinda like the laundry mat
Does mine at the Wishy Washy
Funny how things get all separated
Whites all in a pile over here
Darks and colors over there
Breaks it down even further
Gotta lotta red
so that gets its own pile
whilst medium and light colors
be divided
Blacks and blues
just lumped together
Then it just gets all mixed up again
'Cause truth is
don't gots the dough to through
down that many loads
This riles Señorita Clarita
Thinks I'm cheap
so mostly, I end up lookin' like some
techno tie-dyed fruit basket
in girly pants
Yeah, still be wearin'
my sister's hand-me-downs
Be some hard times for
The Poet Launderette
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
On This Christmas Day With Trump
There's an odd Santa Claus
In the air
Riding and laughing
Atop Trump's hair
Even through the fluff
Blinded by the glare
Reindeer pulling gifts of prayer
Through the roots they go
Low lights here and there
Laughing in despair
** what sadness it is to stare
On a one,
****
White Horse open
Night mare
** ** **
Ploop
Open open mouths a sneer
Tounges at war appear
Whispers everywhere
Laughing in despair
Hats off
We spare
To the red suited fare
Abound
And confound
To Trump's
Wishy washy care
Waiting in repair
** ** **
Santa,
My good man,
We have clause
To tear
You're in a mess
To bare
For humbug in Trump
So held in arrear
We're crying in despair
Logan Robertson
12/06/2018
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Wishy Washy.
Tumbling,
Between high and low,
Hot and cold.
Am I delicate like the load of whites? do I need to refresh my color with a strong drink- bleach?
Or am I tough and resistant like denim? toss me in for an hour, shove soap down my throat, and I'll come out like new?
Maybe I'm a mixed load, balancing between the two; teeter-tottering from feeling to feeling.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
Yin and Yang have nothing on my
bipolar, wishy-washy personality.
I'm self-diagnosed;
a pile of mashed potatoes
where the butter's just not melting in.
I am an indiviudal,
not quite unique,
but quite right hypocritical,
and not so naive,
but I'm sure plenty cynical;
that's why I survive.
I'm not so **** conventional,
call me the Impulse Individual.
But to me,
that's not some sin,
I'm not compelled
to fall right into the wake
with the rest of us.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
hello facebook friend,
girl who dated my first kiss
girl who strung him along
and later dated a good guy friend of mine
and he and i would laugh at your quirks
long after you two fell apart.
whenever i think of people who like having *** in rooms with mirrors on all the walls so they can watch themselves from every angle, i think of you.
whenever i think of wishy washy girls who string boys along because they're afraid of splitting up the codependence even though they don't have anything in common with him anymore, i think of you.
to you, on your wedding day.
may the odds be ever in your favor.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
When I'm high, I'm high, when I'm low, I'm low. My emotions swing around the world, I walk the dog, I rock the the cradle. I've been off of the wall, I've discounted whatever is lowest; I stopped following the downs, to keep an opportunistic mind on focus. I'm focusing on the present, because today is always now. I started thinking like Buddhist, and I've accepted suffering for what it is.
I've become enlightened but there was no where else to go. Atrophy of my mind, I'm dying, with nothing left to know. Where should I direct my thoughts to grow? I desire wealth in every area I touch. A dreamer for every wealth I could ever own. Aware of power that draws spirit away from soul, I hear the devils calling and see only one road to follow. I've mirrored what I've seen, and copied any role-model, but now I see no-one else to follow, have I grown to where now I am an example? I'm just as confused as any, I see the reality wishy wash, I see a society properly programmatic willing to accept being brain-washed. I've learned I should never break the spell of one who is following their truth's, I've seen it as an ethical choice to let a winner win, and to let a loser loose.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
It's five a.m. I am dawn over, yet again..
I am the water I drink, the food I eat, the air I breathe, the sleep I sleep, the music I hear, the people I see, the places I go, the content I read, the player in my games, the epitome of lame, the disorder I blame, the weeping I wax & wane;
Chaos in a flame
I am the cigarettes I smoke brand name, unruly & untamed, the pride that I coincide with not having shame in who I am, the crazy in my eyes, my daughter's surprise, my fear's accomplice, my mother's only child;
What's worse, I'm wild
My father's little girl, my hair when I twist, & decide to give it a curl, I am five feet, seven inches short, I am a case to dispute, I do mind trivial pursuit, I am the upchuck I hurled, when I found myself among this world, I am dawned before sunset, I am still susceptible to surprise, I have blue/green eyes, I still can't see why god loves ugly, I am critique in concrete, on this couch I have a seat, three cats;
All lying around above below or beside me
I am beside myself, I need mental health, I scream with my mouth, still no one hears me out, I am down & about it, I gave up long ago, I am wishy washy windy, I cry tears laden with doubt, I too often have something that I worry about, I have been spread too thin;
I am disheartened on a whim
I am a cracked *** I am a blossom out of stock, I am a non smoking **** I don't get blown away like the leaves, I have skin that needs to breathe, I left my body because it's a pet peeve, I shed hair in long strands;
I am overthinking needing a weeve
I am punch drunk, I need sleep like I never slept, my pillows head away, I swept them up, put them down for a rainy day, yes I am a classifiable clown, I make path my own way, If only the right hook is in town, I am able to smile at my frown;
B E C A U S E I L O V E T H E E D E E P D O W N
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
Can I take a second,
To try and sort out the things,
Thats going through my head,
And turn it into a story?
Five people to tear my love between,
Is way too much...
I dont know who to drop,
Or which way to turn,
So I'm sorting it out with words,
Trying to figure this mess out.
Because being bisexual is complicated.
Can I just be married to my music instead?
No?....Ok.
So there's this guy...
Lets call him Derick.
Derick was the guy I loved.
I gave him my heart and my everything.
For nearly a year,
He was the one that I called "mine".
After school started,
We drifted apart,
But that wasn't unexpected considering we go to different schools.
We had our fair share of fights,
And dates,
And then our time was over.
Only to reconnect a few months later,
Which led to one hell of a scare.
Last night we talked,
And I think...
I think I fell for you again.
But then I think,
How can I fall for Derick,
When I also love Lynn.
I've known Lynn for years,
Shes been my best friend forever.
Shes amazing,
Loving,
And beautiful.
When our lips touched for the first time,
It was magic,
That I still hold on to.
I think I love you too...
But--
Theres also Ashley, Shane, and Cory.
Ashley was my first real girlfriend.
A person I'd known since before I knew myself.
She inspired me and led me into being comfortable with who I am.
But then something happened,
And we couldn't be together.
Every time I see you though,
I still miss the warm embrace of your arms.
Shane is just awesome.
His voice is---ahhh.
He's helped me so much,
With anything I need.
He loves me,
I know he does,
But I dont know if he loves me,
The way that I love him.
And then there's Cory.
I really like him,
And were in to all the same stuff,
But there's no way he could return my feelings.
We would never work,
And I really need to let go of that glimmer of hope,
That I have sitting in the back of my mind.
I love all these people,
I love them to death,
But I dont know where to go,
With any of it.
Derick just broke up with his girlfriend,
And he'd be my number one option,
But thats really bad timing.
Cory would be my number two,
But theres not chance,
Sadly.
Lynn would be my third option,
But she has a boyfriend,
And I missed my chance with her long ago.
Wow...I really hate numbering them,
But I need some order,
To make since of this.
Shane would be my number four,
But he's so wishy washy with all the girls he dates,
That I'd be afraid of heart break,
Along with that,
He's figuring out some sexuality things for himself.
And finally, theres Ashley,
Who would have to be number five,
Because even thought I love her to death,
I wont go back.
Shes too much for me to handle.
So my causers of stress at the moment,
Are the people I hold dearest to me.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
He was gawky, she was gorgeous,
wishy-washy he was, she, boldness in all its colors;
she kept prodding "Let's forge ahead"
grit was her essence, for her, was he man enough?
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
i need a girl who doesnt do drugs or any of that dumb ****
not always talking **** or doing ******** **** or running her mouth and ****
none of that ******** that cheatin **** that lyin ****
none of that manipulative oh poor me that cryin ****
that's all the same ****
to a person who sees real ****
no fake ****
no i love u no i dont none of that mixed ****
no hot no cold none of that wishy wash ****** sloshy
********
**** that ****
i dont want to hear any of that ****
or see that ****
i just want some real ****
someone who loves me
no ********
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
You slid to me
with ice on your heels,
flame on your back,
the wind in your face,
and the stars in your eyes.
It's a scritchy scratchy situation
made from a wishy washy connotation.
Shift, shaft, shake the muscles beneath my skin.
You crick crack creeped to corner of my grin.
Broken with a kiss, and sealed with a sigh.
You remain my favorite little white lie.
Confessing that I don't know why
I will write about you until the day that I die.
You pretended; I embroider the delusion
with every hiccup of a heart's confusion.
Remember, child, what you can't see?
I won't stop, I still fancy that fantasy.
I pushed you away, but you threw me out.
I was your trash; you were everyone's treasure.
Internally screaming with scarcely a shout,
all in all, the torture was my pleasure.
Backtrack back, to this and our state.
A slip of strength but not a slip of the tongue,
Because like destiny and the idea of fate,
I stopped believing in you when I was young.
So I stole your
ice for my heart
and flames for my belly,
because it's windy in my head
with your stars on my mind
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
If cupple were a word,
it would be
homophonically
linked to couple,
but there’s the small complication
it doesn’t exist, not outside
the confines of this poem.
Cupple (verb):
To gently join
one’s hands and hold
an object in a loving
and inquisitive manner,
somewhat cautious lest its essence
leaks out between the cracks.
Possible poetic usage:
*Spy me, one tiny dot
spiraling up
a spiny staircase of crystalline steps,
until I’m picked, pinched
and cuppled by a darling universe
before she takes me off to bed.*
Will cupple make a break
and elope with its old-world cousin?
I can’t say, not in a voice
convincingly heard.
You see, I’ve lost all taste
for those dictionary words,
a touch hushed within bindings, tightly bound
while my pretenders nose around
their glossy jackets.
It’s not that I’m wishy-washy
about cupple’s ambitions.
I’m just happy to keep it here with me
in my wish-washed state
where there’s no point
beyond the widening
smile of our gradual arc inward.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:16 AM UTC
You know all I want is to lay in the grass
On a hill with a slight breeze, and it's warm
And listen to wind chimes and someone else's
Steady breathing
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
at times, i wish i hadn't learned to love so much.
there is always a lingering weight in my chest;
my heart, already fragile enough,
fights to carry it through every waking moment.
hellos are my favorite things, but they're merely precursors
to the poison of goodbyes, to the sickness of loneliness
and the yearning to be elsewhere
in other places, with certain people.
tears fall as quickly as grins go from ear to ear,
roaring laughter easily fades into deafening silence,
and this wishy-washy soul is one i could never get a hold of.
but what would i be without love,
without the burden of feeling?
what would i be without the days spent day dreaming,
the moments i run out of breath
from gushing about people and moments,
the nights spent crying all alone,
and being vulnerable to the world,
but feeling the best of it anyway?
i love, but i hurt.
i hurt, but i love.
and that is all that matters.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
So I hear,
just today,
in fact,
I'm not certain exactly when it was said,
a reliable source,
NPR,
So, I hear that great wall,
the BIG & beautiful one
on our Southern border,
the one HE wanted to build?
The one he raged about,
& of course,
while it was always preposterous,
Anyway he says,
It can maybe be a fence,
instead.
Oh my ***
Huh, interesting,
Well, that's not wishy washy,
No,
At all...
solid guy, he is,
& along with all the other rapidly,
changing things,
that he was so very,
passionate about,
And given,
the absolute myriad of obstacles,
from forcing Mexico to pay,
(haha- good one)
yeah,
making Mexico pay,
sure,
By the way,
do you want to work for his immigration?
Cuz' he's gonna need a bunch of new
recruits,
if so,
Not to mention,
workers to survey & complete,
that ridiculous project,
the complex geological complications,
in an interesting terrain,
humph,
indeed,
& the endless wordly implications,
that and so MANY other problems
we face,
far worse,
& BIGGER ones too,
Seriously,
check it out,
it would literally take,
FOREVER to build,
true narcissism,
exists,
apparently,
Though,
he might have single-handedly stopped illegal immigration by being elected.
Mission accomplished?
Do you wanna come live in the U.S. now?
Hahaha,
So stupid,
not REALLY funny,
still good to laugh,
This?
This is who we elected?
were we ALL high,
on propaganda?
God help us in times of war.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC