"witless" poems
1. your precious smile,
that never failed to shine;
a heaven-sent beam,
that made my heart your realm.
2. your tenderness,
that gave me bliss;
how could someone be
like you, so dearly?
3. your good vibes,
that surpassed all tribes
in giving off the positivity
i need for my stubborn reality.
4. your talents,
that awakened everyone's hearts;
you are my significant inspiration,
you give life to my life's ambition.
5. your humility,
that's filled with sincerity.
while everyone else is toplofty,
you remained lowly.
not everyone as wonderful as you,
could show meekness too.
6. the happiness you shared,
at times when smiling is something
i never dared;
darling, it meant everything.
7. for your meaningful silence,
that gave me a better comprehension.
although your stillness was tense,
i knew in my heart it was never a rejection.
8. for your music,
that never halts to flourish.
music, your depiction of aesthetic;
through you, the melody will never tarnish.
9. for being your genuine self,
you gave me potency to do the same.
shamming is no longer something i'll play, for you taught me how to
end that witless game.
10. for bringing me daily sunshine,
for setting the moon & the stars aligned;
my everyday became better,
and i will treasure you forever.
there are way more reasons
on why i love you for real.
through the passing seasons
i could slowly & slowly reveal
and show you how i truly feel.
as time passes us by,
i would no longer hesitate
and keep my sentiments ensconced.
through the coming weeks, months and years,
as long as we have all the time
i would dauntlessly lay out to you
that the way i feel for you is true.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
Oh beautiful for specious lies
where Christless values reign;
for superficial battle cries
above the muted strain:
Diversity, diversity
God hides His face from thee—
and frown he should, while planethood
distracts humanity.
How sad it is when victim groups
monopolize the floor;
enabling the marginals
to agitate for more.
Diversity, diversity,
Your queer agenda rules—
with Balkanizing tendencies
imposed on witless tools.
Degenerate in decadence
the ailing eagle flies;
in spirals of irrelevance
through clouded toxic skies…
Diversity, diversity
the Left defines your terms;
the weakened body politic
grows sicker as it squirms.
Oh Lord we need a miracle
before the patient fails;
celestial intervention please
to purge us of what ails.
Diversity, diversity
We shall not overcome—
Unless the Lord reveal His word
twixt here and Kingdom Come…
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
5.5k
I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen:
Guarded by an Angel mild;
Witless woe, was neer beguil’d!
And I wept both night and day
And he wip’d my tears away
And I wept both day and night
And hid from him my hearts delight
So he took his wings and fled:
Then the morn blush’d rosy red:
I dried my tears & armd my fears,
With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again;
I was arm’d, he came in vain:
For the time of youth was fled
And grey hairs were on my head
4.8k
To wit to woo, or not to wit to woo,
Would wooing suit a suitor shy on wit?
Or would a witty suitor suit poor Sue,
For Sue aint one to want a witless twit!
If Sue is wooed by witty repartee,
Then Sue and suitor could be well suited,
But he who woo's poor Sue with lethargy,
Is like to like not how he gets booted!
So if you want to woo, and to woo Sue,
Then deign to don a suit and do your bit,
To shoot for Sue, your wit should shoot straight thru',
Or wooing Sue aint worth a sack of spit;
Poor Sue just wants a witty suitor, see?
So if your wit is wanting, leave her be!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety
year old woman who was combing
out her long white wraith hair
is gone, embalmed even now,
even tonight her arms are smooth
muskets at her side and nothing
issues from her but her last word - "Oh." Surprised by death.
It is snowing. Paper spots
are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs. Death is here!
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling, "Oh."
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement. Snow!
See the mark, the pock, the pock!
Meanwhile you pour tea
with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your
forefinger and point it at my temple,
saying, "You suicide *****
I'd like to take a corkscrew
and ***** out all your brains
and you'd never be back ever."
And I close my eyes over the steaming
tea and see God opening His teeth.
"Oh." He says.
I see the child in me writing, "Oh."
Oh, my dear, not why.
3.9k
It was a link like the one between bonds ,
Irreplaceable and impeccable.
Bestfriends , what they said they were.
When together , they gained a definite optimum.
Fancied by the crowd ,
But deep down pitied by all.
Hearts pumped with the same rhythms ,
The same hesitancy and same agitations.
Bestfriends , what they said they were .
A bit drowsy , a bit shattered
What to consider next ,
Was her only possible quest.
But sooner or later ,
She will perceive the certainty ,
That it was no more than a witless sanction ,
Bestfriends what they said they were.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
To my boss, I'd like to dedicate
This jovial kind of poem
though It really turns my stomach
Knowing that I know him
I'd like to feign concern
For all his woes and cares
And pat him firmly, on the back
Atop a flight of stairs
When he goes on holiday
I like to wish him well
And hope he's going somewhere warm
Like the furnaces of Hell
He meets with lots of people
Such as his clients and bookkeeper
Why can't he meet someone new?
Like for instance, "The grim reaper"
If he should pop his mortal coil
That would not make me grieve
The thing that ticks me off the most
Is, he shares the air I breathe
He bores me with his witless jokes
They're no cause for celebration
The only time he'll make me smile
Is at his burial or cremation
Nobody seems to like him
That's not open for debate
I suspect when he's behind closed doors
He likes to … err… fiddle
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
Sailing soft, frozen in time--
Sat on your chair where I could've sworn
I saw a past life regression flash along
Your face. Stuck there now,
I'm alone now and forever forth.
For years I stored half my cash into a box
without second thought
just to end up spending it all in six months.
that last crash erased all the academic pablum
that proved less required reading
more distraction.
Just a border now,
head against an extending wall,
Witless and stonecold sober;
At ease with every unanswered craving
And coexisting with a life where nothing goes
according to plan.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Posses, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger's feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.
2.9k
is it love
or the parasite ?
my pilot bulk
aims for relief
it pursues this via
your romantic correction
in public arena
a library stair
(i never prior encountered you)
one step as foreigner
the approach
and upon a swift internal pendulum
i make witless incisions
hurried mended sentences
directed stuns
invasive
i demand the compromise
of your company
hastily push at boundaries and
you're not so accommodating
but
on a further occasion
same building
we exchange a battering of conversation
that
then
matures
into barter-like use of language
despite my harassments
a civil cultivation is unearthed
tongue within this intelligence effort i lessen
loosen my demanding appearance
disregard my dignity
a skin suit about the ankles
you're open in a vein of similarity
you flesh out your own controls
we've progressed quickly
there's an aped conduct
and flashing attitudes
this time we share table space
a nearby café
we have become quite unmanned
repeated meet ups
upon humours we adjust small habits
and shake on perceptions where we overlap
it becomes
more an overlay of rationalities
than resented promises
fast time passes and
i move into your living space
i pick a wildflower
and put it in the tiny vase on your dining table
we agree on its colour
we agree on a book to make our bible material
we agree on the pitch of the tinnitus we share
the clothes i am to wear
i switch to your diet
and you cease taking medications
we sleep on your lawn like children
and bring down the night sky for comfort
during the day we wear our sleep
like a lubrication for our chores
and go about our productivity
in genuine partnership
yet
i feel we're just out of reach
of some dark harm
we are an excellent sample pair
it is all vital
we grow stronger the more we quiz it
recycling our **********
refine our agreements
await further impulses
and come closer to plug
so..
do we please love
or simply indulge a parasite ?
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 10:28 PM UTC
It’s silly to me now
The time I spent training myself
To adorn in ways they asked of me, ways
That seemed inarguable and sacrosanct, yet
The voice rose from no lone nor supreme source.
It is partly my wrong to have placed those
Fashionable tones in such an order
On my plate and to have eaten them,
Wholeheartedly expectant of nourishment.
Those infectious suggestions of
Curled strands and trimmed outlines,
Distilled traits and clothing bait,
Burned skin kept thin and a curtain
To cover what is truly mine, tucked behind
A clear line in dim light –
These witless insistings
Were never uttered from my bones.
My flesh came forth without a list
Of how I could best fit it, only drove
Life into limbs I was
Already fitted in.
Those demands never sparked
A fire inside my furnace, only
Stole from that which keeps me burning
For true things and tiny, unknown springs.
From inside, I hear more beautiful voices
That sigh and sing forms into being from
Places of unabashed inspiration –
They are the humming variety of
The sound that takes place in me
Which wells and swells and tells me
Stories of all it finds peaceful and lovely
Without and within me.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
I have some very destructive tendencies
I'm a bad judge of character
Whether the the character is my own or not
Begs to be determined.
I tried the pretty, pleasant method
Of letting the venom from my veins
But these emotions have succeeded in their task
Of rotting me from the inside out.
The floor embraced my pen
And my ears were lovingly teased
I tried to fall into the high from my headset
But your passion did not sate me.
Elemental damage was never my strong suit
As prone as we are to wildfires
You'd think the liquid cauterizing me
Would hurt less than these god **** thoughts.
And tonight the truth made its way to me
My shadow understands; his love is pure
I'm a cruel, witless ***** a scourge in my own right
But he still dries my tears.
I can't even pretend I'm not hurt
So I'm voiding my lungs tonight
Peppered smoke promises relief
But I'm soon discerning the lie.
We are back to square one but
All the pop music these days is too melancholy
I've had altitude sickness before,
But this time it's different.
And I smile,
a painful thing that I'm glad there's no evidence of
I told you these things are rare, like you
This inspiration at the cost of my heart
But this is my salvation
When you move from prose to poetry
That's when I'm done with you.
My habits die hard
But unlike you, the feelings, the talent,
the slow agonizing death by fire,
the bad character
are all mine.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Maybe it isn't who's right and who's wrong,
in matters to do with the heart.
Maybe we're actually all just scared witless,
of the uncertainty that lies behind the word 'restart'.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
Fine, you win, you're right.
I’ve been hiding remainder feelings
Under my white duvet cover.
Can't believe that it used to be ours.
Kept on telling myself witless lies,
Such as "I've run out of washing liquid".
Kept on smelling what’s left of us in it,
Waiting for one final clearance.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Ill-gotten knave! Thy witless candle burns
Bright as a baboon's **** Thy gnarlèd brows
Greet, meet and mingle like the wildling ferns
And thy breath turns and churns insides of cows!
Thou stompest me? Ha! Bring thy brothers all,
Beneath my steely boot thou shall be trod!
Dust be thy supper, feast upon thy fall,
Eat hearty of thy just deserted sod!
Thou comest hither with thy merry folk,
Thou japes a merry jest upon my kin?
Thy bandy leggèd jiggery a joke,
To spilleth of mine cup is thine own sin!
If thou be not afraid, let thee not hide,
My gauntlet speaks! Will thou comest outside?
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
morning
the city is gruffly petted with heat
buildings quiver in the primeval whither
wide mouthed and whiskered
the catfish thrive in the sewers
taking aggression to the air and fixing to the trees
the insects speed into vigorous breeding
in the populated afternoon city is sternly scored
pressed down on its wilted fur pushed from back to front
each itchy person is its own greasy hair
salt beads from brows and stinging eyes are blinded
scolded and bonded the witless humans slow
natures patient pace is not kin to their will
antsy
ticking noises and electric whines whittle the air
discomfort makes life immediate
a deal to be flustered with
every enduring breath is consciously felt
alive and in suffering
i crouch my form in shelter
a jilted couch to lean against bordering a grown over lot
watching the foxes patrol in sweltering sun
what expected prey brought them into the light ?
i release my hurt understanding (it patrols also)
my hurt snakes through the long tough grass and tacky broken glass
it moves further raised in a mirage hover
over welting heat from the melting tarmac
this way i please my way into nurture
this way i ease my suffering
hum with the wires
and smile at a good day putrefying
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 6:24 PM UTC
i know how you like your sundown
and that's me. a kind barrage of ardor
the moon's wit, witless in the glistening omega
and a splinter in the paw
of a comatose
lyin' to a dead sleep
preaching to a black
peach.
lurching from no obscene.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
According to William Shakespeare,
Poor Tom had wits
And was witless
All whilst in disguise
According to David Bowie,
Major Tom left our blue Earth
And got lost amongst the stars
Becoming the titular Space Oddity
According to Led Zeppelin
Poor Tom was the seventh son
He led a life of work and play
But killed his ***** wife
According to The Cab
Major Tom would sing along
Whilst chastising the dreamer
Or, perhaps, seeing himself in young love
According to all these men
This muse man named Poor Tom
This muse man named Major Tom
All suffered an ill fate
According to I,
Arrogant poetess,
I pose a pondering:
What if they were all the same person?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
Ole planned
to go
to Las Vegas
but he didn't make it
his untimely death
got in the way
(such are the plans
of mice and men
they say)
he even noted it
on his
Face Book page
mentioned
in passing
as if
a whole clear road
was visible ahead
(now he's dead)
but I can can see him
now in spirit
making his
own way there
taking in
the bright lights
the neon signs
the shows
to be seen
(getting in for free too
what a Mutley laugh
that will bring)
and Ole
in his black hat
and coat and shirt
and dark shades
making his way
at his own
slow pace
around the casinos
his ghostly hand
pulling a few arms
of one armed bandit
machines
while the punters
look on
**** witless
as the arm
goes down
again and again
or in the other games
I can see you
taking your own part
your sense
of gamble and fair play
wandering the tables
ghostly whispering
advice
(in your quiet voice
being nice)
having a cool beer
at the bar
or Jim Beam
or Jameson
if they've got it
you sitting there
the barman unaware
you there
taking in
the whole scene
the big shows
the bright lights
neon signs
wish I
could go there
with you
walk at your side
sharing a beer
or whiskey
a soft conversation
or that special silence
we often shared
when words
weren't needed
where the bond
was strong
go to Vegas my son
go to Las Vegas Ole
take in
the whole scene
of Vegas fun
my departed son.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
And what are you that, missing you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?
I know a man that’s a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?
Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?
1.5k
“let sleeping dogs lie,”
i said
as the ground turned sideways
topsy turvy
we made gravity our enemy
in our witless haste
drug driven day crusades
we became empty giants
standing on man’s shoulders
hoping to hold the sun
“dream your waking daylight,”
you said
as the sky shook itself
upside down
we made time our enemy
in your desperate rush
forgotten frail figureheads
i became fickle Midas
falling with the rising
daring to gild the moon
“our pretty eyes are lies”
we said
as the world fell apart
fault lines
we made entropy our enemy
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Grow up little firefly, you're running from a past that isn't even chasing you.
But if you insist on pretending that I don't exist I will continue my manner of work.
I'll make the landscape inescapable.
Zero exit signs, I'll keep you running circles till you collapse.
Your light won't shine within the shadow of my wings.
There will be no shelter from my storm, I am the eye, all seeing unflinching as you leer, glare, and sneer.
These words are the flames I breathe, your new knight is nothing but kindling, duller than his blade, slower than his speech,
I'd look down my nose at him but he'd get lost in the shade.
Is his love is too small, or is my conviction too great, whatever the issue is it's too late?
I have already begun, this song will ring until you see my sun.
So little firefly, understand this last stand, I'm only aiming at moving targets, so as long as you run I'll give chase.
You'll never be able to outrun my pace, so accept this end, drop to a knee and extend a hand.
Shake the hands of time and move on without forgetting what moved you to where you are.
Eternally unforgettable, unregrettable, unaware, and unknown.
Vastly veiled in a vision of lavender, magenta,and violet shown.
Eyes innocent yet ignorant, arrogant in false audacity.
With witless bliss and over ambitious affection fuel my tenacity.
I'm either up too late or too early, like a night owl catching the worm, but what's done is done.
These cannot be erased, replaced, banished, or be made to vanish.
So stand still little firefly and let me catch you, for only a moment to see your light up close.
After that I'll let you go, never to darken your little world again, trust me, a liar never lies about being a liar.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 3:24 PM UTC
A leviathan i'm beneath my skin:swimming
bulges veiny skeleton rippling dusted morsels
of
muscular innovations
infinite minute orbs bustling scarlet oxygen
my limbs
w,Re'tHe my copper hugeness
i'm so tiny, in your heat, innumerable witless drips of
sweaty hours drawn long nights groaning
in your skinny monument
i'm hip and teeths and fist and gnashing
thigh purple delicate spiderweb of bloodshot
moans
hey
VENUS and cupid a cushion for his pins
in your nudeness. i'm skin just crumbling to your fingers
in the finite naked cells of your palm
i love you
darling
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC