"wittily" poems
Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
On this Ritalin,
I am slow
Brains aren't racing
Thoughts don't go
Oh, I'm so productive
Ask anybody; they'd know
But my creative spark suffocates
Under the Ritalin filled glow.
I can't even tell you
how hard it can be
When every word you say
doesn't go past me
I can hear every syllable
Every motion I do see
Then my brain melts at the pressure
Not spouting off wittily
They say I speak normally
The words come out so true
But to me they sound labored
So slow and confused
I have thought into every motion
of my vocal cords abuse
And feel every vibration
to my tingled lips amuse
Some times I'm real happy
no way my spirit'll shake
Some times I'm real sad
It's more than I can take
Sometimes I don't feel anything
That's a feeling I just can't shake
Sometimes I feel everything
And I'm waiting for my head to break
My doctor never gave me Ritalin
As a kid I never did have
But now I'm all grown up
And this time I've a' bottle in hand
I used to let my mind race
Daydream of robot bands
Now I've let these pills run coarse
N' hourglass runs on Ritalin slowed sands
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
informed him, time for us to mitosis split
we be like half-torn pieces of paper
towel, ripped poorly from the roller,
edged raggedy, mishap misshapen
torn~apart
mismatched
he was standing on one leg when he
was informed, confronted, he retired to
the challenge of savasana, the corpse pose,
before speaking:
we are splitting our baby, product multiple
of the joining of our intertwining, a lessening,
and how can we give that up?
very Solomony of you, my torn report, not wittily,
which paused him from talking without thinking,
till he accumulated his perspicacious perspective,
informing me in his kindly lord of manor tone,
wisdomy superiority, advising me Brandy fierce,
that more appropriate, better than my selection
would be substituting his version more refined:
Solomonic
an actual word,
and i heard the sound of paper towel being
torn into many little pieces, and smiled with
end-of-poem finale,
exactly
*because he was so wrong for being right
one last time*
brandy
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 9:53 AM UTC
I think I've decided I'm crazy
Like really lost my mind
But you're just as crazy
So I've come to find.
"Let's talk about how beautiful you are," you said
And snuggled into my shoulder
"Let's talk about spaceships," I said
Maybe I was growing bolder.
Then you replied, wittily,
"You'd look beautiful in a spaceship."
And that was when I realized
I was biting my lip.
Because you see, the mingling
Of the Strings, all around you and me
Have intertwined our crazy minds
And thus set us free.
I might look pretty in a spaceship
But that is not the point
The point is, the ground we fell upon
Has a common joint.
And maybe that doesn't make sense
But to me, I see the factors matching
Connecting all our String Theory Strings,
Each others breath we are catching.
And maybe that's what love is
When our wriggly Strings combine
Or maybe that's how you teleport
And even read my mind.
Either way, I think we're crazy
And match up fairly true
Pretty in a spaceship, or not
I am definitely in love with you.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.
How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.
Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******** Bertie "Big ***** Bloggs.
His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****
And then he croaked. Unsucked and unloved,
O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-wank on a nearby trolley).
These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
She loved it on him
Made her want to sin
He fulfilled her every whim
Always gave in
How he feels without her
Snuggled in its hue
Sitting in her chair
Such a sad view
The colour of her kitchen
He smiles unknowingly
Remembers her ********
Though always wittily
Her perfume simply called blue
Lingers in the air
He dabs a tear or two
Imagines sniffing her hair
Parents called her Violet
How could they have known
Her favourite palette
And she not grown
Jarred out of his reverie
A clapping of tiny feet
His hand taken lovingly
As she dances to her own beat
Violets legacy, beautiful
Her eyes a gorgeous shade
He called her Belle
Can’t believe what they’ve made
He drinks her eyes in
That colour unique
Breaks into a grin
His future not so bleak
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Methodical apathy, with exquisite precision.
It’s a sin if done intentionally, one of the deadliest.
If only the mind ran the body, inability would become a parody.
Gunpoint motivation.
If you fail that then you are truly exceptional.
You are the impossibility of reason, the magna carta of indolence.
Dust moves faster.
Synapses die, process is distress.
You may wittily reply, but your improvisation is a mess.
Follow through becomes a sporting term.
Creativity hopes to crash and burn.
Rhyming schemes fail to rhyme.
Like so.
Once a writer, now not.
Once unstoppable, now caught
Once an ocean, now a drought
Once a poet, now naught
Level of lethargy: A **** lot.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
Scratched the stall
Yelled at me in sharpie
From some non-washable preacher
Spelling out the lives of others
Or dictating to me
My own existence
Below pen wielding atheists
Wittily drew back
(or else not so)
Scathing remarks
In hen pecked hand
My thoughts overwhelmed
enveloped
By the smell of *****
A wonder
As to who decided
They needed to drop
Yet another five pounds this morning
Scarred linoleum stairs up
With odd
Unpredictable faces
Like ink blot tests
Deciding upon sanity
Sighing I dig into my pockets
Grasping my own
Trusty ink fed sward
Adding in my sentiments
‘People without lives write on stalls’
Pondering for a moment
What others will think when they read this
As much as I am
I am not a vandal
It is as much art
As this
As much the same
Sinking feeling
That goes with the fact that
I just want
To be
Heard
I just want
To be
Me
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
The dust slowly swirling, discs whirling into one lump sum, twirling of all the things undone to be born under an infant sun, in a clump of the stuff in which this sun was made up.
Loved in its embrace, of circling lace, as a gift to haste its facing into space and replace the place where empty space once stood
Call her wormwood, as her wobbling turns wandering, and wittily heads for earth, on the path of rebirth, to a compact burst of matter, scattering our planet in solar soaring of the seeding of our being from the black and back to dust.
Swirling, whirling, twirling, of the things undone, and reborn unto the dying sun.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Yestreen, the night cried like a flying circus,
with belts of hoots, laughter and howls.
Thumps caved walls like a drum,
seeking full attention in the early morn’s hours.
A shrill would chirm a space,
as a soul would burrow its place to hide.
The moon turned searching spotlight,
bawled mumbling groans like a child gone snide.
Screams were thrown in disgust,
like a temperamental mother in a sunken heat.
A whip-crack tore at the sky,
as though it swore I could never be true or right.
The rain had sounded like flittering lashes
against reddened cheeks cold, beaten and bruised.
It was quiet as though the right words
were not for the night’s embrace to ever be used.
The windows did cheer so wittily
like clapter belting the colour out of a smile.
The sky cried and wanted me home,
although I would return and never leave her side.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 8:19 AM UTC
I had spilled
my heart out
to them
and expressed
my desperate
wish to
join their ranks.
Apparently,
they had decided
to help me -
I am not sure
how aware
they were
of the fact I had
intoxicated them
with over-thought
timing and manipulative
words and also some
tears but maybe
in their subconscious
they knew,
because they wittily
called
the operation
W.I.N.E.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Charles Dickens wrote in Great Expectations,
of a Miss Havisham, who stopped her clocks
at the exact time she was left at the altar.
We were once waiting for the elevator;
once it reached the ground floor,
it indicated that it is at the 3rd floor
Wittily, you said, "maybe he lost his love at the 3rd floor"
I don't think you understand how poetic you are.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
I had spilled
My heart out to them
And expressed
My desperate wish
To join their ranks.
They decided
Without my knowledge
To help me
And am not sure how
Aware they were
Of the fact
I had Intoxicated them
With over-thought
Timing and manipulative
Words and also some tears.
Maybe in
Their subconscious they
Knew, because
They wittily called
The operation W.I.N.E.
(But I am
Grateful for their help
At least in
Retrospect, I know
I did not fight alone.
I was not
Fighting against them
I was fighting
Against myself and
Together we won. )
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC