"wonky" poems
A person who has good thoughts
cannot ever be ugly.
You can have a wonky nose
and a crooked mouth
and a double chin
and stick-out teeth,
but if you have good thoughts
they will shine out of your face
like sunbeams
and you will always
look lovely.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
ME ALRIGHT!
She watches as
I write.
The soft wheeze of lead
leaving words in its wake
like seagulls following
the trail of a ship
clamouring after
the refuse of the mind.
Soon the page is
littered with words.
They crawl across the page
in their best 4B.
It pleases her to see
the graphite leave these
tracings of me
upon...beyond...the white.
She looks at the journey of my hand
as if writing were a magic rite.
She asks if she can
draw.
"Sure..." I say
and the words cease.
I just put the tittle
on an small i and j.
The words splashed across the page
like puddles of thought drying in the sun.
I hand her the pencil.
She shakes it and shakes it.
And shakes it.
"What's that for?"
I dare to ask.
"The pencil is too full of words.
I want a pencil full of lines."
"I see..." I say
even though I don't really.
Well, it seems to work for
nothing comes out but line after line.
She lost in the little planet of
her intense concentration.
She throws in the odd curve
and a wonky circle every now and then.
The lines look confused
not too sure just what
they are doing
on this scrap of paper.
I ask her what
the lines mean.
"The lines are you of course.
See...?"
"I see..." I say
although I don't really.
But indeed in this
drawing I am
very much
as she sees me.
The page never lies.
These are scribbles that were my eyes.
I have as it happens
eyes five
stuck on the side of
what appears to be a head.
And yes only one leg.
One leg with seven toes.
An abstract alien
bird father.
It takes pride of place
sellotaped to the fridge.
"Yep...that's me
alright!"
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Once upon a dainty hill
sat old castle of a young king
not busied by ***** thrills
but in the realm, fair Muse did sing
sorry as such
to trouble you sire
but farmer, lady and great squire
are, unto you, to enquire
how it is the sun makes such fire
to this the young king
furrowed his brow
and scratched his chin
and pondered how
eight days did pass
and woe betide
the pressing question
found no bride
the elders of the castle old
let fairy tales of disorder unfold
a great dragon they say
lit the sun
after finding itself lost
and on the run
from a shadow giant
of world unseen
but the tales of course
were all but dreams.
A little voice
filled the air
with light and weightless
soulful flair
a blacksmith's girl
of simple dress
excuse me sir
i must confess
this minor stir
has caused me stress
the young king bade her speak
and with that, the child weak
stood atop a wonky box
with certain eyes and wavy locks
dear people
i now must say
that it is on this cold and fateful day
my mind has led to such dismay
as I have learned to trust none of you.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
I once scurried through a jungle of tomes
From the languid turf of hazy hagglers
To the esoteric sphere of cryptic connoisseurs
The jagged rhythm pulsating with a staccato of pebbles
Not a placid clime but a wonky wilderness
Where your eyes rove for honey of rising cadence
Only to decelerate
From an alien territory to a corny scenery
The voyage of discovery must continue...
As sojourners of change
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
A Little Dark Humour for You!
Angels Don't Have Wonky Eyes!
Going through those gates of pearl,
Sudden vision ,
Lovely girl!
Charismatic aura,
All smiling,
Glorious halo,
Supported by nylon strings,
Unreal!
Noted,
This nefarious fellow,
Shocked to end his days in heaven!
Spun round while greeted,
By angel discreet,
Realised revenge was truly sweet,
Ex-wife was angel he did meet!
Angel turned to him and smiled,
No longer meek,
No longer mild,
Really feeling rather wild!
Archangel,
Fallen came to fetch him
Gonna take you straight to hell,
Said she,
Had to create a little story,
Dedicated to his lost glory!
With a knowing wink and a glint in her eye,
She grabbed his arm,
Screamed,
Sorry honey,
We gotta fly,
He made her dance when she was alive,
The karma effect,
She had revived!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
Out of the window
a courtyard yawns,
Passion flowers overwhelm
sun-brushed brick
A cat paws a
gutted cassette tape,
whilst pigeons
steal into the
forgotten yard building,
with newspaper windows
and wonky slates
I guess they own
the vestiges of the old
car in there now;
rust on rust on rust
Their own kingdom
in old boxes and older dust.
They aren’t aware,
of the lunacy of it all;
this human race.
People are just
no good to
each other.
Money before morals
before health
before warmth
before kindness
before love
before life.
I envy them,
those
birds-
they only
Have
to worry about
the
cat.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
when the doll's hair
became so tangled a
wild toothed comb could
not soothe it,
I took the big scissors
in wild frustration
from the drawer in the kitchen
and hacked away at
Lucy's hair like a drunken
maniac.
her duck-speckled
printed eyes
closed their mechanical
lids each jolted snip
and a soft tick ticked
as coarse lashes hit
**** plastic
the more
that fell in chalk white chunks
from one side the more
I extracted from the other
like a wonky scale
until the spilt strands
covering the floor
tumbled tears down my
fleshed pink cheeks
and I ran away to hide
under the duvet.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Wind blown hair
May 21, 2015 at 10:34pm
Her hair was the color of coal
But at times it seemed to be
The darkest brown of ebony
Her beauty was from outer space
As if outer space was seen from Mars
She was always in love with the stars
And she was from another time
As one always dreaming
She was never to be finished
She was never to be brought to pass
While she was awake
She was always looking inwardly
As her eyes were always closed
Swamped in feelings to never deny
She could never act
She could never lie
She would drift with every sensation
There was never any middle ground to be found
Because she lived there in her mind
She would go with the joy of silence
There was nothing so deeply from her beauty
It was as if an absence of complete
Absorption was her characteristic of beauty
She would take his breath away
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
When shadows once had echos
She would always fallow
How could she belong to another time
When Echos once belonged to Shadows?
Farwell to sweet tomorrows
She was never brought to pass
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
As the wind would blow
The possessive form
Her beauty would linger on
She was from another era
She was from another time
To hide one's feelings
As one hidden of the clouds
Such terms of a beautiful endearment
Such a beauty of imperfection to be unknown
From an image that was never shown
A victim of stars
From a canvas of sentimental shadows
When colors escaped long ago
from another grey world
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
I would argue that what is happening here isn’t the crushing of creativity but the addition of knowledge. As people get more knowledgeable they are better able to evaluate their ideas and sift out the ones that won’t work. Looking at the quantity of ideas for the use of a paperclip tells you nothing about creativity but the quality of the ideas might.
If we want pupils to be good at problem solving we need to give them a lot of knowledge with which to solve problems. There is no generic problem solving short cut we can use. The problem solving skills of “I need to put up a bookcase but have lost the instructions” is very different from the problem solving skills of “We need to resolve the conflict in the Middle East.” I we spent less time trying to find these short cuts we might have a lot fewer wonky bookcases and a little more chance of peace.
I can’t speak for all subjects and contexts but in secondary school geography we are constantly problem solving. It is what Geographers do but each problem needs a wide body of very specific knowledge. We look at how they would solve the problem of the UK’s energy mix, how they would improve housing in informal settlements and yes, even how to solve the problems in the Middle East (if someone without a knowledge of catchment hydrology tries to pontificate on the issue I wouldn’t give them the time of day).
The same applies to “creativity”. The ability to create is an important and wonderful thing. Music, art and drama should play a full and important part in the curriculum but they aren’t about teaching something as generic as “creativity”. They are about teaching the skills to allow you to be creative in that particular domain. Learning to express your creativity in art is unlikely to help you pick up the trombone and learning how to write is unlikely to make your interpretive dance any less awkward.
If you think that these things can be taught as stand alone generic skills (I assume you there is a 54% chance you are) then please do send me a lesson plan because I would love to see how it is done.
Conclusion
I think the term “21st century skills” is a nonsense. The generic skills that people will need in this century will be the same as they have needed in all of them because they are the things that make us human. I don’t think they can be taught in isolation. I don’t think we get better at “problem solving” by solving problems in different domains or better at “creativity” in one domain by practicing another.
Schools play a role in preparing children for the future and that role is to ensure they leave us as knowledgeable and well informed adults.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Is that presence always doomed.
anticipation of entering another's
life. The hope of them entering yours.
The wait. Knowing effort could
crack the very time they linger.
The fear that distance will cause
opportunity to cease. The decision.
The stop light switches from green
to red. Never seeming to be a cautious
yellow light. Informing you to proceed
carefully.
The feeling is wondrous with wait.
dreary with slight fear, even trepidation.
quite...anticipating.
Hello there, you're familiar to me.
Did you know I exist. Or are you
yet to forget my face as well.
Will you stay in my life or will you fade too,
amongst all the others, old and new.
how wonky a feeling.
very...anticipating..
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I
Am awkward
And jumbled
I fit together
Like sticks
And stones
With childs elmer glue
Like a macaroni smiley face
With the edges all wonky
And you say my "curves" are beautiful
But i say my "angles" are awkward
Too sharp
My hips
Too prominent
You can see my collar bone
For miles
My ribs are
All too
There
My skin has become transparent
My veins
An ugly blue
My freckles
Out of place
I just dont know what
To do
Im a scarecrow
Of human peices
Individually
Good
But sow me together
I dont quite fit
I
Am awkward
And jumbled
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
Night finally came down over town and
serenity hit like a scientist.
brilliant
like the man wiping crumbs from
his passenger seat at
a red light.
but the scene isnt what it wants to be,
something mutated between fish and primate
and now the strain's a little wonky
oh the absurdities of a train life!
two poncho clad players on the playas del mexico
he said "i dont
want no flat *** jeans,
i got a donk"
and the book replied
"i would rather lie with words
than people because
words cannot lie to you"
this silly dope fiend's fever dreams
scream lines like
the density of head is not enough
to contain the difference in integrity!
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:48 AM UTC
Oops I did it again,
I tried writing measly poetry,
Now I did the next thing again:
Oops I did it again,
I held my hopes up to the light like a moth with it's wings
So I got burned and this next thing happened:
The internet was down, again
The perfect punishment to my wishful crime
Reload, submit, publish it in public
And oops I see the error: wonky sad face icon, 404
My poem and my words are now Internet trash, debris
Goodbye old prose, goodbye sentimental meaning
What do I expect from the digital, the temporary?
Oops I did it again
I let my heart feel sadness, the madness of gladness and
Now I have Irish cream,
Drinking, stylish, from a coffee cup it seems.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
She calls herself Ethel Du May if you were to ask
But it's not her name, not really,
Even she's not sure what it is anymore
Metal framed glasses with a wonky arm
Skin like crepe paper coated in a layer of polyfilla
With rouge a plenty upon her cheeks, her lips and teeth
Her petite frail frame drowning in gaudy colours and faux fur
Rows upon rows of beads wrapped tightly round her neck
Long pointed red talons, the only decoration upon her delicate fingers
Sitting at the bus stop awaiting the number 21 to town
The time, quarter past nine, she sits and waits
Pressing her menthol cigarette to her lips and tutting looking at her watch
A designer handbag placed upon her lap filled with secrets
Boiled sweets, an address book, anais anais perfume
A hip flask of sherry, metal handcuffs and a spare pair of knickers
She smiles at strangers, at no one, at memories
She's lived a life you only read about in storybooks
And poems
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Black hair
like oodles of shoelaces
on the surface.
Skin turns to tough rubber,
fingers are lollies
left to freeze in a dank cave.
Above, a melting sky,
wonky blue and white
too far from wrinkled hands.
Electronic voices stutter
into her ears, a gargly reply
floats to nowhere.
Each second adds up,
each second closer to blackout,
perhaps a slow-motion wave cheerio?
She drifts deeper down,
a wrecked puppet
asleep in the sea.
Unable to inhale,
throat begins to scrunch
like a paper cup.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
when i first saw him
he was wearing untied boots without socks
sauntering across a hilly grass field
to calypso music playing in the
background or my imagination
i was so overtaken by his spirit
when he brought me home that
i succumbed to drowsiness for three days
curled simply into his armpit and
danced upon the galaxy
when i awoke he was massaging my feet
checking my reflexes for sun damage and
soothed my soft bruises with a milk plate
he kisses me in the morning with enthusiasm
and we share a room for breakfast as he
teases me with ecstasy eyes and i'm
no longer nervous around strangers
last night i danced across his bedsheets
he giggled and rolled his eyes at me as
i stood with the light of the sunset shining
behind my ears his rhinestone eyes locked
into mine for more than a moment and
my knees went weak my fragile hips collapsed
reclining into his chest like a middle eastern
pillow
i think his sweaty neck is delicious
as i sing to him through a vibraphone
in the magical kitchen
licking his skin clean i'm bathing
him in a sunbeam stretched across the tile
beneath the bay window
although i'll never understand why
he leaves or where he goes i know he'll
always return to me as the sun grows cold
and the white moon begins to weep her new
lust onto the blooms in the front garden
and in the meantime i keep myself warm
wrapped in a ball of yarn talking in circles
to myself spinning and catching strands of
cloudlight in my unsure hands
when i finally see him in the driveway
at the sky's edge picking flowers for me
the confusion melts away and the pain
from my wonky leg becomes
suddenly forgettable
as i watch him putting on clothes
in the morning just before dawn
or towelling off after a long day away
my eyes play with him and i let him know
how i feel with my body aroused
merely by his tone of voice nudging
him with my cheeks on the tight spots of his ankles
he is beautiful and strong full
of compassion and i'm so afraid of
being alone again i'll do anything
to squeeze him and keep him so
i scratch his back every morning at 5am
exploring the sharpness of his shoulder blades
to remind him of the things
we can do together
and to make sure
he's still alive
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
I have murdered another human being.
I have murdered someone like me,
Kicking and thrashing
Until his face wasn't right.
It was sideways, wonky, part of his
Nose touching his mouth, bleeding
With his cheekbone crushed inward
All from the swift power of
These worn leather boots.
He had held us hostage for days
Killed a friend of a friend
With a purposeful chiropractic crack
Of the neck gone too far.
We had been freed.
He had stood there smiling
As he dealt the final blow
To our esteem, having kept us
All as his sick twisted harem.
All it took was a smile and
I lost my mind.
Bashing the back of his head
That balding crew cut bloodied
On a rusting sprinkler in the yard.
My tired leather boots did the
Rest of my ***** work.
He resembled a stroke patient
When my boots held their fire.
Too much blood for a lack of life.
I awoke in my bed, safe and
Unscathed by my mind's loss
Of complete control.
Genuine surprise took me, seeing
Those leather boots of mine sit
Peacefully in the corner
Never seeing battle, never
My accomplice in ******
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers
the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky
some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar
your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal
Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool
you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day
no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach
the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off
and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes
what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked
when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me
ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck
almost crushed me
she said
good while it lasted
then eh?
no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things
was I?
you know you were
don’t recall a thing
you said
thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned
o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near
she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said
she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent
the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip
can I have some
of your roll?
she asked
sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her
thanks
she said and smiled
you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh
you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things
the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds
some party
at the beach
the night before
hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day
feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin
some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink
but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
We fixed your heart, it's all spare parts
Your liver ugh, we threw away
This one's new, the one we grew
It's going in today
Those wobbly wonky worn-out knees
Let's consign them to the past
With these bionic ones you'll see
You'll run twice as fast
Need new eyes? It's no surprise
We have all you need and more
Take your colour and your size
Down to our new store
Your genome's on our database
There's nothing we can't do
So come on down, no time to waste
It's everlasting life, guaranteed for you
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
The wind is always blowing here.
It rushes down out of the canyon
to the east
like a cavalcade of rhinoceroses.
The cyclists
struggle against it
the pedestrians
have to lean into it
the motorists
spend two dollars and ninety cents extra
each time they gas up
to compensate for it.
The trees on the eastern edge of the cemetery
are bowed-
to the west-
and their leaves don’t fall
they’re ejected
like screaming pilots from flaming cockpits
at wonky angles
until they crash into the grave markers below them.
And the headstones are all weathered
prematurely,
names and dates and histories
erased
while below,
wrinkled shells dressed in sunday suits
sit in metal boxes
pretending
that some shred of them
will last forever.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
If I could see what you see when you look into my eyes,
I think I'd see a person that I really would despise.
I'm not much of a talker, but I often talk too much,
I always think the worst of you, and judge you at first touch.
I always try to smile more but I'm often looking sad,
disgruntled, just plain angry, or lost in thought and mad.
I try to think of others, be sensitive and kind,
but then you learn that loving people get pushed and shoved aside.
I'm not much of a looker, as I was often told,
my face is very wonky and my nose is far to bold.
As much as we try and fight it, good looking people reign ,
but beauty is subjective, no eyes are the same.
I'd like to be a leader, but I'd rather follow on,
I'd like to be more confident but it all just seems so wrong.
I try to be myself because we're taught that's what you'll love,
but I don't think my brain knows me nearly well enough
I think what I'm saying is that who I want to be,
is someone different, someone else, anyone but me!
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
I am damp spots,
I am difficulty breathing,
I am drinking alone in the middle of the day,
I am bent book spines,
wonky teeth,
just a little bit chubby with no *****
I am mice nibbling at my toes,
fast food over home cooked meals,
envy over normaly,
and solace in art.
I am crying for nothing
and everything at all.
I am music none of my friends like
and I am fluccuating between comfort eating
and not eating at all.
I have grown up
I have changed.
I am ambition
and grown up relationships
and jobs.
I am nostalgic
and sad
and
I am drunk.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Gad Zooks,
the zedonk,
was mostly,
a happy little fellow.
but,
there did happen,
to be days,
when his,
incomplete
stripes,
got him down...
he was not horse,
not full zebra,
only part donkey.....
and that made him feel, shonky, wonky,
weird n'strange...
like an equine oddity.
not at all likin his bod-dity
when he felt like this,
he would run afar
and pray for god
to take,
his markings,
away.....
Granmama Zooks,
a zebra matriach
and of magnificent stripage,
found him this day
mumbling and crying away...
she then said to him,
in her best zebra neigh....
you are sad little zedonk,
to act this way....
you should think of yourself,
in a different mindset....
you have,
the best bits,
of zebra and donkey.
you just don't see it yet...
i've learnt in my time
you just have to work,
what your born with...
some times,
what you see,
as bad,
actually is,
a god given gift.
you, should be always
be proud of who you are
and what you will become...
people will travel,
for miles and miles,
to see your bars...
and will still be,
talking of you little gad..
as they leave, all smiles.
in their cars,
calling you,
either zedonk...or zonkey,
or zedonkedey too.
telling each other,
you are,
both cute and bizarre..
so my little,
hotchpotch friend,
be proud of you...
for in the end,
you will,
stand out from
the crowd
just chill, little zook
...and be zen.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC