"woolly" poems
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
86k
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
24.4k
**** a polar bear's funky ***
**** a racehorse's **** with Heinz Tomato Ketchup!
**** a donkey's ****** ***
**** a male camel's **** with Hoisen sauce!
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a European bison's smelly ***
**** a woolly mammoth's **** with Miracle Whip!
**** a snow leopard's *** with whip cream!
**** a hyena's spermy ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a llama's ****** *******
**** a panda bear's spermy *******
**** a sloth bear's bootyhole!
**** a greyhound's musty *** **********
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
Polaroid, see what develops
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
You are my
December because you seem to
emanate a golden glow,
quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
brought by the northeast wind of
clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
wrap your arms around me
tightly, it
reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
my dear grandma knitted for me.
You are my
December in how you
light up my eyes like
the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
fireworks that set fire to
the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
you are a great gift
like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
you are a sweet treat
like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
freshly baked and toasty
you refresh me
like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
You are my
December because
you leave me melting
like the mini mallows sprinkled
on my hot choco steaming
You are my
December because
I love December
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
What can lambkins do
All the keen night through?
Nestle by their woolly mother,
The careful ewe.
What can nestlings do
In the nightly dew?
Sleep beneath their mother's wing
Till day breaks anew.
If in field or tree
There might only be
Such a warm soft sleeping-place
Found for me!
8.5k
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
4.7k
All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that today;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.
Tomorrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:
For each glance of that eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
—Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!
3.9k
*Sighting her image in truth's
mirror with anger she squealed.
Scratched her woolly hair
and ripped off her brown veil.
Broke everything in her way
and shamelessly walked bare.
But I had immense respect for
women, I give heed, I do care.
I went to market and brought a
bread while continued the unrest.
I gave her the bread so that along
with it her anger she could digest.*
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.
now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.
we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.
she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.
a day of rearrangement.
as you were.
sbm
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Every valley drinks,
Every dell and hollow:
Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks
Buds will burst their edges,
Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,
In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love
For birds to meet each other,
Weave a canopy above
Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain
We should have no flowers,
Never a bud or leaf again
But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird
In the rocking tree-tops,
Never indeed a flock or herd
To graze upon the lea-crops.
Lambs so woolly white,
Sheep the sun-bright leas on,
They could have no grass to bite
But for rain in season.
We should find no moss
In the shadiest places,
Find no waving meadow-grass
Pied with broad-eyed daisies;
But miles of barren sand,
With never a son or daughter,
Not a lily on the land,
Or lily on the water.
3.8k
train to Chicago...
See it from a train.
Should have called it
the Rust Apocalypse.
Endless piles of industrial
woolly mammoth skeletons
turned red by the rust
that never sleeps or blinks.
Miles and miles of factory,
mills, and foundry corpses.
The workers long scattered
to $10 per hour ***** jobs.
Businesses gone with the workers.
Globalization at its finest.
The end of the people's value.
Amerika crumbles of dry rot.
Enjoy your stuff, good citizen.
This will all come to you.
There is no immunity
to endless, mindless greed.
~mce
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
Bear came to do my garden today
It had got into rather a mess,
Sticky Jenny and dandelions,
Rotten roots and garlic shoots
Got poor Bear betwixed;
Hot and sweating, really fretting
Bear began to cry,
Why was it that I thought gardening
From painting let me hide.
But off he went along the fence
Pulling out the weeds
Found some bulbs that did not smell
Dug them up, as fast, as well
Now they're back in a different spot
Three short stems in an empty plot;
Made me laugh just to see
How silly that Woolly Bear can be.
Love Mary
Thank you to Ian my Gardener
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
White and woolly
Cotton clouds
Fluently floating by
I take my time
I take a ****
Smoke rings
In the pines
In laughter free
Among the trees
Where echos begin to rhyme
Come and play
Long in the day
The Oak is in his's prime
.........
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:06 AM UTC
Selfie... Selfie... The trends been going selfeye...
With this trend comes a blend, pouts... like they are kissing themselves for being screen ******
With social media in place, selfie is the one with pace
They even got an app out for it instagram, that make people instapout
People get 1000 likes for posting instant selfie, giving false notion of that they are friendly
People chatting all night long becoming woolly when it comes to confront with face on
Do you know the fun fact, selfie kills more than shark bites
Futile competition of FRIENDS + LIKES = NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY over the time
Close ones want to know how are you doing, a mere picture of you is just a façade
So when are you dialing that number in your phone, just to know how you forgot to talk
The very same social media that promise to bridge the gap, made you incapable of having a conversation with the very same friend’s list you flaunt
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:15 AM UTC
Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little childh
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.
2.2k
from dusk to dawn,
I wish I'd catch a wink of sleep
it certainly isn't pleasant to be going to sleep
when the rest of the household starts to rouse themselves
but such is the life of a closet insomniac
such is the life of one who lives in paranoia
such is, after all, the life of one who only ever comes alive
with the Night City, my Night City,
identified by the purplish-black clouds that blanket the city
and it's neon lights, for once again letting
us insomniacs become ourselves,
the ones who laugh and dance
and live and breathe when the world sleeps
the ones that return to existing as mere
shadows with the dawn of the sun
for us though, the awakening of the world is
with the appearance of starlight
with the quietening of most of
the sounds that plague daylight
random fires on streets are put out and we are left
to delight in the firey-orange neon lights.
aah. but what a sad time for us
when we become shadows
unable to do anything, with heavy weighted limbs
that refuse to obey any command,
with woolly heads and sleep deprivation,
almost-vampires for we don't sparkle
bruises under our eyes are barely noticed
for they are always there
during the day, shadows we become.
brushed aside and barely noticed, yet
in silence we choose to remain,
reveling in the knowledge that
night will return again.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother's milk
Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers' bones made white for miles
The pastureless wet pasture grounds.
Day after day, night after night,
From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
Instead of nature's nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
And rubbed it with a woolly head.
Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails
Skipping and leaping on the lea,
Bleating in tender, trustful tones,
Resting on rocky crag or mound,
And following the beloved feet
That once had sought for them and found.
These very shepherds of their flocks,
These loving lambs so meek to please,
Are worthy of recording words
And honor in their due degrees:
So I might live a hundred years,
And roam from strand to foreign strand,
Yet not forget this flooded spring
And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
1.8k
The
longest
ever
woolly
scarf
was
worn
by
Geraldine
Giraffe.
Around
her
neck
the
scarf
she
wound,
but
still
it
trailed
upon
the
ground.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
The Christmas tree resplendent, decked in magnificence
where peeping out from underneath, bought with benevolence
were gifts, keeping occupied, excited little fingers
the best so far, a wind up car, the worst, two woolly jumpers.
The aroma from the kitchen, kept wafting through the door
with greedy tum' a-rumbling, ( there's more presents to explore )
the table set in splendour, upon that festive day
the brilliance of the cutlery, displayed in bright array.
Crispy roast potatoes, Christmas ******* by each plate
brussel sprouts and chestnuts, ( our dinner guests were late )
roast pork and juicy crack-a-ling, fresh stewing apple sauce
sage and onion stuffing ***** were all for our main course.
Unwrapped and sat a-steaming, and crowned with holly leaves
Christmas pud' and brandy sauce, stared at with disbelief,
tangerines and nuts to shell, dried fruit and pre-stoned dates
and then... as a special treat, dark chocolate 'After Eights'.
Much later still, before bedtime, clothes filled with corpulence
my little belt let out a notch, to ease circumference
and then to bed, much over fed, with dreams of clockwork toys
of Boxing day, of games to play, of Christmas filled with joy.**
... ... ...
'trademark'
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 3:36 AM UTC
Face like a road map. Pock marks like valleys and the little blue vein by your nose like a river rampantly running down through the mountain of your defined cheek bone. Face like a night sky. Freckles like one million diamonds flecked across a porcelain night sky. Two crystal clear blue eyes like full moons reflecting on an untouched lake in the middle of July. Face like a razor blade. The edges of your jaw line so straight and sharp and defined they cut through the flesh with the pointed tip of your chin. Cutting the pads of women's fingers as they trace the delicate lines leaving faint pink traces of their D-N-A. Face like a Brillo pad. Face like a baby bear cub. Fuzzy and innocent in its nature to be nurtured in the way of the world. Like the framed moment of a woolly caterpillar being cradled by a toddler in the backyard on a fall afternoon in a pile of leaves freshly raked. Face like an anatomically correct hear. That ruptures and burst with each glance at beauty only to reanimate itself for the very idea of said beauty being some sort of purity. Some sort of saving grace. Re-iginiting in crater of eye sockets like coals that become diamonds under the pressure to cry. Face. Face like hands that hold mine firmly. Face. Like. F-A-C-E. Face like my person.
*Prompt from poem by Dorianne Laux
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Hey, Superstar!
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
it takes
is
a few too many Wombats Badges,
Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)
Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
You pretend to love festivals but really, you’re just Keeping Up Appearances; we all know that - like you’re some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn’t touch you. There. I said it.)
And then
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s
F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT
(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)
Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?
You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANY PAIR OF VANS.
Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?
‘Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.
And come back, in a FASHION -
Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
In the East, the sun luminously gleamed
And bid the nebulous vapors fly
Changing the gloom into radiant blaze
Cheering the languid drowsy sky
Lying in bed, I looked around,
Saw my room so cozily set
With things just enough to make it fit
For a sweet haven for me to rest
Each little thing in it began to muse
In a language discernible for me to grasp
Of the secret of success so elusive to man
Which striving to catch, oft slips off his clasp
The clock ticking away at the wall
Alerted in a tone of rhythmic resonance
That ‘each minute is precious and dear’
And not to waste it in trifling appurtenance
While the ceiling fan, spiraling above
Discreetly hummed, “Be cool and do not fret”
The open window, to me did urge
To ‘look out far and watch the world in beat’
The mirror neatly fitted on my bureau
With a gleaming countenance beckoned me
Asking me to ‘reflect’, ere venturing into anything
That from fatal fallacies, I shall ever be free
The calendar hanging inside the room
Reminded me not to lag or put off things
But keep my assignments and learning up to date
That to great heights, I can soar on wings
And the woolly carpet gently mused;
“Bend your knees and kneel down to pray
With a heart copiously filled in gratitude
Before a God who didn’t leave you aimless to stray"
With such counsel, silent and salient
Got out of my bed with resolutions profound
To greet the morning and start the day
In greater zest with a mind, saner and sound
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
CASHEW NUTS EATEN, BY AN OPEN FIRE
It's air in motion, the sound too soft to the ears and appealing to the senses.
The air so crisp, dust-filled and ice cold
The moon-lit skies, looking like the red night goblin was about to shower bars of chocolate and descend with his wrapped toys.
Some sweet jazz christmas music was playing in the background, Nat King Cole for sure.
From the old turntable came the music. Well mixed with the breeze thus presenting a never-before heard rendition of the song playing.
Once again the breeze blew heavily.
Trying to have its way with the open fire, burning some metres away from the large hut.
Earlier in the week, the cold North East wind had brought along some wild fire.
One happy family was sitting around the fire.
A man in turban and his wife with their handsome boy and cute little girl.
All dressed in warm woolly glittering sweaters and thick trousers.
They were all engrossed in what the father of the house was saying. And almost forgetting the wild fire had made them homeless. They had to settle for the large abandoned hut.
In between, they seemed to be chewing something.
Of course roasted nuts from cashew in a flat plate. All they had left to eat.
Father downing some fairly warm wine as he spoke.
He was telling them tales/legends of christmas and santa from all over the world.
Even the chewing horse relaxing next to the family, was enjoying the story-telling session.
Father closed his story book.
Together the whole family made and sang a remix of 'the christmas song' replacing the first line with 'Cashew nuts, eaten by an open fire'
Half way through the song.
They heard a loud bang close to their hut, something had landed in front of their hut.
It was a large box filled with swiss chocolate, other yummies, gifts for the whole family and most of all, a map telling them about a place of hope along the West.
On the right-hand side of the box was a large label with the words 'From Santa with love'.
The family, now relieved from the sudden heart-pounding sound and excited by the arrival of the gifts, cheerfully and gratefully started their song all over. This time it sounded like a 'reprise/outro' to an epic album.
This was the night before christmas and Harmattan just got serious.
Happy Christmas!
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC