"youngish" poems
Well, I've written two . . . sonnets . .
first ones from the point of view of a typical twit youngish bloke . when he realises his latest conquests a bit keen like . . . He writes a poem . . . Leaves it lying around carelessly
So I'm to meet .your mum and dad ? . . .
But I thought this . a one time **** . . .
Not children planned or Sunday roasts
I dreamt no champagne wedding toasts . . . !
They're coming round for tea . . tonight ?. . .
This ***** no longer feeling right . . !
In epic terms this now's a fail . !
I think . it's time for me to bail !!
Though . . something sparkled in your kiss,
A luscious tingling of lips . .
Add alcoholic lust fuelled hips
Whose groovy moves I know I'd miss . .
So . . . If I meet your mum and dad .
Then that gets me . . another ****
She finds the poem . . And replies . . .
Dear silly boy . who left behind
His hopeful sentimental rhyme . . .
Who fancies meeting mum and dad
Just to secure another **** . . .
Well pretty boy . . KEEP DREAMING ON . . .
Since any chance you had . . has gone,
I found your rhyme upon the floor . .
Now ******* closed . . as is my door
It's such a shame . . you'll never know
How far down I can really go . .
Nor that my naughty little hand
Is worth your golden wedding band
My poet lad . . you've well derailed
All future chance . . of getting nailed
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
I'll get me a yappy dog
A small one
Scrappy.
He'll screech and holler
Like a rat lost in the dark
Oh how it'd be
To bear such a mark.
I'll get me a mousey dog
A youngish one
Mousey.
She'll annoy me in the mornin'
Evenin'
Night
Back to the height of the sun.
She'll tap and scrap till...
I can't take it anymore...
Maybe I'll get a biggun one
It'll protect me
Like a gun
She'll keep watch
While I be sleepin'
Till they put out some food
And continue on creepin...
Well maybe a medium one
Crazy as can be
Runnin' out in the mornin' sun
He'll play catch and give chase
Run with the pack
Cageless and free
Until I bring it inside...
Well, now it's gone to ***
On the carpet...
Doggon it
Maybe I'll throw out that dish
Send 'em back to the homestead
Perhaps get a fish instead...
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
~dedicated to the heart fixers~
sometimes I smack my head,
when a poem commission is lying on
the ground before me, and I just don’t
hear it, believe it, in order to retrieve it…
many months of physical rehabilitation,
sessions always ended with a certain cutesy
Gen Z~Millenial crossover phraseology:
“remember to tell someone you love them”
the instructors mostly youngish,
so we senior~smile
a tad dismissively, give them a reward~grin, and
head for the locker room,
where we gossip and compare notes,
on the Part II of our in-process-future-realization,
living a grueling new life of self-preservation, 24/7
the PTs & EPs pound you on the machina, go faster, work harder,
eat better, sleep more, take those meds, motion is lotion,
walk the talk, never be still, but race to live longer and
prosper, this hard work is your new job, and resignation
is non~optional
now, it hits me, via a figurative sharp slap on the side of the head,
triggering an actual physical manifestation that reverbs to the toes,
that the most important lesson went under the radar,
evading the former trader’s dimming vision,
flunking himself on the rehab test paper,
a purple F for fool,
a grade, earned and deserved, and herein poetically preserved
the hardest heart work, begins only after you co-
commence the longest road back to where you once
belonged, but where you can’t walk alone, for therein
a recipe for failure; and the work that needs doing,
is on you; take that tear-repaired heart, and give it away, it,
one can be healed, but not if sealed, for the hard-hearted
walls thicken, and “*over time, the thickened heart muscle
can become too stiff to fill the heart with blood; the heart
can't pump enough blood to meet the body's needs.*”
so break off pieces of your heart, give them away with
relentless abandon, for this is the heart that self-repairs,
new tissue, new fiber, and most important, regeneration,
the one single reparation that can successfully
accomplish the true miracle of getting by giving,
no forgiving, if you don’t exercise the heart by
“remembering to tell someone you love them”
dedicated to the hard working staff of the
Cardio Rehabilitation Unit
of Nyulangonge, Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation
who started me
with a mighty push on the long road to utilizing my heart properly
<•>
Apr 26, 2024
Apr 26, 2024 at 8:13 AM UTC
A GIFT OF OLD AGE
If old age does a gift on me bestow
it would be just: silence
in my youngish and manhood years
I had exhausted every single sentence
erroneously borrowed from writers,
from professors, friends, the clergy,
leaders, politicians, loud-mouths,
fanatics and extremists ( I didn't know then)--an endless litany
and I discover much too late
truth is only a word thrown about
for the convenience of the speakers
the stronger their conviction, the louder they shout
as they have all the answers
' you don't know-- you out
there---it's about time you followed us
we'll rid you of every doubt'
how I detest slogans now
pontifications are the death of me
I am lost for words--silence I choose--
myself I blame for my past stupidity
soon, too soon I'll be walking
to life's terminus--near, so near-
with a tiny signboard ' finis'
I'll be quiet and calm --without a single doubt or fear.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
Observing
the fast food crowd
A Harried mother
with crazed kids
A geeky dad
with one shy child
A youngish man
with a face full of ink
A young woman
just here for water
and an old couple
they seem happy
the list could go on
A full crowd with little
to nothing to do with each other
I'd like to read their minds.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
The smashed cookies on the ground
bring back a snow-flaked flurry of memories.
banging the tambourine on my palm,
lying on the hallway floor
watching the elementary students in the orange light,
in their feathered, polka-dotted dresses
and crisp red-black-gold suits,
miniature versions of the worlds nationalities.
I stuff stacks of programs in my dry hands
trying not to look like I'm caring.
But inside I'm still that youngish girl lightly tapping the bass drum
and hoping that nobody's looking.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Pregnant she waits,vibrates,
a mud grey dull day
opening the way for her droplets of rain.
I do not complain
she's had babies before and wore the same dress,designed to depress and to send under umbrellas,unwise youngish fellows in shorts,who are caught out,sought out by the gushing and rushing and the dash of the splashing.
How rash
how unwise
they should have looked at the skies before venturing forth
because of course
I always do.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
An agony of a war
Within the family,
Twelve, we were
born, the first not
I am and, the first
just I am
A bigamy,
sometimes is
raw deal and,
outrageous is always
planting, on the
farm yard of a family
tree and it's branches,
there is hatred between
brethren of the same
parental map, the
youngish feel to
count out the unyoung
for no reason but, to
take the rag coiled
the head of the
Kingdom, where all
they lives and dwell,
I am more than pliable
and I am in the plight
mode like I plight to
someone throth having
no wealth, my heart feet
plod and trudge, they
Positioned my life as
plonker through all
the ploy and manoeuvre
seeded, downgraded own
talent and light of my pen
work, I will not be pride
on myself but, so many
did with the negation
of my family,
Everyone's hatred on
some like me, so why?
Because, I am bestowed
not with laziness but a
gift to learn and understand
easily, and I Wasn't gifted with
more wealth like mansa moussa
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 11:44 AM UTC
”High agency goes beyond having a positive attitude or being optimistic, it involves consistently and determinedly pursuing your own goals, regardless of the challenges that may arise. It represents true empowerment, where people take full control of their actions and the results they achieve”
<>
A newish term,
popping up with
semi-regularity,
that is not intuitive
until explicated…
by yours truly,
a youngish
septuagenarian,
an oldie term,
yet one which
the poet proceeded,
needed ‘the google’
to be sure the meaning
of same, is what it is…
and is a qualification
deserved, earned…
he speaks in tales, long winded,
that few have patience for,
but he is a high agent & don’t care,
and he believes in himself,
no what the cost,
spit and ridicule no longer affect,
his poems here for the asking,
ask and you will receive his
chilly shaky daily poesy in a pink
ribbon tied, for nothing says more
than he is high, when he gives freely
this words for your taking!
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 8:40 AM UTC
just your love is smiling to life
(to...my beloved divine souls..)
when I say goodbye to love
as if world turns into desert
my consciousness numbs, then
gets into my arms like poison
whereas... I mix up my voice with the wind
your numb smile
from my memory
whispers melodies
youngish and fresh
comes back to me
what I wish to tell you
blue at the sea
red in the dawn
freedom in the sun
rainbow at the sky
flowers in the mountains
warmth in the solidarity
so... devoutness of partisan
hate of guns
fire of the eyes
ballad in the lips
dances in the arenas
stars on the foreheads
so, knowledge in consciousnesses
honour in the souls
revolution in the dreams
rhapsody in the beliefs
love in the hearts
spirits in the bodies
that is, yearn
that is, love
so, my melody
every morning
luminosity
flows to my room
from the aurora
of your eyes
every morning
luminary of your words
when I step out
a hopeful cry to the world
HELLO!
Turgay Usanmaz
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC