Best Busying Poems
Two days without
The biggest jerk I ever knew
Two days without him
God, what am I gonna do.
I'm lost inside this house
going crazy out of my mind
I don't know what to do with myself
Exasperated for hours at a time.
I'm not spilling tears
Just awaiting his return
I'm not feeling fear
I'm just lonely for his arms.
Out the window
My eyes continue to gaze
Searching for his car
Looking for his face.
Headlights pull in
Flashing at my eyes
My heart beats harder
My spirit lights afire.
My feet moving
of their own accord
Running, leaping
Barreling into his arms.
Smile breaks
Like the light
From clouds
On a sunny day.
Eyes Glow
Fireflies of sapphire
Twinkling in the dark
Like a diamond heart.
Fingers reaching
Touching and rubbing
Pulling closer
Feeling whole at once.
Lips busying themselves
To smother with a kiss
Where does it end
Where does it begin.
Two whole days
Without the biggest Jerk I know
I don't want to do it again
I don't want my love to go.
The wind rose early with the busying dawn;
And, rushing into the long avenue of beech -
Laid down years ago to accommodate labouring feet -
Began to scatter over neatly cut verge and lawns
With its own inimitable unruly gust, blow and fuss...
Within a cascading maelstrom of vivid bright yellowness.
Against strong trunks, held firm by steadfast roots,
Groans from creaking boughs as they upwardly heaved
Upon frantically thrashing branches showering
rusted, golden leaves;
Carpeting the rough stones below my trampling boots.
A mad kaleidoscope of leaping, swirling, skipping
colour
Where, as a child, I had once rediscovered...
Two green sandstone gate pillars sat well back
That ushered me under this arched, canopied track.
Life is a Picnic
Written: by Tom Wright
February 2015
My life,
Has been filled with Gourmet meals,
Which often I’ve left plated.
While, like Ants,
I’ve been content in busying myself,
With warehousing the crumbs,
And occasionally I’ve smiled.
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
The sun dappled patio
irresistibly beckoned
pillowed pad to bedeck
cement spongsbob
square pant sized couch cushions
leapt into field of view
as a posse able a gent
provocateurs silently
conspiring as from
azure heavenly vault sent
thus busying mine hands created
simple bed to cradle this loner meant
as temporary escape from cares
and concerns of uncertain world rent
asunder by craven, frenzied, intractable,
lamentable, offal, rogues hell bent
on up-ending peaceful co-existence
across terrestrial plane where decent
folks (including this writer) live
to enjoy simple pleasures
donned with raiment
acquired thrift-store or yard sale couture
affordable dollar, quarter or cent
thus bagged belongings
comprise wardrobe
since personal preference
to expand content
of body, mind, and spirit triage
in tandem drinking warmth
of solar rays event
like manna to this *****Sapiens,
who when basking
pondered where time went
and on picture perfect summer day
pastoral symphony of nature lent
removed bifocals
to let photons of el sol
this archetype
laughingstock wannabe
of Clark Kent
unaware spouse surreptitiously
snuck up perhaps
to steal a kiss or other pent
up animalistic call of the wild,
which elements of huss style
anathema to a convent
where such nun sense
would be abominable,
but secular mores fervent,
especially when
weather fires imagination
as witnessed by 59+ year spent
mortal male oblivious
to presence of wife
until she planted buttocks and bent
bifocals camouflaged
by matted materiel of a fold-up
metal chair which accent
of Gluteus Maximus crushed
side of frame wear
sole pair of spectacles dent
dislodging right side lens thus
to see in sharp focus
cheeky fate did prevent.
Just want to wish you Merry Christmas,
And a Happy New Year.
Haven't been on line much,
'Cause I can't see too clear.
I get these awful headaches,
Whene'er I try to read.
It seems I must have surgery,
So my eye sight can be freed,
From these awful cataracts,
That my pleasures do impede,
Of reading and of writing,
And I miss you all, indeed.
They say it will be Spring time;
March or February,
When I will get my surgery,
So I find sanctuary,
In busying my little self,
With other things about.
I still go to work and walk my dogs,
I try hard not to pout.
I miss my writing and the poems,
Of those I've met on site.
But once I\ve had my surgery,
Then things will be alright.
Till then my friends remember,
I miss you one and all.
I miss the fun, comradarie,
Feel the tug of my muse's call.
So Merry Christmas to you,
And a Happy New Year too.
Can't wait till I can read again,
And be back here with you.
Warm rain streaming down, shadows lurking in the dark
wishing and dreaming of what could be but never will be
Warm mist rain, sun starting to glow with shadows disappearing
busying myself for the day, I find the time to dream away.
Cuddling up to me making sure I am ok reassuring me everything
will be the same as it always was.
With a clap of a hand I wake up and not everything is the same, where
am I, how did I get here. Your safe. Wrapped up in warm arms
How did I get here? With a gentle touch my husband said, "Everything is ok."
I said, "No, I buried you and raising our son alone"
With a clap of thunder I woke up shivering in the cold
wishing and dreaming that I was never alone.
We never said good-bye
We never looked back
We never cared for how we felt inside we were to busying wondering why it felt so good so
right
We never enjoyed today and left tomorrow alone and this is why tomorrow will never be
known.
I've watched them through the lockdown
busying before my eyes,
they're not in isolation, wearing masks or sanitized.
Bimbling or bumbling, dependent on their mood
they all serve common purpose in their daily hunt for food.
No need for great philosophy, just simply living lives,
no great debates, no wars or hate, all happy in their hives.
But now the Buddleias are brown, sunflowers droop their heads,
no more long hours of Beesyness around the flower beds.
As quickly as they came, they're gone,
before Autumn's first frost,
those simple little creatures, and without them-
we'd be lost.
As the dew glistens
on the sun drenched grass
And the ducks glide on the soft, cool lake
while viewing their reflection
in nature's mirror
The winds emit a solo of an hearty hello
and delivers an everlasting
kiss on the leaves' lips,
quenching their thirst for a refreshing breeze
We are greeted with a day ostentatious in the beholder's eye
while birds and bees
go about their morning chores
busying themselves with the task of obstinate reverence
I hear nature whisper
an almost inaudible plea
'Please sit in my beauty
and awesome presence
and take a precious moment
to bask in me.'
Life Is A vapour
By: Miracle Man
1/3/2022
As the sun brushes humanity with its warmth, all seems sublime,
unnoticed, the clock is busying itself whittling away time.
James 4:14 KJV
Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.
On retirement all The Due proceed,
Because cars don’t their speed exceed;
In their pet jobs hope to succeed,
Sometimes sensible warnings don’t heed.
A solution to the riddles of idleness,
And checking of their feelings of awkwardness:
Relieved cops a vigilante floating,
Ex-civil servants at the likes of Bureaux gloating,
Former dispensers, stocked drug stores running,
Home-sent vets, neigbours sick animals and the mourning,
A sender to early graves,
Of those who more swollen envelopes crave,
For attendance to their mounting needs,
That can’t be handled by what simply feeds.
Usher of fuller reunion with family,
A picking of fresh interest in being homely;
Our resting of our long besieged bones,
In our houses, now The Best of Thrones.
So, the Retired from his darling job,
Is not at all being asked to sob,
He having his service year completed,
And his efficiency surely depleted;
The age for a compulsory lay-off clocked,
For which more busying of self is true progress blocked;
A life to be lived has gone down,
For past stewardship, a dignifying gown,
Ageing men hostages to funny diseases,
Only off and on enjoying lucky releases.
Hence, managements forward their goodbye paper,
In this seeing a pursuit of The Safer,
To all retirees “wisely stay at home”,
Save those it is their nature to roam,
Anywhere they choose by all means to surface,
Provided it is not a very hectic office.
Not honey-sweet what the retired swallows,
Sometimes in court challenging it like the gallows,
A doubly confirmed injustice form some adversary,
Via a tall order, neither timely nor necessary;
Always a building resolve to contain some mischief,
And a mission to save one’s job from a work thief!
Khaki has never other fabrics liked:
It has even their wearer’s bodies disliked,
Their forgivable flaws, their blunders hyped
And their names and their nicknames mistyped!
Sometimes you hear, “Like onions slice them!”
And begun a solving of what wasn’t a problem;
Bound to uncannily unfold
What Plain Malice does hold …
By then, it would be fanciful
To ask your questions – A roomful:
‘What and what next shall happen?’
And whether or not blades shall sharpen …
It shall have been a busying with fiction
By the time we triggers eschew from ruction
Khaki has seldom The Plain clothes liked
And has, indeed, other fabrics spiked;
Often through insistence on Inaction
And treatment of either as a faction.
This year autumn is the bugs busying the undergrowth hiding under sodden leaves. It is children playing with and collecting acorns that have scattered the ground sporadically as squirrel’s nourishment for the day. It is the rain that drenches the plants once dried up and wilting in the summer sun. It is the showers that leave the glimpse of a rainbow as if in a distant land. It is the rotting of apples unchosen for apple-pie that blustery night where the log-fire is once again alive.
I’m reminded that now it is autumn as I step into that muddy woodland. It is though someone has shaken the trees of their leaves, the earth an array of colours, nut brown, oranges and golden yellows. Yet, soon the season will pass just as a storm leaves just a breeze and we are left nostalgic for the time we spent in these nature-nurturing months.
you drape an arm over me,
busying the other with your phone
its screen is hurting my eyes and your chin is hurting my ribs, but i don’t say that
i don’t say a thing
it’s too late, i say
i don’t want to disturb you
i can’t handle another fight today
my mouth is closed
i want to scream
i want to make a noise
that you won’t be able to pick apart and refute
i want to tell you that i’m unhappy,
that i want out
that i want to make it all stop
all the fights, all the tension in my chest,
all the arguments i lose
i want it to be gone;
for us to be okay again,
for your jokes to make me smile
and your lips to make me weak
i don’t want silence