Best Frowsy Poems
Standing at back of cafeteria during youth basketball awards ceremony
This is my community.
"What you do may not seem important but it is very important that you
do it."
The men and women bringing the boys and girls a step to wisdom.
Win or lose, play your best and treat your opponent with respect.
Maybe the school principal can explain the ultimate mystery?
The women cannot be this chaste! The men so committed to
non-violence!
What is the board president alone in her bedroom.
Coach Strong and his blowsy frowsy wife?
They put much emotion and gratification aside to get things done. Done
for their sons and done for their daughters.
Visit the web site! Buy a raffle ticket! Belong to the loved ones!
I follow distantly. I watch warily. I have not been asked to lead or lift a
load.
Sitting in a chair in a corner of a room at the top of a house near the end
of a street on the edge of a city at the mouth of a river,
Estuary of ocean, ocean of atmosphere, pierced by a meteor bringing ore
and organisms, incinerating elements and rototilling ecosystems,
Everything changes but consciousness.
The kids of course are perfect as animals in habitats.
In light of these basketball certificates, team spirits,
Time, our moment, is indeed "the mercy of eternity."
There are three of them, Cinderella siblings:
shapely, deciduous, their leafy green
darkness undulating in the specter wind,
its silent snare drum emulating heartbeats
in syncopated symmetry. "Take us, Take us,
Don't stop!" say the sisters, moving as deliriously
as a woman beneath her lover, while their stripped-
down stepsister, one on one, spells out stillness
in inelastic nudity. Wind shears through her,
unconstricted by skeletal shapeliness.
Nothing to arrange here by the coiffeur wind
in the pared-down beauty of brittle lace-
work, if lacework be brittle.
One nest rests halfway up on a slender limb,
a single stem supports its phantom occupants,
imagined, their ravenous snapper beaks --
landlocked shark-lings, all minuscule jaws,
learning to prey under their mother's bellies --
inhabiting a denuded nest, awaiting a spring
of speckled eggs, cracking the silent thunder
of shells, to free those of gaping mouths, who
know nothing of being born, just that they
hunger and someone comes they do not name
as mother: She of the dependable providence.
For now, there are no newborns, only
a feather; feather, feather, whether or not,
provenance unknown, caught in a branch
far from origin like us, trapped in our casings
of skin: softness pinioned in lacework of limb;
ragged, if lacework be ragged. Here,
where the sisters have been to the Salon,
come back as frowsy as ever, but groomed
somewhat, from a blow dry and a cut.
Like a frowsy, dowdy
old housewife
I sit largely
unnoticed
stout and squat
a sort of kitchen sentry
rarely appreciated
until some minor crisis-
Cough, sniffle, stomachache
a particularly bad day
or fancy party...
then things heat up
quickly for me!
This was one of those
fancy party days
no cause to celebrate
for me!
Grueling stove-top swelter
I take it all in stride
despite the pressure
never boiling over
(I still have my pride...)
But when it gets me
really steamed
I drop polite hints
the best I can
in ladylike whispers
until I simply
can take no more-
and my shrill, piercing screams
draw attention, but fast!
It never lasts...
So she perches there
on pointy tippy-toes
in all her perky, snooty primness
silently snarky and subtle
sneakily taking credit
for all my hard work!
And as the luncheon ladies
Oooh and Aaah
“What wonderful tea!”
she points her delicate
snobby little spout
even higher with pride
But, one of these days
she'll regret it-
that snooty sassy-pot...
for I'm a tough
old stainless broad
and I'll chip her china, yet!
...And while I'll be careful
to make it seem
ever-so-casual
(like an accident)
she'll know deep down
it's really her long overdue
and well deserved
comeuppance!
Boredom is not arousing, so I sleep.
Beware the infected crops I reap:
They make many a good man drowsy.
Watch for the ladies in the frowsy
Attire, who look to weasel a few
Greenbacks out of your laundered, new,
And happier self. They scrounge the Earth
For something of a sort of rebirth,
But it is merely a something of sorts—
Hypotheses of unkowns. Tests abort
All too frequently among the frowsies
Because of the untestable lousies
That only want to offer a greenback
Or two. The frowsy is dearly attacked
By too many variables. So I
Steer away—I have my alibis.
I am a prime target, but for what gain?
I would provide only danger and pain
With my infected crop: My money
Is contaminated with the sunny
Side of morbid disease and plays with your
Ignorance. I suppose it fulfills the stored
Feelings' wish to be free of your mind.
The parts of you that are in a bind,
Because the other parts of this great world
Have wondrous, jovial secrets unfurled
Before your very eyes that cannot see:
The parts of existence, unfortunately,
Do not allow you to be happy.
I shan't tell you to commit suicide,
But I will tell you not to go outside.
The parts of pure happiness of some
Good folk are there, and you are not welcome.
Leave, Frowsy, do not fall behind.
Leave, Frowsy, before I change my mind.
All England, blinking nervously, is out!
A little mild spell, much to our surprise,
has brightened frowsy February skies.
We sniff the air with nostrils schooled in doubt.
Baffled by balm, the fruit trees have misfired.
Like foolish virgins, hurrying on their scarves,
They've pushed out blooms half-petaled and half-starved.
The coming frosts will slice them like cheese-wire.
And I have loved you far too eagerly.
My half-cocked hopes have withered on the bough.
I should have doled my sweets more meagerly -
then, had I granted space, and time, and light,
your hobbled feelings might have taken flight,
in any time or place ... but England. Now.
Orpheus
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
I.
Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.
I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked
nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.
II.
Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,
the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.
III.
Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,
I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,
were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild
I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.
I wake up with her,
check myself,
eyes creaking like blind stars.
She’s strange, she’s yesterday,
I remember us the week before;
wonder if tomorrow
will fade us both out completely.
We don’t get to know them -
the wives I mean.
Living together we grow
too myopically tangled, and the vows,
the wild love with a facsimilia of what
we thought they were,
the sharing of a frowsy bed,
a grody toilet,
the live-in tales of indifferent playwrights.
We forget to know them
and forget that we never really did.
An ex-wife chides me in my sleep now,
but occasionally I dream of erotic sex with her.
If she had not assumed that she knew me well,
we might be still turning around a togetherness
like hands on a clock, instead of just
doing this body-mike thing to each other.
Those long-ago girlfriends are sweeter now.
There is no landscape for love or hate.
I cherish them
for enriching my mellowing libido
with their nomadic loneliness.
Some I collided with gently, we were jellyfish
from a strange planet,
some did damage and got damaged
in youths hexed stockcar race.
I am up making coffee.
She comes into the kitchen
deliberately brushing her hip
against mine…nothing strange about that,
but I do wonder if sometimes
she thinks I am someone else.
Tuning William Blake's Whistle
by Michael R. Burch
a musical prophecy, after William Blake
I.
Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.
I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked
nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.
II.
Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,
the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.
III.
Among the children's
daisy faces
and in the women's
frowsy laces,
I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,
were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild
I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.
Keywords/Tags: William Blake, prophecy, Orpheus, singer, singing, minstrel, ministry, hymn, troubadour, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, labor, slavery, freedom, music, muse, song, poets, miracle
Our body is not our own
But temporary wears
That will surely tear
Life full of horrible bled
So ignite your heavenly care
Our body is not our own
No matter how we fare
On this earthly affairs
All turns sudden despairs
So pays to be sincere
My body is not my own
while we still out here
So living our life in pair
While on this ball like sphere
Your body is not your own
Is sure a waste of time
To this present kind
So sure to tame your mind
To be a heavenly vine
His body is not his own
Cos' life on earth is timed
So try to pay ur fine
To meet the heavenly line
And sit at Potter dine
Her body is not her own
put on all your faith
With it you will never fate
Its such a warmly shame
On those who miss the date
This body is not my own
Some day heavenly call will roll
So while take a frowsy stroll
Into the this earthly bowl
That is full of tides and cold
This world is not our home
9/9/2020
Sheila was blowsy, frowsy, frumpish, dowdy.
matching her unkempt messy, sloppy abode.
gone to seed, meanies said in a nasty way.
we kids saw through Sheila’s shabby drabness.
she was entertaining and fun, and she liked children.
best of all, she had a good heart and terrific stories.
meanies could not even dream of this personality for themselves.
I wake up with her,
check myself,
eyes creaking like blind stars.
She’s strange, she’s yesterday,
I remember us the week before;
wonder if tomorrow
will fade us both out completely.
We don’t get to know them -
the wives I mean.
Living together we grow
too myopically tangled, and the vows,
the wild love with a facsimilia of what
we thought they were,
the sharing of a frowsy bed,
a grody toilet,
the live-in tales of indifferent playwrights.
We forget to know them
and forget that we never really did.
An ex-wife chides me in my sleep now,
but occasionally I dream of erotic sex with her.
If she had not assumed that she knew me well,
we might be still turning around a togetherness
like hands on a clock, instead of just
doing this body-mike thing to each other.
I am up making coffee.
She comes into the kitchen
deliberately brushing her hip
against mine…nothing strange about that,
but I do wonder if sometimes
she thinks I am someone else.
Victor, the VW bus was angry, he had rust on himself now
His owner was unkempt, frowsy, disheveled and frayed.
His house would have been condemned
If he had not hired a maid.
They have frowsy flamboyant hats,
some are born English,
while others are obviously alien.
They need a deep corner to thrive,
or a high ceiling.
Like Maasai maidens their necks
are stretched to infinity,
they will not take much manhandling.
If we ever find their spaceships
we will need a stepladder
to greet their leader.
They both cure depression
and bring depression on,
especially if you stand too long
in their shadows.