New fangled stuff.
Blocks of “blah” everywhere.
Warbling people.
Some type of excision.
Depression is a fancy platter to me.
With those little painted on patterns.
Hissing crickets.
All those random splotches got sorted out.
And more groaned forth.
Happiness feels…mangled.
Depression awakens me like breakfast thrown in my face.
Orange juice tells me to start the car for work.
This is old.
The sun eats away at the hills aloft.
My thoughts with ease drift off.
I allow to be carried to ventures and dreams a drift
Fangled places diamond oaks a rift
What would the world be like
if i would release these visions a might?
On a world of many limits
that punishes change's herd and those in it
Maybe i flatter myself to great
Maybe i should answer conformity's berate
Maybe i should see myself on a different plain
and believe myself to be insane
Time was when apes stood up on twos,
Gained height to hail human-like hues.
Today, back to all four,
Backward to times of yore,
Calling it Quodrobics--
(Fancy calisthenics?),
Bored, man’s looking for an excuse--
Any a fancy trick
From blue to get a kick
To liven his dull life lived loose!
__________________________
Happenings |15.09.2025 | humour
Note: Quadrobics (calisthenics using all four limbs), a new-fangled revolution in fitness aiming to bring to fore the animal lying latent in human beings. A fresh new concept in exercise in which people copy animal like lifestyle-- walking, jumping on all the four limbs, even climbing trees bare-footed with no modern equipment. Wonder, what not a bored man would do to alleviate his tedium, monotony, and ennui of life!
Why all the fuss?
Having trouble with calculus?
When dividing a number that may vary,
it needn't be so scary -
such division, not so primitive,
is called a derivative,
and the inverse of that operation,
a new-fangled multiplication,
which, by storm, is taking the nation,
by the name of integration.
If you disagree, and are disputin',
take it up with Isaac Newton.
We create androids, like God creates men.
To live forever, to live without sin.
The games of young boys, teach them how to be.
For one day they're gone, across land and sea.
The automatons, of the olden days.
A future vista, of new-fangled ways.
The blue of the sky, we cannot unlearn.
The moon's cold as ice, the sun can but burn.
The leaves are falling, dark clouds bring the rain.
Here you'll find the loss, equal to the gain.
Life on planet Earth, is a story told.
Of babes in their cribs, that one day grow old.
Some claimed that Camelot was noble,
a place built upon the stony ground
of good-intentions,
it was new and fangled,
it was progressive
in a time of little progress.
I have seen it, I was there,
always there was the choking fog
of intrigue,
even the unintrigued grabbed their throats
least subversive thoughts escaped them.
Old King Arthur was deliriously inane,
the people pitied him and did not love him,
some said he was an alien lizard being,
some claimed that he was soulless,
or so it seemed,
and yet he was forever babbling
about restoring the soul of the Kingdom.
Corruption grew like a malignant Ivy.
The women of Camelot were constantly angry,
their anger made them fat with a wishful bile.
Many females wanted to be men,
yet strangely enough they hated the menfolk.
The men were fragile and sensitive,
Merlin had cursed them
with the fey magic of 'Low T'.
Trust me, it was a great day
when the kingdom fell
to the massed hordes of disaffected
and disgruntled Goths.
Fresh blood was drunk from royal goblets,
children with wooden swords
chased the pork out of feral gangs
of squealing hogs
until they were as nakedly pink
as plucked chickens.
I'm an old fashioned fellow
In a new-fangled world,
A square peg in a very round hole.
Gone's the world I grew up in,
This one's in a tailspin
And spiraling out of control.
Sometimes it's hard to keep up
As the world rushes by
And technology isn't to blame,
But the whole human race
Needs to slow down its pace
Before velocity snuffs out its flame.
Eroding names on long-faced headstones,
a small graveyard marooned on a patch of past;
long rooted and confined while beside it
2022 blares unseeing past the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America right there
forgotten crypts
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit of once horse-drawn bones
amid a modern thoroughfare.
A haze of traffic emissions half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away,
yet, there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouthless echoes of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners wrapped in musty mule skins.
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into the present, slides sideways into
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
Voices sweat into the skin of a biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag they wetly whisper.
He shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a lime phosphate soda
long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager
toward a newly opened store,
but the new won’t thrive long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.
A stubborn old man from Palm Springs
has no patience with new-fangled things
He hates cars—he’ll just walk
and a sundial’s his clock
He won’t fly until God gives him wings
2/4/22
Sweltering summer temperatures
and warm sultry summer nights
left me scratching my legs red raw
I hate receiving nasty insect bites
I’d slather bare limbs with cream
that the chemist had given me
Bites are an issue that I live with
itchy red legs are quite unsightly
Every beach dress skims the earth
and I ensure I spray all my skin
But these heartless hungry critters
find a gap and they get stuck in!
I’ve spent all my hard earned cash
yet have been unable find a cure
Why can’t these creepy crawlies
abstain, their bites I can’t endure
A friend suggested that I purchase
a new-fangled electric bug racquet
It zaps the pesky bugs with each swat
and E-Bay didn’t charge me a packet!
The package arrived back in May
with my electric zapper I’m smitten
I’ll carry it with me all summer
I am certain I’ll never get bitten!
Lipogram Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Letter O has been omitted
Rhyme checked with rhymezone
06/17/21
Dad could roll a cigarette
with just two fingers
and the tip of his tongue.
I saw him do this once
in a wind storm.
He would shave close enough
to keep his grizzled face
blue by moonlight.
He could dive easy into an engine
to hunt out a rattle or a hiss
then twist its tail with a wrench;
make it purr.
He could blarney a half truth,
yarn it all out to fuddle
many a scholar.
He was an expert drinker,
astounding all-comers
and never tippling over
a knife edge.
When he walked in my shoes
I felt I could do magic also.
He would tell me
that I had to be a genius
to be my kind of dumb.
That was old-fangled conjuring,
a natural hocus-pocus -
I practice a little of that.
myself.
Dad could roll a cigarette
with just two fingers
and the tip of his tongue.
I saw him do this once
in a wind storm.
Magically
he would shave just close enough
to keep his grizzled face
blue by the light of a yellow moon.
He could dive easy into an engine
to capture a rattling rat,
then twist its tail with only a wrench
- a drop of oil
to make it purr.
He could blarney a partial truth
with a waggish smile,
yarn it all out to fuddle
many a cocksure scholar.
He was an expert drinker,
astounding all-comers
and never tippling over
a canny knife edge.
He controlled his bootstraps
with a devilish dominion.
When he walked in my shoes
I felt I could do magic also.
He would tell me
that I had to be a genius
to be my kind of dumb.
That was old-fangled conjuring,
a natural hocus-pocus,
I practice a little of that
myself
in his roguish memory.
The mountains look down their nose at us all.
With disdain they find the facts of mans fall.
They remember those who climbed their north face.
Made it to the top then to outer space.
If only we knew just what we would find.
Alien spieces of the divine kind?
Maybe we should stick to a simple thing.
Like flying a kite or learning to sing.
There is a reason we must sieze the day.
before they find a new fangled way!
Watching from my alabaster face
sometimes hands will wipe my face
every second counts my days
My forlorn voice
always met with grunted dismay
Watch you cower
as i strip your time
once oiled
now choked
by skin and dust
counting minute minutes
ours are the hours
some
time
sometime
Yes, we had a washer, but no dryer yet
So we hung our clothes out on the line to dry
with those old wooden clothes pins, you know
and after dinner we retired to the balcony
to sit and sip tea, often with neighbors
who dropped by to catch up on the local gossip...
Those nights seemed to go on and on, at least
until my bedtime, 9:30 p.m. -- so unfair! -- at
which point the 'adult talk' commenced, an
occasional burst of laughter punctuating the air...
Seems nobody's got time for each other on
our old block these days -- the balconies sure are
empty at night -- or else perhaps folks just got
so busy with their new-fangled dryers, flat-screen
TVs, smartphones and whatnot
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