It is a comforting thought that
there will always be ducks in our neighborhood.
Every decade of my life
there have always been Mallards,
though not many fancy ducks.
You can rely on Mallards to be the same,
not just in appearance, but in a certain duckiness,
a characteristic-ness.
When I was young Mallards
were just the same as they are now;
the ducklings have not changed either.
You might think I am being ridiculously obvious,
you might suppose me to be simple-minded,
but at age 74 it is most comforting
to know that something
as lovable, quarrelsome,
and irascible
as a Mallard duck has not changed.
Bragg's just an ass, a poor leftist stooge
Bought for in full by the Soros machine,
Why target me when he knows he will lose
His obvious intentions malicious and mean.
As to that Stormy, a vixen indeed,
She's now named me ‘Tiny’ can't clearly be true,
Her one claim to fame fueled by greed
The day I first met her is the day I now rue.
But let them come on these little red ants,
For they fail to see that if their venom may sting
Their incredible ravings and irascible rants
Provide the real juice to make my fans sing.
In chorus the cry my name in support
The Trump flags unfurled throughout this great land,
Denouncing the wrongs of my reign cut so short,
Making it known where each of them stand.
I've said it before but I'll say it again,
They stole what was mine for the very last time,
But this go around I'll make it quite plain
Whatever they throw will fade just like slime.
Slippers and cocoa
our masquerade is over
all fire in our eyes
all ire in our lies
embraceable us
irascible hush
our Love ascending
our Lust descending
with Heaves of trust
in never ending
realms of true thrust
abidings of
everlasting lust,
so help me you.
I would write you words that would make you smile
Of meadows and may flies and a love that lasted
I would sing songs of beauty that would you, beguile
If I weren’t such a miserable bastard.
And I’d paint with my words such wonderous things:
Summer ponds where the butterflies flit
And mountain streams fed by snow melting springs
If I weren’t such a grumpy old git.
In autumn I’d set down in ink of bright gold
The delights of a gambolling otter
Whose play would be there for you to behold
If I weren’t an irascible rotter.
Then in winter, I’d write about flurries of snow
Whipping round the wolf on the hunt
While we wrap ourselves warm by the embers’ bright glow
If I weren’t a cantankerous old so and so.
With irascible words, she continues to bemoan
Writing about poets with whom she picks a bone
Chastising those who like to compete in contests
She's infected with hate, like a pustulant abscess
Her bitter sarcasm abounds for quite a few poets
Shaming their competitiveness, then she blows it
She adds POTD beside her poem title when chosen
but her attitude is not what I would call ambrosian
Her "truth" is not what all of us choose to believe
It's so sad that she tries to offend us and aggrieve
She doth protest too much, and it's unbecoming
She's muddying the site with so much chumming
Many of us write what lies deep within our hearts
But we're not what she calls arrogant or up-starts.
We don't need our wrists slapped, like she has said
Leeches try to draw blood. We don't need to be bled.
There is a wealthy merchant living in Padua.
He goes by the name of Baptista.
His daughters are Catherine and Bianca.
Younger Bianca has suitors standing in line.
Bianca is a pleasant woman men consider fine.
Older Catherine is not as sweet as she.
Catherine is quite irascible and unruly.
Baptista wants Catherine to be the first to marry.
No man was brave enough to give it a go;
until someone came along named Petruchio.
Based on the play "The Taming of the Shrew" by William Shakespeare
Soul is aped disease.
Fall irritated at night!
Heart is a journey.
Heard around kiss printed out.
Kept widening on your cheek.
Irascible
(High Tempered)
Written: by Miracle Man
8/28/2019
My life’s curse has been,
In my being irascible.
But confidence in my ability,
Was always unsurpassable.
Admittedly, petty things,
Induce feelings of distraught.
God constantly reminds me,
*“Be Ye Angry And Sin Not.”
*EPHESIANS 4:26 KJV
"Be ye angry, and sin not:
Dad had left on urgent business,
something to do with a workers' dispute,
and Mum was at the next-door neighbour's
on one of her 'brief' visits.
Mary, the birthday boy's elder sister,
had just dished out the junkets.
Martin, known for his irascible fits, arrived late.
He started flicking blancmange around.
His main target was Aloysius,
though Jacob and Andreas got hit too.
At the head of the table someone looked sad,
trying to hide his tears, while smiling courageously.
Birthday boys do want their guests to be happy.
But then Calvin turned up, and started an argument.
His'dispute" with Martin soon turned vehement,
only to degenerate into a bawling match.
Girls on the sidelines started to giggle - nervously.
Karl, Jacob's distant cousin, was the last to arrive.
He said birthday parties were silly and tugged the tablecloth.
The din was hellish, enough to wake the dead.
The birthday boy shook his head and sighed.
"If only Dad and Mum were here."
The guests looked at him and grew silent,
some for shame, some in recognition,
mindful of what the birthday party was all about.
Villanelle : On listening to Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucia Concert - June 12, 1980
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Round and round in Rondenôs whisk sparrows
Paco aloof in Andauzian tempo Malaguena rare
Piroueting incisive onrush cascades bare
No strings wave upon wave in strict sweeping rows
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
John abeting Al to shake free from Camaron dare
The tsunami shaking out of the Devil's maws
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
All argumentative cursing beginning no-where
Irascible abrasive rabid racy tune soars
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Torrential currents let John loose in manic scare
That Al contests entraps in torrid lassoes
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
This salmagundi of virtuoso notes snare
One and all from the caverns of Sleepy Hollows
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
We've worn out yet another Anno Domini.
We're twelve months - if not wiser - surely older.
You call it a relationship, this boulder
which hangs about me like a Shi'ite's bomb, and he,
at least, can choose his cut-off point. From shoulder
to knee, I'm (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda
Meir, but we don't flow. We ooze. Like hominy
grits, turgidly. But denser. Stodgier. Colder.
Where once fizzed electricity, hums static.
The best and worst of me is best termed "womanly" -
irrational, irascible, erratic.
I'm sure my verse is worse. Tot up each billable
pretentious periphrastic polysyllable.
But you? You're spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.
IT’S WHAT IT IS …
If every day you sleep in church; you may not know God
You are not necessarily spiritual; but you are pious
If you’ve grade 99.9%, you’re not most educated; but you’ve first class
You are what you are, and it’s what it is
When she exhibits temperance, then she is neither lustful nor concupiscent
When she’s apparently courageous, she’s neither hotheaded nor irascible
When she adds reason in action, oh yes she be prudent
She is what she is, and it’s what it is
Because he drives he is a driver
And in so far as he plays the flute, ‘flutist’ captures him
Because he plays well the inflated round leather, dub him a footballer
For that is what he is, and it’s what it is
Assuming I be easily deceived and very unintelligent; am foolish and simpleton
What if I be a schmuck or schnook, pity me for I am stupid!
Honest description depicts reality; but malevolent eulogies do not
They give either sheer flattery or mere insults; all in all, it is what it is
Yes! You’re good, because you are
You’re bad, just because you really are
Always, words may not express aptly
But come what may, it’s what it is!
I Fret the Holiday Season
I invited it in:
insipid, insidious
holiday hoopla;
and now rue
my indolent heart
As time escapes
I inveigh aloud
a tirade of syllables
that berate my
immutable,
irascible self
I pine for insouciance,
iniquitously doled
to some
not to others,
and wear the ignominious
crown, self-bestowed
upon my head:
“Intransigent Queen.”
I’ve only myself to blame.
You are far from being a goddess or queen.
In fact, you’re one of the ugliest women I’ve ever seen.
Is the royal treatment what you expect?
You have given me nothing but contempt and disrespect.
A month has only thirty or thirty-one days.
It seems like you have PMS always.
What an irascible and vehement virago!
You are somebody I do not wish to know.
Why don’t you gather your things and just go?
Remand
A desperate prisoner
Out on remand
Am I
Till sentence do us part
On her hand
Lamely hung;
Inconsiderate
And
Irascible woman’s
Husband-
Suspect of love
Treason
(Heart’s betrayer)
Defying reason
To forever wear garb
In a wrong season.
JM
05th January 2014
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