Long Frowned Poems
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Now We Stand And Sulk
We were the two
standoffish
in a small pond.
One day,
how I wished
we got carried away,
to a rubbing
of our fins and bellies,
so fond.
Life would have smiled on good fate,
a favorable life,
how my eyes belay.
Instead gloom frowned on and on,
off and off,
over and over.
At worst it brought me to her,
lost and lost.
When we did get carried away,
on a magic carpet,
to aquarium land,
our tails touched briefly
to her indifference.
Bubbles shot to the surface,
hers,
big round ones,
made just for me.
I looked at her puffing lips,
bad,
"I hate you."
I look back,
my puffing lips,
bubbling,
to no effect,
"asking why."
She raced away.
See I told you.
Our life now a crayon box
of pebbles, plastic seaweed,
my votive candles,
and unanswered prayers,
inside a glass box,
us,
swimming inharmonious.
Yet we're petted,
externally,
and not internally
to the puzzlement
of onlookers and me.
Each day passing by,
the two standoffish,
each immune,
to sitting together.
connie pachecho
2/16/18
Let clichés get frowned at in poetry,
Though trite, a tested phrase is still my friend
That saves goodly time, trouble too to me,
Describing it in a long-winding hand.
The grass is greener and apples sweeter,
And why should those fish bite the other rod?
Why distant hills to me look prettier?
And ‘shining object syndrome’ seem so odd?
Yet, too little can I on the ‘ther side,
Were I to shun the use of a trite phrase,
Escape there’s none than a long-winding ride
That won’t invoke visions of envied grass.
Let trite phrase be the thief of joyous cake,
Clichés do some useful toys to me make.
_______________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 03.07.2026 | cliché/word play, friend, humour, poetry, Sonnet
Gail R DeBole
Written on 7/12/2021
The committee’s task was to remove
Word-fossils from dictionaries no longer used.
These were concepts no longer respected
By a society that was less introspective.
“Privacy” was a concept frowned upon.
Social media had turned the world around.
To be “private” was now a criminal offense.
Not being transparent made others quite tense.
Discretion was an idea that no longer applied
Since every move someone made was video-fried
Onto public storage and could be referred to at will
by everyone certified with an info-access skill.
Oh, there were a few protesters older than most.
The same people who still used a toaster for toast.
The upcoming genos – younger and hipper than most
Removed words representing concepts that were now ghosts.
I was out walking on a trek
through forested Adirondack hills,
looking for a good place to camp,
to drop my pack and just chill.
It was a weekend excursion,
and I’d already done eight miles,
seeking out the kind of peace
a man only finds in the wild.
Summiting a gentle knoll,
the forest dropped by the wayside,
for a moment I couldn’t register
what lay before my eyes.
There stood a sprawling logging camp,
hewn from rough, fallen trees,
and a beaten path where horses
had trod upon the scene.
I stood there in stunned silence,
how could this all exist?
How could they be profitable,
and in this modern world persist?
Maybe It was a niche thing,
some sort of nostalgic deal,
or a camp of recreationists
who wanted to make it ‘real.’
Just then one of the ‘jacks waved,
and I walked into their camp,
He smiled, saying,”You look like
a right regular deep woods tramp.
“Cookee’s serving up chow soon,
why don’t you come and stay,
we can always find a spare bunk,
you won’t get in the way.”
Now a hot meal in the deep woods
is not something to turn down,
so I went inside and feasted
On beef, beans, and bread brown.
After eating I settled on in
to the spacious, if rank, bunk room.
The men told stories of their times,
of log drives and forest gloom.
Their names were Dutch, Red, Albert,
Guillame, Flash, and Scotty,
They frowned but once, when they said
they sure missed their friend Guy.
We all played cards to pass time,
and a few smoked long pipes,
one by one we all dripped off,
and slept a quiet, peaceful night.
The next morning after flapjacks
I set back upon my path,
and waved to the fellows true
who’d recreated the past.
They were such a friendly lot
that I went back two more times,
a fine summer, I do say so,
but something itched in my mind…
That itch came to the forefront
one chilly, October morn,
I was talking with my good bud,
local historian Nick DeLorn.
Nick had a brace of posters,
pictures of old logging camps.
He was putting them up above
the town museum’s wheel-chair ramp...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Way back before this baby boomer waz astute
countless decades before aye became long in the tooth,
and also prior tomb ma sporting dentures to boot
fond memories rush more than so far back
envisioning illusory wind blown steppes
(wait...this visage belongs to thine
long since deceased maternal grandfather
hub hill eave didst hail from Kiev,
or some place thereabouts) within the mind
of this prevaricating aging
"FAKE" barnstorming ole coot
preserved records (those times b'fore cds or dvds)
and now rewinds tape when family of origin
celebrated Xmas secular Harris
house style rendition of Magic Flute,
though genealogy steeped in Judaism
recollections abound of boyhood mirth
devoid of rubric asper orthodox and/or reformed
Judeo-Christian religion,
which essentially means,
I did not give or take a hoot
nonetheless cherish fond memories,
when ma late mum
relished making a hoo ha,
and got tickled and pickled pink
rousing a hullabaloo wrapping presents
and jamming three knee high stockings
with healthy goodies such as fruit
cuz, as a devotee of Carleton Fredericks,
she frowned on giving out sweets
particularly to three children she begat,
and iced hill easily recall her poker faced
feigning complete ignorance and surprise
sheep played “dumb” as did father
convincingly not giving a hoot
puzzled asper neatly wrapped and
stacked gifts under decorated tree
while distorted reflections of stockings
fractal shimmers from metallic gewgaws
in tandem of nostalgic magic
worth mo' than any amount of loot,
perhaps Christmas festivities a flash point,
when some jolly codger (papa)
dressed up, sans Santa Claus suit
and petsmart dogs doubled up as reindeer,
whose canine barking, cavorting, and dashing
haphazardly set them on a direct route
to pandemonium as crashing trimmed tree
cacophony elicited laughter, punctuated
with irrepressible escaped bursts of flatulence
(ah wont mention hoof from)
that emulated a toot.
Shames and insecurities
they made a game of
siring the
generations of the world
The flaw in creation
where the need
to complicate is seen
as intriguing
Which the body of the wife
is not her's alone
neither is the body of the husband
then him stagnated shall be horned
a fault in his thought pattern
she stood to hear him
defame her by using
historical references to
describe women of a loose natu
she frowned then to curse him
feeble
making references
to his lack of concern for her
and the equivalent of either is
negative to both
that they are in verse
of the union of marriage or
in verse to the coupling
of people
Belting , breathing strong
allowing the air to move through you
making it clear and harmonious
yet they wish to lack concern in
there constant need for
others to interfere in there relationship
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A brave Man and Woman stood before milion to
ask for donations
to support the church of the Cuckolder's
they hired a Band and Orchestra and
got television time on four networks..
One woman was hear saying:
"when I saw; Twigg Whogah in the front
row I knew that
both Cuckolding and Cuckqueanry were a right on
discussion!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Written by
A. Bizzimann and
Aria Libretto
off the Music Conseritive
Music Llc.
Love appears with permission
of More Love Music Co.
The theatric of Opera
the story and storytelling
love in any language
He made mention of her
and she found out
she never wanted him that wway
they spoke knid
in greeting
and loss sight of
time and became intrigued by
one another
there was alot not to like
but plenty to love
enough to keep her wishing to
be with him
He understood her sequencing
and was honestly in love with her
a perfect from a perfect balance
of her his family, his freinds
and his job. She would always be first.
She realized that his attempt to be her lover
would being in need to understand her.
He had never been rejected by her
and he knew when she did he
was wise enough to
find someone to understand
what he was gong through.
He wished not to be shady and keep another
that he might have such a perfect balance.
Due to the fact that her friends would
tell her things to look out for
and being a friend to someone who is willing to
understand sometimes might mean more
than keeping a relationship together.
He wanted her, and having
a successful life
as a husband meant alot to him.
Everything that he thought was
wholesome she found a historical fact
to indicate it being the reason that evil exists.
When asked about who wanted who
most she responded smiling: he frowned and thought
it was evasive.
And away for outsiders to script something ill.
Bad advice can create a script to inject the evils
you wish and pray away.
Seven French Horns were to Fuse with 4 Bassoons
5 Flutes.
A snare, A kettledrum
and A drumset.
They excerised using a Hip thrust machine and a squat exerciser
her freind was a gymnist and she
is a flute player. They were
together in the gym, When he walked in wwith his frenchhorn in hand.
Lip riser is sortered to the lip plate. Were the only words both the directer and Composer said we needed to forge the sound needed to be a popular fan favorite for radio, television, studio, and stage.
I watched an old man plant a tree,
Then describe how beautiful it would be,
Knowing he wouldn’t be alive to see,
And that resonated with me,
Because it was such a selfless act,
It really was as simple as that,
Nothing more than a matter of fact,
I wasn’t sure how to react,
The peace that he had found,
I found it stunningly profound,
He looked at me and frowned,
And said “It’s just a seed I’ve put to ground”
In that moment it was clear,
It put into context why we’re here,
His words were genuinely sincere,
So much so I leaked a tear,
But that simple act it taught me such,
That we use life like a crutch,
Like measured time we dare not touch
Of what remains we fear too much,
He wasn’t bothered by what’s to come
It would be like worrying about the sun,
Which will rise and set when the day is done,
Regardless of what we may become,
So from the old man I took this
Life is short and livings bliss,
Don’t worry about the things you’ll miss,
Or you lose the chance to enjoy all this,
What is true will come to pass,
So enjoy life to the last,
Because too soon becomes the past,
Our time on earth goes by so fast.
The woman tried, they ran and kicked,
That national soccer team,
But up against fifteen years old
The lost, and so did a dream,
That thought could change all by itself
Evolution’s age-old laws,
They hadn’t strength to match those boys
Though they struggled tooth and claw.
And though I may now speak in vain:
You’ll find we’re equal, not the same.
The boyfriend tried to hold it back,
To be the man she claimed to wan.t
But things grew colder, day-by-day,
Until she ran out on a quick jaunt.
He later found a strange number
Lay present on her phone.
He followed her and found her loved
A thug fierce, and roughly-honed.
That white knight vanished in a rage,
He learned to be equal, but not the same.
The young marine she wished to fight
On the front line with her brothers,
No one doubted her courage or zeal,
They doubted something other.
A valiant try she made at camp,
But slowly met travails.
The soul could not undo the body,
The young marine, she failed.
We did not doubt that she was game,
She was an equal, but not the same.
The new father, he tried his best
To quiet his screaming son.
He loved the little guy to death,
But had never dealt with age one.
The boy he screamed ‘til mother came
And somehow the child soothed.
The father frowned and sighed aloud,
He’d yet to find his grove.
And as his wife and child played
He said, ‘I’m equal, but not the same.”
Saturday is native to weddings and ceremonies
Of anxieties – patterned in coarse sputum of rain.
My friend Bonsy and his wife filled the calendar
With the uselessness of time, levelled against waste
As indicated by the clocks of dew-coated pavements
Of our yawning city.
Next to this was the arrangement of formalities which
Came with the attainment of stress. They haggled
Between themselves, the celebrants. Oh well, they haggled
For the benefits of the church from which the organ must
Sound, to welcome them – aisle-bound – among a congregation
That suits itself with the accoutrements of churchdom.
And the wedding proceeded amid the glare of the gentle
Sun, into whose ears the dulcet voice of the red organ
Poured. A postman once said to me, ‘If all posts bore
Wedding invitations, who would attend and who wouldn’t? ’
To which I turned my arms up, helplessly indicating my
Thoughtlessness to such questions.
And the church bell pealed.
It grew with the muscle of Doppler Effect when frayed nerves
Become inured to boiling cold like the one we all were witnesses
To, that blustery, unendowed Saturday, when Bonsy married June.
And the minister pronounced every word of conjugation with
Care, peering into the eyes of the couple and the rest of us sinners
Who listened with the attentiveness of cats on matters relating the
Rape of pious mice.
The organ rose and fell in one voice swoop, massaging the pride
In one sinner after another on this ceremony of whimsical gales,
Now sweeping the face of the town; this union of bone and flesh
Draped in dark suits and flowing matter of whiteness, white and
Whitish whiteness of white.
‘I DO’.
The church winked.
‘I DO’.
The holy house hummed.
The organ belched.
Outside, Saturday wore on like before... oh, no, not like before,
When it would have lain prostrate to its own fouled weather of
Extreme bride bliss and dancing confetti.
My friend’s wedding went on on the blustery breath of July rain.
Dark and fussy, the clouds, jealous of July, frowned their faces.
Rain spat gently. No thunder spoke.
Lightning came only through the lone eyes of cameras.