Long Misconstrue Poems
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And so legend goes, of a daisy, not a rose
of a love to behold that quickly grew cold
Etched in regret, Daisy ponders in a fret
should he return, for him would she yearn
One eve a sweet miss was given her first kiss
her heart took to flight on that moonlit night
He lured her with smiles using wicked wiles
Promised to be true in words he misconstrue
In Spring's lush bowers he gave her flowers
She was crazy about the ones called 'daisy'
He gave her a bouquet each and every day
With loving care he twined them in her hair
Near Summer's end came signs of portend
Her lover disappeared, so then she feared
He played her false with each sensual waltz
they had ever shared, pretending he cared
Legend is hazy, but it's said that each daisy
turned a shade of blue, of the deepest hue
That Summer it snowed and her tears flowed
salty crystals froze because of love's throes
Rejection brought pangs so now there hangs
a canvas of art, painted by her broken heart
Blue daisies in a vase, hung above the fireplace
where fire never burned, once love was spurned
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
June 17th, 2017
Blue Daisy Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
As he stood and stared nobody even paid him any mind
For no one really cared nor had the tendency to be kind
So many walked right past and never even took notice
Swallowed by a world so vast one more they won't miss
In still standing there it was this sound he began to hear
Flowing right through the air though it was no where near
Each note striking a chord in waiting for the next to follow
In so thinking of the Lord, he himself began to feel hollow
But he remembered that song those church bells did play
He knew he'd done wrong but he also knew about His Way
So sweet to his heart was this sound as each word he knew
For that's what he found as no longer could he misconstrue
It wasn't the bells or the song, it wasn't anything he'd done
But with much going wrong he took notice of salvation won
In thinking this way in knowing the price the Lord had paid
As if not for that bad day, he would have never of prayed
I never wanted to be predictable until I met you,
Now I want you to read my mind and know exactly what to do
Look in my eyes, know my face and see me sweet and true
I never wanted to be predictable until I met you
Now our relationship is nothing but askew
My misinterpretation is an unwelcome misconstrue
I never wanted to be predictable until I met you
Love me now, or not at all, your decision is overdue
Help me put my mind at ease so that I can be through
I never wanted to be predictable until I met you
What do I want? What do I need? My, I wish I knew
How can you find out what's in my thoughts? Here is a little clue
I never wanted to be predictable until I met you
A segment I watched on a show –
“60 Minutes,” if you want to know –
Showed a building in which
Experts try to enrich
People’s lives from ideas that just flow.
Robotics is what these folks do
And the audience got a quick view
Of some creatures of steel
With the kind of appeal
That observers could not misconstrue.
For the robots were able to dance!
Choreographers given the chance
To design a routine
Meant for man, not machine;
So much joy to be had with one glance!
I encourage all readers to seek
“Dancing robots” on Google; one peek
Will help brighten your mood
And I’ll bet you’ll conclude
You’ll be grinning for more than a week.
Vesti la Giubba
What might it mean, to say that I’m a man?
This dignity, this thing I think I feel,
is it ephemeral, or is it something real?
I sense I’ve suffered since the world began.
Her show of fondness was no deeper than
this gaudy paste of grease and cochineal.
I’m sick of acting, sick of this ordeal.
Is there no better universal plan?
Teeth and talons serve to gash and tear.
To merely live, all life must stalk, ensnare
and slaughter others, lower in the chain.
I gave the best in me, and met disdain.
Condemned to look for love, we find despair,
and this I know – but why must there be pain?
A Drunk-Shunning Funk
That you revolt me, should be clear by now.
A settling of accounts is overdue.
You’ve proved that alcohol can loosen glue.
I’ve shown my disenchantment, you’ll allow,
and fired so many shots across your bow,
that I’m impossible to misconstrue.
I see you now as something I outgrew.
My furrow’s found a bright new shiny plough.
I’ll always hate the odour of stale beer,
a stink which is preponderantly yours.
It seems to issue from your very pores.
You’ve often sneered at warnings. “Insincere”,
you’ve called my threats to leave – but never fear:
You’re going to learn how women settle scores.
Shafting the Wanton
One tendency that’s underestimated
is men’s recourse to violence when thwarted.
Their sense of mastery is oft inflated,
false feelings of entitlement distorted.
The **** and the dagger are related,
two things to which we’ve endlessly resorted.
If women’s fate is being penetrated,
“eviscerated” means the same as “courted”?
This thing called honour – what exactly is it?
And how’s it salved by wiping out her life?
When lack of satisfaction comes to visit,
are men then meant to meet it with the knife?
The steel’s the hard one (irony exquisite!)
but which one gets inserted in the wife?
Sunlight is streaming through the tree limbs
A dancing wind rushes through the air
Two clomping horses mounted with riders
Gallop across a background so fair
Together they will face the trials
Of desert sun and freezing nights
Indian raids that just might come
When they least expect the fights
Cactus flowers brighten the trail
With pink and gold and orange
Colors seeming to draw them near
To the deserted landscape of scavengers
If a Indian crosses the plains
Making their way into view
The cowboys will fire a warning shot
To dissuade the onslaught of misconstrue
Hopefully, they will make it back home
Without losing a horse or a man
But will their bosses understand
When they arrive without their cowboy hands?
O why’d they misconstrue your colour against you?
When the song is swift imagination, so sweet and full
Why’d they whisper of weariness, of idiomatic blue?
When pause is ponderous play not a dark silent lull
It is the bluebird’s song that warm thoughts entice
That unexpected exuberant bout of welcomed joie de vivre
That instant intoxication of all virtue and all vice
Oft’ heard from coffee’d morn till the day’s end receive’
When beguiled by melody left to lilt through wistful air
That beacon of curiosity which so quickly is consume’
Cheery embrace – the listener enraptured is divided ne’er
Till the final bar closes only then may the day resume
Though for tunes of waking night the bluebird composes nigh
Alas, her song is for bright day not for moon’s sleepless sigh
Do watch your words and actions too.
Don't say things that they'll misconstrue.
Do tell the truth, don't spread bad news,
Don't lose your temper, don't blow a fuse.
Do make sure your hair's in place,
And there's no dirt upon your face.
Be sure to keep your nose clean too,
For there are those watching all you do.
Your clothes, your hair, your finger nails,
The things you say turned into tales.
Things that shock, surprise, chagrin,
When you find all the ways you've sinned.
When you hear the fun you're having,
The way that you've been misbehaving,
You never knew so you missed the fun.
It's news to you when all's said and done.
Don't give your enemy ammunition,
For they'll use it on you without contrition.
Be careful what you say and do,
Where'er you go they're watching you.
An infinitesimal slight speck tickled
nostril follicle – activated via an itty
bitty, nitty gritty dirt band noah bigger
than a mole luck yule set in motion a
chain reaction, whence mine sensitive
proboscis honker (wheeze - hilly little
bridged fine tuned pug nose aroma
sensor), got unexpectedly in gauged
(in holy matt trim mo’ knee) to achew,
and eschew pledging troth (in favor of
hanky-panky) found this chap feeling
phlegmatic because an endless string
of faux allergic emanations, which
upon subsiding left me throat rather
raspy and voice some octaves deeper
akin to a coterie of celebrated jumping
frogs from Calaveras County, California
took residence and refused leaving
stranglehold upon math rote upon
awakening from a hard day’s journey
into night across the outer limits
of thine twilight zone resurrected
during slumber, yet upon awakening
felt much refreshed and hungry enough
to eat a horse – nee – make that forced
whore – gulped down within a hoof
n hour and now recount how back in
the day when zooming thru the Lilies
of the Valley (whooshing mass elf tubby
an aeroplane) frequent bouts with uber
twittering snapchatting sinus attacks
besieged crinkled, doppelganger expeller
for germs hunting with his clean X
instantaneously for nasal passages
to enter surreptitiously the fecund
effluvia dripping, oozing, and seeping
clear liquid as wintry cold air looses
droplets from out a near frozen nose,
which bloke knows not why frigid blast
stimulates gallimaufry of sniffling
to spurt into a volume of one after
another gesundheit donning, snorting
trumpeting unwittingly confusing
Canadian geese, who misconstrue
the honking from midway centered
facial organ, which angry birds
in tandem with flock of Seagulls
quite perturbed to espy one curmudgeon
chap clapping hands over (what feels
like Smashing Pumpkins on face)
in an effort to stifle subsequent gummy
emissions, which residue expectorated
with heave hoe shove
schnoz el tov blowing into snot-rag.
When I was young, Mom mixed tomato juice
with beans and ground beef; I would misconstrue
this liquidy deliciousness as soup.
Later I was told chili is a stew!
That’s because most people make it thick,
so chili “soup” I guess I should not say
is my favorite soup, yet there remain
so many soups that I now love today.
A white clam chowder makes my taste buds sing
as do most other creamy soups I’ve had -
like pumpkin, broccoli with cheese, or mushroom,
but one there is that always makes me glad.
My favorite of all the creamy soups
is healthful, even sweet yet savory.
Tomato’s key, but there’s much more to it
that makes tomato basil flavory!
Of all the Campbell’s soups my mother made,
I liked tomato – simply adding milk.
I had no clue that it could taste much better
until I tasted it as smooth as silk.
I saw “Tomato Basil” on a menu.
I smelled its aroma. It was the best.
I had to try it; oh, there’s so much more
to this great soup than I had ever guessed.
Some people might use onions well-sauteed
in butter and/or olive oil. Combine
garlic for pizzazz and basil, king of herbs.
Once broth and cream are added, you can dine!
I’m sure there are other ingredients,
like roasted peppers or a heavier cream.
Dip comfort food, like grill cheese, into it.
Good Lord, a meal like this is one sweet dream!