Ogle Poems

On The Strip

I have bought in boutiques
on Carnaby street,
stopped in stores galore
on the Champs-Élysées,
shopped 'til I dropped
on Madison Avenue,
and, what's more,
I've been seen to arrive,
fashionably late, on Rodeo Drive,
but one thing I hate,
and doubt I'll see, or there'll ever be,
as there's not much call,
for a linear row of shops downtown,
in a small Möbius strip mall.

Tho' Johann B. Listing (1808 – 1882),
rediscovered the non-orientable surface first,
Mr. August F.Möbius (1790 – 1868)
published his findings earlier and, well-versed,
 Euclidean geometry taught he,
while, his wife, Dorothea, danced provocatively,
in pole position, at a nightclub naughty,
and, where out at night, on a fun daytrip,
paying punters paid to ogle and see,
the ever-rousing Mrs. Möbius strip.

Trapped Breath

Written: August 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Mark Toney

          ***********

Corset of steel tightens—ratified pain,  
Vestigial breath trapped in ischemia thrall.  
The ductile hope failed to placate  
This Pyrrhic ache, this woebegone gall.

A sojourn in the squalor of soul,  
Where sylphlike dreams maunder, downcast.  
Ogle the embers of the miraculous nexus—  
A seraphic visage lost, quickly.

Vivacious once, now virile with woe, 
Panacea tastes of pabulum, slipshod, and cold.  
Tinkling memories coruscate as zeugma—  
Bright, yet untoward, they never hold.

Quixotic penchant for connection,
Grasping too late the nebula beneath.  
What puissance is this—this throe, this tumult—  
When tulle-wrapped love meets a gyre of grief?

Ululation beneath pavonine skies, 
Adumbrate every glance, every sigh.  
Crimson weave keeps a skirt in place,
Valuable, stained, adorned, and slain.

Private Dancer

Scarlet ribbons are woven into her hair,
titan ringlets frame her beautiful face.
Never refusing to wiggle her pert derriere,
rich men pay big to ogle nubile Ella Grace.
Huge feather fans ensure she’s never bare ~
Ella’s folks aren’t aware of her work place!

Oh! The Female Form

Is it just me or do all old guys drool
At the sight of every young chickie
Could it be I'm a perverted old geezer
Or normal but no longer picky

Once thought I was quite sophisticated
With very discerning tastes and all
But the older I get, the less picky I am
Probably need a complete overhaul

Don't go calling me a nasty old pervert
Females were meant to be admired
I'm sure they're totally aware of this fact
By some of their provocative attire

Sure not complaining, trust me on this
Wouldn't have it any other way
Just to ogle these beauties walking by
Brightens up the dullest of days

Not a pervert, just a healthy old male
Enjoying the finer things in life
The female form in all it's perfection
Counteracts all of life's strife

deliciously malicious

oh how I love that fiery fire
      your iris eyes, alive with ire
         enuf to snuff an angel choir
   those put-out pupils glaring
with rage to age the staring

      such change in colors when irate
         whene’er the air’s just shy of hate
   from green, to hues of blues or slate
you warm, with exclamations
      my hot-thought fascinations

         soft anger brings your blood alive
   a queen bee, seething in her hive
the one crazed gaze I long to dive
      and swim it’s brimming power
         midst glares with daring, dour

   I prize your coquette smile, ‘tis true
but how your ogle boggles, too
      so dear, is each last leer from you
         through all your fiercest fashions
   your zest is dressed for passions

folks may not understand just why
      I’m shook, each look, your evil eye
         I don’t quite have the heart to try
   to tell them what they’re missing
with each dire glance, dismissing …

      that fire they could be kissing.








* this is a form I created called “Cinqopet” (sing-ko-pay) * 

Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 8, 2023, created form 8/17/21

Her Ruckus

Provocative tears and a face that frowns
accompany a costume so ornate;
She’s happy to come and entertain us,
with a flip tumbles in the Queen of Clowns;
Playing the Fool’s a charasmatic trait,
she comes to each field on a charter bus;
Without stepping off greeted by fanfare,
a frenetic crowd awaits at each gate;
They ogle and follow tempestuous,
moving from town to town just to chase her
                   ruckus.

I Have an Aversion to Prejudice

I have an aversion to prejudice
Judging a pond without sampling its ice
Consorting with others eating large melons
Passersby judged as free men or felons

Women condemned as whores or harlots
While tormenting men turn the air scarlet
Then sit in the pews reserved for the saintly
Ogle the preacher’s wife ever so daintily

For judgement you see is a way to look down
On those, as they pass, on which you may frown
Knowing that god has made you superior
When in truth you couldn’t kiss their posterior

For consciousness doesn’t offer correction
Unless you can make a change of direction
That is, of course, dependent upon
How much of the ice you take from the pond

No Claim To Fame

They manage to keep a fanned flame
These ones with no claim to fame
They don’t trade, build or make
Yet heralds ogle for their sake
And I to myself only wonder
That I find no rhyme or reason in my ponder
But I keep my opinion conservative
For my appetite craves no weird narrative
That one can be famed for nothing
It just doesn’t fit my hearing

Once there was respect for the audience
Until stardom clouded many a conscience
With sound worth one had to be endowed
Before presenting oneself before a crowd
And a few had glimpses of glories
With quotes and works transcending histories
Others galant warriors and wise chieftains
Glorified outlaws and vilified villains
Men had their names on their rights and wrongs
As preserved in folklore, poetry and songs

And until ideology once more underpins
Character, manners and disciplines
Ethics, decency and social order
Evil will have many for fodder
To be grazed on and trampled underfoot
Thinning fortune that another may have loot
And if you cringe at this possible end
Then with every fibre of you strive and fend
For the return of righteousness in our midst
As the bare and common at the very least

K. Muitherero.

Swing Ogle

Written: September 27, 2023
Love Poem Contest                                       Darla Seely  
___________________________________________________________

A poem full of glee and love,
Poke with a rant, a bee-hued as a dove,
Tied into a pair of rich-soul,
In a song of lust, a warm role.

Hush at ease,
Keen opus, fuel the kees.
Body area mold and weld,
A love lilt will bind us as we meld.

With a soft kiss, lips meet with balm,
In this holy cup, feel the vibe of calm.
Lame, warm up the skin,
The ogle spell and the opia fire win.

Eyes shut soul to soul,
Deep crux, zeal goal.
Grin at will, mind teem with glee,
To show that cheer and love, ne'er flee.

All true, Love's has a firm trek,
For me and you, ever peck.
Wrap me in a cozy hug,
The vast boon of love and tug.

So let us glow each day,
In this love poem, the soul will stay.
Love, an art with lines so tall,
Egos rule over all.

The Wayfarer Creed

To what zenith do our chimeras whither?
As we travel across discombobulated shores?
Do we strive to collocate together?
Or breed discord and close the doors?

The wayfarer creed is to induce wherry,
With our aphonic travelers on this path.
To share in the arcane and not be wary,
And crestfallen behind all corpulent wrath.

We journey with athirst hearts and minds.
Seeking authenticity and understanding
To ogle the world through Elysian eyes,
And embrace all, no matter how demanding.

Let us leave behind our petty strife,
And forge ahead with auric hope and love.
Only then can we balmily thrive?
And soar as aquiline eagles on wings above.

So let us walk this path together.
Entwined, with canorous hearts ablaze
And let our journey last forever,
As we bask in the sun's warm rays.

My Town

The town I was born into was a grit incubating slum.

It was the worst of places yet had some gruff-faced
high-headed days.

On those few times
(days that did not seek to hammer me down
into the brick and rubble strewn ground),
I would walk like a lord-ling
in my own spit-rinsed and grubby manor.

I would swagger, daring all to cut the throat
of any withering word
or to blast the staring eyes and ogle-mouthed louts
as they came at me, only to ski-daggle or sidle.

In those long hours, in those dank drenched daylights
I would fight knuckle-hardy and win
then wear a trophy cut on my chin
that ached in the stony-breathed air.

I was a tough and scrawny king atop of his small heap
and the town bowed down to me until the next day
when it sought once more
                                  to murder my rough-hewn soul.

A Love Poem About Hate

This latest poem is all about hate
Like I hate to say goodbye
Or I hate the fact I'm not with you
Every moment, you and I

I hate it when other men look at you
Hate to have to share you at all
Like locking you up in a dark room
In a castle with ten foot walls

Think I'm greedy well maybe I am
Hate to admit it but it's true
Want you all to myself all the time
On my mind all day through

Hate it when other guys look at you
You're mine and all mine alone
Go ogle some other guy's woman
My hatred is very well known

Bottled

Gall stones large as hens’ eggs,
pale kidneys buoyant as seabirds.
Shriveled livers,

yet some so bloated they have features
as if the organ had drowned
imprinted by a sleeping face.

A fetus floating in a deeper space than
can be calculated by light years.

There is less purpose in preserving
the anatomy of death now.
The carnival wagons have gone away,
the fish-man in his tank;
the tuberous lungs of the malformed
free now from any glassy ogle.

However, in the medical museum
bottled body parts still wait
in their mason jars
for a hand to commence
death's long-prophesied unscrewing.

A Delicious Enticing Glint

Ah, now for some juice~ a poetry fix!
What will my pen mix, dabble to affix?
Definitely not some Romantic, tear-jerking
Shtick! But maybe, a frozen delight, a 
summer's day treat to ogle and lick –

What will this trick mind conjure and say?
Will the heart be enthusiastic or lazily
play – will my soul be squeamish, aghast,
shout nay!? Sip the venom of latte, such
frothy, beguiling display...my usual time to 
write alarm set for the night~ yet, now it 
is day, the 24/7 of poesy, night's chance slept 
away. I got it! So off and running! Be 
back with you shortly; it will be dazzling, 
yes stunning! Brilliantly cunning!
The jog of my pen, full throttle, a blazing 
sprint! Be back in a flash, after a fluff...and 
tint...a deliciously enticing glint!

Evening Comes Again

This evening sneers, lurks and is snooty,
and dares to look through my window,
peers like something with substance,
gawps into that mirror on the wall.

Yes, evening, you ogle.
Your black glance is on my glass of wine.
showing your low lordliness,
condescending in your awesome manner of night,
sitting there with your supercilious sight, scoffing, gazing.
Who are you?
When will you cease to be night,
become the radiance that will be tomorrow?

Yet you'll sit throughout that day
awaiting its darkening moments.
Oh, yes, light will soon be you, night,
and scoff at me with your dark, dark face.


(May 2022)

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