Quotes about squirm, page 6
Snake
I am a snake-
Some call me a venomous rattler.
Seething with anguish,
I slither in the sand.
There is no water in this tepid desert.
I foresee no oasis.
There is no liquid to quench
My insatiable thirst.
A mirage has become a liar to me.
I am a venomous rattling snake.
I squirm beneath the torridity of
This desert’s noon sun.
Fearful of all who encounter me,
I am a frightening source to others.
I am a snake – terrified, and defensive.
I lash out to all who approach me.
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poem by Claudia Krizay
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It Is Obvious and Apparent Now
Who suggested we invite him to the party,
For purposes to see him squirm?
He appeared more comfortable than we did.
And having the cameras there to record the event,
Made us to look like the fools.
Absolute and total ignoramuses.
Moose butts with duck walks!
You people just don't get it.
IF we are seeking him to fail...
We don't put him in the spotlight where he shines.
It is obvious and apparent now who the 'bozos' are!
'Who would that be?
Who are they,
Senator McJames? '
The people who elected us to office,
Of course!
The constituents.
They are the ones who recommended the cameras.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Keep Your Nose Clean!
Somebody opened his can of worms
And see how the villain twitches and squirms!
The camera comes out and someone says 'Smile!
The neighbours all think you're a paedophile! '
Listen to you! You bellow and squeal,
We're breaking your spirit on our Virtuous Wheel.
You claim you're a scapegoat, don't make me laugh!
If you had a spine I'd break it in half,
But you haven't got one, you're just a worm
And we're getting our kicks from watching you squirm!
Later, perhaps, after a civilized tea
We'll sit on the sofa and watch our T.V.
Isn't it strange how most of the time
We relish these stories of violent crime?
There's something inside us that likes to be scared
And we'd join in the action if only we dared.
Thinking like this makes me feel insecure -
What if my intentions are not quite so pure?
What if I fancied a bit on the side?
I'd like to reach out but my hands are tied.
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poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #2
I traverse the sea
And its torrential enmity.
The jagged, baleful corals
In need of daylight
Squirm endlessly
Like ivies and chains
As the school of fish,
The cerulean tranquility
And the supple waters
Bend to the direction of the currents.
This marginal expanse
The trenches sink in jeopardy
As the heavens wager the tapestries
That singe in the meddlesome constraint
Of time: A fractured adversary,
A resilient pilferer, a vagabond that strays
Too long that you cannot send it
To slumber.
The marred waves have no claim
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The USDA And Trichinella Worms
At the USDA
they don't care
how trichinella worms
squirm
in the flesh
of butchered innocent pigs.
They have muzzled the truth about
Mad Cow, Mad Pig, Mad Chicken,
Mad Deer, Mad Fish, Mad Sheep,
Mad Elk etc.
Through the USDA Forest Service
old trees which have stood
for centuries, (one of the last 700 year old
cedars) were cut
down
.We are the land of skinny trees.
The Forest Service sets
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poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Save The Tiger
As a child when I went to the circus,
Though I loved the clowns and the acrobats,
I hated when the ringmaster made the animals act
And do unnatural things,
To tickle human beings.
As the tiger came out of the cage,
You could see he was in rage.
On a visit to the zoo,
Seeing the tiger roam,
I often wondered,
How does it feel
To be uprooted from your natural habitat.
The frustration was writ large on the face of the royal cat.
On growing up, and on a visit to
A family friend’s farm house,
I used to squirm to see walls decorated with tiger skins
And the conversation full of anecdotes of the kill.
I often wonder
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Door’s Whispers
There was whispering at the door,
Except for the sigh, and the occult.
In front of us tore a blade through the crack,
Concealing the body behind it.
The door is an open object mostly,
But it concerned me with futility;
We had to reject the conspiracy theory
And relate to the stories of ancient weapons.
When we tore the blade away with our swords
The daggers started to spread around the walls;
The walls started to endanger our lives
And we wanted to squirm free.
There was a squeal and a torturous time ahead,
And every day we would count our blessings.
This time luck’s authority proclaimed itself present,
Exclaiming our magic, exclaiming the heroic nature.
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poem by Naveed Akram
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Awaiting The Curtain
I’ve paid my entrance fee to get a seat in here,
but nothing is happening to bring me cheer.
Acoustics are good and you can hear every sound.
Ahems and coughs are all around.
The pre-show is limited to the occasional conversation
and the movements of people with determination.
Two gentlemen behind are discussing a failed blind date
and how she wasn’t there, because he arrived late.
I try to imagine just what kind of people they are,
and if they live near, or come from afar.
A man is anxiously trying to get some business done
and he’s been interrupted by another person.
The harmonies in here are not to be recommended,
they make me squirm, but I think they’re intended.
It’s suddenly gone quiet and I think everyone has gone,
but the hum of the sound system still carries on.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Inquiry.
Oh'Iraq inquiry, What is it for?
Sheer publicity, Was it a‘legal war'?
Costing millions of pounds, bloody indecency.
To get answers good it sounds, waste of time and money.
The public were misled, media lies' were fed.
‘Sexed up' dossier, ‘true'they'd say.
‘Forty-five minute launch ability', they'd say insistently.
Resolutions by U.N', they had to stop'Saddam'
Blair and co', play the media show.
They talk of justification, ‘weapons of mass destruction.'
Inspectors on the ground, none ever found!
Death of Dr Kelly, ‘suicide'apparently!
‘Questions' were asked, depth they lacked.
No answers direct, truth was‘select'!
A few did squirm, nothing new to churn.
Odd one on the spot, no great shock.
One of the few highlights, yes best sights.
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poem by Guy Lipmore
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0004 The world has lost the ear for rhyme
The world has lost the ear for rhyme.
It still makes children squirm with pleasure;
and from some witty pens and minds, its fireworks fizz;
so, after all these centuries of rhyme
and all the games of meter, dancing words,
should we now mourn its passing?
Have we lost the music of another world?
Instead, the easy unpretentious discourse,
sober, light, familiar, honest -
the world of daily, homely, shared sharp life,
that's now preferred. Not prose;
much more than 'chopped-up prose' as those may say
who think that poetry should be more visibly hard-earned;
- as if a human life set down in honesty
were not a poem in itself, unwrit;
'prose with enhanced consciousness' it's often now defined;
and consciousness - now that's earned, if you like...
and simile, and imagery, and metaphor - all the repertoire
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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