Whimsical Poems Novels & Stories

"Well, well. If it isn't Ursula. Still breaking your back for that useless company? Let me give you some advice. Stop wasting your time. That company is already doomed." Her words were laced with venom, every word hurting my heart. I took a deep breath and forced myself to remain calm. "Stop spouting nonsense. The company's condition is improving. I'll definitely help them get back up." Fiona chuckled coldly. "Get back up? You're simply building castles in the air." She then leaned in closer. "Don't tell me you really think that leak at the company was just a coincidence?" My heart skipped a beat, and I asked her. "What are you saying?"

When the tremors finally eased, he lifted his head, eyes still blazing, lips swollen and wet. I stared up at him, chest heaving, body humming. And then—because some part of me still refused to surrender completely—I managed a shaky, defiant smile. “Is that all you’ve got, stranger?” His gaze darkened. The gold in his eyes spun wild. “Oh, little dancer,” he murmured, voice thick with promise. “We’re just getting started.”

I searched for my portable stereo. When I got a hold of it, I played my favorite mischievous song, as it blasted through the speaker. This was a celebration of me about to get away with my mischievous deeds and the grand prize, which was Jasmine... Maybe the kids as a plus, they were lovely after all. _Howl at the moon, let the mischief consume,_ _Run with the wild, in the darkness we loom._ _Fangs in the shadows, eyes glowing bright,_ _A symphony of chaos, a wild moonlit night._

I whisper, “‘to talk of many things.’ “ The lines below are poetry, of an unfamiliar origin. But as I read it, a creeping chill coils around my spine, though I have no idea why. “‘The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide A face not of this earth, though none dares ask just what those features are, which bulge inside.’” An ominous quiet descends as I trail off. An expectant quiet, as if the lines of the oddly haunting verse are an invocation to . . . something. Or someone. Though it’s a ridiculous flight of fancy, I stare at the door leading out front, half-expecting someone to walk through at any moment. A heartbeat passes. The clock on the wal

She read the poem on the topmost page: Blurry eyes, in a haze, Cry silently near the window, Go without speaking for days, Written words are all that remain. What did I do wrong? You call me a disgrace. Sleep with pretty women, perfect bodies Yet you dare show me that face? I sit by my lonesome, Never a hair out of place, Temptation walks by, You get in the way. Dismay, disarray, I seek comfort, The warmth of a stranger's arms,

He gave her his widest grin and pecked her lips this time around. "Hmm, lemme pour my own new poem for you. It's a lonely night Silently watching the heaven above that has no gap Quietly wishing it also has the small crack That is separating my heart from being one and whole The stars are getting acquainted to each other Helping the other twinkle And I wish they'd look down at me and flicker the dying Light in my soul and bring it back to life Still watching as the old dry palm branch shaped moon Slowly drifts down to the appointed term

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84 and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us

a woman who loved hearing the praises of others! He racked his brain and found the poem he had learned in language class back then. “The white lotus grows out of the mud, yet it’s unsullied. It’s bathed by clear waves, yet it isn’t seductive. It’s hollow inside, and it’s straight outside. It neither sprawls nor branches. The farther away it is, the purer is its fragrance. Upright and elegant, it establishes itself cleanly. It can be viewed at a distance but can’t be toyed with!”

Loud laughs and hoots of encouragement rose from the crowd watching, as they found my humiliation very entertaining. She lowered her head close to mine and whispered. “I wish you would cease to exist.”