Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cyril Blythe Nov 2012
Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”
Fame Flame Feb 2021
Scars, that I’ve been hiding all my life
With scarves
Bruises, witness of what the truth is
Red eyes, brimming pearls of lost truces
Yelling, Blaming and banners of ‘Deserved it’
Never saw the alarm signs
They were not bold enough, like me
Always told that I’m fine, when I couldn’t even breathe
Maybe it’s been hash on me lately and
I don’t wanna make you too feel low
Maybe just pull me closer and never let me go
Cause the scars are now aching
And the bruises, deep blue
The pearls are now sold for ground breaking news
The yelling has me shaken; I stand with heart that’s broken
Too many times like my body
But you’re innocent, oddly.
Scarves, that have been hiding scars for long
I put them free
Cause I again, wanna feel like me.
This work was inspired by the constant headlines of ****** assaultment and abuse, regardless of gender. As a teeneger myself, all these thoughts take over me,as I take out my pen and paper and ponder the pain.
To all the fighters out there who've gone through immense and unimaginable extents of mental trauma, I give you this work of poetry. More power to you!
samasati Nov 2012
I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.
jimmy tee Feb 2013
revolutionaries under skull scarves
armed with  consistent ideals
held between their teeth
just add water and stir
tear it all down please
except for the jokes
best news available
forgiveness is free
but smiles extract a high cost
chrome replaced by plastic
well of course the effort is there
some poor decision making
is in the forecast
but that remains the best way
to extract revenge from fate itself
the ancients forged great argument
around purpose and substance
they would invent dialogue
to present their thoughts
on basic reality
I cannot get over the gap in context
Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John


November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake

November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes

November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying

November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s
nurul Nov 2014
She lived in that white mansion
Up up on the tar hill
All her life she was wrapped in it
Look closely to find her
Between Christmas trees and patio
Spinning under them wishing so hard
She was a fairy and prayed for a wing
Late evening, she creeped under
this tree she doesn't even know
the name of it
Molding foods out of sands
Driving in a plastic car with her feet
Accidentally her right foot was under the car tyre
But kept trying to drive past this root from this big tree
Crossing over drains so gracefully

She told me the good times
When people praised
That she could write her own name on a markerboard
Or when people said she was pretty
In scarves even though
She looked like hell
She told me it reminds her
Of Fleet Foxes 'White Winter Hymnal' lyrics
With scarves of red tied around their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow

Her scarves was all red too with ribbons pinned on it
That she regret losing it now

Right back when she could wear dresses
Without remarks from her mom
That it felt good when people don't talk
About her hair that is bad everyday
Chocolates were shared without even a thought that she did not want it
Turtles can be kept because there
Were still aquariums
But they went missing the next day
Just like her hamster named Michael
Also this cat she left at a fish market a few time
But got back home like there's a GPS, itinerary and atlas all in its head

When her dad had to work until daylight
She will have to sleep upstairs with mum
In that little space there are microphones of which
She sang songs that find ways until 3 lanes behind her house
She hated the smell of the sofas
She wasn't afraid of heights but
Everytime she looked outside the windows she just get the chills
At nights engines revving on roads
Passing by frightened her so much

Once a burglar got into the room
Where her aunt sleeps in
When dad was working she slept to the room next to her aunt
At 4:00 she heard a distant cry
Up to this day, she doesn't like
The holes on the bathroom walls
She said she could feel someone
Watching
And still there's this trail of size 7
On the white wall under the window
Images of a flower *** moved to the front door
To stop us from running away,
that *******

Now she is out of her own
Beautiful tragic cage
Now she can be found beside this road
Her last step out of the black gates was no tears
I can still feel the echoes from the pictures of her mansion
Like a phantom limb hanging
The air that surround the mansion now
Is straight out of hell
The fog like a poltergeist in her head
Making sounds and moving things
Oiling cogs in my head
And sow the longing deep underneath
To come back in summer and search for her red scarves
Suddenly I am reminded of where I came from.
Xander King Jan 2015
I was your crutches when your heart was breaking
I was your scarf and gloves to keep you warm in the winter.
But when the sun came
You didn't need me.
When your heart healed,
You tossed aside your crutches
And I waited for the cold to come
Leaving your heart broken
begging for warmth and support.
samasati Oct 2013
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful *******, backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, *******, iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer *****, good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
I wrote this with my momma one fine morning!
there is always so much more to add.
Terry O'Leary May 2013
AWAKENING

Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell

12 DELIRIA

1st Delirium: COLLAPSES

Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice

2nd Delirium: DESCENTS

Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted ***
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb

3rd Delirium: FATES

Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks

4th Delirium: LOST SOULS

Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they’re none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight’s days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn’s begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won

5th Delirium: INTROSPECTION

Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs

6th Delirium: THE VOID

Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore

7th Delirium: SEARCHING

Martyred monks haunt runic ruins ... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
****** dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow

8th Delirium: NIGHTTIME

Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free

9th Delerium: EMPTYNESS

Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled ... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum

10th Delirium: ALIENATION

Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why

11th Delirium: JETSAM

Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found

12th Delirium: RELIEF

Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony

REAWAKENING

Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores
b e mccomb Nov 2016
i guess mark and linda
drive a range rover now
because i saw them through
the windshield turning the corner

i'm choking in the
heat blasting from
the vents of the van
and sleeves of the past

i used to wear scarves
to infiltrate them
but then i found we
were still sharing shirts

(i'm keeping the scarves i
never wear so that someday
i can tie them all together and
hang myself from an upstairs beam
but if homocide were more
my style i'm unsure if it
would be more a matter of
revenge or personal tastes)


"you don't have any
reason to seek revenge
on your old church
or any other."

odd
that you no longer
want recompense
for the past

and odd
that one should
need recompense
from those of the cloth

i want to scream
that i need help
I NEED HELP NOW
but don't want to sound ridiculous

don't want to say that
i'm having nightmares
flashbacks
panic attacks

over something like
sunday mornings
sleeplessly reversing
to saturday nights

but on the other hand
i don't want to die of
whatever's keeping me
scared and awake

i just know that
the medication
isn't putting me to
sleep anymore.
Copyright 11/27/16 by B. E. McComb
I see
other people's smiles,

and they sometimes
remind me of you

Or black hair
peppered with grey,

and scarves
in stripey patterns.
Ruzica Matic Jul 2017
pigeons still
wait for meals
by that bench
where Sun once grew
in tufts of gold

girls skipping classes
to window shop
their scarves wild
and their nails chipped

tough boys go out and smoke
and cough and dance
and act brave
and cut their hair
in the dark

and words of a new language
tumble down our tongues
head over heels
tasting strange
but falling into place
after all
JAC Nov 2016
Swallowed by scarves
Are the rose-speckled cheeks
And snow-freckled noses
Of shivering lovers.
Wrapped in each other
Are the harmonized breaths
And warm, empty whispers
Of comfortable disappointment.
Charlotte Kemp Sep 2012
Four blocks down,
A man who never gives the same name
Stands every day selling condoms
With Tiger’s face telling us to “Protect Our Wood”,
And next to him is the vendor where
I just bought my new favorite scarf.
His name is Lorenzo. He’s 6 foot 4,
Old school Italian, and after two months
I’ve yet to see him wear the same shoes twice.

Natalie played softball in high school.
She now owns a hot dog stand just outside
That I’ve seen fifty people wait in line for.
After a heartfelt conversation we had
On a certain rainy Thursday morning,
Natalie now throws me a free Polish sausage with peppers
Once in a while when I open my second story window.
She hasn’t missed once.

My one neighbor is a Latina grandmother named Sofia.
She brought her kids here illegally,
And they’ve since used their success
To cut all ties to dear old Mexico
And to her.
I eat with her once a week,
And we share cooking recipes
And small tales about life BNY
(Before New York).

There’s a homeless man downtown
Whose sign says “A quarter a day
Keeps my teeth off your leg”,
And ever since he’s proven it to me
I’ve dropped fifty cents a day,
Hoping for extra protection.

When my friends from college come to visit,
They were all curious about Lorenzo’s shoes
And Natalie’s pitching arm
And when Sofia’s daughter would show up
(Tyler had a thing for hispanic girls).
I never tried to explain, because
I never felt the need to know the answer myself.
All I cared about were Natalie’s smile,
Sofia’s homemade tortilla chips,
And how a guy like Lorenzo ended up in New York City selling scarves.
Wrote this for a creative writing class last year, and no one's read it since. i'd love some new input
YA SEE I AM GETTING LAUGHED AT, FOR DRESSING UP AS A GIRL



YA SEE I AIN’T INTO BEING A TRANSGENDER, I JUST WANT PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND I AIN’T SHY

YA SEE I WANNA DEVELOP CHARACTERS, AND SUSIE IS A CHARACTER OF MINE

YA SEE I HEAR VOICES OF OLD MATES LAIUGHING AT ME, AS I MOVE AROUND

I DON’T WANT TO BE A TRANSGENDER, NO, I JUST DRESS UP AS SUSIE

TO PROVIDE A BIT OF FUN, FUN FUN FUN TILL THEIR DADDY TAKES YOUR TEABIRD AWAY

YA SEE AS I GET UP TO WORK ON THE COMPUTER, I HEAR HIM SAY, YOU ARE STUPID

YOU ARE DRESSING UP AS A GIRL, AND YOU ARE A ******

I SAID, NO, I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A HOOLIGAN, I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A STRANGE PERSON

JUST BECAUSE I CREATE FEMALE CHARACTERS

I LIKE TO HAVE, AND I CAN CREATE THE FEMALE CHARACTER VERY WELL

AND AS I ENTERED THE OUTER SPACE, EVERYONE LAUGHING AT ME SAYING

HA HA HA HA HA HA, AS I GOT UP, TO USE MY COMPUTER, I GOT UP AND USE THE COMPUTER

AND PEOPLE LAUGH AT ME, CAUSE I LIKE TO USE MY GIRL CHARACTERS

YA SEE, I CAN DO THE GIRL CHARACTER VERY WELL, SO I WANT TO DO THIS

I KNOW I USED TO BE TOO SHY TO DRESS UP AS A FEMALE WHEN I WAS YOUNG

BUT, I PREFER TO JUST LOOK AT IT, AS I ENJOY LIFE, BEING THE HYP SUSIE

SAYING, YOU DRESS UP AS A GIRL, HA HA HA HA, YOU DRESS UP AS A GIRL

YOU ARE STILL SHY, AS WE TREAT YA LIKE A TRANSGENDER, WHEN YOU ARE DRESSING UP IN WOMENS STUFF

YA SEE, I WANNA SHOW, THAT I AM NOT SHY TO DRESS UP LIKE THIS

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THE VOICE OF PATRICK LAUGHING WEIRDLY WHEN I DO THAT

CAUSE I WANNA EXPRESS MY INNER GIRL, THE TYPE OF GIRL WHO PARTIES ALL NIGHT

I KNOW IT SOUNDS WEIRD, BUT WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO COPE WITH THIS AWFUL TEASING

YA SEE, I WAS GIVEN WEE, AND THERE IS NO WAY YOU CAN STICK A **** IN A FRUIT BOX

BUT IN HINDSIGHT, NOTHING WENT WRONG, BUT GETTING TEASED IN MY MIND

JUST BECAUSE I PUT PINK HAIR ON AND A FEW PINK AND PURPLE SCARVES

DOESN’T GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO LAUGH AT ME LIKE A TRANSGENDER

I WANNA HAVE FUN, I WANNA BRING THESE CHARACTERS TO THE STAGE

I DON’T WANT TO BE A TRANSGENDER, I WANNA BE SOMEONE WHO DOESN’T CARE HOW HE LOOKS

YA SEE, I HEAR VOICES SAYING, YOU ARE A TRANSGENDER, AND WE HAVE NO PLACE IN THIS COMMUNITY FOR YOU

AND I FEEL SOMETIMES LIKE THAT TRANSGENDER ON ALL MY CHILDREN

BUT I AM NOM TRANSGENDER, I AM AN ACTOR, I AM PLAYING A WOMAN

NOT FOR TRANSGENDER PURPOSES, NO FOR READING AND ENJOYING PARTYING PURPOSES

YOU SEE, I DON’T WANT TO GET TEASED JUST BECAUUSE I AM OPENING MY LITTLE GIRLIE

YA KNOW PINK HAIR, AND SCARF AND BANNER, NO I AM A COOL PERSON

DRESSING UP LIKE THIS, IS CALLED HAVING FUN, YA SHOULD TRY IT SOMEDAY

SOMEDAY SOMEDAY, I WILL BE AN ACTOR, SOME DAY SOME DAY, I CAN BRING SUSIE INTO THE REAL WORLD

I KNOW I AM A MAN, BUT I DON’T WANT TO GET LAUGHED AT, ALL BECAUSE I DO THE DRESSING UP AS A GIRL THING VERY WELL

SOME DAY SOME DAY, I WANT TO GET WHAT I WANT, SOME DAY SOME DAY, I WANT TO BE BIG ON YOUTUBE

IF THAT MEANS SUSIE CAN BE POPULAR, WELL, I GUESS THAT IS WHAT I WILL DO, OH YEAH

WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV ON YOUTUBE

WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV ON YOUTUBE

WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV ON YOUTUBE

CAUSE TOO MANY PEOPLE COMPLAIN ORB TEASE PEOPLE WHO DRESS UP AS THE OPPOSITE ***, WHAT IS WRTONG WITH ME

DOING IT, I AM NOT HAVING *** WITH GUYS, NO, I AIN’T A ****, I AM DRESSING UP AS THE GREETING CARD TYPE OF GIRL

AND I DON’T WANT TO BE TREATED LIKE A HOOLIGAN, BECAUSE, I PREFER TO LAY MY MESSAGE STRAIGHT

I AM NOT TRANSGENDER

I AM NOT TRANSGENDER

I AM NOT TRANSGENDER

I AM DEVELOPING CHARACTERS, WITH MY DRESSING UP LIKE WOMEN LIKE SUSIE AND BOGAN WOMAN SUE LONGWAYS

THERE COULD BE MORE WOMEN CHARACTERS EMERGING, PLEASE DON’T TREAT ME LIKE A TRANSGENDER

TREAT ME LIKE A FUN LOVING GUY, CAUSE MY SUSIE CHARACTER IS COOL, MAN

AND I DON’T WANNA BE SHY, BE A HOOLIGAN, OR BE A TRANSGENDER, I AM JUST A FUN LOVING STRAIGHT GUY

WHO DEVELOPS CHARACTERS ON YOUTUBE FOR FUTURE STUFF ON TELEVISION

WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV ON YOUTUBE TO SHOW I AM NOT A TRANSGENDER

I AM A MAN WITH EVIL SPIRITS TRYING TO SAY I AM TOO WOOSEY FOR LIFE

THAT IS NOT TRUE, I LIVE MY LIFE EVERYDAY LIKE IT’S AN ADVENTURE, DUDE

MY AAA YOUTUBE TV PROFILE PHOTO IS THE TWO SOUTH SYDNEY CAKES

I AM NO TRANSGENDER, LEAVE ME ALONE, I AM NO HOOLIGAN LEAVE ME ALONE

I AM A POOR STRUGGLING BUDDHIST ARTIST WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND CHARACTER BUILDER, WHO WANTS TO PARTY

I AIN’T SHY TO KEEP SUSIE COOL, MAN

LAUGH AT ME ALL YA WANT, BUT I AM NOT GAY, OR ******, I AM COOL, I AM STRAIGHT

BUT I WANNA HAVE FUN,  YEAH
THIS SHOWS, I AM A STRAIGHT MAN, WHO HAS CHARACTERS
ON YOUTUBE, OF BOTH GENDERS, BUT I LIKE BEING A GUY PLAYING DRESS UPS
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas  snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won

The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date

The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more

Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school

They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide

It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back

The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight

The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around

The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am **** as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a ******,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
******
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old ***** petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
Mother knits scarves in soft wool.
Daddy creates suits in steel.
Auntie makes a mess of strings.
Played with a bow, a twiddle, a fiddle a serious riddle.
Uncle strums his guitar, while  he's coughing catarrh.
From the **** he smokes.
While playing with kippers and older men's zippers.
Pretensions of kindness, while fetching their slippers.
Money hunting, baby bunting, wrapped in boas of stripy snakes that choke, crush and strangle, dangling lust on a string, it's his sort of thing.
Uncle carbuncle, peril to both pusillanimous child and men of great age.
Daddy knows and  he's so enraged, steel suits beat the outrage of misuse and abuse, through the family and mummy knits more scarves in soft fluffy wool. ****** old fool, never does anything by halves, it's all covered up by soft fluffy wool scarves.
(C) LIVVI
teaching a wild creature to feed from your hand is a feat maybe maybe not Mom taught me from a young age then never let go in June 2013 the estate will cease all the coats hats shoes scarves skirts dresses blouses belts purses from Ultimo Saks Neimans wherever steaks from Gene and Georgetti’s Gibsons whatever will be consumed and she will be forced by the bank to resign her condo on lake shore drive and go live with her sister and i will be left with nothing

nothing feels better than fighting back gathering the strength courage to do that to fight until there is no daylight

the world is a mysterious place it is Sunday December 26th 2010 6AM pitch dark outside in several months daybreak will come earlier a remarkable surprise yet always been this way in several minutes firmament turns light i open eyes stretch legs look out window pink blue gray blue morning skies tree tops mountains watch flock of birds maybe 30 or 40 flying back and forth east west why do they do that how would you like to be one of those birds flapping around searching from above at the earth hmmm what if everyone had a ***** and ****** feathered wings fin distinctive tail floppy or pointed ears what if you could share breakfast or lunch with Kim Gordon Patti Smith work on poem with e. e. cummings James Joyce William Faulkner paint with Mark Rothko Anselm Kiefer play football with Payton Manning Drew Breeze jam with Jimi Hendrix Keith Richards race with Secretariat sniff with Lassie mix with Max Ernst Georgia O'Keefe Donald Judd meet with Gandhi and J.F.K. make love with Charlotte Gainsbourg Kate Moss dinner with John Lennon Friedrich Nietzsche dance with Albert Einstein Isadora Duncan share a smoke with Sam Clemens (Mark Twain) Sam Shepard last drink with Sylvia Plath Virginia Woolf then go to sleep next to Sphinx Pyramids wake with Cleopatra Mata Hari on Bali beach look up at tiny puffy clouds that resemble strange script do you understand the possibilities mysteries of everything

old is lecherous but i’m still trapped in childhood hurting wanting to be grown-up

i think i said i don’t know how to talk i was speaking to this **** greedy landlord trying to negotiate between 2 different spaces long distance and i meant to say i can’t talk right now i’m in a restaurant or shop but instead what came out was i don’t know how to talk he was insulting me bullying hollering at me on cell phone accusing me of dickering about price lease and it slipped out my terror from Dad my childhood fears repression inability to negotiate i froze fumbled finally uttering i don’t know how to talk then disconnected

i’m running scared gasping for breath heart pounding yearning praying crying for love beauty happiness success i’m smart creative powerful yet inept too shy or fearful to know how to properly spontaneously speak in person

what if consumerism is realized as a mental disorder a method to suppress genuine hunger with fetish products

what if money is identified as disease actual legal tender found to source fatal viruses

what if humanity is discovered to belong to an alien predatory race independent from Adam and Eve or monkeys

what if all knowledge is found to be deceptive invention concealing real world truth

what if existence is a chess game or trial enacted by higher forces and your every thought feeling recorded in eternity

what if progress is the enemy and primitivism the remedy

my whole life i’ve learned about infidelity my mom sister dad uncle i don’t understand i’ve never been unfaithful to a girlfriend (one is enough one is more than i can handle) why do people speak those vows then get married only to violate themselves their mates maybe that’s why i am afraid to ever get married infidelity is the most painful betrayal to find out your partner with all your shared secrets compromises them with someone else oh god

April 19th 1995 a bomb explodes in Federal building in Oklahoma City killing 168 people injuring 759 what are Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols thinking did they act alone there are so many lunatics running around out there so much misunderstanding disenfranchisement in America

Arlington Street Asheville North Carolina June 1995 Odysseus and his dog Farina keep mostly to themselves something is wrong with his voice he sounds hoarse when he speaks it is uncomfortable to talk he goes to free clinic and waits half a day elderly doctor attempts to stick long metal instrument down Odysseus’s throat Odysseus gags coughs elderly doctor becomes irritable he warns Odysseus to quit smoking Odysseus wonders what it would be like to be loved possibly married in loving positive relationship to know all the endearing enduring connections between caring couples other people manage it why can’t he? he thinks i’ve never been a good provider nor placed enough value in money i believe in freedom and love i chose to make art and pursue a life of self-discovery experiment dang i am wrong from the moment one’s work hangs in a gallery the artist’s integrity is compromised individuality becomes commodity typically people who buy paintings have so much money they scatter a trifle on art the artwork provides the consumer with a look of ‘soul’ to be shown off to their envious friends the artist becomes needy pet of dealer and client maybe converting one’s spirituality into commercial merchandise is like making deals with the devil he thinks about Native American artists whose work is immediately esteemed and utilized in their culture he has spent his whole life seeking validation in art world he wonders how many other unknown artists feel similarly useless discarded he considers i’m forty-five years old now and i don’t have a penny to show for all my troubles i still believe i have much to give insights to reveal but no practical plan for survival i don’t know how i’m going to get through this existence the world wants young promising talent not some older painter striving for another chance women want nothing to do with an impoverished aging dreamer my dog loves me she knows who feeds her i’ve got academic degrees a long resume of legitimate shows i know how to use a computer solve problems fix toilets sinks strip and paint serve food and liquor but i can’t land a decent job i never learned how to properly market or barter my work and i’m not interested in the position of sacrificial lamb i want a home and female partner like other men have i want to be needed respected loved a creative member of a community instead of an expendable outsider working menial jobs for minimum wage what good are paintings if no one looks at them what good are noble values in a corrupt society the world runs on money and greed not freedom and love
Shashank Virkud Aug 2013
The leaves fall in September, during the festivals. They dissipate, reintegrate into vivid little vespers that bob and levitate on gusts of wind that leave one bristling. The ferris wheel looks like an electric celestial ferry, set ablaze and bound for distant dimensions, man with mutated mohawk green, eyes wretched, livid and obscene, was the maniacal who manned it. Glow stick ghouls, with faces smeared americana snow cone red and blue haunt the parking lot, purple precipitate that hisses as it hits the pavement the product of their incessant chanting, pulling fuzz-lined warmth from my marrow. Under the stadium lights, women tighten their scarves as tiny, cerulean seahorses shimmer and dance with the ebb and flow of their jewel studded breath, retreating, giggling like immortal birds fallen from the nest.
Love is paper mache; a pop culture artifact. Like a stuffed hare that seems to have lost its ability to come to life after one loses their virginity. It has long legs and keen ears. It's very fast and would be quite handsome as well if it wasn't so **** helpless. It has been bred into the fibers of contact, the filter we set on lust, the way recycled cans make castles on lily pads and dead skin makes dust. We are swirling around in its whirlpool, if it wasn't drowning us we would be dead by now, same goes for the mad, mangy men who will count their teeth with their dimes and pick at their scabs, finger their sores, the retired professor who was too clever to have ever been faithful, the mockingbird that sings on my windowsill every morning in French, the mailmen and the dogs who bark at them in Quebec. An obsessive complex affords one the privilege of straightening the line, counting in time and putting the rabbit en route.
If it is the case that detachment follows from distance then I am one cactus length away (average, or medium sized cactus of course) from destroying the moon's mezzanine, housing all of the dreams behind ethereal, Egyptian, colored crystal that a pagan god stole from a black hole, never intended for you or me.
Audrey Apr 2014
Delicately pink hearts gently unfurl
From nests of lively minds;
There is nothing weak about Southern women
We are supposed to wear ugly dresses,
Enamel bugs,
French scarves that wrap around and
Tie us all together from the inside out
Football and sassy new haircuts might not make faces look younger,
But they can lift spirits
And just because you spend all day advising others
Of their secret trials
Doesn't mean that you can hold your family in a cage,
Golden and happy though you may want things to be.
Remember that if you feel new, an outsider,
Your personal tragedies seeming too much to bear,
You will always find comfort in laughter
Especially if laughter through tears is your favorite emotion.
You might not pick up boys or money,
But friendship steeps in small salons
Like sweet tea.
Prickly sarcasm and pessimism aren't always the hallmarks
Of a heart devoid of caring,
It's just a natural response after two deadbeat husbands and
Three ungrateful children; somewhere in all of it is a promise
Of hope.
And even in a barren womb new life is discovered,
And even in death joy is found,
And even through pain,
Sisterhood blooms,
Delicate steel petals enveloping grieving hearts.
I met Neal Cassady last night in a waking dream sitting across from me with his back turned to the noise; the bar was loud. He repeatedly leaned forward and asking if I wanted a smoke.
        He looked just like Neal, talked like him. I hated and admired him just like I would the real Neal Cassady. His mind was incredible; beyond the worries of mortality, no thoughts or pains of hubris. He had the candor that I lacked only because I hadn't the nerve to jump first. When I asked him if he truly was the great Cassady, he stared at me from across the table with a wry smile; patted his breast pocket down, leaned back and said as he turned with precision out of his chair,
        "Let's go for a smoke".
        Such practiced determination, he was already outside before I had put on my coat. Of course I had no cigarettes of my own, he had expected me to bring one for the both of us. But I for one expected him to procure an entire carton by the time I was outside; one bent cigarette from every Saintly being at the bar.
        And what a bar! Great young gone gals; dressed in short skirts and long autumn coats; wool scarves around their necks and under chins beneath cold steel eyes. Ahh, forever young the white dresses and mistresses of the college bar.
        By the time I had opened the door and exhaled my first breath of the crisp night air, Neal was playing the part of locomotive engine with a German couple who were smoking and pretending to be Parisian. The three of them were standing in formation of a triangle on the edge of a stone staircase with a railing leading down into a steep lawn with Neal’s back facing the moon. It was all arranged in a perfect geometric mandala of overlapping Platonic solids.
        As I approached the cloud, Neal was recounting the tale of a nurse he had lain in the backseat of her father's station wagon in Nebraska in the heat of the afternoon sun. The German man was stocky and ill-dressed for the weather. He told me later that his name was Heinrich, but I did not believe him even though I knew he had nothing to hide. The woman whom I believed to be only his girlfriend told me, with a thick German accent, that her name was Deline. I believed her. She was well-dressed for the weather and smoking heavily; style is everything.
        "They've graciously offered to roll us a dozen", Neal expelled between great gusts of smoke, a boyish grin smeared on his face by the thousand red lips and wet ***** of passed consequence. Even in the light of a single lamppost coming through the haze that billowed forth from the three talking chimneys, I could still see a sheen in Neal's eye. The sort of sheen that implied hooliganisms. The sort of sheen you see before a person flies off the handle. The exact sheen you see before you wake up tomorrow in the late light of the afternoon, wondering who the Hell took your hand last night and jumped into total darkness with you. That is, if there was somebody around to take your hand.
        I liked Neal.
                He had a style about him that reminded me of a dark velvet curtain. Once you had passed through that curtain in your business casual attire, you witnessed the burgundy coloured stain of truth. There was no backpedaling after that; your chains would knot up and you would fall off the ride if you tried.
        The German couple looked around at their surroundings and the both of us with a degree of boredom. I had seen them earlier in the bar, they looked bored then too. Neither had spoken to the other once and I was beginning to feel like we were exasperating them.
        “Who cares? They offered to roll us a dozen” I thought. What did it matter how Neal got them to do it, they've offered twelve cigarettes and now they belong to us.
        Deline handed Neal and I six cigarettes each; they were magnificently rolled.
        “Goodbye, then! Thank you for your business”, Neal said and slid down the railing to the lawn below, lighting his cigarette mid-slide. I had just lit mine and started after him down the staircase. I turned around and spoke clumsily with a cigarette bobbing at the corner of my mouth,                      
        “Yes… thanks”, and left without another word.

        Neal walked with sporadic intensity; arms often stabbing out into the blanket of night; legs that would walk straight and stiff but then bent and fast with sudden changes as if he was preparing to spring off into the evening of speckled lampposts and smoke. His head bobbed West to East, North to South, and all Axis’ between X, Y and Z. The more I stared at this character whom I called Neal the more I thought of him as an illusion of my own delusions. When I had finished that thought, Neal had spun around and laughed a good hearty and honest laugh; he seemed to have read my mind and proceeded to flick the space between by eyebrows with his thumb and *******. The pain was real enough. This Neal must be real, unless I had gone full mad with lunacy. We blasted off down the avenue which connected the college bar to the dormitories and the library after that.
        Beyond the avenue laid the cozy valley of goodnight downtown with all it’s lights of sodium pearls below and us upon the hill top looking down with eager intensity. Neal gave another rounded laugh and stared with mad eyes above my head and pointed straight up into the sky at Sirius.
        “Tonight, yes yes, we go out. Not just out, my dear friend, but up. Yes yes, to the great up-and-over. Beyond the next stop we absolutely must climb.”

         I don’t know what mad beast had possessed me that evening but I followed this ghost; this great memory of romantic America into the heart of the infinite night.
        “Good gal Deline”, said Neal

        “Who?” I replied
        “Nimble fingers, strong hands for the German working class” he said, “Great gone gal. Good gal. Fine gal by all standards of beauty and sleek german ingenuity”
        “Hmm”, I responded inhaling my cigarette deeply. The Germans were just fine at rolling, but the tobacco was all American. It was harder and harder for me to physically keep up with Neal. He kept speeding off sporadically twenty feet in front of me, sometimes stopping and spouting at young folks asking for cigarettes. 

        “But you’ve already got one” They would say

        “Yes yes, but it’s for when I’m not smoking one is why I want one”, Neal would answer as he trailed off further and further down the road. They thought he was mad, but they all smiled nonetheless.

        My curiosity was brimming. Who was this mad man? Who was this loon impersonator of the American night? I could not stand by my idle silence and unquestioning.
        “What’s the plan tonight?”, I asked

        “What plan? No good plan. Only great plan and great plain rising higher and higher and we will be up all night but on top of the world for we must climb up and up forever until we can climb no more, and then after we can climb no more then we must climb a little further for life itself is nothing more than an infinite climb ever higher and why not get there faster than all the rest?”

        I had stopped walking and Neal’s voice echoed and vibrated the walls of the stairs between the library and the meal hall. His voice was like that of mountain that had slid beneath the ground reborn into an endless peak above.
“Jailbird Cassidy. Great bellowing Cassidy all energy and no direction, but getting there in no time just the same Cassidy”, I thought to myself.
“I trust you Neal”, I had said out loud.
“Not yet! First great big night time breakfast for you and me, for one can not climb without a good energy and good rounded stomach digested of food and stories.”
Tamanna Oct 2014
She's staring at her favorite scarf and weeping away at her life.
Mother doesn't love her,
Father doesn't understand her.
And the image of her scarf is constantly appearing in her mind.
She has come to the conclusion that she'd look best wearing it,
Hanging from one foot from her ceiling.
Funny how something meant to make someone so warm,
Can be used to make a body stone-cold.
Should she wear the scarf with butterflies on it?
Or the one her sister gave her for Christmas,
The day they stopped talking to each other altogether?
Should she wear the one she wore on her first date with him,
Or is that too much?
Mother is screaming at her,
Telling her that her room is too cluttered.
There are scarves laying everywhere on the ground,
The girl is comfortable with it.
But I wonder what she'd do when her mother sees her cluttered mind.
"Mom, how does this scarf look on me?"
The girl will ask from up above,
Or maybe down below.
But she won't care, because she's too preoccupied with the girls flaws.
Her room gets too explosive,
Shes not exactly like the mothers firstborn.
She hangs out with friends too often to avoid being home.
Scratch that, at her house, because a home is where the heart is,
But all I see are carbonated feelings being bottled up,
And shaken,
But the girl doesn't dare pop open the cap.
Now the mother is pushing the girl away
And throwing everything she has,
Both literally and figuratively,
And the mother officially wages a war against the girl.
The mother is armed with the girl's dear father,
And her words,
And all the girl has to offer are scarves.
She has an assortment of 13 exactly,
But she doesn't know which one to wear.
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the october sunrise while taking the train to school every morning
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to wear uggs, hats and scarves already at the end of september,
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to buy 90 cent face masks and my favorite protein bars at the drugstore 10 minutes away from me
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the porsches and mercedes c-classes parked on the curbes of our sidewalks
to the hometown i hate,
i miss the quietness of my area
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to speak a language i know fluently, not worrying about the anxiety i get if i get into a complicated situation
to the hometown i hate,
i miss running in the quiet, clean, green forest next to us
to the hometown i hate,
i miss sleeping in my own bed, in the room i did not like
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to go to my fully-equipped kitchen and bake whenever i want to, which i complained was too small until i moved into my dorm
to the hometown i hate,
i miss you
While they noticed the stretch of kohl in her eyes,
I could see a pacific of emotions trapped.
While they admired her blushing cheeks,
I could read the paleness she painted red.
While they were going gaga over her smirk,
I could fathom the depth of pain that debarred a hearty gale.
While they were lured by the cascade of her hair when she unscrewed the bun,
I could feel the onus of the tantrums she wanted to turf out.
While they were hypnotized by her mesmeric curves,
I was stunned by the withstanding efficacy of such a fragile body.
While they adored her attire and scarves,
I could trace the bruises she carried with poise.
While they were hung up by the glory of her face,
I could do no help but ride out at the scars she concealed with sprightliness which was the most beautiful thing my eyes could ever have a view of and it left me dazed...
And my mouth wide opened.
-Aparajita Tripathi
Ashley Etienne Jul 2015
Do you know the meaning of "stop and frisk"?
I'm sorry black brother, you do.
Have you ever had to change your voice in order to get a job?
I'm sorry black sister, you have.
Have you ever had to remove your hijab because you needed to take a flight?
I'm sorry brown girl, you have.
Has anyone ever insisted you have extensive knowledge on every school subject?
I'm sorry yellow friend, someone has.
Have you ever been told to go back to your country, despite the fact that you're already there?
I'm sorry red man, you have.
Have you ever been called and illegal immigrant, but you were born in the u.s?
I'm sorry Latino friend, you have.
Have you ever been told that racism doesn't exist and, by someone with pale skin?
I know I have.

So this is to the ones who have been told that they "aren't black enough" because they use proper grammar and their pants don't sag.
The brown boys with beards that get called "towel heads"
To the Asian kids that are just as smart as the next guy.
To the native Americans that still get called Indians.
To the brown girls that get told that they don't have to wear their scarves because "we're in America"
Racism is still a problem in the U.S. And a lot of other places.  
It's a problem for everyone who isn't white.
So for someone to say it doesn't exist, is just infuriating.
We are dying every day and people say its our fault.. But they're killing us.
charlie stewart May 2013
she had a heart that
could light up the sky
she had a smile that
would brighten the gloom
on a winters morning
but she hid her beauty
beneath scarves and
long sleeved shirts

she didnt show off that
beauty until
he told her what
she had

that day she learned
that not every
thing is judged by
the outside.

italic c.s
The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.  
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.  
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.  
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.
Rachel Cloud Sep 2014
one, two
knit the tears
into something warm

dull the fingers
fight the fears
work, distract the mind

loop and loop
around, around
until the fabric, formed

lose the heart
with numb, abound
another scarf to find
I make scarves when I'm sad ~ right now I'm all out of yarn
Alexander Ross Aug 2013
I didn't mean to distract you, upon first interaction with you, I saw the sun lights refraction shining upon human polka dots
I have a thought that I won't say,
Ill write you In the plot of a book, that takes place far far away
Most times I speak with haste, life is no computer, but I can still copy and paste, my thoughts in a manner that properly compiles grace, and with some glue, you trapped your hands upon plastic keys, and played for me, a melody, and said I've been waiting my whole life to do this, I am alone and I am free, and I will stay that way for a while, so don't look at me with smile, and as quickly as it was created my memory can be cut and pasted into a file you keep beneath your bed,
The cold is coming, and I hope you wear hats upon your head and scarves upon your neck, for I hope you realize I am a sled, I don't stop until I reach the bottom, of a barrel filled with luck I live my off of,
I never told you but I ******* love your polka dots
Jackie B Dec 2014
I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.  

Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.

When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.

Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.

But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.

There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.
Bailey B Dec 2009
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
april 11 1952 Mom gives birth to beautiful blue-eyed girl Mom takes name Penelope from Great-Grandma Penny who died week after Odysseus was born Mom and Dad are not educated to know greek mythology and homer it is odd coincidence they picked Odysseus’s name out of book of names thought it sounded strong  anglo old money Odysseus is thrilled to have sister to share childhood with when Odysseus is 6 and Penelope is 4 Grandma Betty invites them to visit her house block away she serves them oatmeal cookies orange juice shows them her latest small painting of field brightly colored flowers birds in sky lower left corner is horse or dog painting is still wet she shows them magazine picture she copied from Odysseus realizes it is pony in lower left corner when they return home Mom yells at Odysseus “where were you? why didn’t you think to call or leave message with Teresa? do you have any idea what a nervous wreck you’ve made me!” she slaps hard Odysseus’s face reprimands “don’t i have enough to worry about without you pulling something like this? you only think about yourself it’s so typical of your selfishness wait until your father gets home he’ll deal with you now go to your room!" every time he gets caught in mistake he is punished the drill is Mom gets upset with Odysseus flies into rage yells slaps him around threatens him with Dad gets home has a few drinks Mom tells Dad explodes beats Odysseus Mom is judge jury Dad is executioner afterward Dad goes back into living room pours another drink sits in celadon green lounge chair Odysseus is trained to wipe tears put on pajamas go to Dad apologize admit fault promise to be good kisses Dad and Mom goodnight goes to bed that is the drill

Odysseus is barefaced curious exploring discovering tries to connect with Mom and Dad but they are unavailable they are his parents not his friends as far back as he can remember he lives in world of “it’s safe free here Mom and Dad can’t see us” children are smarter than parents think figure ways to self-protect something stirs inside Odysseus creature separate from Dad and Mom whatever psychological or emotional patterns are developing he does not understand obediently goes along

Mom and Granny Mattie take Odysseus and Penelope to browse shops on oak street at one store little statuette like kind Granny Mattie collects catches Odtsseus’s eye he slips it in pocket on drive home he takes statuette out to show Penelope she asks where he got it Mom Granny Mattie overhear ask Odysseus where he got statuette he confesses took it from store Mom gets livid steers car back to oak street Granny Mattie insists “it’s just a figurine let him keep it Odysseus meant no harm i don’t see why you want to make such a big fuss Jenny!” Mom replies “he’s got to learn right from wrong!” they all return to store mom explains to sales clerk what son has done Odysseus hands back figurine apologizes when Dad gets home he dishes out punishment years later Penelope remarks “that was the first time i realized Odys you needed to reach out for something beyond the family”

Odysseus wants to die he is 7 years old and wants to die he knows his life is critically messed up wants new different existence person he is becoming is too error prone ruined already he is way too ******* himself Dad’s temper Mom’s criticisms subsequent self-absorbed social demands drive him to ideas of suicide Dad and Mom are too busy to notice Mom always uses sleeping pills placidal nebutal seconal miltown whatever is the latest Mom says she does not dream Odysseus guesses she does not remember her dreams on account of those pills everyone dreams years later Mom remarks i need sleeping pills to forget about you Odys as Mom describes “i run a formal beautiful household” she delegates chores to weekly staff of brown skin ladies it is house of feminine décor matching pillows sheets pulled tight under elegant bedspreads everything put away in proper place furniture in precise order little dinner bell servant’s foot buzzer beneath Mom’s chair at dining room table maids in servitude once a week white woman with big shoulders foreign accent shows up to give Mom massage Mom is not to be disturbed during that hour Odysseus knows first names of each laundress cleaning lady doormen deskmen garage men janitors caterers at holidays tall black effeminate John comes twice a month on sunday to cook serve traditional american breakfast along with fried bananas apples afterward he cleans up shines silver first 13 years of Odysseus’s life are lived in buildings with elevators staff of residence employees

Mom’s closet is vast with colors textures ground level hundred or more neatly arranged clear plastic boxes containing pairs of expensive shoes walls of imported French and Italian designer label dresses skirts suits blouses top shelf fashionable purses hats other feminine accoutrements also two large dresser chests filled with drawers of sweaters scarves girdles lingerie hosiery more accessories Mom often wears joy by jean patou arpege by lanvin chanel # 5 Mom shops at saks bonwit teller occasionally marshall fields within several years most of her buying will be done at fantastico, exclusive import boutique on oak street clothes jewelry cosmetics are important to her but most important is hair she prefers bottle blonde color wears hair trimmed medium length fluffed up sprayed fixed as do many women of her generation social stature she visits beauty salon twice a week must enjoy letting her guard down with other women while being served by homosexual men her hair prevents her from driving in car with top down all other outdoor activities that might threaten hairdo Penelope mimics Mom though she keeps her things in less tidy fashion she is being groomed to be queen like mom maybe Mom is more sympathetic to Penelope because both innately share female experience Mom portrays herself as lady of elegance Penelope is different from Mom more earthy bumbling routinely scratches Odysseus’s records leaves her drawers messy Mom takes baths so her hair will not be disturbed Dad takes showers Odysseus and Penelope take baths together then apart as they grow bigger ****** is normal in Schwartzpilgrim household Dad hints reserve Odysseus follows takes showers Mom leaves bathroom door open while bathing she is constantly changing clothes traipsing around in robes slippers elegant silk lingerie
Scatts Jun 2014
I want to be my own muse

maybe if I write poems to myself
finding a pretty way to describe the stardust hidden in my hair
the perfume I leave on my scarves
the fact that my hands are always, always cold
so cold I just got used to it
maybe if I write about
how my tears taste like the sea
how my tea tastes more like sugar instead of, you know, tea
how kisses -technically- taste horrible to me
and still I find them so incredible
if I paint pictures of my neck or my chapped lips
or the way my hair just falls nicely when I just woke up
if I write about my favorite sweaters
and I sing sonnets inspired in my high heels
and how they make me feel taller
higher
four point five inches closer to the sky

maybe if I write for my muse
I can make her fall in love with me

and with that maybe
just maybe
I will
-finally-
be in love with myself
for you, if you needed this.
Third Eye Candy Aug 2013
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.
Mark Lecuona Aug 2016
I want you to wear scarves, layer upon layer
Flowing like the ocean that I may enter at peril
And what is mystery except what I want
The sun sets in paradise and rises in your eyes
As your hearts glow illuminates the night
With ebbing waters begging to be heard
By the moonlight streaking upon them
Your curtains pull from me desperate love
Out of the tides of unbridled hesitancy
Until the falls crash all around you
From melting snows of a faraway place
Warmed by the passion that burns in your veins
Until the silent sun rises again looking for shells
Though I begged never to leave the night before
As your silhouette reminds of all my dreams
That came true in the instant you smiled
I entered your heart with loving violence
Every arrow from the quill of desire
Digging deeper further than you realized
Killing the doubt that died once before
By promises that were never true
But given new life by misery’s hand
Waiting until the sun sets again
And the night calls me to your side

— The End —