city-of-flips - Hello Poetry

not one, but many, for the transitional is everywhere about, the sun heats, but the fall chill negates, the animals sense the change, knowing instinctively that soon, soon enough, the land will be of humans almost denuded, and they may go forth, about, their reclaimed land, writing their own, history, their own stories and their own poetry, and the treaty between nature, living creatures, earth, and once more, their national Day of Interdependence, will be freely celebrated...

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Aug 30, 2025

Aug 30, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC

there will no poem today...just...interdependence

not one, but many, for the transitional is everywhere about, the sun heats, but the fall chill negates, the animals sense the change, knowing instinctively that soon, soon enough, the land will be of humans almost denuded, and they may go forth, about, their reclaimed land, writing their own, history, their own stories and their own poetry, and the treaty between nature, living creatures, earth, and once more, their national Day of Interdependence, will be freely celebrated...

16

the best thing you could teach two another is how to love themselves, so they can return the favor; now that would be a refund!

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Jul 16, 2020

Jul 16, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC

the best thing you could teach two another

the best thing you could teach two another is how to love themselves, so they can return the favor; now that would be a refund!

4

anthem we pledge allegiance to each other, our state of-just-the-two-of-us, hands on each other’s heart, we cocoon, snuggle, it’s always warm in our land like Camelot, never rains, always in agreement, every votes never tied, for we are a colorless world, only one, the color of the day, is what we feel, create, and believe we sing only duets, our music, only perfect pitch harmonies, this our anthem, sung twice daily when the sun should rise, and when it should set, but, since our sun never leaves we do it for pure pleasure

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Jun 26, 2020

Jun 26, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC

anthem for a young couple

anthem we pledge allegiance to each other, our state of-just-the-two-of-us, hands on each other’s heart, we cocoon, snuggle, it’s always warm in our land like Camelot, never rains, always in agreement, every votes never tied, for we are a colorless world, only one, the color of the day, is what we feel, create, and believe we sing only duets, our music, only perfect pitch harmonies, this our anthem, sung twice daily when the sun should rise, and when it should set, but, since our sun never leaves we do it for pure pleasure

20

our hips fit, our hands entwine, fingers unlockable, laughing twogether, “mighty fine” she’s wearing the Levi’s, I’m wearing the Strauss, and it looks like we been stitched together her hand slides easy in, to my back pocket, smiling she announces, we like, fit, like a wedding announcement, we fit like, like an old country song we see a movie with our crew, lights go up, everybody loved it, she secretly, her nose wrinkly wrinkles, one too long car chase, my eyes are grinning from corner to corner, knowing she’s knowing i’m all in, full in her with agreement total they took us to a tailor, suits we required, made to measure, fit as perfect, as perfect we be, as perfect as we were, matching customized, white shirts, black tie, shiny black shoes, for matching caskets, everyone saying we just fit together, even now, crying ‘so long,’ for so long, see you guys so soon, you two fit, like an old country song, one that everyone knows, all the words.

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Jun 25, 2020

Jun 25, 2020 at 2:15 AM UTC

that old country song that everyone knows all the words

our hips fit, our hands entwine, fingers unlockable, laughing twogether, “mighty fine” she’s wearing the Levi’s, I’m wearing the Strauss, and it looks like we been stitched together her hand slides easy in, to my back pocket, smiling she announces, we like, fit, like a wedding announcement, we fit like, like an old country song we see a movie with our crew, lights go up, everybody loved it, she secretly, her nose wrinkly wrinkles, one too long car chase, my eyes are grinning from corner to corner, knowing she’s knowing i’m all in, full in her with agreement total they took us to a tailor, suits we required, made to measure, fit as perfect, as perfect we be, as perfect as we were, matching customized, white shirts, black tie, shiny black shoes, for matching caskets, everyone saying we just fit together, even now, crying ‘so long,’ for so long, see you guys so soon, you two fit, like an old country song, one that everyone knows, all the words.

50

~for John Prine~ she’s eye closed, playing sleepy possum, so I stealthy stroke her cheek, she, all smiling, then I nose tickle my sweet-love, now frowning, till I cease and desist, go back to stroking, then I’m her good loving man once again tune comes in my head from out of left field, start to tap the beat, pic my guitar strings, roaming all over her smooth features, now she’s all aroused, cause she knows what I’m about and this strumming, why that ain’t allowed, so she knocks my fingers away later, sneak into the kitchen, she’s fussin’ - could be, cleaning, could be cooking, but soon she ain’t moving, cause she’s just listening to the new tune first played earlier that morn, on her features born, a love song, calling that song “Playing with My Love’s Face” now she’s grabbing the biggest knife I ever seen, waving it to and too close to fro, in my direction general, waving it like a baton, conducting my song, singing along, making up her own lyrics, whole stanzas, now it’s her song, **** if that ain’t “the way the world goes round”

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Apr 12, 2020

Apr 12, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC

playing with my love’s face (John Prine tribute)

~for John Prine~ she’s eye closed, playing sleepy possum, so I stealthy stroke her cheek, she, all smiling, then I nose tickle my sweet-love, now frowning, till I cease and desist, go back to stroking, then I’m her good loving man once again tune comes in my head from out of left field, start to tap the beat, pic my guitar strings, roaming all over her smooth features, now she’s all aroused, cause she knows what I’m about and this strumming, why that ain’t allowed, so she knocks my fingers away later, sneak into the kitchen, she’s fussin’ - could be, cleaning, could be cooking, but soon she ain’t moving, cause she’s just listening to the new tune first played earlier that morn, on her features born, a love song, calling that song “Playing with My Love’s Face” now she’s grabbing the biggest knife I ever seen, waving it to and too close to fro, in my direction general, waving it like a baton, conducting my song, singing along, making up her own lyrics, whole stanzas, now it’s her song, **** if that ain’t “the way the world goes round”

21

all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings, in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence, where each patron fills in the empty sounds with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips in fervent unspokeness

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Feb 8, 2020

Feb 8, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC

(Sunday City Morning) all these I see, in realized eyes

all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings, in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence, where each patron fills in the empty sounds with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips in fervent unspokeness

6

I’ve Got A Guilty Heart and a Texas Troubled mind looks as if I’ve won the losing lovers lottery twice, had me the bonus number, now my silver buckle, getting an overdue shine-up, my heads getting full of regret and wondering, so my Daddy’s Stetson 6.75 size nowadays, fit real tighter over my piled-up cowgirl braids got excuses plenty, none worth sharing, none, that’ll change nothing, two hearts continental drifting, and with all the lyrics I write, got not a one about how we let each other get away, the jukebox playing Dixie Chicks “Cowboy Take Me Away” think I’ll cover it in my next set, he will be sad down in Brownsville, me, be traveling-singing in a dive bar up near Amarillo, no body will be sad for me, no cowbodys posting no videos, no telling then, but I’ll chance it, he will never know, cause I don’t want to make him swollen sadder than he be already somebody says god made country songs so sad so the world could knowing-nod, been there, done that, in case company might make you feel better, but it don’t till I right the wrong, till I write the lyric that won’t explain much, but me, taking the rightful blame, living with a guilty heart & troubled heart me, way up north, but not so far away, still in Texas that’s for sure, for the heart has a range finder that knows the GPS of where he be, and the exact distance between us... —- “*I've got a guilty heart And a troubled mind No matter where I go You're never far behind I'd like to think That you've forgiven me But forgiveness ain't enough To wash my conscience clean”* lyric from “Not Cause I Wanted To” by Al Anderson / Bonnie Bishop

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Nov 2, 2019

Nov 2, 2019 at 4:51 PM UTC

Got A Guilty Heart and a TexasTroubled mind*

I’ve Got A Guilty Heart and a Texas Troubled mind looks as if I’ve won the losing lovers lottery twice, had me the bonus number, now my silver buckle, getting an overdue shine-up, my heads getting full of regret and wondering, so my Daddy’s Stetson 6.75 size nowadays, fit real tighter over my piled-up cowgirl braids got excuses plenty, none worth sharing, none, that’ll change nothing, two hearts continental drifting, and with all the lyrics I write, got not a one about how we let each other get away, the jukebox playing Dixie Chicks “Cowboy Take Me Away” think I’ll cover it in my next set, he will be sad down in Brownsville, me, be traveling-singing in a dive bar up near Amarillo, no body will be sad for me, no cowbodys posting no videos, no telling then, but I’ll chance it, he will never know, cause I don’t want to make him swollen sadder than he be already somebody says god made country songs so sad so the world could knowing-nod, been there, done that, in case company might make you feel better, but it don’t till I right the wrong, till I write the lyric that won’t explain much, but me, taking the rightful blame, living with a guilty heart & troubled heart me, way up north, but not so far away, still in Texas that’s for sure, for the heart has a range finder that knows the GPS of where he be, and the exact distance between us... —- “*I've got a guilty heart And a troubled mind No matter where I go You're never far behind I'd like to think That you've forgiven me But forgiveness ain't enough To wash my conscience clean”* lyric from “Not Cause I Wanted To” by Al Anderson / Bonnie Bishop

34

*speckled cityscape compulsion <> it is 6:40am. the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film that I’ve seen many times. but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry, slept through it thankfully the kitchen window gives up a sunrise, but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry, a streaking swath of burnt and bright, so oft described, the color commentary previously immortalized by better poets than me, easy found elsewhere. the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity, it is their moment, these red flashes, all about, tall buildings chanting “stay away from me” to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land in a tumbled jungled of obscene density. still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges, burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue, compelled against my will to thankful write, for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed, cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments. a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself. the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars, at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing. Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted ***** Hershey white chocolate, checked by adults for safety and quality control. all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings, in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence, where each patron fills in the empty sounds with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips in fervent unspokeness the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River, for a reflection is always a second best version. 30 minutes later the real and the apparition both, disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky, just an old rerun, familiar deviltry. why is the sun rising is so worshipped, for there will never be a full day of just sunrise colorations, but the speckled reds still a true color, still showing, on perpetual guard duty, bidding adieu to its morning lovers, until tomorrow, in my city of lips. sun. oct. 20 2019

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Oct 20, 2019

Oct 20, 2019 at 8:21 AM UTC

speckled cityscape compulsion

*speckled cityscape compulsion <> it is 6:40am. the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film that I’ve seen many times. but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry, slept through it thankfully the kitchen window gives up a sunrise, but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry, a streaking swath of burnt and bright, so oft described, the color commentary previously immortalized by better poets than me, easy found elsewhere. the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity, it is their moment, these red flashes, all about, tall buildings chanting “stay away from me” to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land in a tumbled jungled of obscene density. still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges, burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue, compelled against my will to thankful write, for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed, cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments. a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself. the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars, at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing. Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted ***** Hershey white chocolate, checked by adults for safety and quality control. all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings, in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence, where each patron fills in the empty sounds with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips in fervent unspokeness the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River, for a reflection is always a second best version. 30 minutes later the real and the apparition both, disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky, just an old rerun, familiar deviltry. why is the sun rising is so worshipped, for there will never be a full day of just sunrise colorations, but the speckled reds still a true color, still showing, on perpetual guard duty, bidding adieu to its morning lovers, until tomorrow, in my city of lips. sun. oct. 20 2019

52

“your children not to do what I have done” long has this phrase from that old song, to wit, to which, we all knew it complete, that phrase and this one too, teach them well their father’s hell will slowly go by any parent, knows instantly their secret experiences validating these pregnant phrases to unification, combination and definition our looking face down on the children unafraid, and our looking back at the mistakes we ourselves made, that no one could have warned us of in advance can we warn them well, dare we tell, make our lore their history, make them too careful and too afraid not to repeat our mistakes, but be not fearful to make their own? doubtful. I am a young woman, and pappy says all parents have eyes in the back of their heads, and it still don’t help much

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Sep 7, 2019

Sep 7, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC

tell your children not to do what I have done

“your children not to do what I have done” long has this phrase from that old song, to wit, to which, we all knew it complete, that phrase and this one too, teach them well their father’s hell will slowly go by any parent, knows instantly their secret experiences validating these pregnant phrases to unification, combination and definition our looking face down on the children unafraid, and our looking back at the mistakes we ourselves made, that no one could have warned us of in advance can we warn them well, dare we tell, make our lore their history, make them too careful and too afraid not to repeat our mistakes, but be not fearful to make their own? doubtful. I am a young woman, and pappy says all parents have eyes in the back of their heads, and it still don’t help much

28

***The raindrop whispered to the jasmine, “Keep me in your heart for ever.” The jasmine sighed, “Alas,” and dropped to the ground.*** (237 Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore was born in Calcutta, India, on May 7, 1861. He is the author of many poetry collections, including Gitanjali: Song Offerings (Macmillan, 1913), which received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died on August 7, 1941.) <> Alas some words of note get overlooked, their usage to the wayside, this is life, forever updating its profile Alas! none of us, do not lie, issue this all encompassing sigh, this shaded heart rendering, un cri du coeur this, to remind us: a single warring word, falls wounded, forgotten, telling of impossibilities lost love, a broken conjunction, what was that can never be, what never was and yet not impossible someday Alas! Alas! a single word poem, that answers so many things, and still in its regretting is a niche of untold hopeful perhaps write me a word like that your fame, if that’s all you desire, alas, is assured... Alas!

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Aug 23, 2019

Aug 23, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC

Alas! (237 Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore)

***The raindrop whispered to the jasmine, “Keep me in your heart for ever.” The jasmine sighed, “Alas,” and dropped to the ground.*** (237 Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore was born in Calcutta, India, on May 7, 1861. He is the author of many poetry collections, including Gitanjali: Song Offerings (Macmillan, 1913), which received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died on August 7, 1941.) <> Alas some words of note get overlooked, their usage to the wayside, this is life, forever updating its profile Alas! none of us, do not lie, issue this all encompassing sigh, this shaded heart rendering, un cri du coeur this, to remind us: a single warring word, falls wounded, forgotten, telling of impossibilities lost love, a broken conjunction, what was that can never be, what never was and yet not impossible someday Alas! Alas! a single word poem, that answers so many things, and still in its regretting is a niche of untold hopeful perhaps write me a word like that your fame, if that’s all you desire, alas, is assured... Alas!

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