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 Dec 2017
sadgirl
//

The definition of thot [that ** over there], via Urban Dictionary

A woman who pretends to be the type of valuable female commodity who rightfully earns male commitment—until the man discovers that she’s just a cheap imitation of a “good girl” who is good for nothing, and definitely not for relationships or respect.

If women are products, then thots are cheap goods. More than that, they’re knockoffs: low-quality merchandise that attempts to masquerade as luxury items.

They generally dress in cheap clothing, try to act like they're better than they really are, or think they're not ****** but high class when they're nothing close to classy. They demand respect, money, gifts, dates but do nothing to deserve any of it because they have no self-respect, no manners, low self esteem, little education and on top of all that they are thots because they have no self worth.

//

he called me a thot.
the same blood-boy nightmare who bragged about his ******* and double cup. too cheap to buy actavis generics, so he drank himself into a stupor on walgreens brand dye-free cough syrup. he acted black, said words white boys shouldn't have near their mouths. his friends were ableist at the best, and misogynist at worst.

he called other girls thots too.
but i was different. stick-and-poke told trans king who told american spirit who told blood-boy what i confided in a friend. a story that ends and begins with my tears, tears from gagging, tears from telling my mother about the worst three minutes of my life and how my knees and heart hurt afterwards.

i embodied thot.
left my family for friends, joked about the pain until it hurt even more. i found myself crying in bathroom stalls, looking down at my body in the bathtub as i learned to breathe water. the girls said i was thick, i didn't know if they meant it in a good way. the boys said worse. i wore camouflage pants, comme de garçons tops, air force ones. i jumped on trends like a wild cat stalking prey. but i could never catch anything worthwhile with my soft, clawed paws.

he smiled like he was better than me.
after blood-boy stunned summers and winters alike, burned spring and fall, and for what? to call me a thot? i knew what i was to him. but he didn’t define me anymore.

he called me a thot.
and this time i fought back with my eyes, didn’t just sit there and feel words welling up inside.
because even thots are queens.
because i used to be deciduous, but now i’m evergreen.


//
 Dec 2017
phil roberts
On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go

Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Though the risks are higher
Amidst the heavy hitters

Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive

                                     By Phil Roberts
 Dec 2017
Donna
I got up early
this morning with the sunrise
Together we smiled

I caught up on some
housework and sorted out my
big iron pile

It was a mountain
of untold creased up garments
waiting to smile wide

I went outside and
it was freezing , the sky was
falling through the trees

But the trees are strong
There full of almighty love
And take no notice

Me and Dean had some
lunch and a milky coffee
To warm up our tums

Then we went food
shopping and each aisle was
packed with hungry souls

Outside again and
the sky is grey all over
Matching the pavements

I think they have a
little love going on with
matching winter coats

We turn up heater
in van to warm up our feet
and the windows cried

I saw a squirrel
Scurrying about quickly
It's tail all bushy

A magpie flys by
Then sits on a Ariel
Upon a house roof

Is it watching the
telly , maybe it's got magic
eyes and sees through things

Once indoors Dean
quickly gets ready to go
watch some boxing

Our sons also went
My daughter took a photo
A memory made

My youngest son went
to a school friends party
He looks all grown up

As for me and my
two daughters , we get to spend
time together too :)
:)
 Dec 2017
Sally A Bayan
It's almost mid-December
...no more november thrills,
....just colder winds that give me a chill
and, remind me of a kind of peace...a rural calm,
in the old country days...simple celebrations
and the natural beauty of hand-made stars
hanging outside windows of houses...
their low lights seem dots , yet....seen, from
farms, ricefields, and from the old chapel,
:::
the old chapel.....where people's most
ardent wishes, dreams and  prayers, rest,
the old chapel, which sounds so heavenly,
when "silent night," and "o holy night" are sung
....in the cold hours of dawn masses...

no one feared the dark...people were guided
by lanterns.......star-shaped and lighted...
white-painted wooden Christmas trees
adorned the small living rooms...small, but
filled with that holiday warmth, shared with
family, neighbors and friends...

in lieu of those humble huts, rows of
pompous concrete structures now stand tall
over once vast pasture-lands and rice fields,
mostly gussied up with expensive decors...yet,
......bereft of the true Christmas spirit...
...silent nights, are not so silent anymore...

my chest goes high and low,
the late november winds have blown
farther away,  taken over by the boldly cold,
yet, welcomed  festive airs of december...
i'm always happy about Christ's arriving,
i am sad.......the old ways...they're vanishing...

Sally

Copytight November 27, 2017
rrab
BLACK and WHITE,
DARKNESS can't fade her LIGHT.

GREY, A perfect shade--blended,
Her aura, an array of VIVID colours;
A permanent rainbow--extended.


By Lady R.F. (C)2017
 Dec 2017
Jim Davis
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
 Dec 2017
Nat Lipstadt
The Real Poets Here

are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find

their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port

they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary  Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West

opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages

when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided

fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass

of them
I*
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me

Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly

dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...

all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,

wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or  urgently comfort us when none else can,

these are my friends,
the real poets here*

god keep you well

my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
"Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
      We will grieve not, rather find
      Strength in what remains behind;
      In the primal sympathy
      Which having been must ever be;
      In the soothing thoughts that spring
      Out of human suffering;
      In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind."

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850

Compose and Posted 3:30am June 12, 2014
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