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Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

When she bought the house
His mother was smiling
She could finally leave Queens
For the burbs of Long Island
She wanted to leave Queens
Because in Queens the kids were wildin’
But little did she know
So were her little darlins’
The fast paced life
She thought she left behind
Gave her a comfort level
But only in her mind
Call it accidental
Or simply by design
To the realities of life
She was partially blind

This is a cautionary tale
From which there’s no escape
Like the finish of a close race
It’s a tale of the tape

Lampin’ in the burbs
Things seemed to be fine
He smoked a little herb
Because he was inclined
According to most people
You couldn’t find
A nicer fella anywhere
Most of the time
There was another side to him
Ya need to know
Rumor has it
That he moved a lot of blow
But where he sold it at
Nobody seemed to know
It was in the kinds of places
His people didn’t go

This is a cautionary tale
From which there’s no escape
Like the finish of a close race
It’s a tale of the tape

Life’s a mystery
Because ya never know
How long you’re gonna be here
Or when you’re gonna go
So how come most of us
Act like that isn’t so
Living recklessly
Most of the time but - yo
There were those who thought they knew him
But they really didn’t
So many aspects of his personality
He kept well hidden
He did lots of things
That people thought he didn’t
And if they confronted him
He simply wouldn’t admit it

This is a cautionary tale
From which there’s no escape
Like the finish of a race
It’s a tale of the tape

Swing low sweet chariot
The Lord took him home
Only twenty-one
But sadly now he’s gone
Made a left turn
But that turn was wrong
Now he’s a memory
Talked about in song

The bigger they are
They say the harder they fall
It’s an understatement to relate
That he was tall
A giant of a man
About six-five in all
Tall enough to make
Everyone else look small
While in front of his mother’s house
Minding his own business
A gunman snuck behind him
According to the witness
Pumped two in his head
With certainty and quickness
Knocked him to the ground
Where he was still and listless

This is a cautionary tale
From which there’s no escape
Like the finish of a close race
It’s a tale of the tape

Swing low sweet chariot
The Lord took him home
Only twenty-one
But sadly now he’s gone
Made a left turn
But that turn was wrong
Now he’s a memory
Talked about in song

(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
Anastasia Webb Sep 2014
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).

Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.

Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)

Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.

THE END.

(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Raj Arumugam Nov 2014
we were deeply in love
my new girlfriend and I
and we sat under the trees
in the open fields in the starlight
and she whispered to me:
"Will things ever change?"
And I whispered back, as I nibbled at her ears:
"Nothing will ever change, sweetheart"

Then she got pregnant
and everything changed


I changed my address, my work
my phone number and my email address
my routine and my weekend haunts -
*everything changed
*final in a series of 3 tongue-in-cheek cautionary poems on guys and gals and relationships
*poem 1: silly girl *poem 2: vain girl, but clever *poem 3: nothing will ever change
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
don't fall for their tales,
their trapping words
intended to capture all manner of
literary loving girls...
while they, these mopoets^ are perfectly content
to keep on looking
"for the perfect one..."
to write about,
the greatest love affair in all of
his-story

but only after getting first
a close dose of,
a teeming taste of<
her
"inspiration"

He tells them that
after the first date,
he'll go home thinking:

"I could drink a case of you"*

but usually but a glass,
at most,
a bottle, a month,
a satisfactory suffice,
and it's onto the next write

that's why the FBI labelled him,
a dangerous serial poet,
his mot
to be trusted,
not, no, no...no!


Ah men! Ah poets!
somebody should pass a law....

4:03am
meanwhile it is nearing six years...as she likes to say, she picked me out of a lineup, and
fingered me instantly(as-a-bad boy!)

^Mopoets = male only poets
Raj Arumugam Nov 2014
I got a hundred shoes
in pairs, of course
and a wardrobe fit for a Princess
I got the bed
carved with gold trimmings
from the best end of town;
and a range of the best wigs -
all human hair,
third world crop no doubt
but at first world cost for sure


that all took me into bad debt
credit card and all
so when debonair James
asked me to marry him
I grabbed him lips to lips -
now he's paying through his nose



MORAL of  TODAY'S POEM
so those of you guys
who are naive
you get caught;
those who are smart
you better use your head
before you put your knees on the floor
poem 2 in a series of 3 tongue-in-cheek cautionary poems on guys and gals and relationships
poem 1: silly girl/poem 3: nothing will ever change
Olivia Kent  Sep 2013
Puppy!
Olivia Kent Sep 2013
The puppy sat by the door.
Near dying to go out.
Crying an abysmal wail
As if a naughty child.
Pawed and clawed the kitchen door.

No-one heard the honey pup.
Everyone was out.
Owner running late for work.
Neglected to let her run.
However could she forget.

It got to six a clock at night.
No-body came.
The tension built up.
Fluid build up.
Exploded sweet pup.
(metaphorically of course)

Owner came home.
Just couldn't be cross.
Cleaned up the muddle-some puddle.
Gave her puppy a hug.
Smiled to herself.
Said to puppy how sorry she was.
Cautionary tale acquired from here.
No matter how ever late you ever may be.
Put your cute puppy out to ***!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Raj Arumugam Nov 2014
Mike said
I'm the prettiest girl
he's ever met
so I let him
jump in

Carl made me
feel special
he said he'd never seen
anyone so pure
so in the back of his car
I let hm in

Rob said he'd rob
the world, go to jail
do anything I told him to do
so in the garden
I let him plant himself in

George wrote poetry;
he described my eyes
and my face and my walk
and he said he'd love me
forever, it was destiny brought
us together -
could he see more, please?
So I let him do everything
so he could make divine poetry

*Now I can't find any
of these guys
and they don't return my calls -
what happened
to their fine words and promises?
poem 1 in a series of 3 tongue-in-cheek cautionary poems on guys and gals and relationships/ poem 2: vain girl, but clever /poem 3: nothing will ever change
The room… it held in the darkness; a self-encapsulating prison…

Silent echo.

Cautionary tales, shared through a cautionary glance, half inferred cautionary advice, to be paid off with a cautionary stone.

The serpent held its place, dangling on the sill, whispering half concoctions to the man known as death… hell followed.

The guise of honor, shown in the stare of cadaverous ghosts, with pecked out pupils.

Respect suppressed in shame

Reverie found in pain

Obfuscation in the wake

Engrossed epigraph held over the stake
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
daniela Jun 2015
it's tempting sometimes.
the impulse to withdraw all the money from my bank account
and drive down I70 until the scenery changes,
the impulse to wander without bothering to find anything
let alone myself.
the impulse to disappear.
but impulses are just impulses,
i think this is just the way my mind convulses
and, obviously, i can't do any of those things.
or maybe i just feel like i can't do any of those things.
i mean, i've got responsibilities i've got people counting on me.  
i can't just up and leave my life
even though sometimes i'm itching to like i've got poison ivy
crawling all over my skin.
speaking of poison, i've heard people theorize that
maybe oxygen is slow-acting poison, taking all of our lives
to **** us under the guise of "natural causes"
i think if you stay anywhere long enough
the air becomes polluted, the air gets toxic.
my highschool art teacher,
who was incidentally a real conspiracy theory kind of guy,
once told our class that we're all too locked into our realities.
that life is only what we perceive it.
i had snickered along with the rest of the class,
the rest of the unwilling congregation to his soapbox pulpit,
because that's what people do when they're uncomfortable.
now i guess i wish i was a little less locked into my own reality.
i guess i wish i could be the kind of person
who bought plane one-way plane tickets and could be reckless
without first getting tangled in the repercussions.
i think the problem with running is
that no matter where i ran i'd still be me.
most people tie their feet to the train tracks of inevitability,
they will build a house there until it falls down around them.
they will live there until they're evicted,
with their hands still clenched in the sheets
and their feet planted in the backyard.
most people never leave where they grew roots.
but, see, the problem with roots is that unless you want to die
you can't ever pull them out completely.
i am always going to be from somewhere.
i am always going to be from here.
i am always going to be myself.
but life is a work in progress and i'm ******* working on it,
i'm not where i want to be
but as long as i know where i've been,
i don’t ever have to go back to where i was again.
my head is so crowded that sometimes i think it's exceeding its occupancy.
i think that i'm going to start having to get rid
of pieces of myself to make everything fit.
sometimes i just want to lose all my thoughts along the interstate
like i lose them halfway through a poem
i'm not quick enough to write down.
my head is like a graveyard with good ideas
buried under cracked tombstones that no one leaves flowers on.
sometimes i think of my brain as a black hole,
a place where light gets lost and doesn't come back out the same.
sometimes i think of my brain as a moratorium,
a place where dreams go
to get dressed for their funeral processions.
but sometimes i think of my brain as midas,
any idea can be golden if i get my hands on it.
sometimes i just want to hold my coalmine heart so tightly
that all that's left is diamonds.
the thing is, sometimes my brain is a like a black hole
and sometimes my brain is like a galaxy.
on my good days i'm golden, on my bad days i'm falling apart
and i lose a couple more more of my pieces every time i hit the ground.
but it's all internal; i think if i were to self-destruct
it wouldn't even make a sound.
and so often i think of the world as a battlefield,
i think i was born in the trenches instead of the home front.
i think i found myself in the worst place to get lost.
we went to bed as children
and woke up with the world on our shoulders
we went to bed as innocent and woke up as soldiers.
and you can't save people from themselves,
even though we've spent the last few millennia trying to.
we're like that sometimes, we never learn.
and even when i was drowning six feet under gasping for air,
you never needed to save me from myself,
my shadow is more than just the reflection of somebody else.
so go on, get your armor
so go on, get your battle scars
so take aim, so don't be ashamed
it's uphill sometimes but i kind of think we're getting there,
even if i don't always know where is.
sometimes you don't sink or swim,
you just thrash around until you start floating
our life jackets are all labeled "here's to hoping, here's to coping"
so **** your horoscopes.
you only listen to it when it tells you what you want to hear anyways.
so don't go to bed, kid, stay wide awake.
it's better for dreaming, it's better for scheming.
nobody is going to hand you your destiny,
you've got to ******* fight for it.
and we're all learning how to open our eyes
when we get pulled under by the tide and lick the salt off our teeth.
and if you're searching for purpose,
for something that might be worth this,
i can tell you where not to look.
kid, i've been there.
**** it, most days i still am there.
i built a house out of deflated life preservers there
and was surprised when it didn't float me home.
but this is what i know now:
i know i have a choice in how i look at this world.
am i going to focus on the brutal or the beautiful?
because for all the ugly there is so much that’s still lovely,
so don't let this ******* of a world steal your bright eyes,
cutting your eyelashes down to size.
don't let this ******* of a world tell you to settle for anything.
and when they tell you about icarus like a warning sign,
ask them "what good is a cautionary tale that doesn't **** up?"
new piece i've been working on. kinda digging it and wondering what people think. also let's play a game called "how many times will daniela reference icarus in her poetry even though she knows it's hella cliche because she doesn't care and loves it anyway?"
Aztec Andy's abode was a dorsalfinned cathedral.
Inca Ian was his neighbour on banks of the Fongufeasle.

Inca Ian's residence was  a portholed volcano...
Or were their gaffs prefaffs of adobe & gold? I dunno.

IOUs on Andy's quipu arrears of human sacrifice,
when he encountered a jaguar, nonpouncer most polite,

decked in snazzy golfslacks & proffering sage advice
in Morganfreemanny, mammalian-masonic matey voice.

'Alrite, Andy?' spoke Jaguar, 'Say, I heard from Inca Ian  
you're all out of Olmec odalisques; devout, nubile, heathen

volunteer tzompantli t'malanoint w/ treefrog slobber,
then slit from stem to stern w/ your consecrated stabber

- not best joboffer...  P'haps most puissant Pashungo
is new deity for thee, Andy, now's the time to unfollow

virginovorous Ningovice, current blessing provider
for whom gore congeals upon temple table like sunflower

toms drying. Taboo tabasco  of Mayans' sprayin' midriffs
never tamed Ningovice's terms or propitiatory tariff.

You should switch to Pashungo, mate!' the Jaguar softsold.
'Ian did' - w/ pythonic aplomb  his tail pointed to portholed

volcano yonder. Aztec Andy wasn't born in the Bronze Age,
there'd be some mass grave formula & clause to assuage

this god on four legs, Pashungo. Andy owed it to old idol
to first unscroll small print in codex of Gaznumplepecol

to be informed  of penalty plagues Ningovice might visit
upon his crop of afterdinner lint & upon the spirits

of Andy's ancestors, Ningovictecs all. 'Worship Pashungo
today for limited introductory gift (no jaguano

passes these liquorice lips),'  insisted Jaguar, his whiskers
waggling distinguishedly. Like one of Jaga's lectures

to Lion-O,  a tutelary trait to junglecat's sales patter,
& a twinkle like early onset feline Alzheimer's,

chatoyant bants in the leopard-lookeylikey's langtries,
his lookers lacking overblinking of beast who deceives.

So th'Aztec advanced towards pantherpimpled proselytizer,
who thru couchant-sejant-sejanterect- rampant roared a riser

inopinate, clawful carnivore cosh thwacking
w/ newton bump of  Reg Varney's ***** busjacking

a doubledecker, fryingpanning Mesoamerican sun-moonie
flatfaced & flat out, tho' like he'd  lost match of '1-knee, 2-knee',

Aztec Andy fell prone, flat on his face. So as his next meal,
Jaguar dined on Andy's spine like a strawberry jellied eel.

Back on his Aztec Hi-tecs, Andy hadn't a cat in hell's to scramble
- moves like Jagger going for the jugular had Jaguar. Who'd also       hornswaggled

Inca Ian w/ Pashungo mumbojumbo for a previous feast,
tho'  kippercision of supine Ian aped bloodcounting savage priest's.

I'm sure you've heard to beware Greeks bearing gifts or even
brochures,
but now you know to never ever
trust jaguars in natty trousers.
quipu= Inca string and bead abacus
tzompantli =Mesoamerican wooden rack for displaying skulls of human sacrifices & war captives
Pauline Morris May 2016
On my knees but it hurts to pray
I wither in agony every ******* day
I must ask you to look the other way

I am the cautionary tale
I have stepped behind the veil
But even in death I was a fail

So eager for death
For secrets to be kept
Till that final last breath

I prayed for the pain to stop
I prayed for the demons not to romp
Through my life, on my dreams not to stomp

Seems that I've prayed to one that refuses to listen
There seems to be a rift, a division
For my life plays out in black and crimson

On my knees but it hurts to pray
I wither in agony every ******* day
I must ask you to look the other way

— The End —