Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Keah Jones  Nov 2015
Delilah Baby
Keah Jones Nov 2015
Delilah baby I can feel the weight of you in my arms.

I can feel my k to z love for you and see how that laugh of yours makes people cry
and how that smile pierces my heart because it looks just like his did.

I can feel the sun kissing each one of our toes as we sit overlooking the grand canyon in the kaleidoscope sunset.
your spider fingers are wrapped in my hair like a plea to never be left alone
your spindle legs are all knobby kneed and pale entwined with mine.

baby he left me not you.

I was a hurricane and he loved you too much to look

afraid that one glance and he'd be head over heels reeling out of control
like you were the drug and he was the addict.

they say everything happens for a reason and you are my reason.

Delilah baby you are the here and the now of forever.
the stop sign on the corner is an obstacle for street racers but its a godsend because its just enough of a pause for me to kiss you between the eyes.

and I can't ever finish anything so this story isn't complete

and at the top of the pass where the air is clear enough if we sing loud enough maybe he will hear us and remember who he left behind.
Em MacKenzie Jul 2018
Happy belated birthday Mom,
I'm sorry it's two days late,
but I've been a bad daughter
and an even worse person.
You always told me not to go to your grave or put flowers on your headstone;
"I won't be under that ground," you'd say,
"and don't waste your money on flowers, I'll have no use for them where I'm going."
I still visit sometimes, and I do still bring flowers, but not nearly enough.
I know if I had been the one buried, you'd wear the grass down with your feet and then have the courtesy to plant some seeds.

Almost eight years later I still think about you everyday
and not a minute goes by where I don't miss you terribly.
What a cruel thing it is, to live a life where you're always missing someone.
To have so many things to say and receive no reply.

You would've been fifty seven this year.
I wonder how you would look as you got older, and sometimes, rarely, I forget what you looked and sounded like when you were here.
That's probably the worst part of it.

The first time I visited your grave was about a month or so after you had been buried,
the graveyard drowning in so much snow I actually visited the wrong headstone.
I'm sure Mr.Brown enjoyed the talk, though.
It was only after digging my bare hands through ten inches of snow and ice that I realized I was four spots down.
I then recognized your grave from the moonlight reflecting off the glass vases of yellow roses we had placed there during your funeral,
wedged in place with the snow hugging them tightly;
the roses frozen in time,
it was both beautiful and aggravating.
Good things funerals cost so much,
they should be able to have someone clean up the plot after the service.
I threw the roses out and gently tried to remove the vases:
the one with "wife" shattered in my hands and my frostbitten fingers picked each shard out from the snow.
I still carry a scar from that vase.
The one with "mother" on it remained in tact, I was just as gentle with it but it did not shatter.
You told me near the end that nothing in this world, nothing was powerful enough to ever have you taken away from me.
That vase sits on my dining room table to this day, nursing a reluctantly dying plant just as you'd want.
I don't think I'll ever have the green thumb like you did.

But I have everything else from you,
you always told me Kate was raised by your sister and that she was too much when you were so young,
"But you, Emily, you're MY daughter."
You said I was a godsend of a baby, never crying, content just to sleep,
and that I carried an old soul.
You laughed at how I always excelled at being alone as a child,
and you were so intrigued by my sense of imagination and creativity.
You always said you were the same when you were a kid.

So tell me, now that I'm older and I feel so alone all the time,
am I still you?
Were you this isolated and alien at my age now?
Did you carry the empathy to cry at little things you saw on the street or in a commercial,
so much so that you believe this world to be lost?
That you saw life as one big slap in the face?

I still try my best everyday to make you proud,
It breaks my heart constantly to think I didn't when you were here.
But life is cruel like that, and I was young and stupid and arrogant.
I know if you see my daily life,
you know I'm not 100% better,
and I know I probably never will be.
But I work hard, and I always say my "please" and "thank you"'s,
and I live by your example of always trying to help anyone in need.
It might not make up for the demons that I struggle with,
but atleast I still fight them, right?
I lost some years there where I should've died, and sometimes I wish I had,
but I didn't. I'm still here. I'm still trying.
And to be honest, it's not for me, or for my family, for love or sunsets, or dogs or any of the things that bring me up to a solid "content."

It's for you, because you taught me that's what you do in life.
You fight. You fight until your last breath.

I've thought this a million times in my head, but I'll say it now,
you were always right about everything.
As teenage girls, we challenge our mothers at every turn and decision,
convinced we are mature and capable of making decisions,
and then we say hurtful things when we don't get our way.
So you deserve to hear it, you were always right.

I wish I could tell you face to face.
I would tell you how much I miss you, more than either of us could've ever predicted.
I would tell you how blessed I feel to have had such an amazing mother.
I would apologize for judging you for the drinking,
I would tell you it took me forever to realize, but eventually I accepted my mother was human just like everyone else,
and just like everyone else, myself included, you made mistakes.
Above all else, I would tell you that I love you more than you'll ever know.

I'll be turning twenty-nine next month,
which means I have one year left of smoking.
I didn't forget my promise to you, I'll quit on my thirtieth birthday.
I'll continue looking out for my sister to the best of my abilities,
even though she can be impulsive and brash on occasion.
I'll continue to show empathy and kindness to as many people as possible, just like you would've wanted.
And finally, one day I hope to keep the promise I made to you so many years ago:
I promise to try and be happy.
Extremely personal write, but needed to get it out. If you're lucky enough to still have a mother, tell her you love her today and thank her for existing.
Snehith Kumbla Jun 2016
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,

I stepped out of a puffing train,
my long unkempt hair a lion's mane,
getting used to my twitching tail,

Posing on the Gateway of India,
the extraordinary explorer pose,
took a boat to Elephanta (sans the hose),

and when my shivering co-passengers
had finished feverishly taking pictures
and started screaming holy mothers and sisters,

I took off from the starboard end,
and became the first man-lion to
cross the polluted Indian channel,

surviving to make the news channels,
my scientific name listed as a brand new mammal,
my mating call recognized as a gushing gargle,

On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,

I devoured deep-kissing lovers for lunch
at Bandstand's low-tide on a hunch,
to the delicious sound of munch! munch!

even as Shah Rukh Khan watched disgusted
from his big big bungalow by the sea,
and as the city sharpshooters came after me,    

and later when they brought me down,
from Nariman Point building, like KING KONG,
I tuned a dusty guitar and sang a melancholy song,

on the death of adventure, love and reality,
dangers of delusions, lethargy and self-pity,
repression, horniness and too much TV,

down in a shower of bullets when I went,
sky like the coming of rain, godspeed, godsend,
in a mythical city, where nothing is really meant,

On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends...
Mumbai - A crowded, stuffy, over-populated Indian city.

Gateway of India - A 1924 monument by the British to commemorate built to commemorate King George V and Queen Mary's 1911 visit to Mumbai.
Hot7Lips  Jul 2014
Hot7Lips Jul 2014
I wAnted u from day one and still would but u won't even agree to meet me and just talk. .....
So am I suppose to just hope and wAit
I can't just live off words alone!!
I still ache for u and probably always will but u won't even make a call or text me or anythg so why should I sit alone when ur still out having "friends"??
Well now I have one and he's the sweetest thing....
He's trying to rebuild whAt all the men in my life before him have ruinned!!!
I know I'm not gonna marry him or even be his girl ....
But he is something wonderful and a godsend !!!!!

I'm so greatful I met him!!!!
I wanted u from day one but u didn't want me!!!
brooke  Oct 2014
brooke Oct 2014
I've asked so
many times for
you to put a godsend
on a train, ignited with
a passion for discovery
on wheels that sing my
name, you remember,
don't you? Instead,
should I have requested
a send God? Is it not
enough to act under the
assumption that I don't
even need the train,
that sometimes I hear
your voice in my sleep
but people always say
it's the thought that
counts, right?
(c) Brooke Otto 2014

more on this later.
cv  Apr 2015
cv Apr 2015
it's almost two in the morning.
i toss and turn,
roll around--

sighing, i sit up,
and think to myself,
"This hasn't happened in a while."

my mind automatically goes back to that time,
when i was younger,
and our family went to the capital.
slept in some fancy hotel
with some fancy people
with their fancy clothes.

on the second night we stayed there,
i couldn't get a wink of sleep.
i don't know whether if it was because of exhaustion
or something else.

the next morning was hell.
i was pissy and bored
as we waited for father in the lobby.
i couldn't take a nap in public because, well,
i had my pride, of course!

chewing a gum quite aggressively,
i observed my surroundings.
my gaze hopped from one person to another.
a royal from a country i haven't even heard of.
an important figure in politics.
a celebrity.
a kid.

white blonde hair?

i haven't seen hair of that shade.
it was quite unnatural here.
i whipped my head to the left and saw
two beautiful people.

the taller was around my age.
he had the same mop of hair as the kid i saw (the shorter).
the child, on the other hand,
was most probably no older than six.
they were both awesome.

the light glowed on their figures,
and it looked like they were godsend.

i haven't seen anything more beautiful.

and who knew that who knows how many years later,
i would find myself looking back on that vivid memory.

as if it had happened yesterday.

(i feel like i'm still stuck in that time.)
to those boys i still see so clearly in my memories despite my short-term memory loss problem.

(no seriously haha i may literally forget, so i wrote it down. kinda rambled huh. it became a monster on its own. sighs. i think they were albinoes? idk, i was and still am an ignorant kid. sorry not sorry.)
Cindy Renouf Jul 2010
Shimmer and flow
Wood Lake at sunset seems to emit a  soft glow.
Waves like edges move and dip
Feathering out, tumble and flip.

I hear the giggling of happy little girls
Dunking heads underwater and wetting their curls.
Scraggly young boys jump off a long pier
Showing their bravado that they have no fear.

Mallard ducks and tan little birds soar and float.
Passing patient people fishing off docks, or in a boat.
As I watch natures glory a gentle breeze caresses my sleeve.
I am at peace with myself with nothing to grieve.

I am very grateful for the time I spent here.
It gave me the chance to think with a mind that is crystal clear.
I was in my own world relaxing on my inflatable chair
With the sunshine as my companion floating here and there.

This quaint little lakehouse is a Godsend to friends
Who need  some time to heal, make changes or amends.
The owners are loving in spirit, generous and kind.
They open their home as a haven for the heart, soul and mind.

Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
July 9-12th I spent time  at a quaint little place on a lake
Hank Roberts Jun 2011
Just in case you didn’t know
My mind is low,
You’re reading these scribbles now

This boring man, talks and talks
About government
It’s really not a godsend

This boring man gives his back
And too much slack
This country is on ******* crack

I’m done takinf pointless notes
That I won’t look at
This boring man is very fat

I want to leave and **** ****,
A lovely deed,
This boring man; monotone

Boring man is trying to be cool
He’s a ******* fool
He needs to be in a box, he’s a tool

This boring man, always boring
To my left I hear snoring
Boring man, walk out the door!
Time as of now is molasses
Minutes are hours
**** government and their powers

Democrat, republican, libertarian
You’re all wrong
Hey, pass me that ****.

Boring man cannot teach
I just wish,
I was at the sunny beach

Hell, I’d be anywhere
Not here but there
I don’t care, this guy has no flare

25 minutes, oh my lord,
I’m so bored
Not as much as the boring man

This is getting out of hand
Against government
Let’s all get up and stand!
Marisa Lu Makil May 2015
On this rainy day
I just want to cry
Not like some others
Who wish they would die

On this rainy day
Just want it to end
*** somehow I thought
He was a Godsend.

On this rainy day
I wish I could weep
And all my troubles
Could roll down my cheeks

On this rainy day
I just want the tears
And just to erase
All the past years

On this rainy day
My emotions scream
And boy do I wish
This was all a dream

On this rainy day
Want someone to hold
Someone who'll love me
Even when I'm old

On this rainy day
A painting's my heart
He graffitid it
And made it his art

On this rainy day
Breath seems like torture
A thing of unknown
Like a new culture

On this rainy day
I just want to cry
But oh pity me
My tear ducts are dry

On this rainy day
I just want to choke
On my wet tears, but
My tear ducts are broke.
I wish I could cry, but all there is is emptiness.
Chance  Jun 2014
Chance Jun 2014
I have a trinket
I hold the world in my palms
And in the world i hold a woman who owns a voice that calms
This trinket is not magic
It's a godsend in disguise
And it harbors the words of a woman
With bright blue sky eyes
Now the distance is quite an issue
But it won't hold our demise
There are many miles ahead
And time is on our side
So I'll just lay here awake
Chatting away with someone in which i confide
And maybe one day I'll get a package
Marked precious cargo with you wrapped up inside
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
.     Hello, friend. I am here to discuss the absolutely, most amazing poet that this world has ever seen. Edgar Allen Poe? Nope. Robert Frost? Yeah, right. William Shakespeare? Not even close. I, of course, speak of the most amazing individual on the Earth. His talents are so immense that, as a little known fact, Hello Poetry was actually created in his honor. This is his cyber world, and we're all just living in it.
     So, just what makes Mr. Dov the most amazing poet to have ever graces this world? Well, first off, he's written more breath-taking poems on here than anyone (5,636, as of this writing to be exact). Every precious poem is a godsend to man, and any given one is worthy of replacing the U.S. Constitution as the most precious document in America.
     Surely, we are not worthy.
      But, just WHY is the man so spectacular? Well, he's the second most Googled poet on the ENTIRE internet behind Shakespeare. But don't worry, after only a few more months of sitting in his chair and repetitively Googling his name, rest assured, he will beat down that no-good Shakespeare guy down into second, just like he deserves. "Romeo & Juliet?" Please, Beryl Dov surpasses that creation every morning when he graces the toilet after his cup of coffee.
     That, and on top of that, none of the poets on here are anywhere close to measuring up to him. Not any combination of poets from this site put together could match his incredulous talent. And do you know what? Mr. Dov knows it. Yes, he knows it so well in fact, that he often gives other poets on this site the incredible honor of being mentioned in his poetry, such as when he lists a great number of us and compares us to excrement. See here for yourself.
     Haha, yes. Aren't we all indeed excrement compared to the godliness of Mr. Dov? I mean, just one of his 2,000+ ten word poems is enough to surpass anybody else's talent tenfold. And with around ten of them posted a day, I'm sure there will never be any shortage of his amazing graces. Somebody call the Pope, because Mr. Dov must actually be the second coming of Christ in disguise.
     But, how much less are we worth than Mr. Dov, to be precise? Well, let's refer to one of pieces just to see. In his 'Poets Hate Poets [10]" poem, he says, "The Talentless Jealous Turds Who Hate Me." And goes to list the absolutely worthless poets below. Yes, we live in the shadow of a behemoth, truly.
     Mr. Dov is such an amazing poet, President Obama has offered him an honorary monument that will replace Lincoln's in D.C., if he will just write ISIS a ten word poem to quell their troubles hearts. Whereas America's drones and troops fail, he will surely succeed.
     As well, Paramount Pictures has asked Mr. Dov to look into the recent stealing of top-secret scripts for future movies that were stolen from them illegally from hackers. Mr. Dov is an expert on stolen works, as he himself was booted from Deviant Art for plagiarism, but as we all know, Mr. Dov does not steal work. He creates work that is so amazing, we just can't help but think he got it from someone else. Like O.J. Simpson... Mr. Dov. is guilty of  nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, it's hard to go anywhere when you have more followers than anybody else on Hello Poetry.
     Yes, Mr. Dov is an amazing person. Please, go see his amazing work and let him know what you think of his work regarding the defamation of poets on Hello Poetry that have no right whatsoever to post their material on here. In fact, Mr. Dov would appreciate it very much if everyone would stop posting their "turds" on Hello Poetry from now on, as to not contaminate his amazing graces.
Bery Dov is the biggest hater on Hello Poetry. He has an ego the size of Texas,   he harasses people to share his works, and any critiquing (constructive or otherwise) is met with extreme hostility. He is in his own world. He has posted multiple poems that outright refer to other ACTUALLY great poets that don't spend their entire day posting nonsensical 10 word poems. I have personally received messages from Mr. Dov asking why I do not like his works. He insisted I share his amazing works with the rest of HP as well as comment, but I shall not. He is the most egotistical, filthy-mouthed, slanderous person I have ever met. I may catch flak for this, but I don't care. I have seen your works, Beryl. You aren't anywhere as amazing as you think. You call poets like The Girl Who Loved You, WickedHope. r, Francie Lynch, and many others who write from their heart to express themselves, ****. I am friends with many of these people, and I will not stand for this. Please, if you feel the same way, repost this/ Repost this so we may help Mr. Dov of his immense ego
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity:  a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***,
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/***-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling:  RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.

Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******!
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.

— The End —