Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Colt  Jul 2021
M is for Woman
Colt Jul 2021
I tried to write a poem for the moon.
I searched the earth for
words worth wooing you.
I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases,
and thought I’d said it all.
But I’ve said nothing, because
Earth words won’t work.
I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt.
I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in.
My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere.
My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of
Noise into the wind
hard or far enough to make you near.
So I must DO.
To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves
instead of barking at your light.
I’ll start with exercise,
building thighs and biceps to
climb the skies
between
you and I.
Keeping shoulders wide so if
You light my planet up
I’ll keep you up at night.
Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going,
and where your toughs meet your trues.
I won’t leave it to my luck to have
my love
reach the moon.
I’ll learn how soft and where to land.
I’ll learn how strong you are and when
I need to have plan.
When to take my helmet off
when you need me
to be a man.
So, as moons do, if you get blue
I’ll have found and know and own
the fastest way
to get myself to you.
Next I’ll find out every
stone that broke
your heart,
every rock that smashed your sides
(starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits.
I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work.
they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth.
If the sun
falls behind your time,
I’ll fire that ball of fire,
float around and put up flyers,
and find another star to make you shine.
Now, If I ever prove to be a
man who got the moon
I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles
Of favorite words
From Earth
every time I visit you.
And when I know I’m close
-it’s when my smile beams in your beams-
I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments.
Over time, in walking your valleys,
Napping in and mapping your grooves,
throwing comets at your craters, and
Staring at you
Through the roof;
One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do.
At midnights and sometimes noons
They’ll see me from the Earth
Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes.
Written on your face in shiny piles,
“This Man Is Over The Moon.”
It was fun but I’m back to Earth now!
My motto is **** the world
no joy in my heart been heartless from the start
and whats love got to do with it
i been acquitted since the devil made me do it
can't help that im hopeless
scopin' out my enemies everybody wanna bury me
cuz all eyez on me and trust me
*****!! i rise back to the top i feel relieved when hearts drop
like bricks **** my **** you trick
i ain't satisfied til i see nigguhs in open casket
though a *******
child stuck in the wild nobody can change me
maybe envy me jealousy keeps a nigguhs strapped
tried to play with the full deck 52 years in week
that means i got 365 days to think
of a masterplan since they wanna get my hand
in cuffs **** all toughs this aint no bluff
im rippin' hearts apart from lyrics full of fury
so what if they take me
i send two middle fingaz to the grand jury
sentence me
but ONly God can Judge Me Nigguh

Never send a boy to a grown mans job
i plan to rob the spotlight late night
shakin' out of cold sweat im thinkin' terrorist threats
yea i know they government despise me
mad at me cuz im black than the next nigguh
cops is crooked so keep ya hand on ya trigger
how ya figure?
thiings gonna get better in the afterlife
when hells already on earth
when i die ill probably be sent as cursed
to the times of the Devil i was made a Rebel
**** everybody and anybody that ain't down with me
i promise youll  feel my treachery
adversary come in different times and signs
lookin' for the perfect crime
****** after midnight focused my sight
and though ill die alone no tears in my eyes
they all dried out **** the clout
no justice no peace this for my hellraisin' peeps
creepin' out the trenches
leave nigguhs stuck like they fist clinched  on fences
only god can judge me
jiminy-littly Mar 2016
o' cinereous city  
give to me your blacktops
where on hard white asphalt
impenetrable, grave and square

we play hardscrabble with toughs
who huddle in groups
hanging keds that swing in the air

a pitch of blank gray
a field of kicked stones
ashen, barren
the end of confusing friends

but still a place to go
and run and run and run
when all at once, filled with children laughing, crying, jumping, stumbling, climbing, bouncing,
announcing life in eternal screams - - let me play!
Mike T Minehan Aug 2017
My hometown was rough
because teddy boys and mods and rockers
off the cargo ships from Glasgow and the docks
and slums of England rocked the streets
and knocked the local toughs
out silly with their knuckledusters.
They also slashed them with their razors and their chains.
Yeah, but my friends and I had a revolver
when we were kids
and we used to try and shoot out streetlights
on dark and stormy nights.
We missed, but we could have shot
those boaties close up for all their street frights and
all their ****** peccadilloes like ******* local girls
and leaving a league of nations in their wake.
We didn't pull the trigger there,
but they shouldn’t have got away with snickering
among themselves that they could
pull girls’ knickers down when they wanted,
and scare us with their their flick knives.
We let them get away with thinking
we were easy pickings
in that small town where I was born.
But it’s just as well, really.
I'm glad we didn't take their lives.  

Mike T Minehan
True story. I lived my early years in a seaside city in New Zealand when there was a constant stream of cargo ships for the frozen meat and timber trade. And a constant stream of 'boaties' from these cargo ships, some of whom might have been OK, but they seemed to us then to be the flotsam and jetsam of the seven seas.
bellahina Jan 2016
oems (48)
Ranked
Links
Gods and The Lesser Kind
They say,  come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
a place that should be nameless

where condominium men
with cool blue eyes
gyrate coiled bodies
gesturing lambs
and lions,   seething
mean stories
sordid in their constitution,
spitting
bottle blades
******, but still shiny
from sore mouths-  and the girls,
they laugh,    They say,  

          come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond

where their lips
pale white,      cuss the sun, defiant,
longing for it to drop from a sullen sky
and into the decaying harvest
of their itching hands    stained cherry wine,
burning to kindle it firelight

near train tracks and trees,
the woods  rubber band their veined
branches, waiting for my
sweating flesh to melt out
by open flames,    an accomplice
to a crowd ignited,
                caught by
a sickening kind of fearlessness,
I don't feel good here

in the beginning,
boisterous, screaming

leapfrogging steel rods
with pupils the size of ponds
while others
are left lonesome,
staring at the hypnotic wonder light
that comes with a tremor
through stale bones
they never wanted

those people always come back
with their hands
and fingers
and fists   and arms
still alive
******* air
with a frantic disillusion,
digging for cheap thrilled
pennies in their jeaned pockets
just to watch a copper body
tossed into affliction,

hoping a God will come down
with the feelings of gold instead, but

I am out late at a blue hour
there are no saints or deities
when swallowed drunken, I will not worship
in this kingdom,
swollen bright, layered with gloss,
the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves
to be seen twice like duality,
reminding me
there aren't idols high enough
to live in my heavens,
nor darlings too sweet
not to ******--   these prayers are damp
and intimate. not meant for a drop of water
over the complete sea
or the illuminated commander of a tide, no

for now
I'm feeling human, which
disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort,
now all I hear is a disembodied      run

run
because the people here
remind me that I will always search for
something without knowing what it is,      run
because they are too close to who I am,

all of us can be seen
lynching limp smiles
from the top of our scalps,
left to sway
halfheartedly
in a grave gesture
of love
sent to the spirit of midnight
who unravels freedoms
and happy notions,

injecting calm dreams
into the arms of slumped and melancholy
purple silhouettes --  a rush of warmth

silent culture, shamed culture,

believing they don't have **** to say,
deadened people

their backs
are down
hard,
almost panting in language,
with a heavy thumping protest
of indecision,
which in the end is a decision
that will betray them, and I am
no different than the last

smacking their bodies
smooth into rough, pulling
on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing,
happily burning greens because
everybody's starving,
I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger.

when it's over,
we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's

a consumed and sallow generation,  
unknowingly gutted
by a clawed sadness,
heeding the suggestion of sedation
to ensure survival--
******, but pretty alive,    ****
is the new love, is a numb love

there's something terribly wrong here

we must look
gruesome to you, Visceral
exteriors,
nauseous,
prodding the hot metal
that fills the chasm of our teeth,
crying a choppy
metallic haunting
shaking like factory machines
and their overworked bodies
heaving chained clunks
through the throat

wishing for goodness
in between bile, to take up communion
where open spaces
are too cold and seeking

an unholy embrace,
otherwise ethereal,
unafraid of sacrifice,
I'll give you what's left of me--
                   you don't know what you've done,
whenever we touch,
it is always an absolution of life

a forfeiture      a creature to shoot
and put down when perceived
to be the lesser kind-  
             angry and hostile
in my own environment

asking why small gods
the size of bullets allow the fearful
to be their messengers,
who tell the people of neon
to Pacific
that runaway consciousness
is a rebellion of truth

yet,  no answer will ready me,
history says I can't keep straight,
if ever you came looking for my life,
I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying--
the back of beyond is so far away
and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.
Max Vale Nov 2017
Life is about walking,
Not always in a straight line.
But always pushing,
The limits of your time.

Most people run,
From the wolves.
Most people hide,
From the toughs.

However life give us an option,
To take or challenge this alone.
Thanks to other's collaboration,
May we triumph over this cyclone.

No matter the winded paths,
No matter the unforgiving hearts.
May the path give birth,
To those long forgotten laughs.

So let's reach out to those in need,
And warm those hearts of stone.
Whatever this life heeds,
Remember you are never alone.

— The End —