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  May 2017 Sjr1000
PrttyBrd
4X6 inches
of perfection on a screen
a hint of tortured possibilities
carried in the pocket
of a life built
through blinders and
the most beautiful denial


4X6 inches
of hope undeniable
the foundation of dreams
dragging rough
through cascading walls
of a substandard fairytale
that twisted joy unhappy


4X6 inches
of a smile through a hurricane
bleeding pain through evaporating tears
a reality forged through time uncountable
landing in the rays truth created
when love proved
the existence of fate


4X6 inches*
of peace over pain
a wand in magical medicinals
crashing through solitary anguish
with eyes piercing armor
weaved in passive aggression
leading the lost home
52317
  May 2017 Sjr1000
Nat Lipstadt

The Underground of HP

~
I do not joke

underworld, underground,
a subterranean nether-land,
a dark net
of a peculiar type of
wonderful human trafficking

all pathways are Venetian style,
each traveler rides in a tricked out, camouflaged gondola
of their own reckoning and design,
upon "rivers of good company"^

***"dude - ain't no such thing I seen
on o dropdown menu
provided by the House of York***

you are correct and yet, you are
correctable.

the way in
to this far more real world
than the surficial one
where you currently reside,
but only half alive,
is where poets speak
in the pentameter of plain english,
exchanging kindnesses and
magic tricks, tidbits of loveliness,
poems of sheerest nylon delight

their private revelations,
their second skin
home to shared state secrets
that are close guarded,
confided confidences, confident completely,
that nothing can rise exposed to the glare of the casual observer,
the accidental tourist,
who writes but
of and for the occasion
for self-glorification

the way in you ask?

don't make me laugh.

no one will extend an invitation -
memberships do not exist
you must invite yourself.

look to the frescoed, vaulted Vatican ceiling,
see the Creation of Adam,
a single finger-extending,
breathing life
when touching his/your reciprocal,
his/your creator

this is the way, the way in,
to self creation.

make the reach of your life,
stretch your soul across the terra firma of invisible terabytes
with the touch of a single fingertip

down below is where
the super stars reside,
who count not the vanity of quantities of cheap likes,
but who delight in the
rivets of insights,
well hid in the spaces between
line and letter
and dark secret messages,
trafficking in the best of
humanity, kindness

expose yourself, accepting your self
welcomed you will be,
accepted.

down below is where the real work gets done.

the realization, the actualization,
where the top of the tip
points down, the crown,
of the inverted pyramid

where poems are the
blood and stuff,
the kisses and the touches,
the ***** and the
opening into the berm,
the root, the stem, and the blossoming
of the real world of HP


^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1915543/how-to-be-a-successful-poet-on-hp-in-two-parts/
  May 2017 Sjr1000
SøułSurvivør
comedy
clandestine couples
clamerous cosmetics
coughing guffaws
garrulous giggles
gratefully grinning

grotesque charlatans...

tragedy**
torrid transgressions
tornado turnabout
tempestuous tradition
transcendent puberty
punishing parable
poignantly

pointless.


Shakespeare.
wove both into
his weft of

words.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/12/2017
Great comedy has an element
of tragedy... vice versa
Sjr1000 May 2017
I am the night clerk
I work the graveyard shift
I've checked in many people
Never saw anyone check out

When they walk in
the night bell rings
I think
What's all of that crazy thunder about

I've checked in
the wild and weary
the tormented and scary

The pious
the martyrs
the dancers
the fishermen

Even
Bob & Ted
Carol & Alice

Clark Gable
he stayed here too

Everyone looks me in the eye
pleading for a room,
I have many
the night is late
only the dead are awake

Some nights, though, it can be quiet
I put my feet up on the desk
watch another season of the soap opera
The Young and The Restless

There are no regulars
No one returns
Not even
the dopers
the smokers
the flatulent
the token takers

When everyone is checked in
That crazy thunder it stops
But the night is long
There's sure to be another storm.
Sjr1000 May 2017
Everybody called her
her baby's momma

She could never see so straight
always crooked
winding up in the slammer
apologizing all over the place

She's got a handle on it this time
moved into a clean and sober house
going to those meetings five days a week

But her eyes they burned,
You know
Her eyes they burned

Made a mistake
Went to see her ex old man
Got strung out again on that ******

Thrown out of the house
for nodding out,
coffee cup in hand,
never spilled a drop

She's back out on the street
Looking for the woman's emergency  night shelter
Texting with her daughter
trying to repair their relationship
saying
"It'll be okay this time"
She's got her brand new teeth,
a two day voucher to The Days Inn
It'll be okay.

Always the nut house
if the night gets too cold
At least until the Psychiatrist figures it out
And throws her back out into the night

It's tough being human
You know
You know

Her baby's momma
She's in despair
Looking for help everywhere
Detox filled
Got a ******* for anybody
somebody named Joe
Sometimes that's all she knows

Gather's herself against the cold
Swears that tomorrow
she'll get it together
she promises you

You know

Doing everything except what you're supposed to
Deal with it tomorrow

Everybody called her
Her baby's momma

When she sees you
She's in sorrow.
Dedicated to a segment of the population, whose time is hard. Recovery is always possible.
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