Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
To all officers: 504 ERROR
Two German couriers DIAGNOSED WITH AFIB
THIS HAND LOTION IS carrying official documents
murdered on train from LIKE US FOLLOW US

Screen freeze: restart

and possible JAW DROPPING accomplices
headed for NOT RESPONDING Casablanca.

Screen freeze: restart

suspicious characters TRY IT YOURSELF

Screen freeze: restart

Thanks to:
for access to the script of Casablanca.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
Changing the channels in the middle of the night
Mixing old plots into a new program
Ugatti sells tickets to an illegal fight
Another quarter for the juke box, Sam

Patrick McGoohan strides angrily into Rick’s
But finds that he has lost his credit card
Vultures, vultures everywhere, Number Six
Ilsa falls for Major Strasser quite hard

Rick’s Place is purchased by Raymond Massey
And Leonard Cohen in his famous blue coat
Emails of transit from Kate Beckinsale, so classy -
‘Tis she who leaves poor Rick that rain-stained note

And Captain Reynaud?

He ends his days pushing each shopping cart
In from the parking lot down at Wal-Mart
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
Oh Rick, if only things were so simple. . . .
If only there were Nazis shooting children,
bullies like Major Strasser waiting to take over,
women like Ilsa --
so beautiful and passionate
that just the memory of their love, just the shadow,
is enough.
We would sing the Marseillaise
and in the air itself,
just breathing in that hot, dry air,
would find all the meaning we need.

But we live in an everyday world,
with everyday human beings.
And we must start again each morning,
with scraps of faith and feeling,
to make the world's meaning in the foundry of our heart.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem at .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( )
Vincent Salomon Jul 2017
Tu ausencia en mi tibia cama, se hace más presente
No por no querer buscar lugar, sino por no tenerte,
Y estos labios, cada vez más tuyos,
Y esos ojos, cada vez menos míos.
Sólo queda por correr, dónde nunca corre el río,
No me pidas que te deje
Que aquí sólo hace frío
Dame una señal de esos labios,
Sosténme la mano en hastío
Que si muero hoy, triste y timorato, no habrá de mí que llorar.

Son sólo besos, que se pierden vano
Y al tiempo se los voy a cobrar.

Sobre tu vientre morir, sobre tu boca resucitar
Sobre tu voz escribir, y sobre tus besos cantar.
Y no me pidas perdón, cuándo no exista la culpa,
Que si de amor se trata, no habría forma oculta,
De besarte una vez más; a ojos cerrados.
De tocarte noches enteras; con estrellas de tu lado.
Tu amor, a mí sólo me resplandece,
Culpable no eres de existir, y que de ti todo florece, ay pobre de mí.

Son sólo besos, que se pierden vano
Pero que al tiempo, se los voy a exigir.

Lluvia de otoño, fútil amanece,
Lluvia de verano, quién te viera nacer
Sobre las costras en el mar abierto, como una venus llorar,
La virgen María se pregunta, con quién tiene que hablar
Porque de ti hay poesía, llena de verdad,
Y los rezo a ti, ninguno te va.

Quién fuera canción a tocar, versos dulces a tu oído,
Quién fuera la muerte comandada, por emisarios perdidos,
No te lloro, por correspondencia,
Te lloro sensato.

Que si de amor nos tenemos,
Nos tenemos de a ratos.
Veemz Feb 2015
If that plane leaves the ground
And you're not with him
You'll regret it
Maybe not today
Maybe not tomorrow
But soon
And for the rest of your life
The French (History) Teacher

You’re not actually French. You just brought in a French textbook,
told us you wanted to bring in a World War I pistol instead, but this will have to do.
They say we didn’t help them during the war, that Paris was never taken, that we may, in fact, have lost our minds between the trenches, the gas, and the bombs.
N’est ce pas?
I only touch my face to remind myself that it is still there, and – beneath it – is a mind that may not be my own. When I say this to the class, you handed me the gas mask, right in time for a smile.
It was old paper in my hands, and it was easier to ask when I put it on,
but harder to hear when you responded, au fait.
My French grandmother never believed in that.
But I finally understand Bogart in Casablanca when he says his German is rusty.
Oh, mon ami.
If I kissed you for the last time, I knew it wouldn’t be written down.

— The End —