Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I heard
And my voice
Broke-
That was the end:
“Kennedy
Fell
From a criminal hand… ”
And
My hair
Stood on end.
I gave
A hostile reception
To that
News
on my own way.
I did understand
Kennedy is
A kind
And nice chap. And
He is
Reform’s
Eternal adherent.
In the morn
He lived
During lunch
He died.
Everybody
Lost comfort
At that instant.
“Kennedy!”
Pipes
Blew loudly
“Jo-o-o-hn!”
Dead marsh repeated
The word
Democracy’s
Pillar
Was cut down
Meanly.
Johny
Is quitting
The boundary
Of our world.
We will remember
These heroes!
Johny is
America’s glorious son.
He is among
Home foundations’ adherents,
Descendants
Will be proud
Of him
Under the sun.
{22.11.2015}

СЫН АМЕРИКИ

Услышал –
и мой
оборвался
голос –
«Кеннеди
пал
от преступной
руки…»
Дыбом
вставали
за волосом
волос,
По-своему
новость
восприняв
в штыки.
Кеннеди –
добрый
и славный
малый,
Вечный
сторонник
больших
реформ.
Утром
он жил,
а в обед –
не стало.
Все
потеряли
в тот миг
комфорт.
«Кеннеди!» –
громко
трубили
трубы,
«Джо-о-о-о-н!» –
повторял
похоронный
марш.
Столп
демократии
подло
срублен,
Джонн­и
предел
покидает
наш.
Будем
мы помнить
таких
героев!
Джонни –
Америки
славный
сын:
Ярый
сторонник
родных
устоев –
Будут
потомки
гордиться
им!
{22.11.2015}

Translator - I. Toporov
Sandoval Jan 2017
I* saw my reflection in the glass that I lifted to my face. It was the

reflection of a drunken disappointment,  and this red wine tasted

like  loneliness and sad  poetry. I don't know what you did to

me, but

Hemingway,  Neruda and Fitzgerald all went down in history,

and I'm starting to understand why. Unrequited love. One  more sip

and the next drunken  poet is me.


*-Sandoval
Andrew T Apr 2016
I met Lori at a beer pong table. She was tall. A trash talker. Beach blonde hair. Eyes blue, blue as the sky on an afternoon in July, when the weather was cool from a light rain. This was post-college—a house party, for young adults who wanted more from life than the typical 9-5. She wasn’t from NOVA. She was from Weston, FL. Her teammate was a guy she was with at the time—they ended up breaking it off and for a while she was dating Cam, a pro-bass fisher, a long distance relationship, but they loved each other. But at the table, I was competing with her teammate, later on I ended up mentally competing with Cam, which didn’t do any good except to make me chain-smoke jacks and drink bourbon. I had a girlfriend at the time—let’s just call her Voldy. My teammate was Lori’s best friend Erica. This girl had swagger; played beer pong like Dr. J, always got us roll backs. I was tall as **** for a Vietnamese American—still am tall as **** for a Vietnamese American (Don’t worry my guys, my family’s from the Southside)—and in college we had built a beer pong table, at a spot called the pink house. “We,” meaning my roommates and I: CJ, Trevor, and Samuel. The U.N. I had practiced daily, playing before class, playing after class. Height made a difference; some great basketball player once said you need to have game on and off the court. I wasn’t sure what court I was on when I was in that moment. Lori was more than appearance; more body language; more eye contact; more southern twang; and more astuteness, than a TED Talk combined with NPR, combined with The New Yorker, combined with Al-Jazeera and linked with Wikipedia on a ***** binge. I could talk all day about how she looked, how she dressed. But I told you what you need to know. She shot first, her right arm shaped like a swan, the type of swan that sits on a lake in the middle of a spring morning, the type of morning when the sky is blue with the eyes of a girl who has seen too much, been through too much, and has heard too much. She sank the shot. Her teammate roared. But all I could hear was Lori’s voice; soft as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s right hand, loud as the piano notes played by Sakamoto’s left hand. Blu was not how I was feeling. Or maybe I was.
Because at this table I had to either take a loss,
or seal a win. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I wanted her. Wanted her, like how you wanted a postcard
from Santa when you were 5 years old, and it was opposite day. So you got the address wrong,
and the letter was never received. And your parents told
you to keep trying so you did, you did, and you did,
but you were young and naïve. You didn’t know
what was real and what was not real. And now I was
at a place in time, when the setting didn’t matter,
and the alcohol didn’t matter, and the drugs didn’t matter.
All that mattered was her.
Because when I shot that orange ping-pong ball,
I kept eye-contact with her eyes.
Blue, much more blue
than the water in the red solo cups we were playing with.
I wish it were water from the beaches in Florida,
beaches I could read a Salinger story on,
beaches I could rest on
beaches I could lay on,
lay and take in the sun
that rises above my soul
that aches for something more.
But Lori wasn’t Brett Ashley,
she was more Daisy Buchanan
than anything.
But does that make me Tom or Jay?
Jimmy or Nick?
I didn’t know and I still don’t know.
What I do know, is this;
the ball sank into the
first cup of the triangle.
Lori’s face went from cocky,
to frustrated, from frustrated
to relaxed,
from that
to a smile.
One that I remember, and one,
I won’t forget.
Because all I want to do is forget,
Take my memory and squeeze
the bad **** out,
twist the living **** out of it,
and burn it with a match.
Because she thinks I’m the one,
Who did her wrong, but it wasn’t me.
I put that on my integrity, even if my words don’t mean much to your ears: please listen.
I was inebriated, 3/4ths of the time we chilled.
So I didn’t know what was false and what was real.
You can check my temperature,
Because when you’re in my thoughts I get a fever
And hey, I shouldn’t have made a pass on your roomie
I should have thought before I texted, because now your trust in me has been affected.
We’re not talking. I can keep apologizing for what happened, but you don’t want to listen to a broken record.
I wish the bad memories would pass away and I guess they’re all in the past today.
Look, I don’t have a time machine
strong enough to change all the mistakes that I’ve made.
But take this as a time capsule,
this piece that I’m sharing. Like that piece we were sharing. The one that belonged to you.
The one I wish I could kiss again,
Because your lips touched it,
And mine never touched yours.
Hey, guys this is my first poem. I used to be on Hellopoetry and then I deleted my account a long time ago. But now, I'm back on the site and I'm excited to start reading poetry from others in the community! Hopefully, my creative work is something you can find connect with and find meaning in.
Katelynn Shadoan Mar 2015
You will read a trillion words in your life time, so why say that you'll never love another book?
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said you'll never know the same love twice, or something to that effect.
This is up to your interpretation.
A man in a flower shop… What a sight! He doesn’t know what to do, how to pick, where to look. Too many colors! Too many choices! I’m not sure what she likes…
What a weakness it is, to be a man next to flowers… Something so fragile and so beautiful, it makes him look stagnant in a world of much flow.
Then, in walks F. Scott… What are you?! You look mighty fine by this Rose. Do the thorns disrupt you? Do the petals leave you longing?
I thought you had a thing for Kichijoten-- in her Temple; next to the Sakura blossoms of Japan…
My, my. You can’t be part of the Lost Generation; I think you’ve found your place! As I look for mine by the Cattails and fresh Dahlias…
Have you seen these bunches of Baby’s Breath?? Sincerity only costs $3.95; it’s much more expensive nowadays… They don’t even play Jazz music here… What are you doing here, Fitzgerald? I know you aren’t here for the Hyacinths…
Has someone slain your heart again? My heart was slain many times, but everything happens for a reason, right Francis??
I know you have a thing for Gold, come check out these Daisies…and brighten your day. Don’t fret. Don’t fear. Loosen your heart and let it be free. I’m here. And everything is okay.
The Daisies? Really? Awful choice… I was only kidding about those.
Hedonic Nihilist Jun 2014
Writing is dangerous a sport
With far too many muscles left to pull
Not only in my body

Writing is far few abstract-I cannot think in words and I cannot label-the day I put it into words it's labeled
And that is dangerous a vote

Thinking is much cleaner yes, for now
They said that thoughts are safe
yet I don't think obscenities in public
And I don't feel obscenities in public

Two sane thoughts a day(required by law) they say will keep the writers away from Fitzgerald's and Virginia's-Poe is still fair ground

They said that diaries were safe, but we writers do not write in public
But sports are played to audiences and votes need to be a-gotten and we writers express our condolences for the death of writing and the birth of Athleticism and Campaigns
Michael McLean Apr 2014
I

the corners of a room

where walls shake hands

paints meet but never bleed

or stretch across the angles in uniformity

illusions that my palms see through

as they move to flatten the creases

making little triangles between them and the cobwebs’ Eden

like unfolding my bed on the couch

the only comforter here after the lamps say Goodnight

before I tuck them in

and the colours give in

blend

II

my makeshift mattress made specifically

measured feet to face ashamed in wake

protruding shoulders sanded at the edges

obtusely protracting the day into a never-planned night shift

midnights

where the hard-numbers and for-sures fall for the vicious

vacuum’s seductions

a Succubus, is the lady moon

for a mind weary and wary of

absolutes
Aimee Caron Mar 2014
We live in a society where people are oppressed
Ask Martin Luther
Ask Thoreau
Ask Alice Paul
Alice Paul
The brave, the beautiful
Where did your warriors go?
We have rights because of you
Because of your soldiers
But where are they now?
Rights in government
Do not mean rights in society
So I am still fighting
For us
But the others disappeared
Warriors are far and few between
Did they actually believe we achieved the dream?
Because we are far from it
As men advertise then scrutinize our image
Statistic
“Approximately 7 million women in America have an eating disorder”
Reality
“Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness”
Lie
Women have achieved the dream
But most of the warriors are gone
And no one likes that I still fight
That I will not bow to their narrow-minded
rule
Because they think
“That's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool”
So they try to trap me
Like a woman in wallpaper
“I think that woman gets out in the daytime”
She runs free in the light
So they try to force feed me their ideas
Its just like they did to you Alice
But I will not eat their words
I will not eat!
So when you ask if women achieved the dream
I will not give you an answer
“I just wonder what needs to be explained”
This is a poem I wrote last year. It was inspired by my American Studies class.

“That's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool” -"The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald
“I think that woman gets out in the daytime” -"The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
“I just wonder what needs to be explained” -"Iron Jawed Angels" (film based on the journey of Alice Paul)
Eating Disorder statistics found here: http://www.state.sc.us/dmh/anorexia/statistics.htm

Thank you Katie Coffey for help with this poem and for making the poetry slam it was a part of such a success.

— The End —