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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)

at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...


^emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”

she asks, “who is that?”

“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’

she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where u buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”

but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch

The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.

The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed);
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.

The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.

The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety,
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!"
The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?"
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.

Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times
Zack Ripley Aug 2019
I don't need stories of battles
Between knights and dragons
In the days of old.
I don't have dreams
Of everything I touch turning to gold.
I don't need to walk on water
Or turn water into wine.
I have enough magic in my life
Because you're mine.
The Good Pussy May 2015
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       Paper Paper Pa  per Paper Paper
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*paper engineering

  Pop Up Art
Anna Vigue May 2015
Mothers day is fine
I don't mind it
not one bit
except when TV tells me
to buy up gifts n' ****

I really love my mother
I love her every day
so if I spend some money
will it be better
love to play?

If I buy her pretty flowers
or a fancy Ipod case
will she think that I so love her
more than words
could ever say?

How 'bout I draw a picture
just like the good ol' days
or make her something special
like an ashtray
made of clay

My kids I know they love me
they show me all the time
they don't need to
buy me presents
I know that they are mine.
Think freely, forget commercialism, enjoy your family with time not $$$$$$
Andrew Saromines Dec 2014
I remember the first time I saw your face.
You, with an intense stare, a perplexed glare,
scrutinizing everything that was there.
Looking for the perfect rhyme, an eye-catching design.
Going down the line I hoped you would find joy in mine,
and you did.
I remember the energy in your smile on the ride home.
Your nervous hand was hesitant to put pen to paper, wanting everything to be perfect.
Every piece of that puzzling emotion put together in a way that would  show how much you loved her,
and soon you could.
You opened my chest and on my heart you wrote what was on yours.
From that point forth I became a door.
I was an extension of your adoration and affection.
You felt like you were on top of the world,
and you were.
I remember the excitement the day you gave me to her,
I felt it too.
The words were coming alive, flowing from her lips like the most intoxicating wine.
Oh, how I wanted her to love you,
and for a moment she did.
But after a while I was put in a box.
I collected dust while she became bitter; a war was started,
one with no winner.
The words on my heart had lost their glimmer,
and so did yours.
I remember the last time I saw your face.
Unfamiliar, Unattached, you were not the same.
Something came, a sadness untamed.
Those words on my heart became a source of pain.
So you ripped me apart..
Piece by piece..
Just like she did to you.
I wholeheartedly encourage feedback. I have an insane amount of content and it anything you've seen thus far has interested you and you would like to see more I would be beyond happy to oblige. Thank you for taking the time to read my work!
Dark n Beautiful Nov 2014
I love the way you said
“Yes darling, my honey
It makes me feel good inside
your touch
that look in your eyes
became an instant hallmark memory
From someone who really cares
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
Saturday night I'm staying silent for men who think they're clever. Congregations of children with nothing better to do.

Echoes of our Hallmark love is now in transit with this big hero almost ending. The door slams and puts brakes on our Big Finish while each coin is reprimanded.

For every hour of school you miss a pizza's abandoned. Breaking waves on my shoulders, I never imagined you'd be the one to expire in my California.

Charlie waits for us in the airplane, while Thomas and Callan still chat. You purse your lip and bite on your fingers, but you don't realize that I remind you of guilt.

Anguish and islands, stars on the inside's of your eyelids.
And blood in your underwear.
poem girl girls hate hatred anger anguish nudes break brakes California genomes charlie flowersforcharlie sarahwest west CA belmont notre dame bleu blue shoulders pizza
Nicholas Kurtz Aug 2014
I try to remember the "good times."

Just to realize I'm drowning,
Drowning on Hallmark lines

Remembering the "good times"
Smiling complacently
Drowning on Hallmark lines

And I realize the memories
Were all good

One lines.
Just a thought, I'd like too add more :)
Thank you for reading
Talk to me?

— The End —