Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
He was all charisma, curls, and commitment issues
And ****** I fell for it
4/22/2020
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
*** in the morning
Death in the afternoon
And it was dark

Milling about stacks
Of paperbacks and out of focus snapshots
Some of her in the shower

But pay heed
She's an iceberg
Warm her up on a bed of nails

Until she's a plaintive waterfall
And then tie her to the scaffolding
Of a clean well lighted place

What remains out of sight
Through omission
Through silence

Through childlike syntax
Shall float to the surface
In its own due time
To the master of the Iceberg Theory, Ernest Hemingway
Megan Hammer Feb 2019
As I listen to Otis Redding on the harbor, boats named after people float around;
Boats named by fishermen who think just a little too much.
They come out everyday like Hemingway Jrs; the old men and their sea.

December does not feel right here: It’s not the same without a Chicago winter,
But this harbor’s got my father on my mind.

He used to run numbers for a local casino & now he writes numbers in a sudoku box on Sundays.
The days of wild adventure on the streets of Germany are what he sees when he looks at his beer mugs.

and when he’s had a little Heineken, Marlboro, and a spin of his record player,
I know that no one else should be in the room.

He shows his thoughts in photos: His winters spent coming back home to feed his family,
Keeping warm in a house with one heater, snow, noses blown in hankies, Uncle Frankie,
Harry playing jazz in the living room, and walking to school in the cold.

But there are no photos of him - and there wouldn’t be -
When he snuck away to the harbor with his friends.
We tend not to talk about them anymore, but he still remembers where they lived.

And sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him - with his Heineken and his Marlboro and his music -
I catch him as he smiles in hiding while his eyes confide in a light I do not see,
And when I do,
I know that my father is still on that harbor.
JJ Inda Nov 2018
This ache seems to be
like Papa's White Elephants;
valuable in a sense
I've yet to understand.

Busy body, tranquil mind,
a joke I say!
The fishing line
is ever tangled.

Another
wasted morning,
another
throwaway.
Papa; Hemingway
Worte this afrter reading a short: Hills Like White Elephants
Simra Sadaf May 2018
her blood stained canines have
ripped out your heart,
her malevolent words have
eaten through your soul,
every word a figment
of sinister plan,
every day, every night
they are like a knife
pressed against your throat,
she was your lady
and you were her man,
her mouth now spills
poorly worded apologies,
her charms were tricks and
tactics to a game
she loves to play,
there were clear signs
which you chose to overlook,
like when she said she did not
like reading Hemingway,
or when she bought you a book
to divert your attention
from seeing her real look.
You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.
-WRR
typhany Dec 2017
but i am putting it down
until it hurts
and grips me vicariously
'til i'm twisted around-
i'm turned into a mug's handle

it's the same plastic feeling
i had before
i miss the solid glass,
and the strips of wood
i teased with my angel fingers

the mirror couldn't see me
today
i didn't let it.
how could i?
my eyes are too small, here

shaggy planet earth
was invaded in 1981
beginning with my first soul:
i was so young
i didn't know better

tossed out, i'm left to drink up
the abundance of this world.
swallowing more light and dark
than my small eyes can;
i turned to ethanol.

hemingway entered my life
in the fall of '09
i couldn't have been more in love.
maybe that's why
i'm pen in one hand, drink in the other.
Charles Ernest Oct 2017
The lake was a sprawling uneven mass
Like a slithering serpent of uncertainty
Underneath our boat
We counted the moments to the future
The yards from the past were still very few
We feared of getting lost in the quest
To relinquish our past
And to marry a sweet future
Our destinies intertwined
On the road to blood and war
The war was unending
The blood was raining
Then we found ourselves
In the embrace of each other
We fell in love
We fell from grace
The ugly war
The incredible noise
The unimaginable distances
We had to escape
The boat was just a metaphor
Of the times we only knew
How important love could be
In saving our souls from drowning
In the coldness of life.
A Poetic Tribute to Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms
Sandoval Aug 2017
With Neruda, I fell in love with you.

It was so beautiful, I felt I had to close my eyes wide shut,

just to remember this was not a dream.

Then Hemingway came along, by then I was feeling a little lost in your eyes. Some days were good, some days were bad. Yet, I still held on.

But when I suddenly found myself with Bukowski on my nightstand.

Well, I knew then, baby, we were ******. He brought me back to reality, and I understood at that moment, that we were finally done.


*Sandoval
Now I don't read any of them, they remind me too much of you..

To Drew.
I'm a man of the night
I've been branded
My poetry serves no purpose to the world.
I've not been branded a hero,
I've'd seen how those all end:
                    Unquestionable statues of bronze or gold
                  or rather forgotten,
              disposed after 2 weeks of fame after-death.
I want neither.
I'm no hero, no. I'm no gigantic bearded poet
                                         Hemingway shot himself
                                                         ­       I couldn't muster courage
                                         or decandence.

I. made. to.
               Stand.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Serving my servers.
Out of love.
I carry. As they carry.
              as I get. Carried.
As one shelters me this moment;
As other. Eloquent. Frightening. Dashing and Proud.
                 as she said;
                 titles are in fact...
july 22, 2017
3:27 a.m., Zibreiros
Next page