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momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men

     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
     where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet

tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee

less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
Pencil Poet Nov 2017
Alike Saturn?
Heaven too got rings
?Watch the hula hoop?
Circle her hip.
a fixation
ludicrous that
flush charmingly
dill today
assuage the
dopiness in
market square
when such
alarm might
coffers redeem  
flowers that
wilt but
resonate for  
stale perfume
that has
really pouched
the air
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Khalif Mar 2017
Remember Wesley’s Theory. Remember they haven’t taught you everything.
And no one actually gives anything For Free. Don’t take it and expect to give nothing back.
They will beat it out of you. Spit back King Kunta even though you’ll feel nothing like royalty.
Google Institutionalized. The first example reads, The danger of discrimination becoming

Institutionalized.

Maybe they didn’t want to flat out say racism?
And instead pretend like u won’t try to climb over These Walls.
You in Trumps America now boy, everything ain’t just gonna be Alright.
You might wake up tomorrow, sign chained to your ankles, “For Sale”.

Momma never warned you. At least you don’t remember, you haven’t talked lately.
You never understood Hood Politics, found yourself on the wrong block
Too much change in your pocket tryna to figure out How Much a Dollar Cost
But the Complexion of your currency ain’t quite correct cuz

That’s when you realize The Blacker the Berry, the less like you.
You Ain’t Gotta Lie, you like where you are now.
Starting to think i belong and ****.
But remember, even though you know how to **** a Butterfly, you’re just a Mortal Man.
Italics are songs from "To **** a Butterfly"
Andrew T Mar 2017
give me a chance
to take you out
for one last night
in the city,

as the angels sleep on the sidewalks,
and the reptiles snore in the white house.

I'm crying alone
while your friends check their phones,
smoke their vapes,
and Brady the dog nudges my leg
with his snout,
soft as a napkin
wiping breadcrumbs off a table.

Chipotle before we write diary entries
for our children who look like your
ex-boyfriend. Tell them stories
past their curfew,
as their heads cloud with dreams,
where nothing but beauty blooms,
and sadness goes to pasture,
to be cooked on a rotisserie,
and spit out into bits.

like your flesh when it's been burnt by a lighter.
so listen up,
finish your game of FIFA,
then make me laugh,
so that I could forget about yesterday's fight.
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