Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Skinny little legs, like the bees
you loved to draw, propelled you
down two flights of old stone stairs.

Banging on your namesake's door,
calling out in a child's Italian:
"Nino, let's go play!"

An enclosed courtyard held us at the center
of modest apartments where our neighbors
hung out laundry, watched us play.

In the early evening light we counted, hid,
and counted again under quiet Roman skies.
It seemed, then, that this was life.

Counting rapidly in that musical language,
searching for a new and better place to hide,
we never imagined that soon, we would
want to hide here, in these memories
that would never leave us.

When an avalanche of tragedy hit us
one year later, we had these soft days
in our father's country to remember.
Hiding, counting,
and hiding again.
For my brother Jas
©Elisa Maria Argiro
It's a special kind of ******
what makes you shake like this
and yer feelin' quite certain
that you're seein' red curtains

so

"*******!" you exclaim
and then you pop a vein
and you rage and shake a fist
because you're just. that. ******.

but

In the end it ain't your doin'
to the people that yer screwin'
and everyone can go to hell and
hey! — yer just the one to tell 'em.
© 2011  J.J.W. Coyle
Mike Essig May 2015
Today a ten-year-old girl
threatened suicide at school because
a trusted uncle had molested her.

What kind of ******* world
has this become?

Police were called,
Child Services arrived,
statements were taken.
no doubt social workers
were stirred into the mix.

I am a man of the 20th Century,
just old enough to remember outrage,
to remember when too much was taboo,
to remember personal honor.

When I was a kid, this monster
was snatched from his bed
by righteous neighbors, dragged begging
to a private place beyond help
and been beaten nearly to death
by the fathers of other potential victims.

Imagine a circle of men, ordinary men,
mostly World II and Korea veterans:
insurance men, car salesmen, farmers,
store keepers, salesmen, even a lawyer
tightening the circle in the torchlight.

The monster begged, pleaded, wept,
wet himself, **** himself, whimpered.

The sheriff  watched, smiled,
and then rearrested the pervert for resisting.

Had he lived, the monster would never
have touched a little girl again in our town,
knowing that his life would be forfeit
and end abruptly and anonymously.

Probably, he would have just slunk away.

This new state of bureaucracy cares nothing
for the victims it claims to protect.
It only wants the paperwork filled out correctly.

I was 11, 1962 in a quiet sleepy town.
My father took me to see what evil brings,
the best lesson he ever taught me.

If I had been old enough I would have joined in
without so much as a twinge of regret.

You liberal ostriches can call this brutality if you like.
I call it community action, community justice.
People protecting what is there's to protect
when the official guardians just go through the motions

I miss the 20th Century. I miss justice.

  ~mce
True incident
Michael Ryan May 2015
I haven't told anyone--
but I know that my neighbor is dead
because when laying in my bedroom
separated by my wall and his.
I no longer feel him there as I usually did.

He always listened to "Horchata", by vampire weekend
on repeat it played as he slept.
I imagine he wanted to dream of tropical islands
to be back with his wife and child in the Philippines--
every morning it seemed to disappear
at the same moment he could no longer dream his dreams.

Each day making sure to wave to my neighbor
the largest smile I've ever seen was this mans,
with off pigment teeth that speckled in the morning sun
tarnished yellow from all the coffee I brought him;
it was a lovely smile, wish I had it framed to see it still.

As I usually do on Mondays I made my stop
popped open his door bringing his surprise,
some variety of coffee that sits idly on my counter--
inside hung the man I admired,
with a simple note saying "Thank you Young-Man"
and in front of him a scorched photo of his pregnant wife.

placid were his hands in mine--
setting aside the gift, I gave the only thing that I could.
I set the photo in his shirt pocket, "he deserved to be with her"
and putting his cd on repeat as "Horchata" filled the silence
slowly did I depart and head to my own bed.
After calling the police I hoped to fall asleep
and dream of tropical islands of where my neighbor is...
I think this treads the line between only story telling and poetry, all poetry is a story, but not all stories are poetry.  This is my imagining of how someone would feel if they were close to their neighbor and found them 'not with us anymore'.  Honestly it makes me kind of sad to write these poems, and get into the head and feelings of people that go through these things.  I don't know what to title this.
David W Clare Feb 2015
Live through me vicariously...

My rich neighbors got upset
Sycophantic ******* pretentious jet-set

I am the pariah the iconoclast blasted by rumors, iron-curtain of suburbia hurtin' tuff darts pointed at me

Think young it's only the vicissitudes
That control your mood and attitude

Am I gay? Your wife doesn't think so!

Go ahead live through me vicariously...

D. Clare
I loved northern Virginia...the neighbors hated me...
Skip Ramsey Jan 2015
People,
Taking up space,
Better served by,
Toxic waste dumps.
Inspired by real life events...  ;)
Lenore Lux Dec 2014
I like to imagine my neighbors having ***.
Familiar faint squeaks catch my interest while ****
cooks red with my lips at the tip of the **** pipe.
First faint then foot to floor driving the grand prix
while exhaling and pale I stare up at the ceiling.
They're *******. That smooth and dark brown,
long black and kinked hair having, bare hairy
belly in leather jacket wearing strange and
tasty cut of chubbed up muscle overpowering
with his plowing, the the soft plump curves
of her in alabaster white, coif cut long but
both the sides, inside her just so open walls,
pounding deeply in snycopated beating
rhythms, in love or lust, it's left to be wondered.
My favorite balancing act, knee wobbling
daring to throw me from the one legged stance
where I perch with my ear in a glass, glass to asbestos,
living vicariously through them as if it's my sole chance to live,
Claire's mystical 1/8's  blare in the stale air from
the lone speaker on my TV and my breathing flickers.
Huffs to gasping puffs to sighs leading to huffs again,
I can't help that I spend time inside my head. I want it.
I dream of my neighbors *******.
Open. Bent down. *** up. Deleting the question marked
space between faces I make outside and in heat, alone under sheets in a bedroom.
I want to be ******.
**** me. Pound me.
Press me down and wrap your hand around my ribs.
Touching. Taking.
James Jarrett Aug 2014
There’s nothing wrong with the neighbors

That a few rounds

Won’t settle down

They are Mexicans after all

And understand the brutal language

Of the gun

They only laugh and get louder

Whenever the cops

Come around

But they know that the mix

Of gunsmoke and anger

Means

Turn the **** music down

Enough Fiesta

Night after night

Enough Tequila

Day after day

Don’t **** your neighbor off

Or the next one

Might come your way… Ole’!
Fred Schrott Jul 2014
Can I borrow some sugar?
Said, my puppy’s gone missin!
If you need some ears,
I’m the one that’ll listen
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
When I saw ya movin’ in,
I really did want to help ya
If you want a good ride, you
can call me Helter Skelter
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
Now there’s no chance in Dodge
that I will ever turn city boy,
especially when I found myself a brand-new toy
Now it’s time to enjoy!
Well howdy, new neighbor
I’m so **** glad to meet ya
I’m not like your ex, who
always tried to defeat ya
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
I will send you to heaven
by the way that I treat ya
And just like my God, it’s
every day that I’ll need ya
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
Now there’s no chance in Dodge
that I will ever turn city boy,
especially when I found myself a brand-new toy
Now it’s time to enjoy!
So I’m washing my truck,
do you need yours cleaned?
You can be the buffer and
I’ll be the sheen
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
So, on the weekends down here
we all like to party
We’d love you to join us;
you can be my “shorty”
You’re the best thing to ever hit this town
I said you’re the best **** thing
to ever hit this town!
From, The Transitive Nightfall Of Diamonds, due out 8/14 from iUniverse books
Felicia C Jul 2014
The old man living next door to my rented shoebox

told me that the hospitals are slowly draining the humanity from the city

and that the country is just animality rationality fictionality

and that at least when there was a king, everyone had food.

now his wife can’t pick things up because her hands hurt

so she throws things

constantly

and at least in India, he knew where he stood.

"My granddaughter on the fifth of July will be coming into her ninth year of life. She wants the world, though."
July 2013
Next page