Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Laokos Apr 2020
"This is a collect call from: 'Darlene Ryder', at the Nielsen County Sheriff's Department, press '2' to accept charges and be connected."

beep

"hello? Bill?...you there?"
"**** Darlene, how many times we gotta ******' do this?!", he threw his voice at her through the phone like a fastball wrapped in firecrackers.
"I dint do nuthin' wrong! they jus got sumpn' against me s'all!"
"uh huh, the **** d'you do, huh?
"the ***** had it comin', I was jus tryin' to have a few 'n relax then she come 'n talk 'bout how I was lookn' atter funny but I watn't- I was jus mindin' my own talkin' to Charlie. So all's I need from you is to get yer lazy, belly-picken', beer-guzzlin' hole fer a face down here and unpinch this ******' mess!" and hung up the receiver on her end of prison.
      The guards shoot each other a look then raise their eyebrows.  They'll be recounting this over beers tonight beneath the monstrous glow of 47 90" TVs in between attempts at the waitress young enough to be their daughter.  They'll shovel in the wings of a total of 18 birds drowned in hot sauce and butter before the sports bar stops feeding them.  Then they'll all drive home drunk with hot breath and testosterone like molasses, ending their nightly routine with their ***** in their hands and their pants around their ankles drooling at tiny glowing screens.  
      Long live the American gods of New Olympus.
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2019
I hardly journey there anymore.

Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.

The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.

The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—

Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.

I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,

Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.

On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.

Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.

The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,

Smudged thumbprint.
rattletaptap Jul 2016
Bless the sky when winter comes
and twilight sings a song of ice,
cold and pale
as its ghastly grip of death.

Embers dress the aurora on such
darkened nights.

A pale ghost dances around an oak,
around the Pantheon.
It's a ghost of my own, an illusion.
Memories seep away like forgotten dreams;
lost, like a raven in the night.

I bow to the Pantheon, to nature.
Àŧùl Jan 2016
To thank each one of you,
Today, I take the opportunity,
By taking names for your support.

For being the source,
First of all, I thank Life,
For the inspiration she was.

She guided me to Hello Poetry,
Introduced me to new friends,
Broke up ultimately however.

Then I thank Timothy Salter,
For his own and his family's,
Articulate poetry helped me.

Madam Hilda writes as amazing,
And as amazing is their daughter,
It is hard to tell if Marian wrote it.

It's helping me learn more,
Respecting it has taught me,
Had to be paid to earn more.

Not forgetting Gitacharya Vedala,
For he elaborates on every detail,
Thereby helping me experiment.

Same is for Pradip Chattopadhyay,
Hinting of Rabindranath Tagore,
He's the poet clad in sombrero.

Their pure physics at soul poetry,
Helped me learn experimenting,
With sheer hollow truthfulness

I then engage in remembering,
Elsa Angelica for inspiring me,
Her own poetry is developing.

She inspired me to improve,
My strengths & weaknesses,
She taught me being lucid.

Then of course I thank Sukeerti,
She taught me being beautiful,
Without being too explaining.

She encouraged my writing,
Always was their as a friend,
Giving me her positive inputs.

Madam Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Squires,
Aptly mature her poetry is always,
Very much to learn always exists.

Her persona is respectable,
Definitely motherly her aura,
Making her a poet so reputable.

Several other poets fascinate me,
Equally instead of less or more,
They all teach me the lessons.

Madam Sally A Bayan is there,
Her sweet mature bits of advice,
Best complemented by her poetry.

Shayana Shrikanthalingam,
Seeing all her polished poetry,
Not such a difficult name for me.

Ever inseparable they are,
Brandon & Earl Jane Nagley,
They are the immortal lovers.

And I recognize the beauty,
An Indian model here on H.P.,
Poetry surely as cute as herself.

She is the most elegant girl,
On Hello Poetry and in reality,
Bhumika Fulwani I refer to here.

Finally, I express my gratitude to her,
In my life she's the ultimate one,
Now I needn't anyone else.

She is my Pooja Shah,
She is exclusively mine,
She is here forever to stay.
I have a very poor memory.
I might have missed some names.
So please forgive me if I have forgotten you.

But I assure you that I have full respect for you.

My HP Poem #992
©Atul Kaushal
Seth Milliman Jan 2016
A door in the wall,
A roof on the cellar.
Gone in the mind,
Like a pantheon pillar.
What voice can you have,
When you're no longer seen.
Your laughter your voice,
Like a midsummers dream.
Silence is my canvas.
Energy is my pantheon.
Thought and Music are my forms of prayer.
George Cheese Oct 2014
My soul is a maelstrom
How dare you maim my son.

You’ll choke on my sea
My beasts will eat your heart.

I am god of the depths
You are fragile meat.
In the context of Homer's 'Odyssey'.

— The End —