Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Katie V-W Jan 15
I write
Rite
Right?
Rights?
Who's right?
Who has rights?

Promote
Rite
Mute

To write
To rite
To mute
To fight
To right!
Too right?
Tight!
Too tight?
Tight.
Lack of sight.
That’s a slight
Feeling some plight,
Wanting to take flight.
Is that right?
Right.
Rite
Written rite
Benedict May 2018
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
That vessel grew up in bed,
With a covered head,
So that its frame did not get wet,
But better yet,
Many times,
Resins used were left to dry,
Into the cracks their poxys pry,
To amalgamate the creaking ply.

And only when the final *****,
Twists its way to something new,
To tie the lace of this floating shoe,
Still sitting under rusted roof;
When the metal files are swept away,
And the hazel mast accepts its stain,
By a whitened brush proclaimed,
Only then does she take her name.

For a day or two she’s left to linger,
Poised at the top of her sheltered slip,
A proud and shining ship,
Held in place by the gasping grip,
Of the steadfast holding line.

Her ivory sails lie week and flat,
And there is irony in that,
For a girl already waxed and named,
With canvas cut and metals tamed,
Perched there upon that ledge,
Has yet to take her newborn breath.

Through forward rings two ropes are thread,
To heave her from her resting bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
Into the water below,
A world she does not yet know,
But there she is bound to go.

Soon her airtight helm will taste that salted swill,
Her rudders will shoulder the force of a thousand men,
And by her maker’s will,
She will not meet her end.

Bang,
Goes the steadfast holding line,
As the forward rope force applies,
Without a wince or a whine,
Does our vessel bid goodbye,
To her sheltered bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,

And with one final gracious bow,
Into the wet of the sea she ploughs.
Ammar Mar 2018
Oh this feeling of always being rite
**** this feeling of always being rite
When you love and hate an emotion at the same time
Jim Musics Jan 2018
As we realize, clams don't grow in sluices.
They must never be preoccupied with color.
They are content to be gray and to never move.
“Spit”, is their answer to any question,
And no person can tell how old a clam is by its growth lines.
It can be assumed that the are the owls' enemy, because they reject runcible spoons.
Their tongues retract at the smell of honey.
They must hate bees, flowers and peace as an action.
They are the only argument for Beau Brummell.
I wrote this in 1966-8
I could say I just came across this, but I deliberately looked for it and the many other scribbles that I've carted around with me through all the many places that I lived from there to here.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
I slay the lamb, then fill a cup
    With lamb's blood, then I spill it;
And then again I fill it up,
    Spill it, and then refill it.

Another lamb is drain'd bone dry.
    The same is re-repeated.
May lambs still live so lambs may die:
    May lambs go undefeated.

O.O
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
Where were you when you heard
First heard some legendary song?
Does it get permanently hooked
To that time in life as it went along?

When I was twelve years old
I was coming home on the bus
A car radio playing Elvis singing
That’s “All Right Mama” passed us.

Freezing my *** in a weapons plant
When I first heard “Everybody’s Talking”.
I had no money and no good car
But I almost started walking.

All the time I was driving
“Light My Fire”, was always playing
With that bridge you couldn’t ignore.
I always link going west on I-40 to
My introduction then to the Doors.

T’was almost fifty years ago today
Sergeant Pepper and his band did play.
I was working as fry cook in KC
Wishing I could afford to run away.

I heard Yes singing “Your Move”
In Hollywood on Sunset and Vine.
I had no idea who that group was
I only knew they were new and fine.

Bopping down Hollywood Boulevard
And fashionable in Frankenstein shoes
I was styling with my pleated bells
Singing “Staying Alive” as I would cruise.

Music changed for me again, for the better
With the opening of Yellow Brick Road.
Elton made that dramatic opening bit
Opposite of a country *****-backed toad.

Barbra and Donna in great duet called
Were wailing out “Enough Is Enough”.
I was thinking finding a better team
Than those two divas would be tough.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
He was a fine broth of a man
And I loved dallying with him
In afternoons of sun and breeze
My lovely one-man harem.
Such a delightful odalisque,
I suspended thoughts of time.
I greedily took up my guitar
And seduced him with rhyme.

As we fed each other sweets
And made coffee by the jug
We laughed and smoked ***
Together ***** on the rug.
We told each other stories
Of places we had been
And astounding miracles
Each of us had seen.

We talked of **** dancers
And clever men of magic
And how the loss of innocence
Was not altogether tragic
Because we got to learn
And could use it to grow
And understand the secrets
We recently did not know.

He taught me how to love,
This man of many stories.
I learned to welcome mystery
And search in it for glory.
He showed me how to look
And see people as unique
And not some mass idea.
I grew up from that peek.

That simple time of learning
And laughing with a man
Who had the gift of sharing
The way to understand.
He took me from my childhood
And showed me how to live.
He gave me a gentle heart.
The best thing one can give.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
---

i
prepare
the
squirrel
we
will
have
for
dinner

i
go
to
the
­church
of
autumn
trees

the
sun
weeps
russet
through
stained
glas­s
leaves
and
its
beams
dapple
the
moist
forest
floor

i
prepare
t­he
squirrel's
precious
spirit
for
its
travel
thanking
it
and
tell­ing
it
I'm
sorry
it
had
to
die

but
my
family
is
hungry

later
to­day
i
will
teach
the
strangers
to
harvest
the
corn
we
taught
them­
to
plant

i
only
wish
they
were
as
grateful
as
i
am
for
the
squi­rrel


soulsurvivor
(C) 7/6/2015
WHO IS MORE GODLY?

The people who came to this
continent FIRST have a
beautiful spirituality

Before the Spanish et al came the
"savages" counted coup in battle
rather than killing their enemy

Sometimes i am ashamed of my own race

Maybe the Mormons are CORRECT
Jesus Christ came
HERE FIRST
Brent Kincaid Apr 2015
I am the person I recall.
I am sure of each memory
As thought-pictures fall
Inside the books of history
I keep inside my mind.
I gladly water the gardens
Of nostalgia I always find
When I think back to then.

These are beautiful blossoms
Of who and where I was
And most are wholesome
And are there for a cause.
They exist because I chose
To take a path I once saw
That brought something close;
I chose gee instead of haw.
And some beautiful person
I might never have met
Stood there in the distance
And I never would forget.

I am a middle class guy
From the vast middle west
Who never dared to try
To find out what was best
For me, and only me.
Who never knew the answer
Of how I could be free
Afraid to just go and wander.
So afraid, I would not wonder
Or hope or make plans
I was letting my life splatter
Out of my open hands.

Then a change came over me
In an ****, icy winter storm.
“I could move myself westerly
And live where it is warm.”
So, I packed up my boyfriend
And my late model used car
And moved to the land’s end
Out with the television stars.
I got us a small bungalow
And started on a new way
To live and let my past go
And live from day to day.

I can’t say I got good very soon
At doing what I wanted to do.
Being brainwashed by goons
Can make lies of what is true.
And if the goons are parents
Who hate the person you are
Taking control of resentments
Is not like just starting a car.
I had to learn to like just me
And to turn my face away
From the catcalls and misery
That comprised my earlier days.

The boyfriend left and more
Came and went as he did.
So many I could not keep score.
I am sure some went and hid.
I was not much fun back then;
Greedy and needy and weak.
And, few wanted to brave the tide
And let their feelings speak
To tell me what a train-wreck
I had turned out to be.
Most just disappeared along my trek.
Yet, a few said words to aid
And I heard them through the noise
Of negative conditioning laid
On the heads of hated young boys.

Then I changed, having done
With banging my head against fact.
I began to see I was the one
To decide how I would act.
I learned to check with no one
To see what I would prefer.
I spent my time just having fun
And let circumstances occur.
I began to look around me
And notice the people who
Matched the words they said to me
And that their words rang true.

I learned some people walked
Exactly as they wanted to
And it was the way they talked.
And then, I suddenly knew.
I could just pass on by
The people that didn’t know how
And I didn’t have to explain why.
I can live in the here and now.

Brent Kincaid
4/9/2015
Next page