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Aylin Chavez Oct 12
it was a Saturday night
a night full of fun
but filled with loneliness
and I needed you

that night you were replaced
the hands of another touched me
and the desire for you, disappeared  
i didn't feel alone anymore

it was a Sunday morning
a morning in someone's bed
and with me realizing
i didn't love you anymore
a riff
with a
spill on
a painted
horse gallivant
with claim's
stake that
Republican dynamite
narrowed a
night of
campaigns here
with Labor
Day fueled
virtues of
the chief
and cheers
of Thor
Trump  Campaimgn In  Central PA
Fat sounds, and fingers
spread ugly phleghming sharting stains on
Cotton, shiny white and new. And
Spit and ***** books a slot on,
Saturdays outfit change and
Its ok.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!


a day that demanded perfection
Anna Jun 7
It's saturday night
May you tell me why
Do I feel tied in
To the fishing net
Of a nonexistent fisher?
Should we talk about that?
A very first but
Not a very Good Easter Saturday at East China Sea

No, it's not a good Easter Saturday
Lead Grey sky
Wet, miserable
And to make matters worse

Although the realization that Christ was crucified last night
and is dead and buried and won't rise until tomorrow

Would the disciples have no idea that he will indeed rise?
But rain rises first, everywhere.
Rainy and  gray mood at a very first oriental stay Easter Saturday. Biscuits instead of chocolate eggs. Are we all seeking an  Internal light?
To the average working stiff
the mouth feel of Saturday
always popped and fizzed

a day to get on with the business
of being
without being defined by your business
(shout out to all in retail and shift work
your heartache is saved for other verse)

This Saturday has come
with revised terms and conditions
that seem to have rather stunted
the former purpose
like a PC revision
gutting all the cheeky dirt
for contemporary sensibilities

Fine, but understand
that from behind closed doors
a million folk are figuring
how to **** about in a myriad
of new ways

Ye can take our pubs,
but ye cannae take
our shenanigans!
Dana Mar 14
There's this interesting trait
Got it from my father
I can comment away with
beauty and grace
respect and order
but a little demon child
lights my feet on fire

Stand behind sophistication
It's an ego
hungry for validation

And as I spew these words
My mouth often can't catch
up before you know it
like laser beams from Cyclops' eyes
I've burned an image I'd wish to hide
Shades back on, I'm a cool guy
Nicholas Feb 29
I’m singing my tune
cause it’s a great afternoon.
All these bad thoughts have me immune
so let’s blow up a balloon
and live like we’re in a cartoon.

There’s no time for a prune,
let’s have a big commune
at least the size of a platoon
and take ourselves to a nice saloon.
from there we’ll hit the lagoon
then maybe chill by the dune
where I just might swoon
from thinking this is too good to be true.
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