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ellie Feb 9
Like fireflies, they dance
around my head, teasing,
promising resolution.

I can't catch them,
too quick for my heavy hands.

Movement on my fingertips,
but the light dims just as fast.

Frustration closes my eyes.
Defeat sweeps my mind clean.


My eyes snap open,
The light blinding,
and finally,
pen can meet paper.
Inspired by Ted Hughes' 'Thought Fox'
Tommy Randell Apr 2019
It's what you find that when you find it rings a bell
It's what you say that when you say it silences as well
It is everything a metaphor should be though unexplained
The words we share about ourselves are more than just our names

It is a window between the two rooms of our locked-in private space
It is not fire waiting to be lit but a fire that has learned to wait
It is a small flame of ourselves in a universe ablaze with light
That one face in a crowded room makes everything seem right

Its purpose has a meaning like a woman carries a child
It's not a painting to be un-painted or a knot to be untied
It is a living breathing shape designed to have life of being read
What Poetry is is what a Poem can do when it has been PoeTed.
What it is
Jeremy Micallef Mar 2017
The way I see things
if I were Ted,
You'd be Robin.
All a series of broken strings.

I don't get a choice, not this time.
I'll always come back to you, no matter what.
Love is the best thing we do.
It’s our drive. To envy, lust and crime.

It's not love if I pick another.
It's not love. Not meant to be,
something silly. Forced upon, not by destiny.
You know it’s true. We've chemistry. You're not just a number.

No, it's not wise or safe to think of you -
Especially because we're not likely to ever happen.
Then why do I choose to torture myself?
Why do I aim at catching a bird, when it has already flew?

Is there a reason why I turn back?
For not trying to find a new soul to match
mine? I'm not afraid of the future.
I don't run back to the past. Waiting for my heart to crack.

Because it's love - It doesn't make sense.
I don't care if I get hurt. I don't mind beating myself up.
It's okay just looking at you and just be thinking -
How amazing you are - how wonderful must it be to be close to you, without any suspense.

You once said, that my face always brightens up
whenever I see you. And you're right.
That is that it because I see yours
brighter and more clearly than anything
Irrelevant of what you're wearing. Irrelevant of your makeup.

I don't want to part ways;
just these few months have been hell.
I want to take your hand and just hold it,
knowing it's mine for the rest of our days.

Though, I'm not clutching your hand.
Because I'm losing you. You're fading away.
I’m losing the real you. Not the idea of being with you.
And destructive as it may be, it is so **** grand.

What I’ve learnt from five great friends,
is that I can easily lose someone I love
someone who’s special. So I act.
I do something about it.
So that the possibility never ends.

Truth is, that I can’t promise that we’ll be together,
that you’ll be mine. That you’ll be in eternal happiness.
I can’t vow to be perfect. I vow that I’ll love you though.
When it’s sunny, overcast or stormy weather.

I get it why you’re scared. It’s okay to be afraid.
I, too, am frightened, lost, in between questions.
But why not think about tomorrow? The past is familiar
but as long as I’m with you, never in doubt, never betrayed.

Yet I must keep my calm. As I am thinking about tomorrow
when midnight has not even strike. Haste is not right.
If it has to happen, it’ll happen.
I don’t want to rush. So I’ll try and take it slow.

- And yes, I wrote this poem thinking of a certain bella,
taking lines from television. However, don’t discredit me
as I’ve meant every line written here, during this journey,
seeking the girl with the yellow umbrella.
Here's one similar to 'The One With the Quotes', this time, taking lines from one of my favourite TV series, 'How I Met Your Mother'.
Ted Aronis Dec 2016
The warning was clear so the report not so near.
This sound still buzzing in my ear.
The warning of a second shot, They did not want us here.
Quickly we retreat.

We walked on in the snow, Cold and slow, Where to go?
The Cold wind deep the sky peace with Violet.
Yet we still remember the sound. That sound buzzing in my ear
The warning clear, it's slap so near

The snow, Deep and cold and our resolve not so bold period
Current tensions presented through adequate noise.
Quickly scatters us, our intentions been spoiled period
All to do buy a blast of adequate noise.
Trespassing has consequences around these parts.
Ayin Medina Sep 2016
She broke your heart again
You went to my flat
As we watch our favorite TV Show
Robin said to Ted
"Just like you can't turn off the way you feel"
Our pinkies touched
The electricity fueled my veins
My heart is racing
Producing 200 beats per minute
You asked me
"Do you think there really is an 'off' switch?"
I looked down untangling our intertwined feet
I said
"How can you know if you've never turned the nearest switch on?"
how i met your mother season 1 episode 2
cable news video brilliantly captures
the blood washing Parisian gutters
glittering in City of Lights sparkle

images of carnage coagulate in my mind
clotting my heart with searing resent

in desperate need for release
from the abject scorn
that boils within my veins

I flip the channel to
watch a Predator marathon
but light entertainment
fails to satiate my restive soul

I turn down the volume
and click back to News

My iPod is audio ready
to soothe the savage beast
with some righteous death metal
I blast my earbuds,
Culture of Death's new CD
prepares me for real action
ever at the ready
digital recreation
has me *******
my controller
mustering up my
Call of Duty

I am a recognized
high score battlefield hero
taking out godless apostates
in the global war on terrorism

I'm usually eager to
baptize Iraqi jihadis in a
Holy Ghosting
but tonight
Black Ops kills
fails to thrill
my controller and I
stand down

opening the gun case
I cradle my Bushmaster
the smooth barrel and rugged stock
feels so right in my hand

it pleasures me to know
I am one of the good guys with a gun
I relish the fear and respect
I garner during open carry
troops to McDonalds
the hairs on the back of my neck
sometimes titillatingly rise

one day I hope to
take out an active shooter
at a movie or the supermarket
that would be way cool

I place my Bushmaster
back into the cabinet
and carefully rearrange
one of my Glocks

yet even with this
considerable armory
I still feel insecure
it may be time
for a trip to Walmart
to secure another Glock
*** more ammo

my heart recovers a bit when
I think about tomorrows recon trip
to my tree stand in the Jersey Highlands

Bear season starts soon
for the past few weeks
I've baited the area with
Dunkin Donuts and bacon grease
I've detected lots of bear ****
can't wait to drop one of those suckers
I visualize one in my gun sights
should be easy pickens

my CD ends with
some real raucous ****
removing my earbuds
I turn up the volume
on the News

footage from last summer's
Black Lives Matter demonstration
runs in continuous loop
members of the
New Black Panther Party
are yelling into the camera
a woman in a black burka
her eyes squinting angrily at me
from underneath her cover
sends shivers up my spine

when we take our country back
they will be served some
Second Amendment justice

News flashes Ted Cruz
condemning Muslim
refugee resettlement,
in a Christian Nation
only Christians should be
allowed in...

News breaks back to footage
from the concert venue
highlighting the
blood stained mosh pit

News flashes ISIS Jihadis
riding in Humvee's
routing the fleeing
Iraqi army once again

News highlights a smiling Putin
firing off Caspian Sea cruise missiles
into the bleeding Levant
examples of decisive leadership,
if only Obama could grow a pair

News flashes to a Rose Garden Obama
bragging about killing Jihad Johnny

the drone strikes and
active bombing campaigns in:
and other unspecified locations
are working says the Muslim Prez

By the looks of Paris
any real American Patriot
would think not

we need to send a message
a quick strike fix
some major shock and awe
to placate a nations troubled soul

if that offends any Christian
turn the other cheek
wimp, so be it

I say go
Old Timey Testament on their ***
let our vengeance is mine God
**** them all
**** them all
**** them all

Culture of Death:
Cystic Dysentery

Barry McGuire:
Eve of Destruction

The Doors:
The End

lots of hate going round since the murderous tragedy in Paris....
let cooler heads prevail.....
be still and know that I am God....
positrxnicbrain Sep 2015
He looks like a trapped caged animal,
So evil and transparent
Almost naked among the cloud;
Laid bare,
For all to see.
He knows the end is here!
He hates the feeling of not being in 'control'
Fear consumes his mind.
He is no longer.
i was just writing down stuff & came up with this & couldn't think of a title for it so i thought it tied well with ted bundy. if u know who he is or research him you'll understand it more :)
Vamika Sinha May 2015
I'm 'sophisticatedly' sticking a pen
in my mouth, pretending
to smoke a cigarette.
I don't have the courage to hurt
myself, but
I do.
In 'subtle and implied' ways, he

I make watery coffee and convince
myself, my happiness
lies in there,
floating. And I pretend
I'm in a Parisian cafe.
But these are pipe-dream dregs,
nothing else.
I guess they can't substitute the
vividness of being,
Of sharp technicolour experience that can be
Dregs, indeed.

Today, I borrowed Birthday Letters by
Ted Hughes from the library.
I'm wondering if
salvias were his favourite
His favourite.
I can't figure it out.
For his words are only stricken,
messy with the rawness of
too-technicolour experience.
But sharp
enough to pierce and
like Paris.
My Paris, your Paris,
our little Paris.
So startlingly, breathlessly

I suddenly know why I have written this.
The colour of salvias,
of Paris,
of me and you,
is my soul's favourite.
His favourite.
And salvias, their fragrance, it
douses the fire that's threatening to
suffocate, swallow my
life whole,

Red is my favourite colour.
And it's yours.

But I really don't think I want it to be.
I've been reading Ted Hughes and thinking .
Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green

Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.
Dedicated to "Terrible" Ted Green of The Big Bad Bruins and Edmonton Oilers of the NHL and former New England Whaler player of the WHA. One of the best hockey men around. I thought of this today after finding an old Ted Green hockey card from 1968 in my dresser drawer. I remember watching him play with Boston and Edmonton and saw him a number of times scouting at The London Gardens after his playing career was ended.
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