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Eleanor Rigby Feb 2015
You looked me in the eye
With the same smile you gave me
A long time ago.
You let me order your coffee for you
I knew which one
It's still the same
From a long time ago.

I laughed about the jokes you told me
You laughed at how unfunny
Mine were
And you playfully hit me
I frowned, you laughed,
I laughed, you laughed again
And said sorry
Just like you did
A long time ago.

The worst of it all
Was that when your hand
Accidentally brushed mine
I shivered
Just like I did
A long long time ago.


-- Eleanor
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~took a walk in the city today,
and this happened in the O'Henry tradition~


the blind man crossing E. 15th,
does not look, nor does he care,
all foes on-coming,
come hither, he dares

his light is red,
yet his cane extended,
he click clacks steadily ahead,
unaware and unbeknownst,
his new step by step sidekick,
Sheriff Natty,
is writing an air poem to a
taxi driver with his
shotgun *******,
a NY gesture of
welcoming *******...

a green light means passage
is a taxi's right,
but my left shoe firm
attached to his bumper,
plus multiple looks mine,
any of which could ****,
his argumentation poses
do somewhat chill...

the sheriff of the city, his motto,
sic transit finger gloria

~

among the sadder sights
of city life
is contrast...

the dark-only coolness
of an Irish bar,
on a bright spring day
when life and love
is bud sprouting
while old white men,
on single soiled solitary stools,
their colored cheeks green
from the reflection of
TV emerald diamond fields,
sipping many pre-game $3
Guinness draughts

around the second inning,
they switch, onto
boilermakers to make
the languid afternoon stretch on,
this I know for sure,
for in the large gilded mirror
behind the bar,
see the barkeep's back asking me,
"what will it be for you
this fine spring day?"


~


next to the bar, in the corner market,
an old man's hands tremble in an old man's way,
in a way I only know thru his testimony,
as he does his daily self-feeding,
his wallet removed, fumbling for two
single soiled solitary one dollar bills.

the shopkeeper's fingers
beat the counter impatiently,
the old man's beer brown bagged,
transport ready, though the old one
rather be next door,
the extra Dollar saved causes
a last minute delay, shaky fingers,
asking for an extra purchase,
a small can of dog food please,
so he can watch the game at home
and share the same meal
with the man's real and best,
and only true spring weather friend

~

the mayor proclaimed as a matter of
public safety, public decorum,
a pack of three or more woman
wearing all black Lululemon athletic wear,
were now banned from being outside after nightfall

later this night, in Carl Schurz Park,
many vamp(ire) voices were heard
singing the lyrics to
"i want to do bad things to you,"
but they staked him only
to a free color reeducation

~

these takes I witnessed,
all or some,
these tales I took
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit
injected beneath my skin
came with the title,
City Boy,
and honored me
with its O'Henry life and lore,
and the vision to believe what is
in my bloodstream
just another true tale of life in Manhattan.com~
published her 4/14/14
liza Feb 2016
sitting in the dark, chewing on my cheeks. My ankle bracelets don’t come off and they're still wet from the tub
she used to braid my curls before bed

driving on the interstate with my back windows rolled down. The front ones wont budge
she would hold my phone with the maps up, “get off on the next exit”


Id come home to fiery curls every night; i still do. Except they're mine and they smell like smoke instead of coconut shampoo
things change but not a whole lot ya know
Iz Aug 2017
veins surge with static, eagerly pushing electricity through my blood like volts of frictionless energy
excitement flushes my pupils and they dilate as my lungs fill to breathe you in; an agonizingly controlled, but undeniably elated sense of euphoria at the slightest of touches
your jokes are accompanied by entirely too-perfectly-timed wit, and a lack of indication of sarcasm; I am flustered and yet flushed with happiness; a sweet conflict: self conscious with childlike glee.
you asked me to meet you at the top of the parking garage where you go to take pictures and watch fireworks; the thought makes my hands sweat and my head dizzy, the adrenaline of the height and the people buzzing below us and my hair in the wind and your face and those eyes.
Those ******* eyes that insist on making my thoughts their home.
olivia anne Jan 11
you use me;
string me along
like you have for years.
you whisper in my ear
just as i'm forgetting you,
tap my shoulder
as i'm walking away,
and i always whisper back,
turn around,
look at that smile,
and i'm doomed.
i wrote this poem on january 10, 2018 after a boy i had liked for years finally paid attention to me. wish i had known back then that some people just have flirty personalities.
Chris Saitta Aug 3
Sunset is a washwoman's stream of rubia dyes
And the crushed scales from the Kermes insect,
While the loosened garments of life slide
Over the ancient liquidity of the hills rolling
As the mountains rolling as the seas rolling
As the clouds rolling as the graves rolling
Like eyes rolling back to sleep.

I am pressed for lullaby,
Not the pillow-clap of thunder or the ether songs of Persephone,
Biding by her asphodels with icen fingers from plum-colored hell.

But press my ear in my mother’s lap of ancient sun,
Of peplos and himation and stola,
And listen to the vines and bunched grapes
And all of heaven sink in its commodiousness.

Press my ear to the sun-fed heart that flows
To the furthest span of the cloth-seas of man and
The solemn songings of the ever-deepening sky.
My mother all along smoothing out the wrinkled sheet of sunlight.
The scales of the Kermes insect were used to make red dye in Ancient Greece and Rome.

Peplos and himation are Greek female clothing while stola is Roman.
Jen Aug 2018
Cold rush-
Wind gust,
He limps
Along
With an old
Wooden cane,
On a Bridge
By the Bay-
Talking in a low
Voice,
Singing
A song,
Of true
Folklore.

"It all washes
Up on the shore."

Tales
Of Fights
And Trouble,
Followed by
His love
Of long ago
When
Mermaids
Still
Came ashore.

Skin hangs
On him,
Aged and scarred,
But once
He was young
And spry.

He sings,
"I remember
The day the
Mermaids died."
Luiz Nov 2018
once again, I defend
you, me and our end

did never pretend!
each other we mend

spend evenings blessed
my hopes and dream
you arrest

I wish you the best
even when at my lowest
when I die and regress

calendar's slow
time won't flow
flying low
life ******* blows!

in the rear view
there's so much more
adored but now nevermore

forward sees gore
sealed the before
a black fucken door!

obsessed with what
was possessed
end no defend!
kneeled, I confess

pressured, pressed
and depressed
I'm a mess
failing the test
as me you detest!

I'll die a last time and
after our death
fact, not a guess
no rest

'til I find you!

ask a star
your address

so we can again
adore one other
father, beautiful mother
son and daughter

don't bother
for another lover!

because dear reader,

I'll get her!



Luiz D. Shyphre
2019/©
Chloe Hunt Jun 2018
She used to call him baby a week ago
Now they don’t even talk
He used to kiss her neck and call her beautiful
But apparently that wasn’t enough

They would hide in her room all day
and pretend that the outside world didn’t exist
A week ago she knew what it felt like when he touched her
when they couldn’t help it but kiss

A week later she was still in love with him
but it got a little better each day
A week later she finally cried over him
Letting go of what she was holding in

Tomorrow and the tomorrow after that
She’ll go through it
again and again
Everyone goes through it,
and each time it’s worse :/
#heartbreak #itwillgetbetter
Woody Jun 2018
I still dream of my father
crossing the pastures
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sorrow
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
turning one last time as
if to say: so long my son
there’s going to be days
of sunshine and plenty
more of rain as he went
along his way, and my
sadness waved back like
grain in fields of long past
summers and summers
before that, so long a time
ago I can remember only
on lonely nights of heat
lightning and the low
rumble of distant thunder.
A nice surprise on this Monday evening.  Thank you all very much for your reading and very nice comments. Please know that I appreciate all of you and your kind words. Thank you.

* To Ravinder Kumar Soni: Opinion entitled to and noted. Thanks for taking the time to read.
September Roses Jun 2018
Aghhhhhhhhhh
Why is everything so co.mpli.cated.
        Why is nothing how it should be

Nothing good lasts for ever
well it seems to me like nothing good lasts a ******* second

Everything is
Spiralling
Out
Of
Control
          
         Everything was good a week ago
    A month ago
    
Ok maybe not good but better

         Because this ******* life has
        given me the ******* lemons
And although I'm used to ***** lemonade
it's like life still enjoys pelting me with the leftover ones
      
          Until
        I want
    To disappear
Go away
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