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AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
love   apple   like   time   know   feel   heart   bed   little   life   home   red   boy   georgie   sleep   away   left   dear   ruth   gone   just   right   long   mind   hope   hair   mi   parts   say   fear   met   laugh   makes   sailing   make   tell   hands   day   poem   different   small   words   private   wish   legs   child   man   free   te   welcome   easy   apples   meteorite   smile   flower   want   way   arms   look   eyes   better   war   lie   good   thing   truly   teeth   passion   thought   work   seen   letters   friend   talk   brought   future   fingers   knew   imagination   sure   told   space   cold  la   mask   black   big   bite   age   size   shadow   petals   inane   stretchmarks   medic   we've   wouldn't   hear   tap   really   best   goes   face   gray   maybe   things   dream   tongue   forever   hate   set   room   death   need   truth   comes   night   lost   calves   pain   end   years   brings   touch   feet   blades   memories   new   core   times   dead   favorite   finally   minute   brain   hearts   getting   belly   far   rain   blue   knees   filled   stupid   woke   cream   fit   young   brown   se   fat   tan   cough   spoke   says   unlike   footprints   ******   rough   forward   buckle   blues   task   shoulder   grace   *******   reason   nostrils   firm   juice   palms   someday   mis   thumbs   screams   arguments   wobble   *****   elbows   *******   wrists   headaches   amo   pesky   ligaments   one-liners   thoughts   later   ash   clouds   lips   dreams   breath   mouth   hold   sense   taking   world   bit   speak   dance   gave   shall   ready   skin   air   single   breathe   button   peace   choices   hill   wrong   weak   close   use   quite   sky   phrase   darkness   justice   sound   unable   brave   holding   deep   grabbed   ****   try   building   paper   lunch   think   kind   stay   days   smooth   perfect   learned   care   fair   hard   grant   sweet   high   fruit   short   terms   kept   relationship   underneath   presence   water   looking   fool   sorrow   tree   second   delicate   nearly   happy   line   tall   tried   sad   satisfied   point   feels   falling   purpose   game   lazy   que   amor   agree   known   naught   loss   broke   failed   games   limp   grin   final   spring   act   south   flare   race   sake   car   large   wishes   neck   blink   knife   seeing   idea   steve   company   greens   spread   ship   lo   sally   sum   drowned   december   weep   sting   smiles   lessons   promises   successful   whistled   drowns   perfectly   pleasing   failure   brothers   cliche   harder   thirteen   ale   signs   limit   serenity   mundane   origin   chat   sapphires   handshakes   skinny   contagious   succeeding   super   refer   maturity   destination   civil   uncomfortable   collects   clack   liz   beatles   vez   attract   accomplishment   backside   throes   flaccid   audi   oneself   beastie   applesauce   naivete   bungalow   outie   there's   couldn't   isn't   they're   let's   'n   primos   primas   cantuta   fronton   redd's   mott's   innie   phallicly   tiny   fight   yo   para   walk   ****   hello   light   flash   silent   stone   does   forth   conversation   polite   green   minutes   ****   clear   flesh   couple   wake   anger   throw   torn   tangle   play   shattered   soldier   land   victim   carry   battlefield   came   darkest   blood   battle   warm   shine   reminds   lose   eye   dismay   hide   impossible   fast   earth   grab   stand   die   worse   year   people   white   story   hit   god   anxiety   realize   fall   asleep   dark   course   apart   morning   remain   beauty   ****   slowly   start   happen   remember   pray   past   easily   straight   mean   hand   driving   instant   thunder   messages   friends   old   coming   pen   seeds   shape   wasted   word   living   tore   shadows   knowing   bad   class   joy   trust   leaves   path   sun   ways   leave   meet   broken   head   weight   means   mountain   boys   true   stars   learn   sliced   naive   decided   player   actually   reality   ease   music   hood   desperate   promise   wishing   begin   miss   caressing   moan   thighs   heard   pretty   emotion   figure   floor   exotic   sand   hits   angel   awake   dreaming   probably   wins   seek   stretch   loved   tears   heartbreak   punk   walking   piece   furniture   unreachable   roots   near   deserve   simple   cats   tail   precious   lovers   loves   mother   tongues   clueless   share   taken   yesterday   faith   freedom   ripe   cursed   running   yes   unknown   feeling   going   stairs   opposite   wonder   afloat   packed   bones   acting   playing   wind   passions   dismissed   hourglass   reached   stares   mouths   singing   shaped   trapped   toll   dies   rock   trunk   discovered   especially   dull   choice   awful   patient   great   indoors   attached   thread   shoulders   warms   bright   bring   ending   drowning   sadness   winter   baby   looked   cute   beating   tight   kids   crying   ran   intoxicating   growing   saying   opposites   melancholy   gives   follow   clearly   dove   tu   soon   entwined   juicy   drown   laid   took   moved   bear   anyways   shirt   negative   clean   guide   sore   location   faux   nodded   glance   caught   chances   week   started   today   obvious   sweat   ***   quiet   laughed   worry   round   ladies   mama   smack   goodbye   rising   sides   wished   beds   infinite   positive   scared   admittedly   mistakes   meal   common   rises   toes   bullets   bound   suited   birth   clothes   belt   pounds   ground   barren   sitting   table   woe   swimming   stick   deepest   motion   cleared   sing   angry   action   sons   smiled   bedroom   wall   wiped   grins   mad   july   store   road   snow   pulse   important   adventure   exactly   foundation   trap   colors   floors   neon   outside   language   summer   north   fifty   served   wavy   kick   raw   thirty   row   changed   hanging   lied   drenched   companion   begins   strength   flies   direction   okay   stories   inky   stubborn   cloud   track   described   lover   replaced   pit   packs   circling   honest   wage   dinner   slave   paradox   faking   screamed   lightning   exterior   stopping   complete   deal   rifle   dependent   gifts   dancer   vision   students   horror   punch   anymore   pack   sagging   folk   honestly   tearing   prepared   creatures   listening   rhythm   unique   roar   card   glass   stage   desert   offered   fought   suffer   awoke   master   eating   furnace   glad   choir   graceful   *****   treasure   ships   bark   musical   strand   bee   finished   pink   slink   stronger   disclose   gravity   schedule   march   medicine   hates   weird   brush   laughs   helped   june   pitched   dumped   tense   sin   withdrawn   stem   proved   whispered   anew   amazing   louder   english   knocked   chilly   boots   false   mistake   toffee   whistle   smirk   gas   poised   buttons   bet   necks   elate  vi   bleak   decades   intention   plane   swollen   unseemly   en   sir   creeping   tells   success   doth   ***   balance   ant   fourth   fits   matters   pan   shook   tingle   dusty   reaching   thanked   careers   pile   tempt   ix   xi   xii   xiii   moms   hushed   spears   twinkling   works   fairytale   double   fighter   shocked   barriers   boot   thanks   solitary   lesson   owned   systems   groan   weekend   tomatoes   cider   calculating   drawer   partially   handy   stumpy   album   appealing   pet   unfortunately   jokingly   hotel   teacher   tag   eighteen   leg   dash   peep   betwixt   swear   attempt   inescapable   venues   worker   suit   coughed   remembers   rhyme   listed   chatter   stuff   assist   blocks   sheen   stanzas   jobs   cleaned   handshake   natural   moi   fantasy   cheers   smaller   curl   nay   leaning   frequent   eggs   cuando   el   desayuno   tus   beige   imperfections   difficult   darlings   overcome   oranges   keys   newfound   fairly   occasions   stats   ponder   pools   ablaze   rushes   fret   quell   breads   progress   comfortable   settling   desks   tile   trails   rainy   homemade   stunned   cemetery   plus   ideas   avocados   bananas   apply   latch   rocky   digress   experiences   vacation   sanctuary   earlier   rocket   precise   various   author   pie   explosions   *******   lighter   matched   plunged   isaac   jefferson   abe   measured   saturday   claw   welcoming   gear   trained   suffocation   leapt   gap   lee   disturbed   es   thrill   alarming   grill   frankly   importantly   una   fray   candied   amalgamation   nasty   american   optimism   guns   craters   contracted   rampant   unattainable   spilled   courts   carrots   shuffled   combined   blonde   forgave   artillery   sandwich   comfier   limitation   personalities   friday   strongly   crude   banana   tennis   limits   quaking   recesses   loot   andromeda   shells   playful   luckily   area   upwards   flail   largest   sappy   freckles   biology   fruition   cases   overtook   pinks   instruments   brownies   birthmark   reinforce   laptop   pirates   blinks   frontier   forwards   resonate   capacity   mumbled   marched   scraping   prompts   multiply   haiku   football   como   function   unfeeling   eighty   backsides   prompt   raced   blare   likewise   pro   chrome   gran   pears   puede   corazon   elated   indecisive   basketball   burgundy   synonyms   braced   effeminate   mutually   duties   companies   honeymoon   flailing   patted   mayo   headon   pero   misma   marveled   aforementioned   abhors   forefront   hesitating   identical   creepy   possessive   screeched   gotcha   infidelity   friction   barrage   nonetheless   disparate   itchy   apex   gettysburg   lunchtime   pickup   muchas   then   and   trading   distinguishable   pitches   bunk   ven   ladylike   encompasses   diagrams   underlying   spaghetti   soccer   trashcan   papa   disarming   finalmente   clashed   rosie   smirks   snapshot   pug   songbird   spitfire   yanks   thankfully   mesa   flexing   virginia   effectively   variations   eclipses   tambien   outrun   incident   vitamin   willpower   underdog   hardboiled   miniscule   checkerboard   entrust   siento   heavyweight   davis   thyroid   foreshadowing   frances   heresy   starburst   deficiency   sawing   peruvian   leche   antithesis   villanelle   alliteration   hora   vivir   clacking   droopy   whizzed   britney   futbol   parameters   disney   mangos   disproportionate   orbiting   tanka   stubby   intro   listo   goldilocks   teamwork   pbj   exemplifies   rey   retainer   tenia   triples   espanol   estuvo   castillo   ferrying   suficiente   racecar   dorky   garganta   veo   julio   peripherals   labios   rojos   foreseeable   frito   groggily   venn   macbook   inanely   hubo   goofball   you've   she's   weren't   wasn't   we're   others'   you'll   should've   haven't   what's   you'd   they'd   man's   boys'   god's   woman's   fruit's   orion's   newton's   lincoln's   adam's   momma's   ******   jackson's   audis   dulces   disproportionately   charon's   deseos   avocadoes   hailey   eran   beatles'   ingles   he   she   it   rackets   --   hashtag   sixty-three   duct-tape   joysticks   sherman's   15   6th   32   500   7th   2013   extraño   barenaked   tamales   6-year-old   tierras   derpy   ewell   rom-com   themit's   adan   mudpits   puddlepits   war--hell   culp's   shitpits   completaron   chocolatada   levantanse   duraznos   n'sync   huevo   cholitos   levantaron   manzanas   endurece   wozniak's   dispara   nuez   open-endedness   innies   cankles   dunder-mifflin   tunks   buck-toothed   outies   grief-blown   a-gawking
I uploaded all of my past work onto the site already, so everything from here on out will be new and original. This is sort of an experimental idea of mine: take all the words hellopoetry has tracked for me, put it down as if it were a poem, and see how it flows. It actually kind of works sometimes, but I'm not sure. I'm sure it's mostly terrible, but I wanted to try it. Let me know what you think in the comments below!
Karl Johnson Jan 2018
A Freshened Palate, Perspective, and Purpose

Ingredients:

1 potato, 1 egg, half an onion, 1 clove of garlic
salt and pepper to taste
Light frying oil, 2 slices of bacon,
A fistful of poor self image
I mean, spinach
Balsamic vinegar, applesauce,
A dash of self-hate, and left over unwanted thoughts
Note: for a healthier alternative, forget the self-hate
Also note: Can’t remove unwanted thoughts


Step-by-step instructions:
1. Trim potato of any bad areas
    No matter how badly you’d want to trim
    Yourself

    Wash and scrub away any dirt or sand
2. Grate potato,
    Not knuckles
    Squeeze gratings with an old
    T-shirt or throwaway towel
    You could use the shirt you’re wearing
    But you’d end up wearing your stains
    Which, honestly,
    You do anyway

3. Grate onion, cry
4. Finely chop garlic
    Don’t think about the bad breath
5. Put potato, onion, garlic, and 1 egg (without shell)
    Into the bowl and
    Mix
    But not like mixing drinks with anxiety med
    And bad coping mechanisms.

6. Heat oil until shimmery
    Fry potato mixture to make 2 or 3
    Golden brown, delicious latkes
7. Fry bacon while latkes are in pan
    Fry two slices so the bacon doesn’t
    Have to be
    Alone or
    Isolated

    Set aside on paper towel to soak up the grease
8. Boil water to poach eggs.
    Once boiling,
    Swirl water into a whirlpool
    Exactly like the thoughts scalding
    The insides of my skull
    For example:
    Do you know what it’s like to
    Hate yourself? To not stop the
    Unbelief that you are any
    Good at all?
    Understanding that you’re
    Unemployed
    Unskilled
    Unwanted

Gently crack two eggs into whirlpool
    Understanding that you can’t simply
    “Get over this”
    Like standing under burdens
    And whiskey bourbon hits
    Expectations - faraway dreams
    Only furthering it
    Like you’ll never be able to accomplish them
    You’ll surmount them but run
    Out of oxygen because
    You’re not
    Supposed to be there
    In the first place

(don’t worry, the whirlpool will prevent eggs from
breaking)
    (Don’t you see what
    Everybody else is doing
    And you act like you
    Know what you yourself
    Is doing
    Don’t you see all your
    Truly selfish doings
    Who do you think you are?
    -laughing- you’re bad
    Where do you think
TURN OFF THE HEAT AND COVER
    Set timer for exactly 5 minutes.
    Do not
    Lift the cover until time is
    Up.
    After 5 minutes, scoop eggs out with slotted spoon and set on paper towel to dry.
    Let eggs
    *Rest.

    Be careful,
    The yolks
    Are very fragile at this point.

Assemble the dish
Spread applesauce on potato latkes. Be careful
Not to spread so thin.
Don’t be stingy,
take what You need.
Put bacon on top, stack poached eggs on top of the bacon.
Garnish plate with spinach, sprinkle with balsamic vinegar.
Each thing has its place, even if it seems too complex or complicated.

Flavor Profile;
Latkes are light and
Fluffy and crispy.
Onions, garlic give a basic, yet
Flavorful foundation.
The egg yolks spill a very rich, deep syrupiness that is brought out by the salty, fatty bacon.
The applesauce is special because the sweetness and **** contrasts with the smooth richness of egg, potato and bacon.

And just like life, balances the heavy with the light
          Work with play
       Teaching with learning
                               Spending money with saving money
       Learning things and saying things
       Being there with being here


And sometimes, amidst all of that
You need something to add
a little fresh,

A little color
A little bit of
Different.
That’s where the Spinach comes in
Some
Justified bitterness to
Freshen your
Palate, perspective, and purpose.


With each bite and each taste
You’re reminded that each blend of flavors
Each collision of textures
Are compositions of each ingredients and
each step:
    The onions, the salt, the applesauce
Slicing, chopping, grating
Frying, failing, hating
Boiling, swirling, burning
Accidents, bad luck
Tripping over, getting up
Panicking, breathing, saying “enough”

And having an end product
Like this
Is
Purpose
It is how it’s supposed to be
You are who you’re supposed to be

When you’re finished, wipe your hands
Wash your plate
Realize you have dishes to do
And more courses
More tastes
To produce

*So that you will never go hungry
With this Circadian Appetite
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
For Danielle and Sarah, school librarians

Criss-cross, applesauce
This is how we read
Hey, hey, library day –
Books are all I need!

Criss-cross, applesauce
Sit with me a while
Right here, on the floor
How I like your smile!

Criss-cross, applesauce
Suddenly afraid
Doors locked, windows blocked
By a flimsy shade

Criss-cross, applesauce
Hiding in the gloom
Lights out, fear and doubt
In this silent room

Criss-cross, applesauce
How does childhood die?
Hush, hush! In the dark
Everything’s a lie

-from Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, 2014. Available from amazon.com.
Nathaniel R Horn Jan 2013
Criss, cross,
Applesauce
The class sat
Watching me run
Watching me play
Not advising me to sit down
Just waiting for the teacher
Because they aren't worried
about my hide
They want a free show
As the teachers hands let go
For they were more worried
About being entertained
Than my now tanned hide
Vladmir Putin May 2015
People don't understand the creativity that flows through me

If only you were this good, you could see what I can see

All they can say is Im the best

Yeezus

Kanye West

A-K-A

G-O-D

L-M-N

And-O-and-P
Dallas Phoenix Mar 2015
Jackal in his church pants,
Bad kid with punk jams,
Cramming nonsense in his conscience,
Skateboarding prophets,
Dividing light into chambers,
Bag of **** for his neighbors,
Turned into a living demon bleeding thru the paper,
Applesauce in the inside,
A coconut shell for the front,
Pineapple knives for the slaughtering,
Right into a strawberry's gut,

He was not a normal scorned, occulting youth,
But the lore of a regretful teen plaguing the afternoons,
Till that strawberry gut cracked his coconut noggin,
And shall he rest in bygones and Hanna-Babara monsters,
AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
I
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.

II
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
pears.

III
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.

IV
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.

V
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.

VI
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
Makes sense,
right?

VII
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.

VIII
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.

IX
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
and mine.

X
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.

XI
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Gotcha.

XII
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
te amo.

XIII*
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
Seeds throughout.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, *moi
. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
Regal Pinion Sep 2013
Think I'm strange? Why do you ponder?
My wit's so quick it leaves behind thunder
It got me arrested the other day
They said 'sir, please put that knife away'
But it was sharp enough to slice right by
Subtle enough to slip and hide
Imagery so visual there's spotlight and stage
Bow to the audience and present the Word Play

Abstract, deep, or maybe pretentious
If that's weak then save me sweetness
Or just be bitter all the time
I think we need more flavors in our lives
But some phrases are too sour
Some spicy hot
Combine them in a daily diet
Eat up the lot

Synesthesia hides in these words
Taste the color of what you just heard
Compare the senses that I stirred
As each sentence takes the third
Stanza

Oh Santa what have you got this time?
Were you there to spare a fair
But lazily placed rhyme?

Yeah right twas the night
Before crisscross applesauce
When all through my head
Concepts, points, tangential joints
Changed all of the topics instead

Now say 'bye'
To your mind's eye
As it all becomes so real
And paint a picture
So dreamlike
As it all becomes surreal

How do you feel? Not with your heart
Now let's leave that enclosed
I refer to the hands. Understand?
Palms tapping and exposed

Oh no. Here you go:
A pun and paradox
How do I land my desert boat
By these dark white pair of docks?

"No. Look see, *****,
It's an oxymoron"
Well isn't that just great
Zip the chit chat
Have a Kit-Kat
While I take a...

No wait! Don't break copyright infringement
Clichéd rhymes should have signed I'm going off the hinges
Some were so slant that even Emily Dickinson
Would refuse to go and ski on them and she'd rather stay hidden

Was that reference too obscure or was that understood too fast?
Now that I asked that question I look like an ***

I'd break the ice but I can't skate
I'd break the glass but it'll lacerate
I'd break the tension but at this rate
I'd break my spirits when it's too late
Too late for what? Explain you say
Okay:
No.
Poems can be made to be vague
Flow so sick it causes a plague

Well let's just say my home anyway
Runs off a never ending source from me each day
The energy:
Power
Of Wordplay
When Prog-Hip Hop and Boredom get together, they get a bit too friendly and have a child.  
This poem is that child. And the metaphor used to describe was entirely necessary.
chichee Oct 2018
Once upon a time, Oh but that’s such a boring way to start-
                                                          ­                       Once upon a time.
I was little red riding hood that knowingly stepped
                              onto the wrong side of the path,
Hoping that a monster in the woods
                                              would come and get me, but you-
A hurricane,
           car crashes in slow motion,
                              personified heartbreak-
                                                     ­                    Too much.
Too much applesauce madam? The waiter asked, clean-shaven face bathed
            In the New York skyline, ignorant to the gunfire explosions
                          inside me as I waited for you.
                                                            ­                No thank you, sir.


     “Meet me at the station”,
                                scrawled in messy, love- stained letters
In between the railway roars and the clatters of foreign accent, you've flaked again, like the struck chord of a bass
                        Signifying disappointment like a punch line
                                    Reverberating through my skull.
             Okay, repeat the mantra, one-two-steady-
                                                 ­                                     Okay. It's Okay.

Four weeks later
                                   I had your body pushed up flush against bricks and-
No shut up you don’t get to say anything after you go and shatter me like that
You’re sick do you know that? Lips snarling, heart breaking.  

You’re sick.
So maybe I was the big bad wolf after all.
                   Stairwell bricks glinted off iridescence and
                                                       your mouth in that sad, sad laugh
Studying me like a dream brought
                                                         ­                  to the ground,
Puffy lipped and eyes blown wide like I was on some psychedelic high-
            And you said
                               “You’re still a child with fanciful ideas of love, and the way you cling onto them-
                            Quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”

                                                   ­  Please darling, let me redefine myself
Skip the pleasantries and small talk,
                     scrap the story of little red riding hood-

Once upon a time, I was apology and you were forgiveness
I can imagine inside you, of alarm bells and sunken souls
                 as you listen to the static white noise of
                                                              ­            A dying heart
Hello darling, are you there? Can you hear me? Is this mic working?
          I hate to sound like those magazine cut outs-
                                                           ­         I hate to sound like,
Just another lover, just another cliché-
                                       But you were the matchstick to my dynamite
                                                                ­            and nothing feels better
Than my own self- destruction, so won’t you please
                     Another chance? No?
                                Even Lucifer sometimes longs to be let
                                                      Into the gates of heaven again
I’ve cooked some apology,
          I saved a plate for you

So for the love of god come inside and have some before it goes cold.
A remix of Richard Siken's "Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out", it's a really beautiful poem.
Ramona Argo Aug 2014
Always coming and going—
my mind goes in and out.
White over black over white
He’s my sweet baby jesus migraine
and it hurts to feel him,
but it hurts to not feel him, once you've felt him.

He’s my sweet baby jesus migraine
I swear I can’t
concentrate on anything else
The lights go in and out and
he’s like the sun that’s
spinning, and god ******,
let the light
stay. Stay
so that I can live in it,
and not have to want. Want
all        the             time
white over black over white.

I wish I could
get rid of him altogether then, get
rid of the hi and the goodbye because
He bangs my thoughts to applesauce
And the applesauce is
spinning
like passion
all over the dizzy darkness
and I don’t see a thing
but him eating applesauce
in my head.

he is flashing lights beneath my eyelids, he’s
pulling up
in his green pill of a car, right now
To see me. This second. I got him
grinning, and there are
neon lava lamp juices in my head.

And I am warm. And it is all electric and then
He’s gone.  And again, all there is
is the dizzy darkness. And I have to
sit down
for a while and just feel
him go in and out,
white over black over white
with the hi and the goodbye,
and the
sad,
heavy
spinning.
Matt McClinton Oct 2012
They say I've been here for three days
These young folk in white coats
Telling me that this is serious, but treatable
I have lived three even four of their lifetimes

Two weeks have past, I feel more pain
I have not felt grass or the sun since I walked through the doors of this horrid place
With the tile floors, white walls
Scrubs constantly walking through the halls

Beeping machines
Vegetables, con-artists, and bad misfortunes on good people
rest in cold rooms
on terrible beds

I couldn't pronounce the name of it
A strange elixir probably made in a lab
Some young coat said it will cure me
However the side effects are grueling

The white coat was right
I have lost all time and clarity
A state of consciousness no more
Sifting through this waist deep puzzle

Now I am floating, no longer stuck in my bed
No needles and machines surrounding me
Down below I see a beach
I know of this place

This moment is surreal, below is my brother and I
We are running on the sand
It is a warm August day
I will always remember this

Familiar faces surround me
Yet the room is so slow
These are my friends
“You'll pull through” they say

A bonfire in the woods
Beer and smokes in every adolescent hand
Attempts to fit in I walk around
Then I saw her, she was so beautiful

Why have the walls changed
The window no longer faces my right
I can now see the tops of the trees
“Intensive Care Unit” written on the door

Evening stroll with the girl from the party
The dress how could I forget about the dress

There is a tray of food in front of me
**** excuse of a meal
No familiar faces today, only white coats and needles pricking and poking
Another machine “This will help sir”

The saw mill, my first job
The sounds of the mill grow louder
Metal slicing wood, screaming and yelling in agony
Ear piercing pain

A new face in a chair, my daughter
She looks weary two three tissues in hand
A hug and a forehead kiss “to help pass the time”
Deck of cards presented on my lap, I forgot my love for them

The air is tense, my daughter yelling
New white coated men take her hand
She cries and the air thins
I cannot read their lips, she is her mother

Full suitcases and an empty room
Happy tears run down my mothers face
Acceptance letter hung on the fridge
“Proud of you son” the first and last time

Who's hands are these
Hands worn by time and the sun, such difficulty to form a fist
Texture of a tree, cut me open
Count the rings to know my age

On the stage receiving my master's
The hours spent studying
Sacrificed Friday nights deep in a textbook
This is my proudest moment

Satisfying an itch sudden pain
Down at my chest lies a new wound
Perhaps they took my soul
Destined to live as an ever growing bed sore

Rows of cubicles
The days of emails and brown nosing higher-ups
Late nights drowned in beer
Slowly drifting from my family

Oxygen mask around my mouth
Bored grandchildren begging parents to go home
Go ahead. Leave
Let me enjoy my final days alone

Beer bottles shattered across the floor
My family walking out the door
My demons caused my family to leave
I never saw the girl from the party again

In my dying moments I realized a truth
We spend our lives wanting more
Only to be kept alive in a pitiful state
Having friends and family surround your semi-lifeless corpse

I no longer wish to be imprisoned in this
Old, weak, and cancerous cadaver
I have become what I feared
Forever waiting for tomorrow’s applesauce

This time falling from high distance
Finally clarity, a want for freedom no more
Reflecting regrets and mistakes of the past no more
Suddenly stopping I awake in the white walls

In my final spring of energy I rose my arm
“On my own terms” I whisper and I begin to break my shackles
Fail safe alarms from my prison, no chance of survival
White coats rushing in. Wasted effort

and alas, eternal sleep
g clair Nov 2013
For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice

Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within

A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce

a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh

and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth

Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye

Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander

heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock ***'s always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!

And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh

when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash

I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!

Ahhhh!!!!!

*chicken broth
I love discovering that I can cook something as good as that which I can order in a restaurant, and this recipe is as easy as it is delicious! I made this bisque on the 31st of Oct and while it cooked, bragged up a carrot cake ( with crushed pineapple, raisins and walnuts. Well didn't I feel like Martha Stewart!" YES!  This is the best recipe. Just as good as any I have had out. Enjoy!
nic Aug 2012
i am leather bound
to last night's conversation.

while thumb thick
in good intentions,
i am beginning to think                      
you never knew me
as much as you
think you did.

dear, tell me
what has hooked
your jaws into spouting out
these pig tailed assumptions
of me?

you see, i've never been
quite as crisp tide white
as they made me out to be.
always a little fade to my denim.
didn't you know
some stains
can't be washed off?

some fingerprints
can't be dusted
or steamed out in the dew
of a 4 am shower.
and sunday knows
i've tried.

and still try to make it
plainly clear that i left
my mother's baby
somewhere between the arms
of brooklyn.

left her, all koolaid stained
tongues tied to the push pop
fantasies i'd held until
i was about kush high
to a grasshopper.

abandoned her
pb and j sandwiched in an alley
with a trash bag
criss cross applesauce
knotted around her lovely
to keep her just
as warm and naive
as she never had been.

had you ever noticed
the gauche in her grin
wasn't nearly as golden
as it should've been?
and her paperback bone
seemed to fold
a tad too easily.

of coarse
spines aren't meant to
break like that
but they do.

divorce and dysfunction
has taught us that
it all falls down
someday so don't
weep for the jericho
in my bones
but at least acknowledge
that its there;
that there are bruises
too light to be convincing
but they still ache
when you stroke them right.

that some nights the pains
of resurrection memories
out shine those
of the crucifixion.

certain skins must be shed
when your convictions
leave you broken
and the stars you sin beneath
begin to gossip
about your shadow.

and your shadow
finds its way
onto the floor of living room
while it watches you
let yourself be made
into one of the victims
you write poetry for.

when you're trying to bottle
God and grandeur
into the barrel
of the gloc your mother
grabbed in anticipation
of spilling herself
in the wind
when the wednesday's
got too lonely.

listen
stop trying to card me
before accepting
my truths.
i've traveled too
far for ****** to not
assume i've been
in the dark before.

drop my shell
and see the inside
mash called me
has been spilled
and shattered
and reassembled
and shattered
and scattered
and reassembled
and splattered
and bent
more ways
than i can yoga
position myself in.

when you asked me
how could a 17 year old
know the pain of this world
i wanted to tell you
to roll up you sleeves
and unzip your pride.

yes i am 17
but i know everything happens
for a reason and i know
being broken makes
you grateful of the
pieces that weren't obliterated.

i know you can't be
flexible without stretching
and i know how it
feels to be stretched
between 4 states
two parents
and 1 divorce signee.

i know what a blanket does
for someone afraid
of the shadows
and i know you can't
have shadows without light.

i know that florida fern leaves
are consistently stormed on
and never curse clouds for it.

i know i am beautiful
and i know how many
days it took me to find out.

i know i am made of those days
and those days
were born of a maker.

i know my mine
met and got married
and made me and my sisters
and mistakes and i know
they paid for them
in cash and criticism.

i know my father is a good man
and i know good men
lie awake at 4 in the morning
making plans to fix things.

i know my mother loves to laugh
and i know laughter
is the easiest way for her
to cough up her worries.

i know she almost drowned
on dry land before
and i know she was one of
the best swimmers in my family.

i know i am still learning
but i've learned
we know a lot less                            
than we realize
and feel a lot more
than we recognize.
a draft
Rickie Louis Jul 2015
There's an apple in a tree that I want so miserably
and I jump and I climb, but I just can't seem to reach,
and I know everyday that the tree's a lil taller,
but that apple is so red and it isn't getting smaller.
So I try even more and I give it all I've got,
while I imagine how it'd taste and I know it'd hit the spot.
Then one day the apple falls upon my weary feet so tired,
just to hold it in my hands only to find it had expired.
It is then I look around
just to see how easily
it'd had been to take a moment
and see other apple trees,
because I've been within a forest
and my stomach had deceived me
and my eyes they had ignored it,
just to get that one to please me.
Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
Poemasabi Oct 2012
On the hook on the back of a door
A pair of faded jeans hang motionless
Soon they will move again
But for now
We are left to wonder

Are they to cover the legs of a farmer
soon to be covered in the dust of the barn?

Are they to protect the legs of a construction worker
destined to wear the scent of concrete and wood?

Will they dance and stand on stage with the musician
drenched in sweat and smelling of cigarettes and stale beer?

Will they go to sea with the lobsterman
and be wet with the sea and smell of the algae that covers the lobster trap?

No

They will soon be sitting in small chairs
and smell of crayon and pencil and several kinds of lined paper
and applesauce and desk cleaner
for I am an educator
and these pants are mine.
Laura Blum Feb 2011
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.

when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.

at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Patrick Kennon Jul 2019
Jalapenos and M67 fragmentation grenades
Little sparkles
On your nails on your nails, full sail hands
Lip gloss lost applesauce type of feeling
Inside me is screaming for that first cold sore kiss among mule deer
The way rocks feel to walk on, we rock on
Another day, way, get yours, pay, me, let me move freely
In my little box
Surrounded by gentle love locks
And you
Faith May 2017
The sun so warm on that October day. We bended down then reached up to pick only the most ripest harvest.

Your smile on this beautiful October day was glimpse in happiness that still reaches me after all these years.

Remember my beloved. After we have gathered how excited we were.

The joys in making your secret recipe.
Phil Lindsey Mar 2015
My Brothers and Sister and Me
We all share the same genes
Though some hide it better than others.
Similarities And Differences are pronounced.
The apples don’t fall far from the tree
Though a couple of them bounced.

Apples baked into pies or
Thrown to the horses
Rotten and brown and wormy and
Delicious apple cider in the Fall.
Applesauce and apple butter and Appleton, Wisconsin
Looking for a job?  Applications for them all.

Mountains, and mountains of books
Rivers, and streams of numbers
Hiking and running through canyons
Flowers and gardens and mushrooms and parks.
Shooting pheasants in the fields
Shooting stars in the dark.

Time will tell.  Time will tell
Mom’s in Heaven, Dad’s in his own Hell.
Whose footsteps will you follow?
What size boots do you own?
Who most will you resemble?
When your own kids are grown.

We are laughing.  We are laughing.
We are librarians and teachers
And accountants and staff and lumbermen always.
And still we all laugh.  
“Thought one of you’d be a preacher.”
“Good money in that.”

Each generation’s gaps grow wider
As the trees grow taller the apples fall farther
Similarities and Differences well-defined
Still laughing. Still laughing at things
New genes swimming in the family pool
Some of the cousins can sing!!
PwL March, 2015
Kamblamian Jul 2019
A thousand times a day I think of you
All the things we could do
I want you close I want you near

Someone to make the time pass

But now is not my time
I know when the tears come I'll ask myself the age old question
And I know in my current skin I have not grown

But I long for someone to take away the aloneness.

I sit here and I look and you and I dont want what you have...
I dont envy

So when the tears come rollin
Ask yourself have you grown

The ripening discomfort of being alone
Dating is rough
Grace Jordan Oct 2014
Here.

Here is where the mumblings stop and the singing begins, even if its off-pitch and bad toned, its beautiful and real and home. I can feel it in my bones, the resounding yes that this is where I belong. These people may not hold my soul, they may not be the closest to me, and I may not fall in love with them. But I love them still, and they are my family without blood, they are my green family, smiling beside me, trying to make a difference.

We all believe that the world could be a better place, and we all dare to dream that maybe, just maybe, we could make that difference. Its a magic I've never felt before, being silent in a room and just feeling intoxicated with comfort, like no eyes are watching and no words must fill the silence and no monsters are peeking over my shoulders.

The weight of the world is gone and I feel at peace, dipping my fingers in applesauce, being as me as humanly possible and for once not being judged and not having to explain and simply living.

Belonging in a silent room. I never knew it would come to this day, but it has. Its a day I've dreamed of, a day that has always touched the tip of my tongue but never quite been tasted, at least until now. And now it is here, bare before me, and I am reveling in its beauty. If I could draw, I would paint you a picture, if I could compose, I would write an Aria, but alas all I have is these silly little words to caress the eyes and sooth the soul and hopefully make a little difference someday.

Because that's all anyone really wants, right? To matter. To have it all matter, life, happiness, career, future, past, present, death. No one wants to go out like a light and have no one miss their warmth, everyone wants at least a shiver of something once they are gone, and to have everyone know they made something or someone better.

We're dreamers, my people and I, and I think that's what binds us; our endless capacity for hopes and dreams and combining the two to pray for a place better than the one we have today, not one worse tomorrow.

Tomorrow things may change, tomorrow I may not feel the same way as I do today, but today?

I belong is a silent room, and it is glorious.
I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
   death(.)     (oh)
At The Juice Joint.

All wet.  (incorrrr
--ect.)

Applesauce. (non


sense.)

All dolled up. Showed off my
       Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).

Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.

...my fella.

?

Didn't have enough clams.

Any of us.

We

   're the new

Lost

      ...generation.

I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.

Might've been
     the
cat

's

meeeeeow.

And
how.

Ahhhhh...

we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
      Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.

Deeeeeewdropper.  ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt

...for me.

Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.

How ironic.

                You were the extinguisher.

Bring Your Own Knife

      , we said.

It's a Stabbing Party

     , we said.

I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
       ("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")

I percolate.
I percolate.

I percolate.

I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.


Just admire my

           chassis

if you will.

    they

all
    do

The engine'll purr
   for you,

~~if you turn the keys just so

Everything was
    Copacetic.

Copacetic...

For a time.

         (get'hotget'hot!)


Caesar's here.

                                       Hussssshhhhhhhh...

...speak


         ~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.

And then I realized.


  

                                I'm tired of being Caesar



(      .       )
Taylor St Onge Aug 2015
1969 Cult Mentality: Charles Manson
is asking you to “leave a sign… something witchy” at the scene of the
crime.  You listen because you believe he is Jesus.  You smear the word
                                                                ­                           “Pig” across the door.

1978 Cult Mentality: Jim Jones
is asking you to drink grape Kool-Aid infused with cyanide.  You do this
because you have been convinced that he is “Christ the Revolution.” You
                                 inject your child with the toxin before gulping it down.

1997 Cult Mentality: Marshall Applewhite*
is asking you to tie a plastic bag around your head after you consume a mixture of phenobarbital, applesauce, and *****.  You do this because you believe dying will take you to the spacecraft flying behind
Comet Hale-Bopp.  You make sure you have a
five dollar bill and three quarters
                                                         in your pocket for the interplanetary toll.
written to my foundations of creative writing course.  prompt: five lines, five words, but I later edited it after I turned it in and this is the final.
Mary Balcom Jan 2016
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.

"Trumpery."

Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?

[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]

trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\

Definition of trumpery

1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>

2
archaic : ****** finery

Origin of trumpery

Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive

First Known Use: 15th century

Examples of trumpery

<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>

Related to trumpery

Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or *******), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, *******, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle

Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus

Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Joshua Haines Mar 2015
Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

I try hard to sound
important,
when I write *******
because
there are bodies
reading this *******.

And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.

To become dead.

Perfume is made
with dead things, right?
Michael DeVoe Sep 2013
Dear Shyla
I keep the suicide note that you've forgotten you wrote our mother folded up in a small wooden box in the corner of my bedroom
It's there so that on my worst days
When I've run out of friends who will listen
I can remind myself that other people feel this too
And after all we've been through apart sometimes our depressions and our mistakes are the only way I can remember we're related

Dear mom
I've hidden a diary you kept while struggling through your ill-fated relationship with my father
In it there are weight loss goals
Vows of marital celibacy
Existential questions
But mostly just a whole lot of why's leading you to answers you wanted to hear
While all of the things you needed to say you left in the blank spaces between the lines on the pages you never made it to
Your favorite thing to say after the divorce was that you were grateful to no longer have to walk on eggshells to protect his feelings
It has been twelve years and you still can't admit the feelings you were trying to protect were your own
And your feet still hurt

Dad
I have an envelope of pictures of you and I
From when both of us were oh so much younger
In each of them you are smiling at me
And in every one of them I am smiling back at you
I don't remember most of them I was quite very young
And for quite very different reasons I can imagine you would have a hard time remembering them as well
When I flip through the envelope I'm left sitting criss cross applesauce on a tore up linoleum floor
Staring at the scales of justice
Weighing the honest love of a drunk
Against the stoic rejection of the sober man you've become
And I am ashamed with how often I choose love

I am the keeper of this family's pain
Somebody has to
Someone has to admit it's real
One of us has to stare at the elephants in the room and see them
To know how each of us actually feels

Dear family
We are nothing more than four misfitted human beings
Tied together with tin can and twine telephones
By an astronomer, who in an effort to console himself,
Confused a congregation of lonely stars for a constellation
And eventually that is going to have to be enough
For each of us to love ourselves
To carry our own pain
I can not keep carrying all of this for each of you
I have my own pain
Which on most days is more than enough
I assure you
On most days
It is more than one man should
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                              Dostoyevsky and Applesauce 2 / $5

                                        Literature in the Supermarket

The nice young man who bags my purchases -
He spoke to me of Notes from Underground
And who the unreliable narrator is
And how he anticipates the revolution

The pharmacist who jabbed me against the ‘flu –
He spoke to me of Robert E. Howard
And how Conan’s psychological issues
Anticipate the author’s death by suicide

A surprising conversation in a small-town grocery
But even more in a modern university
The day I went for my Covid jab, only they didn't have any, but I took my 'flu and DPT anyway and enjoyed some interesting conversations.
Allison Rose Nov 2011
A booth Made out of Fed-Ex blocks
Tongue depressors Still lingering with the taste of fudgesicle
Diagnoses Of cat-scratch fever
Of applesauce flu
Of –itises and –idias
One end of a jumprope
Held to one ear
And the other
Tracking the thump of a human heart
When the only illnesses
Were those of a sun-spent day
And playdate fatigue
We were all doctors
We could all
Save
           Lives…
Michelle Garcia Jan 2016
When my daughter asks me to French braid her hair
I will smile with my eyes and tell her
to sit criss-cross applesauce on her bedroom carpet,
letting silk tresses flow down her back,
beckoning to be weaved into everything
I still do not know
how to tell her

I will paint her the colors of the past
upon the beaming canvases of her eyes,
the colors of Matisse, and Monet,
Rembrandt’s best,
I will teach her to find devotion
in the security of her own skin,
music in the way she weeps quietly to herself
when she gives away all her love
to a world who cannot accept it

And one day,
long after the braids have been released,
I will wipe away her tears and tell her
that the masquerade is over,
that sometimes, baby girl,
the festivities will hush
but the carnival always comes
around again in the summer

She nods
with inherited apprehension,
she does not believe me

Darling, my darling,
you do take after your mother
after all
Kimberly C Brown Sep 2010
Criss cross applesauce
we sit without a care
your fingers smell of cookies
though your hands have played in dirt
i think of you this day
as it pours His chilling rain
and wonder when the sun will show
so we can meet again

— The End —