"aunts" poems
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
and he called it "chops"
because that was the name of his dog
and thats what it was all about
his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
and his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts.
that was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
and he let them sing on the bus
and his little sister was born
with tiny nails and no hair
and his mother and father kissed a lot
and the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
and his father always tucked him in bed at night
and was always there to do it
once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
and that's what it was all about
and his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of the new paint
and the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
and left butts on the pews
and sometime they would burn holes
that was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
and the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see santaclaus
and the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
and his father never tucked him in bed at night
and his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it
once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
and he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
and thats what it was all about
and his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
that was the year Father Tracy died
and he forgot how the end
of the Apostles's Creed went
and he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
and his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
and the girl around the corner
wore too much make up
that made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because it was the thing to do
and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
that's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
and he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
because that's what it was really all about
and he gave himself an A
and a slash on each ****** wrist
and he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen----
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Chops'
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed alot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Autumn'
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed alot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.
Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Innocence: A Question'
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at 3am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly.
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each ****** wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen*
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
10.6k
They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' dawn blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even you own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.
10.1k
In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain.
Does it rain in Spain?
Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights.
The dancers dance in long white pants
It isn't right to yence your aunts
Come Uncle, let's go home.
Home is where the heart is, home is where the **** is.
Come let us **** in the home.
There is no art in a ****
Still a **** may not be artless.
Let us **** an artless **** in the home.
Democracy.
Democracy.
Bill says democracy must go.
Go democracy.
Go
Go
Go
Bill's father would never knowingly sit down at table with a Democrat.
Now Bill says democracy must go.
Go on democracy.
Democracy is the ****
Relativity is the ****
Dictators are the ****
Menken is the ****
Waldo Frank is the ****
The Broom is the ****
Dada is the ****
Dempsey is the ****
This is not a complete list.
They say Ezra is the ****
But Ezra is nice.
Come let us build a monument to Ezra.
Good a very nice monument.
You did that nicely
Can you do another?
Let me try and do one.
Let us all try and do one.
Let the little girl over there on the corner try and do one.
Come on little girl.
Do one for Ezra.
Good.
You have all been successful children.
Now let us clean the mess up.
The Dial does a monument to Proust.
We have done a monument to Ezra.
A monument is a monument.
After all it is the spirit of the thing that counts.
9.6k
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest
And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it
I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are dodgy
And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me
Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun***
**And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl
And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...**
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...***
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
My family is a bunch of animals.
My mother is a lioness,
strong, brave, and full of pride,
with claws sharp as knives,
for anyone that harms her cub she will strike.
my father is a hyena,
foolish, never serious, and a lazy scavenger,
that doesn't do anything but eat the crap that he creates.
My grand parents are elephants,
big and strong during the day,
blind and helpless during the night.
My aunts and uncles are the herd of gazelles,
they graze when they can,
but when the lioness comes they silence and run away with fear.
My dogs are the shade that comforts me from the burning sun of life.
The day has come when the lioness shall not roam the tall grasses of the Serengeti.
Without the lioness the gazelles are persistently grazing,
depleting the grass,
grazing and depleting until there was no grass left for me to hide in,
they rammed and bucked at me like I had no right to grieve.
I was a helpless cub on that day and I still am,
wondering when the lioness will show up to be my heroine again.
But as the gazelles buck and ram,
a kangaroo and a zebra rush in,
embrace me,
and take me in,
I now have a second family with:
a savage tiger,
Italian chipmunks,
boxing kangaroos,
kick-ass monkeys,
elderly turtles,
burly bears,
religious zebras,
and untimely rabbits.
My second family is diverse,
but they never do the worst just as my first.
This is a story that I usually don't tell,
but this my past life so I must tell, tell, tell...
This is what God raised me to be,
This for me and only me.
One day the light will show for me,
and me and the lioness will forever again be free,
to roam the plains in the skies above,
just like a dove.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Miss Nancy Ellicott
Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them—
The barren New England hills—
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.
Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
And danced all the modern dances;
And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
But they knew that it was modern.
Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
The army of unalterable law.
6.1k
Nieces and nephews
is someone
Who look up to
you as aunts and uncles
Niece
Niece
Their light up we you
walk to the door
Their teach you
patients and how to
Love unconditionally
and their teach
You how to be kind to
other I love hearing
My niece calling me aunt
if you have a nieces
Or nephews or niece
Or nephew their are
Blessing of god
I love my niece
© Amanda Kay Hill
12/5/16
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
the amount of melanin in my skin often seems to conjure up some controversy so when I sit down to write and I see my hands, my light skinned not quite black but surely not white hands I think about the privileges thrusted upon me and when I begin to write I feel my hair against my back, my curly ***** but not quite ***** hair I wonder how what's on my head could make what's in it so frazzled
I often frustrate myself because I feel like my writing often centers around the fact that I am a woman and I am colored
and the fact that when I say I'm colored some look lost
in fact, in the film, for colored girls
Thandie Newton's character says "being alive and being a woman is all I got, but being colored is a metaphysical dilemma I haven't conquered yet."
and I found it frightening how relatable that was to me, being that I'm not quite almost a woman and not quite almost colored
but when I look at my poems they reflect that I indeed am
even though I'm lightskinned and I'm 16 and according to my white friends I'm, just like them because, as I've discovered our definitions of what a black girl sounds like and acts like and is like are extremely different
and I guess that reflects on who we've been introduced to
I have cousins and aunts and grandmothers and sisters
who represent what I believe emulate what a black woman is
and these white kids see what the media feeds about how black women walk and talk and act and lack
see when I picture a black woman I see beautiful smooth chocolate skin full lips round ******* wide hips and a smile as brilliant as her mind
when these kids picture a black woman they see ***** hair dark undesirable skin soup cooler lips and a mind filled with ignorance
and this is where my struggle begins
But in every ethnic group there is good and bad
and I am sick of black women only being associated with the bad
the fact that when most non blacks think of what a black woman is, they imagine an unintelligible mindless sassy loud mouth is over whelming to me
if you're skin isn't light enough or your behind isn't big enough you're only "pretty for a black girl"
I not only want to raise but destroy all expectations society gives black women
but I cannot do this alone
because we are smart and we are beautiful
we are troubled and we are strong
and we are one
once we stop tearing eachother down we can all be one
and I'm not sure why god blessed black women with so much beauty or why I'm so blessed to be one or why he put this determination in me but I think I will recognize it the day the world recognizes how beautiful are we.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
I was is in second grade when Emily told me "if you where born a few years back you'd be a slave"
As if I hadn't looked in the mirror latley.
Oh how it felt to be the only brown girl in a white school
Minority
Misinterpretation.
A maybe
Is what I was
An outcast
4th grade
I visit my father and his family
My grandmother and aunt whisper,"Gringa" laugh laugh "Sangrona" laugh laugh
My mother hispanic and my father Mexican
6th grade
My best friend is disgusted because I define as Mexican yet can't seem to speak perfect Spanish
9th grade
I learned that bi racially I am a mut,
As if I don't have enough labels already
I must prove to my friends I am white, yet hispanic to my family
My second aunts snicker at my broken Spanish
No need to gain their validity
They can't believe my mother raised me away from their culture
Despair fills their eyes as labels blur mine
Must I prove myself every time?
What if I'm not either or?
Nor a mix
Nor white
Nor hispanic
Nor mexican
Nor latina
Nor bi racial
Nor sangrona
I don't seek your validation but your understanding
I'm not a unique exhibit
Only a 16 year old girl dealing with teenage drama and high school studies
A dreamer at heart
An artist who loves to show it
I have a name
I'm more than my skin color
Or that of my mother's & father's.
If I'm ever asked to prove myself
I will answer with only
"I am already proven
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
Stuffed full of toys and ribbons,
Tinsel and baubles,
Santa and his reindeer,
Deliver to all,
Presents for children,
For their mums and their dads,
For Aunts and Uncles,
Nans and Granddads,
There’s perfume and clothing,
Chocolate and sweets,
Santa delivers the nicest of treats.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
for you, we bundle into the car,
the littlest
(half my brother and twice my nuisance)
and the middlest
(14 going on favorite)
the bitterest
(only girl and pen-in-hand)
and the biggestest
(20 years
of bombastic nonsense)
30 minutes and four cornfields later
he'll start.
"i have to ***
"there's a bottle up there, dad."
"dad, i have to ***
"dad."
"dad."
"dad."
and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle
which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours,
sloshing and yellow
too dangerously close to the color of something
you would actually drink.
the two youngest
will get into some sort of argument
some sort of argument that i will intervene in.
"shut up!" he'll say.
"chill out!" i'll shout.
"you chill out!"
and my father and my stepmother
will eye from the front seat
until one of them turns around
("relax, madeline!" sharply).
and then the oldest
like clockwork
will act like he knows more than he does about something
(my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss,
"madeline!" as if i've killed somebody
even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do).
he'll make a face at me
and i'll make a face at him.
the littlest will
inevitably
stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second
which i will not be able to stand,
and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me
versus
the whole car
(afterwards, much stewing,
and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go).
9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later
we'll get there.
we'll make it.
we'll only be
a little worse for the wear.
we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts
our nine billion uncles
and our three billion cousins,
like we always are.
someday something will be missing.
first it was your back,
and the postponement,
and eventual cancellation of our trip.
then it was your surgeries
(why weren't they working?)
and then it was a series of words i don't understand
stage
inoperable
3
cancerous mass
lung
malignant
radiation
therapy chemo
you may crumple in
on that blackness inside you,
that's eating you alive
one lung at a time,
pushing,
on your back,
until you can't even stand.
the fabric of our family
is plucked by this
disease.
this is my poem, my plea
for you
and for us,
that you not pull into the blackness,
and that you fight the tumors and the tests
and that you win.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
We know the word.
It's applied to many things.
We disagree to it use.
Simply, we acting the nature of being a human being.
Just because siblings doesn't get along.
It doesn't mean they are dysfunctional.
This just the so call experts speaking.
We all know doctors doesn't agree.
So, how can they apply this tag dysfunctional to anyone?
We could say it were a purpose of God.
To see, how we adjust to our conflicts concerning love.
We saw Cain and Abel have disagreement.
And know how that conclusion ended.
Even family that pretends to get along.
Usually exposes they were fronting all along.
We see this constantly in the news.
Where politicians not even kin to one another?
Seems to act like sisters, mothers, fathers, and brothers.
And this includes aunts and uncles too.
So, are they dysfunctional too?
Because they see things in a different light.
Experts, say it is.
We common sense people just say, it's life.
We not suppose to agree on everything in life.
Once, a word makes it into our vocabulary.
Then people starts using it.
As a every day saying
You dysfunctional.
I'm dysfunctional.
When in truth.
We just being us.
We know the way to love.
We just refuse to show it.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
"Pray to God. Everything will be all right."
"He'll heal you. I promise."
"Believe in Him and everything will be all right."
I gave up on my belief in God when I was in eighth grade.
I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety.
My family abandoned me.
My grandmother hated me.
My friends thought I was crazy.
And my arms just kept bleeding.
"Pray."
"Believe."
"God is merciful."
"Ask and you shall receive."
And I did.
I did ask.
I asked,
And asked,
And asked.
But nothing ever happened.
I have horrified my grandparents,
My aunts,
My uncles,
My cousins.
I don't believe.
And they think I'm going to go to Hell for that.
Too late, I think.
I am in Hell.
The depression tears away at my insides,
Leaving me a lifeless,
Empty
Husk.
It scars my arms with its sharp fingernails,
And drives my friends and family away from me.
"Oh, just pray to God;
He'll heal you."
I don't believe in God.
There is no God.
There is only a fanciful imagination.
Humans are so desperate to have something to believe in,
Something that is bigger than themselves.
So they created "God",
An all-mighty being
Who punishes the Wicked
And rewards the Good.
And so they have something.
And they create rules to live by,
So they become the Good
When in reality
They are the Wicked.
There is no God.
They say He is merciful.
They say He is kind.
They say He loves all humans equally.
That's a lie.
If there is such a thing as "God",
He sure doesn't like me.
He has given me a life
That is pure torture.
He has punished me for something I never did.
He has created the ultimate prison
For someone who used to follow him so devoutly.
And what about the others?
They say God gives no trial
That His followers can't handle.
So what about those that commit suicide,
*Because they couldn't handle it.
Because they couldn't take it anymore.
Because it was too much?*
But God is good to the rich.
He showers them with more riches
And more happiness
And more joy.
He gives them everything they could ever want.
Only the happy
And well-off
And rich
Believe in God.
If there is such a thing as God,
He is the God of the Rich.
He is the God of the Fortunate.
He is not the God of the Unhappy.
He is not the God of the Poor.
He isn't my God.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words,
Spoilt what old ***** have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down,
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.
4.1k
You say I am the backbone of the family.
Not because I am the youngest,
But because I never showed my emotions.
But I think it's time to let go.
Because when she died,
I was the only one who didn't cry.
But i cried on the inside.
And, when they buried her 6 feet under,
My heart skipped 6 beats and I was choking.
Yes, it's time for me to let go of my emotions.
Because you say I am the backbone.
But, I am not strong enough to support 3 sisters,
1 brother, 2 aunts, 1 uncle, and 3 cousins with this,
Skinny backbone.
Arthritis can't help because I am still afraid to break down.
"You have always been the backbone, no matter what."
But,
I am tired of being Miss Motivation.
You are breaking me down form my,
Coccyx to my,
Sacral to my,
Lumber to my,
Thorracic and,
You're giving me Cervical Cancer.
And instead of being a backbone,
I feel more like a ligament.
Connecting your tears to her tears and,
Her tears to his tears and,
And that tears me apart.
You're swelling up my heart from all your pain and,
Right now it's about the size of a catchers mit.
I don't want to be the backbone.
I am not strong enough to suppport the whole family.
Why can't you see that you're exhausting me?
Kiaren, Kirsten, Kaye, Lloyd, Aunt Atheda,Aunt Regina,
Uncle Tony,Chris,Oliver, Aaron...
I am tired of being your backbone.
I am not that strong.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
I was wondering if I could make your heart my home
What is a home? A cozy kind of feeling where you feel loved?
Maybe I won't make it to see my mothers will
Maybe I won't see tomorrow
I'm wondering if you can be my tomorrow
Something to look forward to
I like to go into the woods and look for hope
I never find it, but I search to keep myself distracted from finding a rope
My phone's on airplane mode
I'm listening to liquid summer by diamond messages
This song brings me back to the summer
Same pain, different weather
If I were to be a dealer of some sort, I'd overdose on my own hope
An ounce of hope would do me good right now
I'm smiling right now, and I think it's because I'm thinking too much
Haha
I'm on my bike, just standing looking at cars pass by
Down on my mind, above the ground
I'm wondering what I should call the book I'm writing
The Art of Contradictions or The Art of Progression
My aunts cousins husband got me the bike I'm on, what the ****
I dont know what I'm doing I'm sorry
I'm an artist, not a lover
I try to be, once again... I'm just an artist
Sorry if I hurt you, I don't know what I'm doing
I'll do my best to love you, even if I dont know how to.... its 4:50 and I'm just an artist... sorry
It is now 5:34 and I'm sweaty, and cold
I never really got that combination
I quit smoking two days ago, so much for being sober
Im wondering how love can be young
Love doesn't age, a person does
Not too long ago I was eating pizza, now I'm here
Where is here? I dont know, it's not a home thats for sure
I'm surrounded by bricks
They protect me from the rain, but not from the tiny soldiers fighting war in my head
I'm on airplane mode and I'm wondering... I think I'm a phone on airplane mode
There's no use to a phone without internet or service
I wish I had my fathers bags, I also want to get you flowers
Black roses represent my soul
A rainbow represents the inside of it
My name is David Bojay, and you can call me whatever you want
I call myself a passionate suicidal artist
I hate to love, and I love you
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
shirelles
monday night
alone in a big house
light the candles
another one of my rituals
born one hour,
dead the next
to make room
for other
prayers
postures
pen tips
but the way candles
flicker in the sweet
soul
is not another ritual
warm life
to the tune of golden
notes
swimming through
once bleak
once empty
once impure
air
and suddenly, I am baptized
more than I ever was
in that sterile, dead
chlorine
more than spent hymns
in drafty cathedrals
so, the sound lives.
my bed would tilt
at twelve years old
I'd wake
startled of the
psychic death
spread like bodies after
a paid for war
I'd scream like the cats
fighting by the window
at my aunts house
I would huddle with
my childhood
hiding from the puberty
that stalked me
like a jungle cat
the mind reeled with
my spent pulse and
at night
under shamed
covers
bitten fingertips
the white light
on the street
looking on
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
I have a right to stand
I'm claiming it now.
Turangawaewae; 'a place to stand'
Is a deep empowerment from the land
Learnt through ancestral connection
Strengthened through ahi ka; 'keeping the fires burning'
Well, my ancestral stories ain't so impressive
There were few battles
Though my granddad worked for the air force in world war two
- As an accountant
We didn't encounter the gods or try to bring down the sun
Though when my Grandma arrived here she built up the soil
Soul of the Earth
For 70 years
As the city sprang up around her
And my mother aged 11 played follow the leader with a goat in the next door construction site
Where her house is now
My uncle found an old mans false teeth in a cup
Climbing through an abandoned house
My aunt visited James K Baxter's Jerusalem
She wasn't a fan of his poetry
But his wisdom spoke to her
My other aunts jumped through the neighbours trees
Who threatened to shoot them
My father followed my mother here
After her O.E with my sister in the oven
He ******* about John Key as much as anyone
And praises this land; it is home.
I stood on a windy cliff surrounded by pohutukawa and learnt the whisper of the sea
Roughing it on an island I tried determinedly to turn into a pukeko
I got my first cut, bruise, scrape from this land
My first breath, poem, touch of a violin, my first kiss was here
I know the rough patches, the fringe scene, where the best soil is
(It's at my grams house)
I know how to spot a drug house, which cafes will let us jam, where the open mics are 5 days of the week.
I know Kirikiriroa.
My fires have been burning
And I have a right to stand
I have learnt through my own evolution
Through Janet Frame's railroad country
Through a history
Cities growing and spreading
They weren't just here
As it has always seemed to me.
The countryside, what was here before?
Landscapes of forest and mountain
Familiar yet unknown to me.
When I go away I will know the difference
When I return I will know this land
The depth recognized through contrast
Defined by difference
As the sun and moon complement
Light and dark
Sorrow and joy
And,
As in yin and yang
I will know nothing is completely separate.
When I go away I will know
So fully
And I will return and say:
This is my place to stand
My turangawaewae
My Aotearoa
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.
And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!
'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'
'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'
For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
3.4k
Honor our nations hero's,
Honor our police, fire an rescuers who serve our city's and towns.
Most of all honor those who had and have an still are serving in the military.
Do not show disrespect to them or to any hero that risks all for others to live on.
Stand with them support them shake there hand and tell them what a great job they are doing.
Never disrespect our hero's that have past away that lay buried in the ground.
Do not Disrespect those family's who are saddened by there lost love ones they may never see again till all comes to a end.
Do not make graves of our loved ones who have died either in battle or in the line of duty, or in saving a life of another at a cost of there own; for political gain or anything along those lines.
Respect those we have lost, respect those who have lost brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, husbands, wifes, young ones.
Honor those hero's that still live and those who gave there life for others in there place, Do not dishonor them by saying something that never ever should be accompanied to our hero's who are a live or died they do not deserve that.
What they deserve is our respect, our thanks and everything a hero needs to hear to know what they do is highly honored by everyone they serve for.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 12:49 AM UTC
Romilda was an old lady,
She had no small baby,
So she petted her sisters daughter,
Who only drank milk but not water,
Little baby had a nice name which was Angelina Geolly
But her life was a worry,
She never went for the studio,
Never had Romeo,
She was brought up at a village,
But had a wide knowledge,
Her old aunt was always frank,
But Angelina Geolly use to prank,
One morning Angelina knocked her head on the wall,
And started dialing a call,
It was to none other than the fire brigade,
Hello, Come asap for our gate, Fire! Fear! Fire!
After an hour they reached in,
It was all about a recycle bin
Angeline had only meant, fire at her aunts cooker,
But they responded you little sucker!
The poor Aunt Matilda had to pay,
For their visit all the way
But still the house wasn’t grey!
Some people, few people started to blame Angelina Geolly!
She ran into her trolley,
And Angelina Cried Cried Cried,
But later she was Fried Fried Fried
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
a child
unassembled
and loved
by two
strange
women-
a man breastfeeding in private-
this love
only a mother
could face-
overexposed photos
of a healthy
family-
a gathering
of bird watching
great
uncles-
great
blind
aunts / with empty
pill
syndrome-
a prayer basket in the lap of a boy
sitting on a swing
during
a downpour-
a disabled brother
and his three
rubber
nails
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC