Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Casey Carter Feb 2015
Take me out to the ballgame
Take me to be all I can
You can't find such a jolly group
Of secret malevolent madmen
So it's bombs, guns, tanks
For the home-team
If there's no one left, what a shame
Cause it's money, lives and victory
In the Old Ballgame
Woods By Day Bars By Night © 2012, Casey Carter
Jeremy Duff Sep 2013
Put out a cigarette.
Lite a new one.
Take a shower.
Drink some coffee.
Quick brush of the teeth.

This is how John Carpenter starts his day.

Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite a new cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter goes to work.

Check in with the boss.
Sit down at typewriter.
Lite a cigarette.
Think.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Type.
Think.
Stretch.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.

This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work.

Repeat seven times.

Check out with boss.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite another cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter drives home.

Take off his coat.
Lite a cigarette.
Feed the dog.
Cook a steak.
Drink a beer.
Eat the steak.
Drink another beer.
Lite a cigarette.
Watch the ballgame.
Lite another cigarette.
Lite four or five more throughout the game.
Quick brush of the teeth.
Lite a cigarette.
Read.
Read.
Read.
Lite another.
Read.
Read.
Drink some brandy.
Fall asleep.

This is how John Carpenter spends his evening.

Repeat all of this 7,304 times.

This is how John Carpenter spends his life.

And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime
and read enough for a life time
and eaten enough steak
and drank enough brandy and beer
and written enough novels
for a lifetime
he will die.
And only Mary Stein will miss him.
Sean Banks Apr 2013
I woke up one day
And I rode far away
And when I came back
A few weeks late
i decided to shape
up
or else, its a long ride
down

How often do you walk home?
Or should I say struggle
Distances are more attainable
In mixed up situations
I am too deeply rooted in thought
on the topic of meditation
To help this patient
I am inhabiting

Enter: ******* bicycles
I used to find
Walking uphill
And walking downhill
Equally awful
The climb to the top
Is worth the fast ride down
The topic of how many hills
are around
And how often we choose to climb them
Will not  play in this ballgame
Because cycling is a sport
blood doping is dope
breaking news:
Livestrong sponsors the pope

Without a helment
You would tell me I look ****
As I ride with no hands
Don’t worry darlin’
I knew my hair looked good too


Drinking whiskey at home you can make art

I made that without you
It all came out of my mouth
And nostrils
Without you
I will puke again
Without you
Its true
Rough mornings aren’t new
their usually rough
without you
Only because my will is strong
And if I didn’t livestrong
My will -  still will included you
Only if I died on someone else’s terms
(spoiler no such thing)

In an alternate universe
You could be on my bike
And I’d be ****** cold sober
And when that bus hit me
My mom wanted to give you
what belonged to me - the one thing
That survived the accident
Ask a few old friends I survived a few
Whether you knew
Or not
were on it or off
Always on the bottom
Jake
Was a snake
Before I met him
That’s Kona bike history
Living on
Without me

As I age I am learning
To be loyal
To all sorts of objects
like bikes
And women
that own them.
Withholding
without me

I can't see what it would be
like without me -
But lets be honest
Its not so as much about the bikes
As it is about bliss
i've seen what its like without you
It true

If a bus ran over my *** tomorrow
The first thing it would break is my heart
You could start
The day I stopped

Riding my bike
y i k e s May 2014
cheer
cheer
cheer
the crowd needs another beer

              clack
              clack
              clack
              the ball smacked off the bat

                          noise
                          noise­
                          noise
                          the eyes are glued on those baseball boys

                                
                                    strike one
                                    strike two
                                    foul ball
                                    ball
                   ­                 strike three
                                    everyone is filled with glee

                                          
                    ­                         Except for the opposing team
*i fixed my dumb typo*
Ian Cairns Dec 2013
I'm speechless
That's my approach as you approach me
And usually I'm too focused on finding the perfect words
To penetrate the simple space I provide
So when beautiful girls intentionally invade my atmosphere
My need for speech is satisfied
Your beauty speaks sufficiently for two
So while I'm struggling for oxygen, I hope you recognize
Your presence is all I've ever needed to breathe easily

I'm stuck
Between unexpressed elegance
And helplessness
My mouth is screaming out
But frozen completely shut
I'm worried my compliments
May be complications
That my suggestions
Might suppress my objective here

We typically rely on our words
To settle the score
As if you and I are in overtime
Of a tie ballgame
Looking for phrases to frame the scoreboard
With an absolute victor
But I was hoping that you'd be willing to join forces
To break through the proverbial force field
That prohibits rivals from overthrowing obstacles
Because I've always believed the input overpowers the outcome

What if it were possible
To eliminate our speech
So our ears could erase the need to draw conclusions
We don't etch our words in pencil
Our words are enunciated in permanent marker
Brutally beating through our eardrums
Rhythmically reminding us
That silence can be more sweet sounding than any set of syllables

All I know is I'm hell-bent on remaining a straight shooter
My arrows will always be designed for the bulls-eye
But lately I've been questioning my targets
They haven't been painted red and white for all the world to see
They've been camouflaged by constricted communication
Secretly searching for statements that haven't met the airwaves yet
So I'd much rather absorb your definite thoughts
Than accept your remarks as absolute
  
The truth is
I'm not sure
What needs to be said.
The syllables I've learned to form
Don't apply to situations where
Words remain inherently absent.
And too often we force our hand
To make phrases appear
Where they don't belong.

But something about
Silent speeches is appealing to me.
Because the power in your eyes reduce
The need for any type of sound.
And the shock waves your steps make
As you inch closer to mine
Create the sweetest melodies.
So all I will tell you is this:
Let's leave words out of this.
It happens all of the sudden.  One day it’s just one time and then it’s need.  That’s when you run into trouble.  After that, it’s a whole other ballgame.  It isn’t addiction until you need.  

I remember the first time.  You always remember your first time.  It’s like opening the biggest present at Christmas, it’s like sledding on that extra icy hill you knew was just a little too slippery, it’s like skydiving shooting stars high flying crazy.  

Instant exhilaration.  

It’s like that millisecond licking your lips before you go in for the kiss, that steamy shower on your cool skin.  

Absolute seduction.  

You just smile, lean back and say

****.

My first time I said no.
No way.
No how.
I don’t do that.

It was a door in the back of my mind I had branded with a Do Not Enter sign.  I argued morals, I argued boundaries.  A secret promise to myself I kept safe behind lines I swore I wouldn’t cross.  But what really stopped me dead in my tracks, what kept me away from the forbidden fruit was fear.  

Maybe even some paranoia, or a little indignation at the idea of putting things up my delicate little pixie nose, scratching the thin tissue of my sinuses.  

But suddenly your friends are doing it, and they look just fine.  That security blanket of fear dissolves, a scary story to tuck away under your pillow like the boogieman.  They call it peer pressure, I think of it more like peer assurance.  Or maybe an experiment.  And that’s all we’re doing right?  The first time I said no.  The second time suddenly those lines were disappearing up my nose.

And then just, ah hah! This is what it’s like, this is the hype.  Like the first time you sit in the front seat of a car.  And think to yourself, well

That was pretty fun.

But nothing serious, just a fling.  One **** one night stand, no biggie.

But it’s nothing like that.  It’s like someone running up to you and whispering in your ear the biggest, darkest secret of life.  And that’s the funny thing, because that’s just it.

It starts with want.

And you have fun.  You get lost in your own lust and you take all you can get.   And you crave those little white pills because you just feel sosososo good.

And then one day you’re tired before school and you don’t know how to pep yourself up.  And you get this idea.  This crazy idea.  And you rail a little white pill.  And as you walk out the door, you feel like a million dollars.  You feel like you slept for 10 hours, like you just got every question on a test right including the extra credit.  And you breeze right through your day, high flying on autopilot.

That’s the ***** secret with the whole thing.  It makes everything so **** easy.  

Tired? Have a line.
Hungry? Have a line.
Sad? Have a line.
Bored? Have a line.

It becomes a ritual, it becomes a secret club no one else can know about.  It’s that lover you sneak off to in the middle of those lonely nights, when your thoughts endlessly thrash against your skull, doubts echoing into the dark room surrounding you.  

But it’s not your life.  More like a habit, like a friend from the wrong side of the tracks.  

What happens from then on is hard to say.  For me, it was when my world shut down around me, when I felt like I was absolutely alone.  When I felt like I was free falling and I had nowhere to land.  Like I had just been beaten in an alleyway left for dead.  I needed someone to hold me.  And all I saw was the Ritalin.  

For me, it was falling in love.  It was giving my soul to you and having you rip it apart.  It was the way you looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.  It was the echo of you closing the door.  You left me behind.  You made me love you and then you just kept walking past.  It was getting my heart broken for the last time, it was a moment of weakness.  As my world crumbled, I took a whiff on courage.  

And suddenly it’s need.  

It tricks you, it makes you forget that once upon a time you were fine alone.  It manipulates you and makes you think you can’t live without it.  Suddenly, there is no life without drugs.  

You’re avoiding people, you’re skipping lunch to powder your nose, your eyes are bugged open and you’re chomping gum 24/7.  People insist you look fabulous from the lost weight and you feel ******* fabulous from your lost hate, buried under the influence.  You are up for 3 days and asleep for 20 hours.  And the crash.  Your head pounds and your hands shake.  You yell at all your friends and you’re late to work 4 days in a row.  And you just needneedneed to go up again because you just can’t take it anymore.

You scamper up as high as you can reach and you’re afraid to come down.  But your body can only last so long.

The big OD is not something taken lightly, a grey no-man's land where brittle lifelines tend to snap.  I was lucky.  I didn’t break, didn't get the 911 nightmare, just took too much too fast, and I felt SO good.  But then, I didn’t feel so good.  Suddenly, I felt pretty **** awful.  I didn’t go into cardiac arrest or anything, but it scared me shitless.  Scared me right off the ****, minus a binge or two.

At least, it did.  For a little while.

Now that voice I know too well is whispering again, and I don’t always feel like saying no.  

I remember when I used to flaunt my new hobby to my friends.  I felt like some sort of glamorous superstar that knew exactly how to have a good time.  Like it was some sort of VIP club that they just had to get into.  And then I didn’t wanna talk about it, they just don’t get it.  They don’t get it.  I need it.  But only sometimes.

Yeah yeah, stupid.  I get it.  You think I’m asking for it.  I lost control and I’m gonna lose it again.  But I made myself stop before, of course I can do it again.  I am cool, calm, collected and totally in control.

Right?

 I felt so cold when you left me here.  I never want to feel again.
Coty Miracle Dec 2012
I hear the screeching sound,
Of the rioting crowd roaring like a lion,
When the weathered football is kicked,
Falling down like a missile,
Touching earth.
I see the opposing offence,
Passing for desperate yardage,
As our insane defense,
Forcefully sacks the quarterback,
In the backfield,
Providing our team with momentum.
I feel of the cold,
Icy wind as the ultimate play is about
To unfold,
As we play the fourth quarter.
The excruciating pain,
Of deliberately being bowled over,
By a linebacker with such vigorous
Power,
That your helmet is knocked off.
The relief of winning,
A difficult ballgame,
As we celebrate,
Another outstanding victory.
8th Grade Poem.
Andrea Lee Bolt Dec 2020
You never said it with your words
hugs weren’t what We came to do
you said "Mountain Girls don’t cry"
I held it in to make it true
Don't worry Daddy, I don't need em
I know "I love you's" just words

So many stories in your eyes
never needed a gift or an alibi
We always knew it through and through
the way my heart looked into you
funny really, the truth
to us “I love you” are just words

I knew it at my ballgame
when you appeared in the bleachers
made you proud to all my teachers
don’t worry Daddy, I don't need em
I know “they’re just words”

Was confused when my lovers wouldn’t say it.
Wen't for a long journey don't the path of "maybe I didn’t deserve it"
there and back again
Now I know the truth, I'm worth it
it all happened in the start
it’s me who thinks “they’re just words”
so it didn't bounce back reflected
Now we can have it all

It’s ok to say “I love you”
can be freeing if you want it to
paint a picture with the rainbow
let love guide you

Don't worry Daddy I'll never need it
and they'll never see me cry.
But watch me Daddy as I ride
the craziest bull of them all
having both Love, it's spoken word,
hugs and all.
When a ranch girl’s daddy issues come shining through!
Ted Scheck Nov 2013
When I was little,
Like, between 8 or 11-
I used to wonder,
Standing with the fiery Iowa
Sun slowly blistering my shoulders;
Where does the time go
When it flies away?
And if time sometimed
Slowed, stopped, stood stock-
Still, why could I not
See its feet?

If...
(When)
I was 8, 8 years from Mom's
Belly, where was 9 for me?
Born: Thursday, May 9, 1963.
So, I can do the rudimentary
Addition: 5/9/71, I'm exactly...

8. 2 weeks from 3rd grade being
Over. Happy. Birthday. Presents.
Cake, ice cream, a baseball game

To hurry to, Teddy, we'll open
Your presents and have cake when
We get home from the ballgame.
Ugh. Baseball. All I'm going to be
Thinking obsessing about is what
Lies beneath colorful wrapping.
Time has a special
Bitter flavor when you hope and pray
The ball won't be hit to you, ever.
Baseball is full of confused time-
Time scurrying and rolling away from you
In the form of a stupid large white stitched
Ball that delightfully challenges you to be
Quicker than it - Time then languishing,
Elongating, becoming the torture of impatience
Trying to stand in line and wait with that
Virtuous virtue that time ever mocks.

So it's the next day, and I'm 1
Day past 8. I'm a clock, then?
I stored memories of 2, 3? Years
Ago? And I stored scars, dumb
Ideas materializing as real
Blood, pain, stitches, howling...
Did I store time inside my
Mind, heart, left knee, right
I didn't know. Life is often
Too big a concept to really
Grasp when you're eaten
By 8 mosquitoes.

And time slows down to
A scaly crawdad claw
That won't let go of your
Left pinky finger.

I thought, as I rode my bike
Down the middle of the street,
What about next year? 5/9/72?
Ninth birthday? Where did that
Day live? Was it millions and millions
Of miles Earth had to travel to line
Itself up clockwork-universe style
With the time that spun, tilted, and
Pushed the earth through space?

What if I died? Did the time
God gave me go back to Him?
Like I was a human library of congress
Book to spend a short amount of
()
And then be returned to my
Original Owner?
Ashwin Kumar Feb 2022
You know the famous saying
All good things come to an end
This applies to weekends as well
Or in this case, Sundays
Because I was forced to work yesterday
Due to a massive project
Which will keep me occupied
For a good three weeks
Including two Saturdays
Hence, all the more reason
To positively dread the start of tomorrow
Ah yes, the infamous Monday
Something that terrifies me
More than climbing Mount Everest
Or entering a lion's den
Or earning the wrath of a cobra
I can go on and on
But I think I've made my point
Yes, Mondays are bad
Especially if you've enjoyed the weekend
As much as I did
Notwithstanding working on Saturday
So, do you want to know
What makes tomorrow twice as bad
As any other Monday?
Firstly, as mentioned earlier
I am working on a big project
Probably my biggest in the last three years
Secondly, while the going has been smooth so far
Things are going to get tricky
So far, all I have accomplished
Is pure research
But now, I'll have to start calling people
And these are not recruitment calls
Which are relatively straightforward
On the other hand
I am entering pure sales territory
Which may not be a big deal
For most "normal" people
But for someone who is autistic
It is a different ballgame altogether
In fact, it is like steering a ship
Through the Bermuda Triangle
And finally
The biggest roadblock
In my long and treacherous path
Is not the candidates
Not even the client
But my accursed laptop
Whose ability to perform under pressure
Is even less than that of South Africa
In a global cricket tournament
Terry Collett Jan 2014
How do I look in this dress?
Walt’s wife asked him as she
Did a twirl in the bedroom.
Yeah, fine, Walt slowly replied.

But you’re not even looking at
Me, she said. Walt turned his
Head from the small TV screen
And gazed at her. Yeah, you look

Fine. It’s not too short is it? She
Asked. No, not too short, Walt
Said, his eyes looking at the TV
Screen once more as the ballgame

Hotted up. How about my ***,
Does it look ok? Sure, said Walt.
Sure, what? She asked, my ***
Is too big in this? Is that what

You’re saying? Yeah, Walt replied,
His eyes focusing on the pass of
Ball. How can you be so insensitive.
Why you’re not even looking at me.

DOES MY *** LOOK BIG IN THIS?
She bellowed. Walt turned around
And at stared at his wife sticking out
Her ***. No, no, he said, just right

Honey, the best *** I’ve seen today.
What other *** have you seen today,
Then? She said. Walt sighed, he’d
Missed a good hit. What do you

Want to know now? Walt asked.
Whose *** you seen today? She said.
I haven’t seen any ***, Walt replied.
He studied his wife as she twirled

Again. That’s a bit short isn’t it, Walt
Said, and a bit tight. Makes your ***
Look like two piglets under canvas
Fighting to get out. A hairbrush flew

Across the room missing Walt’s head
As his wife stormed into the bathroom
And slammed the door. That’s ok Honey,
That’s what we ******* husband’s are for.
2011 POEM
Eryck Oct 2019
I thought I hummed a happy song,
but without a woman I was wrong.
A belief I was too blind to see.
Women are the best thing,
a man could ever have.
(she points this out to me).

She said that we,
collectively,
would open life's doors,
no less, no more, dance upon floors.
The joy we'll see.
(And while I'm out and about could I
run a few chores?).

She does wonderful things,
so I've been told.
At least I think so,
but this I know.
From the dawn of man,
through the times of sand.
Without a woman,
a man cannot stand!
(She wrote this on the back
Of my hand).

She lovingly wraps herself around
every aspect of my life,
my wife,
to the point I couldn't function
without her. Yes lovingly.
I wouldn't doubt her.
(She seems to have combined  both our power).

She had the word TAKEN tattooed on
my arm,
I'm no longer living alone, so what's
the harm.
You can love them or **** them -
thy name is woman.
(when I'm wrong, I hide in the barn).

I try to squeeze her and please her,
kiss her and hold her,
and be mister charming.
She responds by whispering,
don't you have a ballgame to watch
Or something?
(She keeps me running).

I'm a mouse in my house,
who sometimes sleeps on the couch.
While wheeling and dealing with the
strife of married life.
She says it's for the best.
(I now pronounce you man and wife).

I wanted a strong woman that stands
on her own,
stimulates my growth.
Runs her life and runs our home.
A woman who's so much more.
(Be careful what you wish for).

She said you best be knowing,
that lawns need mowing,
kids need growing.
I countered,
can't I just be a snoring and boring,
simply enjoying dad?
She double-countered,
and said, "Women are the best thing a man could ever have".
(Who am I to argue).

I want a mate to share my plate,
one who has the grace,
to have smiles break-out all over
her face.
There's no way her smile could ever
flip upside down,
and become a frown.
(Could it?)

I reach for my back pocket wallet,
but her hand is already on it.
She says sharing is caring,
and it's a wonderful thing.
She states, "You want to be
wonderful too,
don't you"?
(So I guess sharing is the only way).

She says I'm teachable with a
smidgen of logic,
so I'm flexible, and her little project.
Change my stubbornness from bad to
good.
Says I'm hard headed.
(knock on wood).

So that's how it goes,  I suppose.
To be a money provider,
a handyman, a chauffeur driver.
To be elated,
sort of appriciated,
to be a married man.

She keeps whispering in my ear,
for my brain again to hear,
and to make it perfectly clear.
"Dear", she says...
Women are the best thing
a man could ever have.
(So I've been told).
Don Cheshire Aug 2017
If you cheated on your spouse
Do the right thing and tell the truth
Lies only make things worse
Running away only makes you look guilty

What proof do they have anyway ?
Are the photos a dead giveaway
Maybe it was the social media that caused a stir
Did your ex call you just to say hi?

Or are you still in love with your old flame
Your older now its a different game.
Wives seem more demanding than the old days
They have changed but I stay the same

Being hurt by adultery can ruin your life
Your old now... why not try a dating service
Match keeps telling me there are plenty of offers
A bunch of money I need to date Miss Hopper

Ever see a 60 year old on a dating site?
They seem out of place and expect a few winners
And its the man who pays for dinner and drinks
Its a new ballgame you must take time and think

You get lots of women who want a sugar daddy
They will say anything to get a free date.
But most of the time the others just shy away
Finding Waldo is the name of the game.

But this online dating is just plane strange
Its not really a great way to find a new lover
Most of the women you meet on chat
Have other issues like having no car

Do you really want to drive that far away?
For a coffee date that's miles away
I didn't even get in my car
What I wanted was just to far to drive
I had to call and cancel at the last hour

Everything is so out of place
And I hear the Aliens are coming from space
September 23rd has been mentioned a lot
Maybe they will abduct me instead

I don't really have any choice
It's just a pain to find a good lover
Women have it much easier if pretty
They can pick and choose without pressure

Because another man  is always flirting
And I was the one who let her get stolen
DFC  Aug 2017
Orked Saerah Dec 2014
Degree phase is an entirely different ballgame all together, the subjects are getting tougher and more thorough. Then uni came a-knocking, reality seeps in as parents constantly remind us to shackle down drop all but studies because it is imperative. And yeah you gotta play the game or you gonna lose. The time constraints are getting tougher, and expectations are rising exponentially. So I don’t really care.
Terry Collett Jun 2015
I sit on the grass
of the playing field
at high school

hey Naaman
Ro says
who's the skirt?

he points over the field
at a girl
looking at me
searchingly

no idea
I say
why?

she's been gazing at you
for ages
he says

I look at her
standing there
dark hair
sad looking face
gazing back at me

I saw her in the playground
the other day
when it was beginning to rain
and I called out to her
I remember now
I say

Ro shrugs
so what?
she's just a piece of skirt
he says
how about a kick around
with a ball?
he asks

sure I’ll be there
in a minute

he goes off
with the ball
to join other boys
on the field
calling him

I watch him go
then look at the girl
she looks away

I walk over to her
hands in my pockets
put on my Elvis smile

she hesitates
as I approach
you ok?
I ask

she looks at me
her eyes are dark
as her hair
deep and warm

just looking at you
that's all
she says
nothing wrong
in looking is there?

no nothing wrong
I say
want to have a walk?  

she looks at her feet
the shoes are well worn
the black faded

your fiends might not
like me with you
if you want to play
their ball game
she says
not looking at me

we can walk
no harm done
I say

she looks at me
her eyes are shy

don't know
she says

ok
I say
up to you

I begin
to walk off

wait
she says
I guess I could
walk with you

I wait for her
she comes beside me
and we walk away
from the boys
and their ballgame
and along the fence
towards the play area
with seats and benches
along the walls

I feel her nervousness
she seems tense

relax
I say
I won't bite

we walk by the wall
she says nothing
her eyes on the ground

you got any
sisters or brothers here?

she shakes her head

what's your name?
I ask

Shoshana
she replies
looking across
the playground
your is Naaman isn't it?
she says

yes
I say
how did you know?

I heard someone
call you the other day
she says

I want to touch her
feel her hand or arm
or maybe talk longer
but she seems out
of her comfort zone
and I hold back

best go now
she says

and walks off
back to the girls' area
and I watch her go
holding on
to the slight perfume
she had
I sniff it in it
breath in into me
it's not bad.
A BOY AND GIRL AND A WALK TOGETHER AT SCHOOL IN 1962.
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Lumps appear under my skin
wishing them away doesn’t work
some look like mulberries
There are ones with greenish hues
others blue-black, juicy and ripe
these are the ones I want to bite into

I remember that great mulberry tree of our youth
down by the creek
We climbed that tree and sat for hours
on hot July and August afternoons
devouring juicy dark purple fruit

Our mother’s called as the ballgame dispersed
and we pretended to be nowhere in sight
or within ear shot
We knew the way home

And as we stared at each other’s stained
magenta toothy snickers
faces, hands, tee shirts
even ears and grimy hair
We made a pact
to eat our way to the tippy-top
of that delicious, decadent arbor

I’m home, again
noticing that mulberry tree no longer exists
but I see you at times
and you kindly wave to me
upon passing
I know there’s no need to wait around
till July or August
as I don’t expect our summer dares
mulberry gushing ecstasy
will ever be again

O to be the fertile compost
down by that creek
where a mulberry tree might grow
Again
Baylie Allison Oct 2015
If I could pen a poem from
all my regrets, I would fill up
ten dozen notebooks.
And

if I could take back all the
things I wished I hadn’t said,
I could start my own
branch of the U.S. public
library.

And if I could wrap it all
up with one big gift-bow
and present it to you,
I would speak of the fragmented
memories of all the times I
spent with
you.

Because…

Five years ago, in January,
Hours turned into
Minutes and
Minutes slowed into
Seconds. And then suddenly,
all the time elapsed between us without
warning. And your ticking
time-piece turned out to be
a homemade explosive you
marked as ‘flammable’.

And if I could have just one
more minute to
tell you that I love you,
Just one more moment,
to say that I’m sorry.
Just…just one last second
to say goodbye
and to make sure you knew for
sure what I always knew that you knew;
Before the hours turn into minutes
and trickle down into seconds
Before all the time elapses in-
between us…

I would use those moments to tell
you that I love you more than Mercury
loves the sun, and that I long to see you
once again just as Pluto longs to
make one full rotation.
And I would tell you I will always
“see you later, alligator” and that in my
dreams, you will always be my
"crocodile-lover."

And how I’ll always go back to Summers of
how your fuzzy mustache tickled my
innocence during our special eskimo
kisses.

And that I’ll forever remember how you
pushed me on the swings singing
‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,"

And how you whispered to me sweet nothings
of how I always was your favorite.

And I’ll always remember that you loved
candied orange slices, gummy bears, sugar smacks
and your “top secret” chocolate stash
almost as much as you loved
your precious cigarettes,
almost as much as you
loved me.

And I’d tell you that I’m still
scared of lawnmowers,
Grandpa,
And that I’m scared that there’s
no man who will
love me like you did,
And that I’m scared that growing
up will make me forget.

Because it’s six years
and six million
tears later.
And I wish I could tell you
how many things have changed.
But the most important things
will always remain the same.
Because,
Everyday the hours turn into
Sixty Minutes and the
Sixty Minutes turn into
Sixty Seconds
and the time still
elapses between all of us as you
sing me softly to sleep
Even from below
Six feet.
I actually really need some feedback for this poem, because I'm going to read it for this poetry event at my school this Friday.
Constructive criticism for this piece readily accepted!!!! Please...help me.
I'm not sure if this is finished, or if I should just leave it alone. Help...!
Zane Safrit Jan 2019
The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

She slides to the left
Shimmies to the right
Makes me smile
That lasts all night

The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

I’m missing sports center
Netflix too
Having watched a ballgame
since 2002

The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

The remote don’t work
And I don’t care
The remote won’t work
And we don’t care


Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.
Corset Mar 2016
She's a mystery
our little vase.
just sitting out there
in the cosmos
all alone
with her hour glass
figure. It's time
to wake up and don
the 'morrow...
oh, such a powerful


p
r
  e
   t
    t
     y
       new dress!

Einstein visits my bathroom
walls spouting bright ideas
about (ILL)uminati nation,
and it's coffee drinking
friends.

I'm sorry sir, but I don't subscribe,
I sleep very well, thank you.

I've lost half a front tooth to winter
already,  tripped over laundry
baskets and almost broke my neck doing
the limbo...and the makers of Beano can't
keep enough stocked on the shelf,
oh no,
not I.

It's crazy how clumsy
i'm becoming of late.
tumbling into shell,
little green pistachios
tender meat
fledgling tuition's
not this sweet thing,
I'm not buying what you
ladies and gents want to sell,
I'll keep my wings,
my hearts and flowers,
no disrespect,
Thank you just the same.
I was never into Halloween
or the things that bump
into the night, or cackle
like mad hens in my half wake.

I prefer love, not the half light,
not the lime stand where Mr. Todd and I
have had quite the conversation yesterday,
who does he think he's fooling?

Ill advised, I might say, to play with
such things, such as the sweetness of
the naive flock, let's just say I've
been properly introduced
and my eyes are open,
and leave it there
on the ***** step
with the musical instruments
and the rainbows, I prefer
to be colorless like the page.

No trade darlings, nice try,
but I love you...
and anytime you'd like
to take a ride into the outfield
and watch the ballgame,
from the sidelines of a
couple of overheated stars,
remember, beautiful rays am I,
in which you may trust,
an accidental supernova,
see how the star's tracks
are blinking, winking, and
tapping out love letters
in Morris code...all for you
baby, all for you,
I intend to blow this pop stand
walk off  into the fog, whole,
in love, with or without you.
jeffrey robin Nov 2013
Walkin in the rain

Sure

You can do what ever you want

••

Cut yourself
Starve yourself

It's  okay

You'll be useless whatever you do

••

And who wants to be the only one sane?

It's so
Lonesome already

You know what I mean?

••

So pretend you had a lover who broke your heart

Everybody does it why not you!

Pretend you were
loyal
faithful

True

Pretend you are a human being

--

--

Forget that death is knocking at your door

Or invite him in for somethin to eat

Or spread your legs open and give him a treat

Whatever you do it's okay by me

••

Just do what you wanna as long as you can

And when you can't ?

Well sure

It's another thing


--

And when you can't?

Sure

It's another ballgame

••

Walkin in the rain

Sure

You can do what ever feels fine

Except to stop walkin

And to come inside
Eleanor Sinclair Mar 2017
I have always had a passion for helping people
I’ve always wanted to do something in my life that will benefit others in some way
Even if I help just one person
Even though I am just one person
I’ve wrestled with many career possibilities as I’ve stumbled down the path of uncertainty,
but despite the boulders standing in my way,
I will not be slowed down by them
I will not allow myself to fixate on them or become chained to those stones like Prometheus
In two years, I see myself going off to college and having a growth mindset since it will be a whole new playing field, in fact, it will be a whole new ballgame
In five years, I see myself with a career and a life that I am happy with
I have narrowed down my career choices to psychiatrist and detective
Two very opposite sides of a broad spectrum,
but those are passions of mine and additionally,
I would be helping people on a daily basis
Those that are living or those that are dead
I believe in a spirit world
Ghosts and such
I believe in a “purgatory” as Dante stated
and I believe that souls can linger until they find rest
I want to help everyone
I know there is so much to do and so little time and after all I can’t do it alone
But we all have to start somewhere
Why not here?
Why not start with our final years of high school and go into college with heads held high and willingness to adapt in our hearts
There is nothing more exciting to me than imagining a world in which people are genuine and help each other
What a beauty it would be to be able to give others as much as we can.
Chris Thomas Jul 2016
If I had been around in '41
I feel I would have mattered more
Made a handful less mistakes
And fought for lives on foreign shores

I would have championed for freedoms
For colors beyond my own skin
To speak and worship freely
To be free from the fears within

I would watch my innocence crumble
At Bette Davis and those starlit eyes
How Rita Hayworth would corrupt me
With legs made to victimize

The day I'd enlist to serve my country
How scared my mother would be
Sitting in her morning chair all evening
Pretending there were no tears to see

Maybe my father would actually notice
A young man that needed his time
A boy that needed a little shove
To dream bigger than the painted lines

I would have worked til' my fingers bled
To see Joltin' Joe hit safe in 56
To witness the magic of Beantown
And Teddy Ballgame getting in his licks

I can only imagine my heartbeat
Holding her hand in the freezing rain
Knowing tomorrow, I'd be off to Hell
Knowing I may never see her face again

I would've taken the A train with her
Just because Ella and Duke told us to
Danced her up and down Sugar Hill
Til' there was only one thing left to do

We would've driven a coupe by starlight
Til' we were running only on dreams
Break into a farm at the edge of town
And lay silent til' roosters screamed

I would have left my fedora in the backseat
Kissed her lips and swallowed my doubt
Waved from a train headed for Carolina
Feeling knots I'd only read about
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
I dreamed
The death of my dream
And it
Provoked a loud scream
Deep from within me.
All because
Of how far we came as a team.

I dreamed
The death of my dream
Which meant
the outage of a light beam
That once illuminated hope,
Without which I can't cope.

In actuality
The death of my dream
Would Mean
For me a very new ballgame,
Which Signals a new beginning
For all the challenges looming.

Therefore this death of my dream
Is a just a fabricated lie
All because
Our dreams don't really die
Yes, they do at times get old,
But most often they just go cold.

#IvanBrooksPoetry©️
Dreams don't die...It depends on what they're made off and to whom you entrust them.
David Nelson Jan 2015
FOGHAT

it's been a long slow ride
with the wind at my sails
the thick moisture of the night
the memory prevails

like a summer's ballgame
on another rainy day
I was born for the road
you were born to fly away

I pleaded for your silky touch
you quickly pulled my mind
no matter what words I used
I couldn't make you find

to remain here at my feet
any other reason
the months flew past my heart
season after season

and now you have returned
for just a while I know
I try not to cover up
afraid when you will go

Gomer LePoet...
another song of blues rolls past my heart
Ashwin Kumar Aug 2023
Recruitment is a difficult job
Surely, everyone knows that
It is like chasing a target of 350 in 50 overs
However, when you are hiring Investment Bankers
The target remains the same
But the pitch, which is a belter as of now
Suddenly acquires a greenish hue
And the ball starts swinging and seaming
One mistake, and you are back to the pavilion
Meanwhile, the asking rate keeps climbing
Thus, the pressure keeps building
Yes, that's how tricky Investment Bankers are
At least as far as India is concerned
However, European Investment Bankers are a different ballgame altogether
The target continues to be the same
As does the nature of the pitch
However, now you have to chase the target in 40 overs!!
Well, you decide to steel yourself
To bat out of your skins
And do manage to hit a few ***** out of the park
However, your joy is short-lived
As you go for one boundary too many
Only to get caught at deep square leg
More and more batsmen follow
And try their level best
To keep the required run rate under control
But the wickets keep tumbling
Meanwhile, your last hope, Hardik Pandya, arrives at the crease
And takes the game by the scruff of the neck
While at the other end, Virat Kohli stands strong
And the pair manage to build a partnership of 100
However, the European I-Bankers end up having the last laugh
As Virat gets run out
While going for a quick single
And Hardik goes for a maximum
Only to get caught
Just inside the boundary line
By now, you know, as do the European I-Bankers
That the game is well and truly up
Unless a miracle happens
Well, all you can say
Is "Better Luck next time"
Also, welcome to the world of hiring European Investment Bankers
Using cricket as an analogy to highlight the difficulties I face in hiring European Investment Bankers.
Cedric McClester Sep 2015
By: Cedric McClester

He took down the wrong brother
While working undercover
Soon enough he will discover
Restitution is a mother
And he had no reason why
He did not identify
Himself as the police
Not in the very least

See the brother has a name
That’s recognized due to his fame
So when he files his claim
That’s the end of the ballgame
For the cop that made him drop
To the ground then got on top
And after having roughed him
He proceeded to handcuff him

It was a clear abuse of power
That turned the public sour
And every second minute hour
He remain a cop we glower
Because it’s plain to see
That’s what he shouldn’t be
He is coarse and rude
And he lacks the aptitude

Without a reason or a rhyme
He clearly crossed the line
‘Cos we have to keep in mind
It was a non-violent crime
And when push was turned to shove
A crime he wasn’t guilty of
But the cop showed him no love
Nor handled him with a kid glove


Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.
Ashwin Kumar Nov 2022
These are tough times
As far as Recruitment is concerned
Of course, Recruitment is never easy
Especially when you work in a startup
But a year like 2022
With backout after backout
And consequently rework after rework
Really takes the biscuit
Here I am
Without a single closure
In the last ten frigging months
And thus having my confidence shredded to pieces
One would think
That I badly need a break
In order to recharge my batteries
You, on the other hand
Decided to add to the burden
By assigning me, not one
But three extra mandates
Mandates that are not only difficult
But also rather time-consuming
And require dealing with a client
That has tested our patience
On multiple occasions
And on top of that
I have to come to office as well
Of course, it is all smooth sailing
As far as the onward commute is concerned
Thanks to the ever reliable AC local
The return, however, is a different ballgame altogether
Because you always make me late
Thus, I never manage to catch the AC local
And by the time I reach home
I end up hating you to the core
You are lucky magic doesn't exist
Because if it did
You would have been dead a long time ago
I would have seen to that
Anyway, coming back to reality
I have always been tolerant
But, as my grandfather would say
There is a limit to everything
And if you are expecting me to work on Saturdays as well
You are exceeding that limit
And then I will have no choice
But to leave, once and for all
As I've already mentioned
I have always been tolerant
However, my tolerance now runs thin
A rant against my boss for loading me with a lot of extra work when I am already struggling and low on confidence due to a year full of backouts.
Wk kortas Jul 2020
It is, in its own fashion, a ballpark—there are dugouts,
(Though more kin to lean-tos if the truth be told)
A fence with advertisements, though its paint is cracked and faded,
And some of those firms testifying
To being tops in collars and canned foods
Have long since changed names or flat-out gone under,
But a ballpark nonetheless, and if you squint your eyes
Or find some other convenient method of self-delusion,
You can convince yourself it is a rather fine thing,
Happily oblivious to the fact that the infield
Is all bumps and tiny moraines
Covered with crownvetch and chickweed masquerading as grass,
The outfield rife with bark scorpions
Who frequently wander inside the lines.
Milling about this somewhat-short-of-pastoral greenish patch,
Wearing uniforms of a reasonable homogeny,
Is a curious, potentially combustible group of men:
Honest-to-goodness big leaguers whose off-field proclivities
Led Judge Landis to excuse them further participation,
Rope-muscled miners from Bisbee,
Carbide-lamp helmets tucked under their arms,
Callow boys taking a chance on this decidedly last-chance town,
One or two others with tangibly acute reasons
For staying in close proximity to the Mexican border.
Holding court in the midst of this collection
Is a man whose face was not visited by the smallpox
As much as it was wrapped up in its full embrace;
It’s old Charlie Comiskey who should be in jail, he grumbles
Man has more money’n he’ll ever need,
Hell, more than Stoneham or Ruppert.
No reason in the world he couldn’t pay his boys a fair wage,
But he treated ‘em like dogs, and if you starve it long enough,
Why, even the most loyal dog will turn on a man,
Ain’t that right boys
?, and a pair of his listeners,
Men named Chick and Swede
Who know of Comiskey’s parsimony first-hand,
Grimly nod their heads in agreement.
The speaker pauses for a moment, and as he does
He produces, seemingly from nowhere, a hip flask
(Brought forth like a seasoned magician
Pulling flowers from some gauzy handkerchief,
Or a card sharp finding an extra king in the very air itself)
And takes a long draught before continuing.
Look, I love this game--hell, no man loves it more
But it’s still just a **** game,
Just entertainment, like a circus or a rodeo.
Maybe we a took a few liberties with a game here and there,
But, you know, I knew folks who’d see the same Broadway show
Three, maybe even four times;
They knew how it would turn out, I reckon,
But it didn’t keep them from spending four bucks a ticket.
Well, what’s a ballplayer but an entertainer?
We still put on a good show, and no one gets hurt,
But because it’s a ballgame, you’d think we’d spit on the cross
.
With this, the circle breaks up, and men head to spots on the field
To field lazy fungoes and toss the ball around the infield,
And most of the on-lookers soon head back toward town
(Perhaps back to work at one of the smelters,
Their stacks blowing forlorn clouds into otherwise endless skies,
Or maybe to one of the sad houses on the far side of town
Where haunted-eyed Mexican ****** mechanically light candles
In supplication to saints whose efficacy they’ve come to doubt)
But the stragglers who stay behind are treated to the first baseman
Make a marvelous, almost magical, pickup of a short-hop throw
With the easy nonchalant brilliance which at one time
Brought hundreds, no thousands, of men to their feet in disbelief,
And as he sweeps his glove upward, he laughs
(Though with just a touch of restraint, a trace of the rehearsed)
And says See, boys? Once you are big league,
You are always big league
.
alifeissixtofiveunlessyoujiggletheodds
Shanna Thomas Mar 2019
What happens when one person in the relationship stops trying?
What happens when we becomes me,
When the slogan “there's no I in team” becomes invalid, because there's​ an I single?
What happens when you give up but I die trying.
To fight for this relationship so that this boat doesn't sink.
When I fight for the years and the memories, but you turn your back and you no longer care…
What happens when I keep pursuing something that is dead? Going after your lifeless corpse trying to breathe air back in. Trying to use to the ventilator to bring back the dead… one shock, two shock and three strikes I'm out… the ballgame is over and I have lost.
All I get to see now is your back turned to me as you walk away and soon your body becomes the size of an ant and you disappear never to be seen again. All that I am left with is the memories and the broken heart which will forever be locked up until someone else tries to come and break down this wall… but they too will soon find out that my wall is made of metal and is unbreakable and can't be scarred. It's chained and locked and the key is thrown away.
They too will find my body deteriorated and bruised, cold and torn, black and blue. I'm now meek and weak and no longer want to to try. So they watch me slip away into smithereens. I see you being happy and free while I am now chained and locked away.
How did the story get flipped and I'm on the outside looking in. Thinking this was forever while you spelt temporary with all your words. They left your lips so smooth and sweet and made me feel special, just to realize this wasn't your first rodeo and I wasn't the first bull ride.
But trust I've learned my lesson and my mind you can't take over anymore. You had your fun and games but now it's time for me to be the master. I will pull and pull and pull on your strings and just like how I was once lifeless, you will feel that pain.
Feel the broken heart of thinking they loved you but realizing they only loved the thought of you and when something better comes along they follow behind like an obedient dog… because honestly that's what you are.
A dog… and I'm the lion.
Your in my cage now… let's see how long you last.
David Lessard May 2018
I welcome the night with its quiet
sounds of the rude world, deceased;
the silence is somber, inviting
my comfort level's increased.

The twilight is pulling up covers
I find a pillow, I rest my head;
in a few hours,  or sooner
my pillow will find its own bed.

I'm glued to the tube with a ballgame
my team is down by one run;
whether they win isn't important
it's the play of the game that is fun.

The room is darkened with shadows
one lamp's  sufficient for glow;
I get engrossed in the game
and follow its leisurely flow.

I welcome the night with it's quiet
cast aside, the gist of the day;
and rest in utopian fashion
as snares of the day slip away.
Scotty bruner Jun 2023
Our love will be no more
since you left that day
saw you walking out the door
no remorse in any way.
You had a very cold heart
but I'm over you
that's when I played it smart
found someone new.
Then you found out
I found someone better
you then went & pouted
and sent me a letter.
Finally realized
what you did was wrong
opened up your eyes
now I moved along.

It's the real thing
yes you're the blame
for the happiness you didn't bring
now it's a whole new ballgame.
So I moved on
and gave me my life back
since you've been gone
my life is back on track.
BY SCOTTY BRUNER

— The End —