"bargains" poems
Age and Grace
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
Cuteness wasn't this adorable,
"Buy1 get 1free"
Never one to let bargains growl at me..
I brought the pack!!
"Smitten"
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
1
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
3
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
4.8k
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A God of everything
From my hopes to my dreams
and even more..
A miracle of the world
from its earthly to the heavenly
everyone adores..
A wonder to my eyes
from man whose blinded faith
he lets them see..
A voice of my song
symphonies of life lose its note
you conduct a new..
An ark of Le voyage
sailing tides of shore to shore
trod waters core..
A blimp up above
gracing colors of glacial on air
everlasting he care..
A rock of revelation
standing every storm to storm
Avant is his norm..
A shepherd of lambs
from my heart whilst was lost
to him, I found..
A cross to my soul
were Calvary’s sins he bargains
a new life regained..
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Clothes of all kinds
on the sidewalks
sold for crazy cheap prices.
Kids and old people alike
scramble fast towards through mountains
of bargains, this once inaccessible
and highly prized scene of Fashion sense,
separating the haves and the have-nots.
I was born with skin color, names, and belongings
that no longer made sense when the time came
to decide and become. I ran to meet a friend at a corner
a long time ago when the Ukay surplus clothing stores
were just starting out.
He carried a plastic of hiking boots
and a pair of stylish jeans. Laughing and smiling
at the exchanges. A pair of running shoes
and a jacket that was already too big for a woman.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:13 AM UTC
She never made it
To Morocco
Rode ’cross the desert
With her Bedouin lover
Shopped for bargains
In the Souks of Rabat
Sipped mint tea
From a frosted glass.
She never went sailing
In a catamaran
And on a moonlit beach
Made love in the sand
Or drank espresso
In a café in Lima
Or danced the flamenco
In Puerto Rico.
She married a man
Cause no one else offered
Had three kids
And moved to the suburbs
Wrapped up her dreams
In brown butcher paper
Tied them with twine
And shelved them for later .
She never made it
To Morocco
Her life was four walls
Plastered in stucco
And she sighed as she thought
Of the things that she lost
The dreams that she wrapped
And shelved in the past.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
Action is the reality
Imagination and thoughts are false
The indulgent and lies
Action brings out manifestation
The thoughts and imagination are the bargains
To the maybe actions to be
The maybe is a possibility
But not the reality in itself
Karma is what the action brings
The situation is a stimuli
The brain is the stimulus
The thoughts are the response
Of the stimuli to the stimulus
The action is what brings about the change
In a while the thought seems to bring out the change
And the transformation from within
The transformation in the thought plane
Is a trap in itself
A new thought comes in its place
The action brings about the change in real
The winding up in the trap of thoughts
Brings about the ego self to build up
The action unwinds the chain of thoughts
The universe is a plan of action
Not the plan of thoughts
The thoughts are meant to be a tool
For the action to be performed
The human race back from generations
Has chosen thoughts rather than actions
The actions, if there are
There are the thoughts driven action.
The less is the action driven thoughts
The thought driven action
Nourishes the thoughts rather than action
On the contrary
The action driven thoughts
Nourishes the action
As manifestation and karma are action driven
Rather than thoughts driven
A modern man gets confused
By keeping an eye on thought
Saying ***** didn’t do anything to nobody
But karma didn’t go well
If ***** has the conscious actions
With the thoughts as a tool driven to action
***** would have managed to acknowledge
His/her karma and know for themselves
Where the karma took directions
Karma is the action that has no reaction
The thoughts are purely reactions
The stimulus to the stimuli
When indulged drives more and more reaction
Hence more thoughts
A thought can never satisfy
The more, the thoughts come into place again
A modern human seem to be indulged
In the reaction
Rather than performing the action instead
Being and action
Spontaneous
The human ideal
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
Christmas countdown has begun and family members are on the run
Looking for the bargains everywhere, and how they get it they don’t care.
All the retailers have put up their displays
As they prepare for Christmas day.
Grocery stores and supermarkets with their specials on the floor
And in every aisle there are treats galore.
Turkeys and hams, candied yams too- all the treats just for you.
Department stores and shopping malls- filled with shoppers wall to wall.
The children are in total awe as they look from store to store.
And every new item that’s on TV. In the stores for them to see.
Yes! The Christmas countdown has begun. And the children
Are preparing for the fun, from bicycles and dolls and all the rest
Knowing they’ve gotten all the best.
Look around; look around, the Christmas spirit is all around.
MERY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL, THIS IS THE SEASON TO HAVE A BALL!
©L.RAMS 112214
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard.
Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings.
She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole.
She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back.
Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die.
The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy .
Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same-
-but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer-
But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now.
They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one.
She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own!
gorgeous lisp...
Fionna
from Fraserburgh...
worked in
a nightclub to
pay for a mandolin,
and play her maggie may...
outside her window...
her sweetness imbue of
honey and the letter G
stumbling into a "stutter"....
and?
one detail...
she loved
queen's innuendo...
the ooh ooh bit
and the otherwise
Spanish rodrigo
in-between composer...
i left Edinburgh...
because my heart was
not into it...
my eyes were...
but in my heart...
i was not standing on
an island, but an iceberg...
too many English
private school educatde kids...
too much interconnected
meritocracy bargains...
said via grandfather earned
ditto position through
the connectivity of his, father's
father...
no...
i won't have that
******** hanging before
me like a carrot, while
i play the donkey...
sorry... no...
shouldn't have lied
about your mother being your sister,
and your grandmother being
your mother...
then?!
Leningrad would
have made sense!
thankfully?
it still doesn't!
and doubly thankful for it
that i am, in saying:
it, never, will!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
Blessed is a soul that lives freely,
Free from the world’s tragedies and pains,
A soul that cherishes life happily
Like a child with no bargains...
Fly like a butterfly
And be as free as you can be,
Find peace within the sky
And move as quiet as the sea...
Try to free your soul and mind
And watch as He puts upon you his love
Leave the material world behind
And forever we’ll be together in the heavens above...
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Crawling on all fours, traffic drags its bleeding body forward.
Men with collars of lipstick tap tap tap their fingers against steering wheels.
Time slows, cars inch, passing hands find cigarettes, cigarettes find fire.
Tap ash tap finds tap pavement.
This is the unobserved hiatus of daily routines, the dreaded stretch of heaven that separates from and to.
During such moments of inertia
thoughts drift through open windows
forming a cloud for bargains, regrets, wishes, doubts, prayers, and curses to perform cotillion upon.
Faster, faster, so quickly now, oh, change partners, switch lanes, spin, oh baby spin, fasterfasterfaster, until differentiation is impossible, until drivers become one with this steel river, until minds make their essential switch that makes home a bearable punishment.
Someone has broken down.
Do Not Stop.
They are shunned from the sweeping mob of machinery. Necks swivel in uniform towards this abomination, how dare they, how DARE they outshine our misery. Perspiration works its way down backs and pools into leather cracks.
Will it ever end?
Do we want it to?
Finally,
regrettably,
the final exit, the last few feet of purgatory.
We descend into the next inferno where we leap through fiery hoops of interrogation—
yes no it was fine yes okay.
We are exhausted.
If only we would have stopped.
If only we would have hit the brakes and remained in our haven of anxiety and lust and confusion and endless searching.
Our love affair with traffic can only last so long.
So we make solemn promises to ourselves to appreciate tomorrow’s,
to run our fingers along the satin thighs of the freeway,
to plant a rubber kiss upon the ground.
How tap long tap until tap five?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday--
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle--'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life--
And I see us meeting at the end of a town on a fair day by accident,
after the bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us -- eternally.
2.5k
now it boxing day and the bargains they are on
got to get there early before the bargains gone
standing in a cue waiting in a line
hope that its not raining and the weathers fine
waiting there for hours standing patiently
hoping that theres someting thats there left for me
until then i will wait for what i am looking for
take home with me until boxing day once more
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
A sleep so sound
As to only wake
The dreams of others
Where armstice
Is given to thought
That wanders beyond
The jeweled dawn
In a defection of insensitivity
A quality of oppression
To look on beauty
And wear its lightness
In generosity, a generosity
Of mutual attraction
That bargains not for purse
But wealth much more sought
To sleep a million dreams
To bask in a different version
Of that which is the same
To have that embrace
Or metaphor entwined within
Yes and awaken with a smile
A smile, a smile, just a smile
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.
i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.
we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.
i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
I claim to know the wolf,
tracking scents in the high country
though half truth requires I confess
one has never been in my sight
though in silent night,
in snow weighted pines
and fir, doubtless one
has eyed me in my folly
I have seen the coyote
scratching in the caliche
on the stingy prairies,
crouching in the mesquite
ready for the ****
whilst the hare hops by
when chase ensues
and mammal hearts race
I have yet to see
the canine succeed
the hare hides in Alice’s hole
while the mangy hunter
settles for field mice
or makes bargains with buzzards
while the flies yet crawl
on the ****
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
fat monkey's with beady little eyes
wander back and forth along the kitchens edges
licking their lips and hungrily kneading their hands
while i tend the pots and kettle
wearing my best low rent apparel
and listening to only the finest of garage grunge
its miami gardens in springtime
and all the pretty people are strutting the boardwalk
looking for backwater bargains at cheap motels
she is here with me in her barley there bikini
fashionably perfect in all the politically correct ways
its perpetual summer in miami gardens
all the sour hearts on the phone making travel arrangements
the snowbunnys are out in force this year
can't step one foot to a western wind with treading on some ugly mug
but they are oh so friendly
don't you want to cuddle up with some furry little monster
its wintertime in miami gardens
she strips down to her birthday suit
and the monkeys start getting itchy in
their mohair leisure suits
its hard to get comfortable in your own skin
in the land of picture perfect bodies on the sand
so lets all sit down to eat
share a meal and a mile of road
maybe we can find enough in common to keep out the cold
thinking about miami gardens in spring
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Check it out I learn knowledge of self
To up my health now they movin' in stealth gainin' mental wealth
Cuz im long lasting tongue is blastin'
A million rhymes infectin' the mic right?
Ya loosin' sight ya thoughts going braille
Welcome to the 9th Gate of hell where I sail
On brainwaves my heart craves for the saves
Of hip hop not from Atlanta but a brave
These idiots crave in a rage cuz I'm turning the page
Back to the first scene of hip hop see how my tape pops
ears cropped mouths begin to drop from the rhymes that I
cop
Into ya corticals breakin' in to ya local articles full of arsenal minds a carrousel
Since I was an embyro I knew I was built for
******** a punisher
Ya fallin' way under
Evil content words laid immense never consent
To plans of a Masonic establishment
broke the lease I'm hear to visually increase
My linguistic is mathematics so have at it
Stab it and I'll break the habit
No ropes around my brain absorb the pain
Once I reclaim my domain a Pharoah to a King ?
Huh? my word sharper than a Marlin philosophize like Carlin
No short bargains bump political jargons
While y'all arguing I'm upping my mind for wisdom
To grow while others thoughts still covered up in snow....
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
The festive season is here,
And shoppers busy on their feet,
Are looking for bargains
At every corner of the street.
The lantern-sellers stand,
Right outside the market square;
Trying to entice passers
To buy their curious tinsel ware.
If during this time, you chance
Upon this bustling way,
The sparkling lights and lanterns
Are sure to brighten up your day!
Some of the glittering objects,
That decorate the stalls,
Seem to mesmerize the shoppers
As they step into the malls.
Articles of myriad colours
And lanterns that disperse rainbow light
Decorate the city streets
All through the joyous night.
I rushed to the market square
To see what I should buy
And found a brilliant lantern
That caught the fancy of my eye.
I made a quick bargain
And now that lantern adorns my door,
And it really dazzles me
When it mirrors in the floor.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC