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ns carmona Dec 2018
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We leave your house.
happy holidays! if you rub your eyes, it semi-looks like a christmas tree.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
( for Jazzman John Clarke )

It was as I

there was these
angel chicks

playing on harps
on Cloud 9

other angel dudes
playing trumpets and horns

but man
there was the Big Guy himself

playing a mean baritone

like he was Gerry Mulligan
or something

the lyrics were
you know

hard to catch
" are the music while the music lasts..."

or something
Eliotish like that

I strode up
to the Big Guy

checking his *******
with a grin

"Man, that's real
solid gone!"

"I shall be made
thy music..."

The Big Guy

one long long
final note.
Kewayne Wadley May 2018
Life gets tough when you aren't around.
Without none of the things you have to offer.
So much as the ease of a smile.
But what I love most about it.
I am not embarrassed or afraid to admit that it's the most powerful element.
At which point the sun shines it's brightest.
The highlight of my day.
We give our words with meaning that follows the philosophy our bodies react.
We enrich this belief.
Sharing our hopes.
Our dreams.
An intellect that requires what we find precious.
Time loses ego.
We relate without rush.
A fear we occupy our time with selfishness.
The things we use to compensate and further hide ourselves.
Being able to admit the things we otherwise keep hidden.
To travel the recesses of mind we lay bare.
The baritone which not only grasps attention but intent.
In full intimacy.
The way we came into the world.
Not beginning to know or further define the things we hide.
We cry not for attention but understanding.
We tend to go through transitional periods not out of hurt.
But to appreciate that we never take this simplicity for granted.
Without you, I admit.
Life gets tougher.
But it's these exact moments I hope to earn.
The sensuous moment time loses ego.
Not in war but in ultimate expression of the time it takes to love you.
It's gonna take years
Arianna Dec 2018
The shells echo still
With lamentations of lovers and lost ones,
Ossified souls among the primordial sediments of the Sea, and I

                                        Lift them one by one,

Fitting foot to print in the sand, and
Holding each in hand, in turn to my ear in hopes
Of catching your turquoise baritone

                    On the tumbling tides

Washing heart-shaped ammonites
Colored every shade of Earth and Sky up

                             From the fossil index of lives immemorial, mingled

As ours now commingle,
In the merging of breaths and bodies, of breaths

                                                  With forms

In the titillating of tongues, and
Though we share not a native one,
Words lose their meaning in the language of Love,

                    Resounding louder
                    Than the Ocean's fury

In silence,
In a glance,
In a kiss and caress along the throat, humming

                                 With the music of your expression,

                                                    ­     Savoring your deep blue voice...

                                                On my tongue,

                         In the echo songs of shells...
"Medieval Songs of Love and Loss" by the superb Ensemble Gilles Binchois:
There's a poem in there if
   I can ***** away the debris
   and polish it like silver
   and read it at a posh affair.
   I'll use a singsong baritone
   to give it gravity. It matters.
   Madness is contagious. Make no
   eye contact and listen to no one.
Kemy Sep 2018
Umm, the presence and scent of a man
Magnetic attraction where his feet stands
His natural body charismatic aroma
Element of charms, seeping to awaken a woman out a sensual coma
Is it his eyes, the soul behind his life’s mysteries
Flirtation in his smile, tells me he has an undercover ****** history
It is his nose that smells out my charms
An enticing deep baritone voice, his spoken words, which turns me on
Is it the erratic heartbeat he has for a woman, his passionate relent
Stealing my breath, as he tenderly seals my lips in an impassioned moment of content
The strength in his biceps
His triceps
Strong, yet such comforting arms
An epitome of steel, circled around a woman in winter life’s storms
In the cold of night, his body providing your heated warmth
His chest, a hard pillow to tell your doubts, your uncertainties, your fears
Pulling you closer onto it, his reassuring words eradicating your tears
His intellectual mind to think as a man
A stimulating, slam bam and thank you ma’am, or your personal grand slam
His weakening love, taking your body beyond the stars
Woman from Venus, my handsome Man for Mars
His groin, and his family jewels from which it springs forth
Erected compass of his wand now pointing North
A woman’s reservation to tease, please, ******, or allow it to choke
His loud murmurs shadowing your moans, echoing in the wind
****, I love the presence of men, and his undulated carnal sins
From the first taste of honey dipped Butter ***, me
As his giving oral fixation is traveling free
Freeing the elixir of juices that deems to flee
His hairy legs as he stands to lift my weight
In the shower, no wait, as I anticipate
Hooking my twerking bait
His physique in general…Oh, God thank you
Without the scent of a man, we women would not know what to do
Your presence to a woman is our earthly food
Our je ne sais quoi for our every ****** mood
Rather you are standing, lying still, or upside down
The blissful 69 number conquered as we’re fooling around
My Dream Weaver
My distance heartbeat receiver
His dripping sweat
Droplets to my skin have been met
The presence and scent of a man holds me throughout the night as our eyes finally rest
The best smell in the world is that man that you love.

Jennifer Aniston
Sehar Aug 2018
there lives a little white boy across the street,
i swear the chaps' got wings on his feet.
but he grovels around in charcoal and mud,
cos they say he hasn't got athletics in his blood.
he breaks British records, doesnt seem to stop,
but the Jamaican colours flutter from his rooftop.
Olympics the dream,but more than that,
little master Owens just wants to be Black.

there lives a little black girl just next door,
i can hear her tap dance on the linoleum floor.
she sings the opera from dusk to dawn,
she prances and twirls on the family's front lawn.
"your dancings' awkward, your voice baritone,"
it's not in your blood, leave the dreams alone.
she smears fairness creams day and night,
little miss Britney just wants to be White.
racism and stereotyping lives on
nish Jul 2018
i despise you more by the day infiltrating my
every thought, have you no shame?
even as i drift into sleep, i hear
the baritone of your voice, a
passing in the night breeze,
confessing your love,
i know it’s not real
a simple illusion
brought upon
by delusion


i always reply
because I love you
and I wish you loved me too.
another 2o16 revamp
Ralph Akintan Jan 11
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.

Final year educatees required
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury

"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"

Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.

Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.

Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.

Akimbo stood l.

Now the verdict!

Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,

"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".

Entreaties collapsed.
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Toweling off in the steam room after having my *** ripped apart
by the wet thistles these Greeks seemed to think constitute a good time;
I was to meet Agent X, but I didn't know what he'd look like;
I assumed it was a 'he' - - I was wrong;
the N-[company] had managed to disguise
the voluptuous big-breasted blonde
as a nebbishy little old Jewish man;
but how was I to know...
I thought he was measuring my inseam
when he came up for air & swallowed:
thinking this was my best shot,
I said: "****** only had one ball."
"Geobbels had no ***** at all,"
Agent X correctly rep-lied:
her voice barely disguised; her pursed lips
spoke a smooth smoky baritone;
Agent-M was stark ***** but u'd never
guess in a million years that beneath the
*** belly & yalmakah was a 5'11, 42-33-37
Russian woman; her Old World accent flawless,
"We better make this look good,
I better stick my finger in ur ***..."
"Why don't I stick finger in ur ***?" she shot back.
"Okay, go ahead."
"We'll both do it. That'll look really ***."
There we stood not saying a word, completely forgetting what we were there for; "oh, yes..." she said suddenly.
"What was that?"
"We should report in. The chief will want to know what's going on here."
"What will we say? That we stood around w/ our fingers up each other's *****?"
"Yeh, that sounds nuts - - u'd better **** me in the *** to make it look good,"
said she, leading me back into the steam.
Keeping her disguise on the whole time I had to paw at her hunched, hairy back & deal with the pasty potbelly & skinless pinky-sized *****.
"Oy! Oy!" she cried.
"Take that, u **** *****! U like that ****?"
"Oh! **** me! **** me hard! Heil ******! Oh!"
"Yeh, *****, get down there & choke on it," I said really loud, so they could hear me all through the place & pretty soon **** were beating down the door than each other outside the door.
I had to keep pretending to be ******* the little old Jewish man by carefully avoiding her **** & inserting eleven inches into the drooping, spotty hemorrhoidal backside; gripping the skull by the cap & jamming my pork down the Kosher throat; the truth was Agent X was one the world's greatest mistresses of disguise, & had impersonated Queens & Presidents, even small dogs & once an entire family of migrants to infiltrate a terrorist ***-ring;
"Watch my Thrombosis!" she whined in character.
"There's blood everywhere!"
"Oh, ****, my period started."
"There's blood everywhere!"
Quickly wrapping Agent-M in a sauna towel which rapidly accumulated blood from between her legs but looking like it was pouring out of her ***, l
threw her over my shoulder and ran past the rabid pack of un-dead *******, who dare not follow me into the daylight, lest they burst into the hellish flames of gossip & publicity.
I hope it's appreciated that this is a dormant & long-suppressed idea
****** the neo-feminist
   the comerady
for the hetrosexual male...
the thai-surprise
having encountered
a bisexual in the park...
sure... my
white maggoty ****
was nothing
to be envious of...
bue: miles davis'
                trumpet was...
i no longer belong to
the world that attempts
to make sense,
in the "world"
that would ever consecrate
itself upon
a necessity of: furthering
the scope of dialogue...
i, punk oblivion,
Korean neon
                   Asia fetish?
whenever i have a desire
to ****...
i start imagining teeth
on oysters...
i've ****** one with
tattoos on her body,
one will do...
thank you...
any more?
thank you, no.
being read "pedantic"
backward in finding a seat
in an opera house?
like it was...
something difficult to do?
you know what...
       how about trying
that pedantic lineage
argument in a football stadium?
how's that?

yeah: it's ******* dark...
do i look like
a ******* batman
or something?
           i came here to watch
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
not for some *******
english smurks...

******* scittle-half-crafts
of what deserves a
social-media frenzy...
and all of them women...

opera: yes...
and i was told by some
god-forbid russian
prized frenzy to stop leaning...
you're in the wrong seat...
and she was!
i was leaning into her
but she was sitting
in the wrong seat...
i thought everyone was
sorted in being primmed
when exposed
to such: "high" culture?

oh.. well...
no... see...
i like the opera,
i love the ballet...
but being told
that i haven't faced
my *** to coincide with
my face,
to sit in the allocate
of an put-into-place?

i become...
  by some...
that cannot stomach
killing someone,
a squat of pork
for a hungry cat...
at that point?
i become bothered...
i don't like being
the ******-splain
of sitting
allocation in an opera...

it's, *******, dark...
   next time:
stop bellowing at
the opera singer
like a *******
needing the ordeal
for the encore of senseless
or i'll ******* sling around
skinning you...

they can have their go...
but being...
           made scrutiny of...
in an opera house...
by social-climbers?

it's like.... an itch...
  i'm itching...
to bite, slap, stab the living's
worth of said, "unsaid"

               white-trash drama...

oh i don't fear...
the incarcerated and the obese
are never behind bars...

but that smirk remark
at the opera?
like i'm, somehow... "minor"?
i could **** for that...
mind you:
all the worth for the world's worth
of killing,
is a summary of
the most banal loss
of compnesation,
      being made a comparison of.

i could **** for that opera statement...
i was watching
the ******* bolshoi theatre...
what i was given...
was an antagonist...
something worth
a camel i'd pat on the head
for...  imitating:
poiting forward,
with its "oasis" of phlegm
to scoop, for a worth
of coordinate to scrap
the heaving breath
of, all life, from:
and subsequently regurgitate...

such a belittling scrutiny...
kick a ******* ball
toward an aria while you're at
a scissor-kick mid-air
via a baritone tone
beside the...

   ad capricio (capricious paedo:
****** the testicles,
grab and twist them...
but never cut them off,
or attempt ****)...

   or the piedmont: sanctity...
beatified: ad ****, und -ini...
always, counter culture cited,
the Iberian Muslim counter...
a harem of missing testicles
for no blacksmith...
a escape route worth
                            72 virgins...
but there are,
  who... do what
war implores of them...
to no end...
  for a predicament's
worth of peace...
yes... the Muslims were here,
the Muslims were there...
modern Muslims
in modern Kenya...
             a ******* giraffe
on the stripes
up a zebra's ***...
and i'm all, like:
a ******* clapping
coconut army...
because... Elvis Costello...
was... just as much
fun as Simon & Garfield...

      pop up:
all is for basic scrutiny...
   a few people
might remember
the championing
of coal miners...
in the form variety
of edvard gierek:
but me...
citing him?
am ****** steward...

but someone telling me
i'm not sitting in
the right place...
while trying to rummage
in the dark
for a "place of origin"...
being told
"it's not that hard" /
"anyone could
make such a mistake"...

and to think...
that so little became the basis
for the most horrendous
acts of man...
a man can be burdened
by a broken arm...
a hybrid of
an over-inflated
negation of ease...
but men...
when people become them...
when people become
or purposively
and not semi-acknowledging
in an exaggeration?

i too want to implenet

   since what remains,
leaves to remnant
of a redeemable
quality's worth
of either crux: or beyond
to say say:
i am no ******,
to ingest a hard-on
from the moaning-&-groaning
of a person
on a plate of:
that most, tiresome ingestion
of... what...
should have never been
the circumstance
for the comparison
                  of caro: qua verbum.
alexa Oct 2018
to be perfectly honest with you,
i'm scared.
i'm scared of a lot of things, actually--
dark rooms and creaky floorboards and losing my loved ones and sharks and haunted houses and tarantulas
but love, i'm scared of losing you.
it's been one month since you've been introduced into my life
and already
my future has been rearranged to fit you in it--
the unconditional love i've been craving.
but i can't stop thinking about the "what if"s,
can't stop buying into the stolen glances
and hushed tones
when we walk down the hallway together hand-in-hand,
a single baritone voice stands out above the whispers says
"i didn't know he liked girls like that."
the word ***
the word ******
circling through my mind like baby what if
we get six months into this thing
and i'm madly in love with you
and you decide
he can love you better?
it's not a specific him,
but the pronoun itself,
the entity, the intangible.
baby what if
my love just isn't enough for you,
my words or my heart or my body--
what if i'm not good enough for you?
you are different; you are special
and you deserve only the best,
only happiness in its truest form.

but baby what if
you no longer find that happiness in me?

— The End —