"bases" poems
Being a coach is hard
Winning isn't everything
It all stats during practice
Arrive early to prep for the team
The ones who want it show up on time want it
The best players show up late
Running bases conditioning for the game
Batting cages to help with the swing
Playing catch helping the team work as a unit
Till the day of the big game
Slide to the base with technique practiced
Cutoff play to make an out
Team functions without doubt
Play hard play right win or loss giving it your all
Coach does right by the team no need to fight
Lets win and take the season play and do
What the team does best play softball
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
I Love The Feeling Of Dirt Frosting My Skin,
And My White Pants Staining From Muck,
I Pulled Out My Old Friends Today,
My Cleats, My Glove, And My Luck,
I Slipped On My Sliding Pants,
Ones I Haven't Worn For A Season,
The Hole On My Knee Matched It's Scar,
The One I Am Most Proud Of For Many Reasons,
I Just Had To Trace The Stitches Of My Ball,
The One I Missed All Winter,
I Am So Excited To Plow Myself Between Bases,
And Re-Awaken My Inner Sprinter
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
With my eyes closed I'd let my hands roam across your skin, reading all your goosebumps like braille.
I'd listen to your body telling me how to respond, speaking with my hands in case my tongue and lips fail.
Nonverbal conversations because actions speak louder, and conversations getting crazy in these late hours.
Speaking yet not speaking. Kisses are breathtaking. Touching. Squeezing. Holding a conversation.
Nervous? I'm searching but i'm still uncertain. Think you can make this heart fulfill its purpose?
Beneath the surface I'm imperfect. Yet on the surface still imperfect. It makes no difference if we pull these curtains.
Let's leave them closed then and stay here. Lay here. Say we're in a race here, but i'm not tryna finish first...
Pillow talk and under covers with these conversations. Before I hit a home run i cover all my bases. ;)
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Nobody marching toward us
Their guns making us die.
No tanks are come clanking
No bombers in the sky.
But our Congress and generals
When oil or bases seem needed;
We appear armed and threatening
Peace and love talk not heeded.
No country has attacked us
With troops and lethal artillery.
But our leaders expect us to
Go open up their arteries
And **** their women and children
And laugh while they all die
And we are expected to do this
And never think to ask why.
It’s almost like big companies
Were sad when WW2 ended
So they started attacking countries
We really should have befriended.
We let Russia have free reign
To **** and ****** and steal
Almost as if their aggression
Wasn’t really true or even real.
We looked around and made them,
Those evil old warlike excuses,
That some country threatened freedom
And we pretended they weren’t ruses.
We attacked Korea and Vietnam
We were just supposed to observe
That they were yellow people there
And think they got what they deserved.
We didn’t stop there, as Reagan took
A duly elected leader and put him in jail.
If any country did that to our country
The conservatives would howl and rail.
Then the Bushes tried their best to take
Iraq to steal their oil and punish them
And created an era of stronger hatred
And anti-American outrage and mayhem.
No foreign country has attacked America;
So, the point bears repeating once again.
We need to stop acting like bullies here
And start acting like decent statesmen
And women who have the bigger picture;
The growth of peace in our battered world
So, other countries will not take their guns
And shoot our flag when it’s unfurled.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony
the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows
****
*****
*****
all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion
once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ********** had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women
if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support
don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty
riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist
it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
slut-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance
either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete
in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like
****
*****
*****
and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term
feminist
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
You're my storm cloud disguised as sunshine
but your masquerade never stops the rain.
Laughs like lightning flashing across your face
sharp and dangerous, followed by the thunder of
my ignorance, cluing you in on how far your lies
stretch into my desperation to be wanted.
Lightning.
Thunder.
Oh I never thought
I was that funny
Your electric strings
Pull the punch lines out of my mouth.
Thunder.
The lightning's best friend.
Thunder.
You must really like me
You must have told your friends about me too.
Because that cackles coming out of their
throats when I tell a joke sound just like
the storm, the zigzags of fire that tear through the clouds.
telling me how funny I am, how much they love having me around.
How you need me.
Time for my response… its my job right?
Thunder.
Thunder.
Why is it now that the way you curl your lips
when I make my jokes
looking
less
and less
like a smile?
Your friends know that shape
and they know how to make their lips look the same way.
Is it some contagious thing that they all have, and disease
passed around the room every time that lightning escapes.
But they all think I am funny
It must just be a friend thing…
I should learn how to do it too.
Thunder.
Thunder.
Streaming pixels
Blurry faces of “friends”
it must have been a mistake
The love me
next time,
I’ll make sure to clear it up with them
why wouldn't they want me to attend?
Thunder.
Thunder.
Glances like knives
Darting through the air like flies
and infestation of insects that
carry messages that
I don’t understand.
But they do.
Like a major league team
catch after catch
never missing those eyes that
seem a little bit darker
and a little bit colder.
Passing the ball around the bases
returning the favor.
Why can’t I grip ball that seems to bind
them all together
leaving trails of
text messages
and parties
that I was not invited to
this ball that seems to always
keep me on the outfield.
And how come everytime that ball goes
around
and
around….
its feels like
a punch to the stomach
never ceasing to knock me
down
and
leave me
breathless.
This must be what friendship feels like…
Thunder.
Is it?
because I look around
these hallways
where I always walk to fast
trying to keep up
yet I am always
one
step
behind.
I see that
these other girls
walk in straight lines
arms joined so that no one
falls
too
far behind
yet I’m always walking in
dizzy circles
wondering when they will
turn around to see if I am
still following,
still standing,
still funny.
Thunder, the lightning's best friend…
but that is never who I was to you.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
there's something vulnerable
about your *****
babe - whenever
I watch that pepper bush
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to finger the moist bases;
there's something vulnerable
about your buttocks:
babe - whenever
your warm arse's in my palm
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to dig into the honey vases;
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
With the start of the first inning
as the wind whistled through the tree's
Our short stop had his shoulder broke
and the fates blew in on the breeze
This team was a thorn in the side
of the Harding Presidents Club
It was on this night my son Tate
was scheduled to play as a sub
The kid pitching for North Union
hurled a cooking heater down field
You could hear that freight train coming
as it's hide was 'bout to be peeled
Their coach then rallied his talent
pressing their shoulders to the wheel
like natives dancing 'round a fire
driving devils who'd struck a deal
A death defying mid-air, catch
the bounding, ball tossed on the run
The Devil was in town this night
riding in on the setting sun
They dove and slid then nearly flew
as if the angels rode their backs
While running bases half possessed
plowing the field with cleated tracks
No one remembered the last time
that our team had beaten this bunch
That night they took the field in style
serving them all up for their lunch
,
The dice kept coming up seven
and oh prophetically so
When the sun had finally set
the score was seven to zero
Come ye father's follow your child
through the tough times every one
For the oft chance will someday come
when they will have finally won
Tate
© 2012 Tate Morgan
Written
April 12, 2014
Americans love the underdogs.
original
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1342622/
Original video poem of the same
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1354978/
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
By herself in the dark with nothing at heart,
being so smart only plays a small part.
Take it back to start and place your mark
on the people, the faces, the parties, the places.
Tighten up your laces, we got a few more bases
but she's stuck in that stasis.
Memories fade like a fragrance
so of course the pain gets
too much to handle.
Too much flame and not enough candle.
Burn bright and burn hot
for everything we've fought.
All that you've sought is the only thing I've got.
*Beyond an open book
they're just pages on the floor,
you can give 'em a look
if you know what you're searching for
there's a fine line between flowing and bleeding,
an even thinner one between knowing and believing
and **** near none at all between showing and deceiving*
Every rose has its thorn but she's just a dandelion
so I blew her mind
to watch her thoughts start flying.
It's all water under the bridge now,
but I'll throw you off and burn that bridge down.
I don't want you to drown...
just want to see if your ability to sink or swim kicks in.
I only took your breath away to watch you suffocate,
but I keep hearing you wheezing
like your barely even breathing.
So deceiving,
are you walking away?
Or just leaving?
Forever is the word he tagged on the walls in her mind,
so she walked those halls
with a bucket of paint thinner and hand full of time.
Her walls are too thick too strong with all that brick
maybe a lil acid will do the trick.
But he only came equipped
with some elbow grease and lil bit of spit...
The voice in his head whispered
"Now get to work kid"
So he did;
and never learned when to quit.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 9:42 PM UTC
Dad this suitcase hurts
I don't like it
It makes me feel unwanted
All of my favorite things fit in this suitcase
All of my things stay zipped in this suitcase
I can fit in this suitcase
If I can fit in this suitcase
Why do I go anywhere
Why do I sleep here
I have no home
Everywhere is home
My suitcase goes everywhere with me
And I know this may hurt for you to hear
Because you never liked the suitcase either
But, "you have to pick and choose your battles" right?
You have to let some things go
Isn't that how you say it?
How does it feel to let this one go
How'd it feel to let me go
Don't be so surprised
Nothing wins in a battle with avoidance
No one holds court with the jester
And no one laughs at the comic who didn't get on stage
T-ball starts in the spring pops
Sign me up
I want to learn how to play
I want to wear baseball hats
And run the wrong way around the bases
Ooh I would thoroughly enjoy to miss the ball entirely off the tea
Maybe even fall down trying to field a grounder
Will you get me a blizzard when the games is over?
Will you wake up to play catch with me before work?
Please sign me up
I want to play
I want to swing
Swing pops
Pick this one
Pick and choose this one
I hate this suitcase
It has wheels
I can go anywhere with it
I don't want to go anywhere
I want to be home.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 4:19 AM UTC
Red Velvet has been lauded for breaking stereotypes
among popular girl groups in South Korea, whose concepts
tend to fall under two categories: "cute, or "pure" and ****
to fulfill a certain fantasy; in a country where girl groups'
fan bases are typically male, according to Taylor Glasby
of Dazed Digital, the majority of Red Velvet's fans are young
women and commented that "They {Red Velvet & ReVeluv}
are neither **** nor innocent, the band's music videos are often
dark, trippy, sinister, or haunting, even when they're flooded in
pastel colors". In 2017, IZE Magazine named the group
as one of the successful female figures who helped transform
the passive image of South Korean women at a time when
feminism had risen as an issue in the country. The group's music
also sets them apart from other K-pop artists. K-pop idols in general
suffer from a prejudice that they aren't considered real musicians
by music critics. But because of the group's diverse musical
inspirations and styles, these critics have since claimed that Red Velvet
has pushed the boundaries of music in the early 21st century.
In February 2018, Time magazine named Red Velvet
as one of the best K-pop groups ever, highlighting
their versatile musical styles;
Red Velvet was recognized
for their brand recognition and marketing power,
having topped _'Girl Group Brand Power Ranking'_
published by the Korean Corporate Reputation
Research Institute for three consecutive months.
Red Velvet performed in Pyongyang on April, 1 2018.
This made them the fifth idol group to ever perform
in North Korea. They performed "Red Flavor" & "Bad Boy"
at the East Pyongyang Grand Theater to an audience
that included Kim Jong-un. The concert was billed
as "Spring is Coming" and is part of a wider diplomatic
initiative between the ROK & the DPRK
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
3.7k
bases on the character Blanche DuBois from Streetcar Named Desire a play by Tennassee Williams
Crushed white satin
Hot baths on warm days
Polka music makes me sway
That young man I wish had stayed
Light dances around me
Never daring a touch
Here in the lantern light
All a lady has is her looks
Stranger Stranger everywhere
Darkness always a little too near
Shep oh Shep where are you dear?
"I don't know you" please get off
For star and the common pig
I leave no words of fancy
For now I sit with pen an paper
In the light of a padded room
and the piano was still slow and blue
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
Smiles turn into frowns
Bracelets turn into blades
Soda turns into *****
Love turns into hate
Laughter becomes tear drops
Boys become toys
Baseball is then all about the bases
Running past numerous faces
Friends become enemies
What was once a rose, now nothing but thorns
From energetic to tired and worn
Sponge Bob to *** tapes and ****
I love you
I want you gone
We go from 12 to 20
Now he's far more than a buddie
Hmmm, smells like teen spirit
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
I sit, fingers dancing,
while the trumpets' notes are a'prancing,
it seems like music is romancing,
and Beethoven is laughing.
Da da da da, da da da da, the motif continues,
and I am deep within the throes,
of some of the deepest woes,
and Beethoven is laughing.
Don't you see the smile,
the rapid bowing of the bases all the while?
why do you seem to be beguiled?
And Beethoven is laughing.
Tell me, do you not hear the first movement in the third?
Is not the motif to be heard?
do you not get the seemingly absurd
Beethoven is laughing.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.
They pipe in.
The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.
My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
The elixir that I take in,
To indulge all of my deadly sins.
Eighty proof of malign madness,
Trapped in a bottle of rancid bases.
**** my insecurity,
And drown me in my reverie.
Where all the worst become the best,
Where fear and shame cannot arrest.
Each trickle burns my frozen core,
A second turns to forevermore.
The holy water from the river Styx,
That forces every mime to speak.
Stay with me 'til I succumb,
To this empty heart that's gone benumbed.
When this head's befuddled with every lie,
Until they look true before these jaded eyes.
My most loyal companion,
Don't wake me while I'm woebegone.
I'll intoxicate this bleeding heart,
And let this hell just fall apart.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC
Brian was the perfect teammate. We were team parents and out numbered 3-2. But he was a strong enough player to hold a level playing field. When bases were loaded, he was the catcher and tagged our children before they could score a run. His commitment to our team made us strong and we did the best that we could to hold them on base during the teenage years. But their team was stacked. Three heavy hitters ready to stand up to the championship team… Wow! What an amazing game we all played together. And I had an outstanding coach.
But one day, one of their player’s was injured and could no longer play the game. It was a sad day, the day we realized that we were one team and that one of our star players would not be there to help bring our team back to victory! We suffered a few bases, but even though we did, we still came out winners….
Krystalyn married the man of her dreams. She brought 2 new players to the game, Joel and Zoey. 3 runs there. Sean has gotten sober and is in school to be an oral assistant. Score 3 more. I have moved on to be G-Ma and the proudest parent I can be… I scored 3. Brian fell in love, remarried and shared our family victories. 4 more runs.
What an awesome team. We are sad that Brian was injured and cannot play anymore. We will miss our coach. . But, we are happy he and Jay are together now in the bleachers and keeping score. We are still winning…. 13-0.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
A good Pi means you can't
Resist, or have a piece
It should be almost
Sensual, to the tongue
But only in the mouth
This Pi is the mind
Which is sensual in itself
But only when you know
The lace is a lattice
Spider webbing a donut
Delicate in design
Intricate, but precise
Pi is of the mind
It's visual representation
Spectrum of colors
Covered the bases
And even a reflection
Of itself, geometric
Colors and mechanics
The Gemini Pi(e)
Is like unto the same
Complexity, Reflecting
Precision, and in that
Expressed in every
Spectrum of color
And delicious
(In the mouth)
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,--
Their bases on the mountains--their white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet ****** from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
2.3k
It was a Saturday night in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned
Logan Robertson
10/18/2018
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
by
rgpage
I never cried in viet nam,
I just seemed to take it in.
The missing limbs and twisted flesh
friends one day and gone the next.
Was I too young to understand?
And need someone to take my hand?
No mother there to hold my hand
no father there to teach me ways.
To lead me through the day by days.
Just left alone, and alone I stayed
Instead I found my bottle friend
to stay my tears and hide my fears.
Back then “charley” felt they owned the night.
With blusterous thud the mortars hit,
Of saying hi it was “charley’s” way
then to be my friend by day.
From no where came the dragon ship,
and tipping his left wing
as a polite executioner saluting his victim just before unleashing hell.
W/ firery tongue lapping up the earth while mini-guns
roared, eagerly devouring all living things,
leaving “charley” w/ no where to run.
All clear, a small visit w/ my bottle friend
and back to sleep in the alcohol deep.
I was no John Wayne, I didn’t fight the war
a target yes for “charley’s” sights
when the sun gave way to night.
But no, I didn’t fight.
I never cried glossary:
Charley=VC=viet cong=enemy: by day he acted like any of the population, some were even employed around the various bases. But at sundown he would turn…
Dragonship=C-47=2 or 3 several barreled mini-guns mounted on left side of the plane capable of firing a few 1000 rounds per minute each w/ a phosphorous round placed at every 6th round a tracer. At night this made it look like a steady stream of fire coming from the plane, hence the name “dragon ship” or “puff the magic dragon.” To aim the pilot had to dip his left wing and fly in a counter clock wise fashion. Very effective weapon…
Written for a special friend A.S.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC