Beefsteak poems on Hello Poetry

Carl Sandburg

Prairie

I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.

betterdays Apr 2016

beefsteak and oxheart

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa

These tomatoes were the staple of our summer salads, **** and juicy.....nothing like the insipid tomatoes found in grocery stores today...
My grandfather won numerous prizes at country shows for these tommies....he grew them with great love and dedication.....

#napowrimo2016bd

Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023

This Grand America

Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another, thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise, machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters, bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ

Marshal Gebbie Nov 2011

The Money Men

Resultant from years of financial haggling
The Money Boys come to the fore
Capitalizing on predatory trading
Manipulating for profits galore.
Leveraged stocks and debt obligation
advantage producing high dividend yield,
Squeezing the borrowers mortgage commitment,
Showing the hopeless the foreclosure field.
Passionless people with passionless faces
Smiling with fathomless eyes at your plight,
Knowing that if foreclosure is pending
Return on the sale will turn out all right.

Inflationary pressures are gradually worsening
Our Treasury man is flexing his arm
He’s keeping a close eye on monetary policy
Holding the cash rate to stop fiscal harm.
Upside and downsides defy expectation,
Rampantly wobbling the real estate boom,
Uncertainties globally, holding to ransom,
That American sub prime must remedy soon.

The high Government spending and big dairy pay outs
The rocketing prices of everyday stuff
Ridiculous rules for control of emissions
And fiscal expansion that’s really too tough.
Domestic inflation is making it harder
The Treasurer’s threatening to hike it this year
Persistent uncertainties running quite rampant
And our money communities sniffing the air.

Do you have faith in the bank institution?
Do you trust them with all of your funds?
In the event of collapse do you think you’ll be honoured
With return of deposits in full total sum?
Not on your Nellie my fine young depositor
An unsecured creditor fellow are you,
You go to the back of the line if there’s failure
You’re hung high and dry at the end of the queue.
You can yell and complain till the sun sets my friend
Compose all the letters you like to the judge.
But the fact of the matter in Money Men chatter
Means IT’S LEGAL and ON THIS OUR STATE WILL NOT BUDGE!

So the money boys win, never mind about justice
Causing division right here on our plate.
There’s the rich and the poor, the haves and the have nots
Social corrosion in wealth based hate.

Extrapolate out and you witness this worldwide
The fabulous West and the destitute poor,
The pina coladas and Chevrolet excess
Thin starving kids on dirt African floors.
Indulgent young starlets with ******* teasers
Black Ethiopian mothers in rags.
The fat and the frivolous gorging on beefsteak
Filthy and homeless men begging for ****.

When you bring it all back it’s a fraudulent system
Where the money men cause a division in man
Instead of devising a planet of sharing
They grab and they gouge and they keep all they can.
The God of GET is worshipped widely, Egocentric, selfish man
Tomorrows future hangs in the balance.
…WOULD YOU LAY ODDS ON GETS’ GREAT PLAN ?

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
25 January 2008

© 2011 Marshal Gebbie

David Nelson Dec 2013

Hamburger Hell

Hamburger Hell

Beefsteak Charlie says to Porky the Pig
I can see the party lights
someone's throwin' a bash and it sure looks big
down at the slaughter house tonight
say lets get together and hit the buffet
you might as well stuff yourself
they'll only throw it away

Old Colonel Sanders says to Elsie the Cow
golly baby you're the one
two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce,
pickel, cheese, onions on a sesame seed bun
say we just got time for a roll in the hay
might as well stuff yourself
they're here to take you away

I know where you're going, I can tell
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell

don't misunderstand me I wish you well
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell

lyrics by Todd Rundgren

Gomer LePoet...

the Runt rocks out in this foot stomper

Del Maximo Oct 2014

LALA'S GARDEN

white roses and Jacob's Coat
purple bearded irises and ferns
dark red wax begonias
scents of night jasmine
French lavender
antique tea roses
loquat, plum, guava and lemon trees
all swaying with an ocean breeze
casting shadows in the setting sun

memories of childhood
bamboo and nipa houses
coconut groves and fragrant banana
witches, faeries and wok-woks
a favorite white haired grandfather
living off land and sea
harvesting root crops and fruit
fishing for viand
barefoot and ******* sarongs
in a private paradise miles from town
bonfire festivities
tuba wine and drunken salamats
an open adoption
a house tiled with affluence
and visits back home
a war's interruption
people lost or found
married off to life in America
lumpia, pancit, beefsteak and beeco
spaghetti, burgers, *** roast and pizza
dinner's table set for eleven
the house on Wagner street
the loss of husband and son
advancing age and declining health
ER's and ICU's
a final farewell

a garden of children
grand children and great grand children
branches in Lala's family tree
her progeny sprouting roots
looking to the future

© 09/28/14
the first stanza is the garden she tended with the setting sun referring to the end of her life
the second stanza is the garden of the life she lived
the third stanza is the garden she left behind
(I was told the explanation helps)

Nisa West Oct 2011

XXIV.

That class is sponsoring a thorough bred fair—creating war winning story that doesn't fit neatly onto a bumper sticker. Only a standard reply from featherless wing—bloviating an appeal to the conscientious authority. Go back: polish the Augean non-staples, rear up stallions to break geldings, eat beefsteak, drink whiskey at whistle, stop. That class only teaches a Greek hero clean-up. Meanwhile, they claim victory.

S Wesley Mcgranor Feb 2021

More Animated

Summer time -

the romantic time -

for picnic in the park -

with obscene *******.

She has a smile -

that is not ***** -

but is clean,

and praiseful;

witnessing the heavens -

declare our glory.

Naughty?

Wanton?

Sin is puzzled...

Assuming wrongly it pauses.

Beefsteak lollipop creamhorn,

and chocolate cake,

cherry bon bon,

honeysuckle

with coffee.

Shocking the sordid and sullen, as they look for wickedness to relate to.

The warmth of God upon us...

Elohim, Adonai, Tetrgrammaton, Jesus!

© S. Wesley Mcgranor
6/10/96

It was a Spring day and she sat on it, and there was no lust, and nor malice. {A.J.B.}

#valentine

Robin Carretti May 2018

Peel Me Grate Me-Greater

Honey...** slide
Beehive
Hand it over
high five

The Spa
his face peel
The great
closure
When you have nothing
It's quite a pleasure to touch
to come closer hug to feel
Moms home potato
Latkes enjoying
her meal
((The Great Lakes))
The tough skin on
The outside picnic
Checkerboard cover inside
Is the sour cream taking sides
With his cup, I am beside
him yum?

Layers of me sweet---/Pie/
Slightly salted spread-tie

He buttered me
Those words
well graded
or grated
Peel me grate me
The greater
expectation

The flirtation
with the
bigger than life
Engagement to
please me whats
between

The beefsteak rye
Restarts his engine
The greater speed
Eyes doorway style
The Regime
true lie
So Sublime
the greater
love mile
A desperate glimpse
of hope

The graphical logical
scope
but fear ever so near
The presence
Changing color
forms
Grate me in
love forms
All terms

Our names
became
all good germs
No way out to
cope
My greater
expectation
So familiar he met
my tears
# + years
Peel me grate--- me
The greater times
He resides
The greater you are
Why do we leave
to hide
Emotion so
intense
Someone must
be greater
With the aging
romance
Divination_*
Words the greater poets
Do you just know? Or no,
if's or buts
You just feel it
Oh! yes or Love me
not or so tied together
the peel me grate me
Whats greater
than
two lovers**

We made the Knot
So cared for
At its best
communication
The whole
entire nation

This is something I cooked up to come join me in my kitchen no ketchup to catch up. This is the greater expectation of what our words bring we need to be loved with the best communication

#spiritual #mystery #romance #the #greatersuspense

Zac Walter Sep 2016

Untitled

Faint smell of waste. Rotting garbage, feces and human body order. The room reeked of an intolerable stench. Cracked eggshells, molding lettuce, slices of beefsteak tomatoes, month old used coffee grounds, and a pair of peed on gym socks among countless other smelly disgusting things like cat ****.
"Close the ******* garbage can"
' it stinks as much as your guilty conscious'
My hand flung forward with indecision, still closed into a fist. What was I striking? I couldn't see and didn't want hurt myself like so many times before. Schizophrenic, pleaded with with myself. Time slowed to make room to for chaotic thoughts. Slow motions, knuckles seeped into a black goo. Other hand flat, slapped at the abyss. The darkness grabbed me by both hands and dragged me into myself.
A full moon and a tender loving voice. Blackness.
A brewing fire floating above a swimming pool like the eye of a pyramid where deities danced. Everybody I saw under its light gazed towards the idealization of eternal salvation. I stared at the pool, fire, pyramid and its constituents. Blackness.
A maze of hallways. Red-brown brick, vinyl, some glass looking down at the pool where children baptized themselves while parents drank the poison of cultural self-identification.
'At least they know who and where they are'
I took a right, then a left then two more rights down a endless spiral. Blackness.
In angry reconstitution, my mind-state formed lists of things to be furious about. These lists of things were all in plain sight.
'An obvious case of nearsightedness'
The whole room had changed from how i once remembered. The bed was moved as well as the bed stand. Clothes scattered and materialistic shrine of self destroyed. The aura of the room had gone from blue to green. I pledged with violent resolution to solve my issues. Until I smelt the room poisoned with pheromones unlike mine. Until I dropped to my knees and felt somebody i loved and despised. Her smile greeted me while, simultaneously, my heart erupted like an early morning thunder shower. I always loved those type of showers.

... This isnt finished yet. Just a beginning of a short story. Also copyrighted btw.

Logan Robertson Jul 2017

On Closed Doors

he fed the kitty
a little fish
she expressed pity
for such a small dish

wheres the beef
her tongue curled
preening in disbelief
as her eyes hurled

his heart sank
at her prissy mood
drawing a blank
he said its only food

take a bite he coaxed
it surely wont hurt
a palette stroked
for this little squirt

she feigned a headache
laying hoax for fish
her wills in need of beefsteak
leaving his shriveled wishes

on closed doors
his saddened heart pours

Logan Robertson

7/16/17

— The End —