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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
How I Observed the Day of Atonement

If you are unfamiliar with day and its observance,
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

In a place of perfect solitude,
No crowded synagogue within to hide,
No cantor to intercede on my behalf,
I spoke words of mine own creation
To my creator who wisely empowers me
To judge myself, for knowing, none harsher,

We two,
Old travel companions,
Upon worn grayed, adirondacke thrones,
We overlooked,
A natural prayer place,
Bay and breeze, white-clouded and sun-laced.
Only the full time inhabitants, the animals,
Grayling butterflies to match and contrast,
Eavesdropping on our Greek dialogos, in this,
Palace of Perfect Solitude.

Amiable did we chat,
I of family, this and that.

He, wearied from recent travel,
To Syria and India,
Was glad for a day off,
For he had little to do,
But wait for twilight,
To then close the books.

For us no formality, easy the going,
No prosecutor no defender in residence,
For we exchange these roles intermittently,
The incriminatory, the penance, all deeds displayed,
No adult games of winking eyes, and
Hidden heart, secret chambers,
Rabbinical or angelic intercession.

He does so love his Bach,
Adagio on strings,
My soothing gift to him,
This music more than divine.

He returned this courtesy.

Warming sun to expose my chest,
Cooling genteel breeze offsetting,
The bay emptied of wayfaring skiffs and yachts.

A cooling beverage proffered,
But sighing, he said that he had yet to find
A beverage that his kind of thirst could slake.
For his eyes, tho shining, did not effervesce,
As when we shared this day in years past.

Too much killing, this year,
It tires me so to tabulate human excess,
Spoke not a word, for my critique would
Comfort him less, if at all.

Thanks for Kol Nidre, he plainted,
So I too can disavow,
The best intended oaths I took and take,
For each year, I fail more than the year before.

If only I could sit with each,
As I do with you,
Where what needs saying,
Is said, understood, undisguised as praying.

A schooner to the dock did appear,
For him it attended, for him, it waited,
Sails, both black and white.

He stood to depart, my arms-grasped, taken, he graphing,
Measuring my fortitude, my strengths, my divinity.

I do so love this day in your company.
I shall sit with you again one year on,
Bach sweet when next we meet, please.

Soft spoke, as almost I should not hear,
Your time is nigh, no thing I create is forever.
He spoke with such sadness,
For well I knew, the intent, his meaning.

He, for-himself, saddened, for he loved
Sitting  beside me in this manner,
Since my inception, never deception,

Only He resting easy, when he atoned before me,
And I gave him his absolution conditional,
As he gave me,
mine
September  2013
Diverseman2020 Dec 2009
A drink that I remember
On a cold wintry night
By the steamy fireplace
We shared hot chocolate lattes
Cozy in each other arms
Her reflection by the candlelight
Seem warmth,but beautiful
A beverage in one hand
Our hearts in another
Comforting to a sudden twist
I relish those days of loneliness
Now that a unity is formed
As doves nesting in love
Can this night last a little longer
Until the dawn breaks us
Slumbering
In dreams of sweetness
While the lattes remain cold
As darkness overrides me
I push away
Causing this dream to face
A reality that is mine
But only a fool's rekindle
She asked: "if your personality was a beverage, what would it be?"

"Well..." I said.
"it'd be smoothe going down. Or at least I like to think so.
It'd be sweet. But,
You know how there's like two types of sweet?

There's like the fruity sour, tangy, bright, sugar sweet?

And there's the malty, caramelly, chocolate, foggy sweet?

It'd be later kind of sweet.

It has a certain childish joy too it.
An optimisim, a simpleness,
like... chocolate milk.

But it has a punch.
And it isn't all, childish, it's also
Responsible,
Protective,
Passionate,
Bold,
Loving,
Hard,
Strong hearted,
Mature, like...

...Whiskey.

I'm like... Whiskey Chocolate Milk."
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Here is to the bitter eye of the even sky
The acidic beverage I imbibe
So I can feel just a little more alive
For that cardiac killing back breaking
Blood spilling sweat distilling nine to five
Macstoire Dec 2014
Once upon a Christmas Eve
When his work was nearly nigh
Santa had a tantrum
And threw his presents to the sky

His reindeer started rioting
Unnerved from all the stress
And poor old Mrs Santa
Stood witness to the mess

"My love, please, what is happening?
Think clearly with your head
We've not got time to waste now
Kids wait you from their beds"

So Santa stopped and listened
He knew he hadn't time
"But dear, you see I'm starving
And I'm gasping for some wine"

So simple was the problem
He'd soon be his fine self
They called for pie and beverage
From their ever trusting elf

The elf he soon delivered
And even brought his friends
As word spread of presents fumbled
So they knew they'd need to mend

And thus commenced a workshop
To fix a trick and more
The elves they fixed the presents
To take the impact of the floor

So thankful for the time save
Santa loaded up his sleigh
He hearded up the reindeer
They were fed then on their way

Now dashing through the darkness
On his journey through the sky
Santa soon delivered gifts
They were thrown from way up high

With the magic of the elves touch
They would land in their right place
Because thanks to Santas tantrum
This years Christmas was a race

So then parents starting rousing
Not knowing what to think
"Is it really raining presents
Or did we have too much to drink?"

The children sleeping soundly
Heard the presents on their way
So they woke up with excitement
"Yipee, it's Christmas Day!"

Luckily for Santa
It all worked out to be fine
But Mrs Santa knew for next year
To keep him topped up with some wine!
Ardent Bowel Dec 2012
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.

Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.

Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.

Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****.

Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a ***-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.

Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.

Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.

Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.

Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.

Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.

Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.

Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.

Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
© ardent bowel
http://ardentbowel.wordpress.com
Callum Evans Apr 2010
Throw a few rose petals into the mix.
You always fancied the smell of those.
Do you like mint and sunflower?
I hope so.

Tulips are too soft for you.
I thought you’d prefer buttercups or daffodils.
Don’t worry,
I put both in
for good measure.

Ivy feels nice.
Perhaps you’ll like the taste of it.
Can’t hurt to try.

Remember Christmas?
The mistletoe was romantic.
Perhaps I’ll put some of that in there as well.
The colour’s a little bit off, though.
How about some periwinkle?
Or foxglove, even.
That should make it better.

I hope you like this, dear.
Here, have a sip.
Or two.
© 2010 Callum Evans
Eli Hashaw Mar 2015
Your smile warms my morning like the Thai Lemon Ginger tea that is your favorite.

In fact, a glass of hot water in your presence would not require a tea leaf to be the most exquisite beverage I could enjoy.
E May 2013
Lounging in a chaise
Soaking up warm rays
Peaches and cream
Hills of soft green
Come closer and whisper
"You are my living dream"

Sipping on devotion doesn't fill me up
Pour another drink into my cup
Sugar sweet beverage
The right amount of leverage
When the taste stays on your tongue
Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
This time I won't be the one to cry

Carnival lights and
Forbidden nights
Ruthless and reckless
Take me out for a drive
Dripping ice cream
"You are my daring delight"

Sipping on devotion doesn't fill me up
Pour another drink into my cup
Sugar sweet beverage
The right amount of leverage
When the taste stays on your tongue
Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
This time I won't be the one to cry

Stomach clenched into a fist
Pucker up for a sour kiss
No one to give you a warning
Pursued another the next morning
Bitter words inflict raw pain
"Your misery is my gain"

Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
Shriveled heart awaits to die


I won't be the one to cry
PARTY ZONE WITH DAVE BROWN




DANCERS’   YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE MY ONLY SUNSHINE

YOU MAKE ME HAPPY WHEN SKIES ARE GRAY

I WILL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I LOVE YA

YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY SUNSHINE AWAY

OH YEAH DUDES ROCK AND ROLL

GET UP ON THE DANCEFLOOR AND TOUCH YOUR IMMORTAL SOULS

YEAH, MATE YEAH, YOU’LL LIVE FOREVER

IF YOU DON’T GET A FUCKEN WHITE ****** FEATHER

YEAH YOU ARE OUR PARTY DUDE, OUR ONLY PARTY DUDE

YOU MAKE US HAPPY, FOR BEING ALIVE

YOU’LL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I CAN DRINK BEER

AS I TAKE YOUR COOL KID AWAY

DAVID’  WELCOME TO PARTY ZONE AND ON TODAY’S SHOW WE HAVE BERT ROBERTS

WITH HIS NEW SONG, TITLED YOU AND ME, DREAMING TO BE FREE, IN A CABBAGE PATCH GARDEN

AND NOW HERE IS SUE, BUDDY

SUE’  THANKS AND NOW, WE HAVE GEORGE AND HIS LITTLE JINGLE

GEORGE’  PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY, I MEAN PARTY

IF YOUR WHOLE WORLD DEPENDED ON IT, YOU ****** PARTY

FIRST YOU GO INTO A NIGHTCLUB AND IF MATES DITCHED YOU, OH YEAH

JUST LOOK AT THEM AS LOSERS ANYWAY

PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY I MEAN PARTY

PARTY IN EVERY NIGHT AND ****** DAY

YOU WILL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I ENJOY PARTYING

JUST AS LONG AS YOU CAN BE SAFE, OH ****** YEAH

SUE’   THANKS GEORGE AND HERE IS JUDY

JUDY’   I AM 23 AND I LOVE TO PARTY, DOWN

AND MAKE OLD MISERY GUTSES FROWN

AS THEY ARE TRYING TO BE COOL

YA SEE I HAVE ALL THE FELLAS AROUND ME

I AM HAVING A WOW OF A TIME

AND THEN SOME KIND SIR BOUGHT ME A DRINK

WHICH WAS SODA AND LIME

COME ON OLD MISERY GUTSES , GET OFF YOUR CHAIR

AND NOT JUST TO DO HOUSEWORK, NO MATE NO

YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE CLUB, OH YEAH

AND DRINK YOURSELF SILLY

FOR I AM THE YOUNG DUDE

I WANNA PARTY DOWN

AND MAKE YOU OLD MISERY GUTSES FROWN

AND THAT IS WHAT I DO TEASE THE OLD MISERY GUTS

IN THE OLD MAN SITTING TRYING TO LEFT ALONE

HE SHOULD GET A LIFE, PARTYING, IS THE LAW OF THE LAND

I KNOW BRIAN ALLAN IS YOUR PARTY MAN

AND SO ARE YOU SUE AND DAVID AS WELL

SUE’ THANKS JUDY AND NOW HERE’S PATRICK

PATRICK’  WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT

NO WE’RE AIN’T GOING TO TAKE IT

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

YOU SEE I HAVE THE RIGHT TO MUCK AROUND DUDE

I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO COPE WITH YOUR BULLYING DUDE

SAYING, IF YOU DON’T MUCK WITH US, YOU DON’T BELONG

I SAID, I ONLY MUCK WITH REAL PARTY DUDES

AND I GO TO THE CLUB TO EAT A LOT OF FOOD

AND DADDY SAID, YOU ARE RUDE, YA FOOL, YA FOOL

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT

OUR RULES WE WILL ****** BREAK IT

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

SUE’   THANKS PATRICK AND NOW HERE’S BRIAN


BRIAN’   DON’T MESS ME UP, OR I WILL DRAG YOU DOWN

YOU WANT TO EARN MONEY, I WILL TAKE IT FROM YOU

I GOT TO UNDERSTAND THAT POOR PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE TOO

AND AS I GET ON THE DANCEFLOOR, I DO THE BOOGALOO

AND I SAID IT’LL SCATTER MY BRAIN

AND DRIVE MY MIND TOTALLY INSANE

HEAVY METAL MUSIC, IS MY FORTAE, SO STOP TRYING TO BRING ME DOWN

SUE’  THANKS BRIAN, FOR SHOWING US THE POOR MAN’S PARTY, NOW HERE IS MARTIN

MARTIN’   WHAT A NIGHT WE ARE HASVING TONIGHT

***** AND SMOKES, ACTION A PLENTY

I WILL BUY THE WHOLE CLUB A DRINK

AND THAT WILL COST ME 5 INTO 20

MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE

I WANT TO DANCE TO 100 TUNES

I WANT TO DANCE TO 100 MORE

JUST TO BEAT 199 HOMEBODY’S WHO GO TO BED AT 7 PM

THEY SAY I AM LIKE A 2 YEAR OLD, BUT JUST TO THEM THOSE OLD MISERY GUTSES WHO LOVE TO FROWN

SUE’   OK BACK TO DAVID, THANKS MARTIN

DAVID’   HERE IS BERT ROBERTS, WITH HIS NEW SONG

BERT

I AM, ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

YEAH I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

YOU SEE MATE, I AM ONLY 23, I DESERVE ANY CHANCE TO REALLY PARTY

IF YOU CAN’T EXCEPT THAT, GO HOME AND CUDDLE YOUR PILLOW

AND READ YOUR BOOK WIND IN THE WILLOWS

I LOVE PEOPLE WHO DON’T GO TO BED, NO MATTER WHAT THEIR AGES ARE

BECAUSE GOING TO BED EARLY IS FOR WOOSEYS

YEAH ONLY WOOSEYS GO TO BED EARLY DEAR

I WAS MUGGED BY THE WICKED WITCH

CAUSE MY MATES TREATED ME LIKE A SNITCH

I HATED THAT, SO I TOOK MY REVENGE, BUT YEAH, ****** OATHE I AM THE GRINCH

I STOLE CHRISTMAS FROM THE CHRISTIANS, AND GAVE IT TO THE BUDDHISTS

CAUSE, I DID IT ONCE BEFORE, I GET A KICK FROM DOING THIS, WAY TO GO BERT, THEY SAID BACK TO ME

I AM ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

YEAH I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

YA SEE, I HAVE HAD A HARD HARD LIFE, I DESERVE TO PARTY, AND GET INTO STRIFE WITH YOUR WIFE

AND MY MUM AND DAD, WILL SAY, YOU DON’T NEED TO PARTY, WE LIKE YA

I SAID, BUT I WANNA PARTY, I WANNA BE RICH AND FAMOUS, I WANT TO HELP THE HOMELESS, MAN

THAT’LL BE SO RADICAL DUDES, RADICAL RADICAL RADICAL DUDES

IF YA CAN’T EXCEPT ME FAMOUS, KISS MY ***

I AM ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

DAVID, THANKS BERT, AND HERE IS SUE

SUE’  THANKS DAVID, ON MORE JINGLE

BERT’   IF YA HAPPY AND YA KNOW IT, HAVE A PARTY

AND BE A BIT OF A LITTLE SMART ALEK

DON’T FORGET, WE ARE BORN TO PARTY ON AAA YOUTUBE TV

IF YA HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT HAVE A PARTY

DAVID’ WELL BERT YOUR SONG WAS SO COOL

BERT’  YEAH, MATE, I REALLY LOVE LIFE, ONLY NERDS GO TO BED EARLY

NO MATTER HOW OLD THEY ARE

SUE’   YOU REALLY MEAN THAT

BERT’ YES I DO

DAVID AND SUE TOGETHER

WAY TO GO BERT, SEE YA NEXT TIME, LET’S PARTY DUDES
She said "I think, I'd be coffee."
I had asked her:
if your personality was a beverage,
what beverage would it be?

I reply,
"No. You wouldn't be coffee.

I wake up to a cup of coffee every morning.

If you're going to be coffee you need to have somehing else to you.

Be sweet and cheap with tons of sugar if you have too.

Or more preferably, be locally roasted with high notes and low notes.

Or be dark, bold and roasty.

You can taste like anything!
bing cherry, citrus, earthy, chocolate.

You can't just say coffee.
Coffee deserves so much more explanation than that.

I had coffee brandy once.

I woke up to her every morning and I got drunk off of her.
If I ever stopped drinking water i'd throw her all up and feel sick.
but I would never drink water.

Every morning After I drank her I'd walk down the hall and find a sippy cup full of milk.

Even she was not just milk.
She was strawberry milk.
She was coffee milk.
She was my little coffee milk.

You are not coffee.

I had coffee before and it's gone.
You are water.

I don't wake up to you every morning.
I don't need you to get through my day, yet.

But run you through my filter enough times.
Soak up all my grounds.

Maybe one day,
You can be my coffee.
JJ Hutton Jul 2013
The first time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at Granny's Kitchen in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The waitress, a soft spoken white woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, had just dropped off my plates --- a simple mix of scrambled eggs, two pieces of greasy bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. Now, no matter how cheap, I always feel like I'm cutting loose at breakfast places for the sheer abundance of plates. While I'm sure the eggs and bacon could have shared real estate, each component had its own china.

The waitress lingered at my table, her fingers fidgeting with straws in her apron. I made eye contact. Well, my eyes contacted hers; she was staring at my lips.

Sure I can't get you something to drink? she asked.

This was approximately the tenth time she'd made sure. She was uncomfortable that I had supplied my own beverage -- a Big Gulp. But even more than that, she was uncomfortable by the deep red stain taking over my lips. Contents of the Big Gulp: merlot, boxed.

(That is an unnecessary detail. I've only written it so I never do it again.)

Before Greg hopped up on a table and announced to the restaurant, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, blah, blah blah, I poured a copious amount of syrup on my pancakes. Then I moved the bacon to my pancake plate. In my experience, very little in this life is better than syrup on bacon.

I shut my eyes for that first bite, just like the commercials. The syrup dribbled a bit onto my beard, and when I opened my eyes, I discovered it had also landed on my shirt. I grabbed a napkin. Heard a chair slide backwards. I started with my beard, peering around the diner, making sure no one saw. I think I heard someone gasp. But I was busy, working that napkin then against my shirt. Jesus, I thought. My grandma, who's got a splash of the Parkinson's, could eat with more grace.

If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, a very official voice boomed behind me.

I turned around to see if I recognized him as one of those cuffed jean-sporting, wild plaid-loving NPR hosts. He wasn't one of those. He was a sunburn with mop hair in a black tank top and hemmed jean shorts. He did, however, have a cleft chin. That's actually worth noting. Don't see a lot of them these days.

I know you guys are busy, he said. I know that like me, you guys are probably broke as hell. I mean no offense Granny's, I love this place, but it ain't exactly four stars. Or three. Anyway, all I want from each of you is five dollars. If you ain't got five, give me four. Ain't got four, three. And so on.

He started with the stringy Japanese couple on the west side of the restaurant. Nobody really seemed scared, not the freckled brat in canvas sneakers, not the liver-spotted gentleman with a copy of that day's paper.

My old friend Jerome used to say that white folks are the only romantic criminals. He tacked it up to that whole Bonnie and Clyde crap. Greg, it seemed, was privy to that information, too. He smiled and thanked each person as he robbed them of a few presidents. The victims, smiling back, seemed to be thinking of their names tagged at the end of some newspaper dialogue. A few even gave more than he asked.

Here, take fifteen. Times will get better.

Aren't you just a charmer.

It was all very moving.

So he gets to me, and of course, I don't have any cash. I carry a debit and an arsenal of credit cards like a normal American. I don't know how he made it to me before running into this particular problem.

No, I don't have one of those iPhone card swipers, he said. Well, you gotta give me something.

I offered a gift card to Harold's Clothes for Men, it had like two bucks on it, but he wasn't interested.

What's your name?

Henry.

How much do you weigh?

Enough to keep me prohibited from most amusement park rides.

I like you, Henry. Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever loved a man? he asked, pointing his smudgy revolver just past my ear.

I shook my head no.

Me neither. I've always been curious, though. You been curious?

There was a time when I was thirteen -- Blake Hinton was changing after basketball practice -- and I remember thinking, that is an incredible chest. These lines just sprawled from his sternum, lines leading to these almond *******, and I specifically remember wanting to eat them like, well, almonds. But that hardly counts as curious. So, I said, No.

To which Greg responded: Get curious, boy. You're coming with me.


In the spirit of honesty, I was in a bit of a haze before Greg made me climb into his beat up Cavalier. Not just from the Big Gulp brimmed with merlot, no, I hadn't slept in two days prior to the whole gun-in-face incident. Reason being, I was, as Greg would say, broke as hell, and the rent was due. I stayed up both nights conspiring (and drinking). So, really I was pretty thrilled to be kidnapped away from the whole situation.

I had visions. I guess from the lack of sleep. Maybe they weren't visions, maybe just dreams, or fever dreams, I don't know. All I know is I blinked, and we were in the Appalachians. And there was a grey longbeard in the backseat rattling on and on about how change is easy, movement is easy; it's that whole nesting thing that takes courage and strength, blah, blah, blah. I told him to be quiet. Greg told me to get some sleep. I blinked.

We were in a karaoke bar in Madison, Tennessee. There was a gin and tonic in front of me. I took a drink. There was a water with lime in front of me.

Greg asked, Where did you go?

I told him, your dreams, trying to be cute. He turned and asked the bartender for a Yeager bomb. Reaching for the server in -- granted -- an overly dramatic gesture, I said, Make it two. We made it three. We made it four. Seven. Then some vague, but perfect number, because my head rang right. The words came right. And I was a journalist, asking Greg all the right questions.

I'm not a criminal, he said.

I was just bored, man, he said.

You see, I was in a rut, he said. Last month I put up a personal on Craigslist. I know, it's pretty ******* desperate. I've read the kind **** people put on there. But mine was different. I just wanted some time with my ex-wife. Some couch ***, you know? We hadn't done it on a couch since I dropped out of college, and I hadn't even really thought about it until a couple weeks after the divorce. Then it was all I could think about.

A black woman, whose teeth glowed under the black light, began singing "Wild Horses." Then he read my mind, I think.

Yeah, she answered it. Did our thing on her sofa. It was nice and all, and like all nice things, you just want more, but she said I couldn't have no more, this was a fluke, a one-time, or no, a one-off thing, she said. Had to relocate, so that's why I did that whole thing at Granny's.

You ever get it on a couch? he asked.

No, I said. I've see a bra though --- two actually.

He took that as a joke, which was good.

Though wild horses couldn't drag me away, a gasoline horse could.


He handed me a courtesy breath mint after I finished throwing up. The Nashville skyline looks perfect, he said. Especially at night.

My stomach was gravel in a washing machine. Masculine love. At gunpoint, I had agreed to indulge it. I was going to make love to a man -- not just a man -- a criminal. Not something to write about on a postcard.

Mr. Winters, my esteemed landlord,
Apologies about the rent. Got kidnapped by a *******, and I'm presently banging and being banged by him in Music City, USA.


I blinked.

We laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized mattress.

I always liked Super 8s, Greg said. I don't see the point in spending so much on a hotel. A bed is a bed.

And I tried to be funny with something about the confidentiality of dark bedsheets, but it fell flat.

Greg cried. I love my ex-wife, he said.

Can I help?

Will you hold me? he asked.

The air conditioner kicked on in the already freezing room.

I'm sorry. You don't have to, he said.

I scooted against him. He smelled pleasant in a family-vacation-kind-of-way, like a fresh pretzel covered in salt. I put my arm under his neck. He buried his face into my shoulder. I blinked.


The front end of his Cavalier was held together with copper wire and coat hangers. It was a two-door. Both doors dented from, according to Greg, hit-and-runs. It had a Vermont plate on the back. It was red. I mention all of this to say: if we kept moving, we were bound to get pulled over.

In the parking lot of 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer, Greg asked me to retrieve his revolver from the glove compartment. You kinda have to uppercut it, he said. And I did.

I don't want to do it again, but we have to. I'm not staying put, not until I hit the ocean. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone.

He showed me the revolver. No bullets. I nodded, in approval, I guess.


The second time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer in Bellevue, Tennessee. Of course, it was the same man, Greg, but the circumstances were a little different.

I went with two orders of biscuits and gravy --- or B & G as my dear friend Chance affectionately calls it. Four bites in and I'd yet to hit biscuit. For a moment, I wanted to tell Greg, C'mon man, ***** the ocean. Tennessee does gravy the way God intended. Nobody would find us in this suburb. We could be sharecroppers. Do they still have sharecroppers?

Do you like fresh corn? I asked. It was the first crop that came to mind.

Greg didn't answer. I noticed his plate of hash browns and eggs -- sunny-side up -- were untouched. You okay?

He was, he said, trying to get in the zone, that's all.

Alright.

Our waitress looked like a poster child for ******'s Youth. She couldn't have been much more than sixteen. She had blonde -- almost white -- hair. Her eyes changed color with the intensity and direction of light, a gradient between seaweed and dark ocean blue. She appeared to be an amish girl gone defective, and I was about to inquire into that very supposition when Greg stood on the table, and said, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second.

Tennessee is not North Carolina. In North Carolina, they got a healthy aversion to firearms. In Tennessee, however, once a babe can walk, the *******'s got a BB gun and an endless supply of empty soda cans for target practice. I say that, to say this: when Greg stood on the table, so did three other men. Their three guns pointed right at him.

Lower that gun, brother. You ain't gettin' any money out of us.

Hate to shoot you in front of your boyfriend.

Coffee spilled and ran off the tray our waitress held. She shook so hard, it wasn't clear how many women she was.

Greg's cleft chin centered on one gunman, than the other, than the other.

Just drop the gun, *******.

We don't want to ruin no one's breakfast.

Fellas, I said, he doesn't have any bullets in his gun. We need a little money that's all.

That ****** is just trying to protect him.

I'm calling the cops, a purple-haired old woman yelped from under her table. Silverware clanged against the floor. Then the buzz of a fly. Then the pop of fries drowning in grease. Then the bell chimed as some idiot walked inside.

Greg's arm was shaky as he pointed the gun at me. Do you love me? he asked.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I put my arms up. Slid my chair back a ways. Stepped on the chair, then unto the table.

Do you love me? Greg asked.

His breath smelled like last night's alcohol and that morning's coffee. He was a child, a sunburnt child with a cap gun. He wasn't going to hurt anyone.

I put my hand on top of the revolver and lowered it. He crumpled, as if I were scolding him. They still pointed their guns at us. But for the first time in my life, I felt secured, tethered to a space.

I lifted Greg's chin up with my index finger. Covered his eyes with the palm of my hand. And I kissed him. I kissed him, keeping my eyes closed tight.
emma joy Dec 2012
My mother drinks cranberry juice and lemon tea to detox herself.
She says it gives her a clear mind
I drink Clorox
She takes it away.
Alexander Klein Mar 2013
"Neither heaven nor earth will be at peace if
I don't find it on my ******* desk
before six," snarled Julius Caesar into his cell
To the smell of ubiquitous coffee.
I was blended in line, and could see all:
Caesar's smart sharkskin-grey suit clearly
Some modern beguilement to help him blend, too.
Gone were silks linens and laurels,
I only knew him from the meridians of his face
And the crash of command in his baritone;
I had known that heartfelt stone and all its loss
Grown from titanic achievement. This man
Had scaled Olympuses to clasp his wreaths
And wore them well, though stonewise. Then,

She took my shriveled paper president
Apparently to fund her mascara habit
And I went to wait in the amorphous collective
For those done waiting in line.
From even across the establishment,
Opposite the opulent armchairs,
His muffled business-curses floated with aroma
And I realized the importance of blending.
(One of their machines had broken
Which is why I had time to wonder at all.)
Without a blended beverage, beans and water are
All I'd own: one taste would destroy the other.

I can become the air and sometimes do,
When I am sick from being bean or broth,
And this was how I saw so well
His snakeskin tongue and his eagle's claws
And plights of Gaul that his face told.
All this I saw while blended, so,
He saw me not. If a bean in his coffee,
No doubt he'd grind me to clay
To better insulate his office from the wind.
(It's not that I despise malleability
But that sometimes a gust can be helpful
When waging ****** campaigns.
Also, clay cannot sing.) I sing,
When I can. I wonder what a tactician
Could know of that fragile thing called music
That graces us best when half at-rest.
Though some say that Caesar shook, thus
He may have been mad; he may have had music.

"That's not what concerns me Karen,"
Intoned the Emperor of Rome,
"You don't take responsibility when you ***** up. Yesterday--"
But I didn't hear about that because
My blended beverage was ready. So out
Into the fresh of air with my cup of cardboard,
I snuck a farewell glance through the glass
At that gracious lionskin monarch
Unblended in the coffee shop.
It seems his damning sin was zeal
And possession of a mighty stature --
And deafness to Calpurnia's fear.
Her ugly dreams I carry with me now
And hope I passed none stealthier than I,
Perhaps some well-cloaked Cassius
Or Brutus lost in hidden bravado waiting
To penetrate Caesar in the parking lot.
Stu Harley Apr 2015
what
clear blue sky
be
not
filled
to
the brim
said i
with
the beverage of
hope
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
The castle kitchens had big fireplaces, where the oxen and the meat
Were roasted on spits. The cookies were baking, roasting by using the heat.
The pantries were hung with birds, swans, pigeons, rabbits, mutton, ducks,
Venison and wild boar. Suddenly, the spring life became a luminous flux.

Everywhere on the tables, there were berries, nuts, and other fruits.
In the rooms, there were pottery, glass, fabrics, jackets, dress coats,  
Sweaters, bodices, pants, petticoats, silk, music, joy, pewter utensils,
Jewelry, purses, shoes, hats, ties, powders and eyebrow pencils.

‘The guests will arrive and the food is not ready, yet’, whispered Pauline.
'You can hurry a little’, said Frieda, ‘Guess, who's coming!’ ‘The queen!'
Anne tasted all the fresh food and drinks and found them well prepared.
'After you finish, open the windows, because the rooms are not aired.'

Queen hurried away, leaving behind a whiff of perfume and stress.
'Do you see her through the window? ‘What a splendid wedding dress!'
"Jezebel is beautiful. I heard that the marriage can change the doom.'
'Yes, the bad fortune of the bride can bring a bad fate for the groom.'
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

(At the monastery, Clara and Mary were preparing their luggage to go to the wedding.)

'I'm talking about this false teaching, which left me confused’, said Mary.
'No one is sinless perfect', said Clara, ‘we’re God's children. Be wary!'
'She hates her sisters; she walks in the darkness, while being so blind.'
'But God is Light, and the prayers have the power to change her mind.'

'She's not truly in fellowship with God, because she can't love her sister,
But I can't compare her with Surah, who is a real incurable blister.'
'Surah hates her sisters, she's a murderer, and doesn't need eternal life.
She's an ignorant, she needs power, and she lives only her life of strife.'

‘Is it true that whatever we ask, we receive from Him, because we fight
To keep His commandments, while doing what is pleasing in His sight?'
'It's true.' ', I asked Him to save my niece, but I didn't receive any response.'
'You must teach Surah how to love, and she will destroy her magic sconce.'

(It was three o’clock in the morning, and Surah entered the passage of the cave.
She entered the castle, and climbed up the stairs to be in the room of the tower.
There, she put two goblets on the table containing a beverage used to induce a coma.
After that, she came down from the tower to enter the Jezebel’s room.)

'How is my sweet niece, who will be a bride?' ‘I’m a little scared.'
'Every bride is scared knowing that her feelings in bed must be shared.'
"How was your first moment in bed?' 'Well, I started with a little kiss;
I gave it to the loveliness I was wallowing in. I felt the radiance of bliss.
(Surah smiled being a little tender while looking at her niece.)

‘Let me show you my wedding gift. Let’s go into the tower to see it.'
'This is a joke!' Surah took her hand. 'I have the key.' 'Does this key fit?
My mom can hear us, and you know that you're not allowed to enter here.'
'She cannot wake up early in this morning. Did you forget that I'm a seer?'

(Surah and Jezebel climbed up the stairs of the tower. They entered the room of the tower. Jezebel sat on a chair to marvel at the beauty of the altar and at the golden spindle. Surah took out a medallion from her pocket and put it into the Jezebel's hands. The medallion had two miniature portraits. One of them was the portrait of Frederick, and the other one was the portrait of a very beautiful woman.)

'I want you to know that this portrait belonged to his former dead fiancée.
He had abandoned her for another one. His love was only a flight of fancy.'
'Give me something to drink, my dear aunt, I really don't feel quite well!'
"Sure', said Surah giving her to drink the beverage having an interesting smell.
Sara Buzz Nov 2013
I stand
Yet I am broken
Like a chipped tea glass
Constantly filling with doubt
Sometimes overflowing or spilling.

The timeless waves of tea and coffee splash upon and over
Shores on the edge of a glass.
Sugary sand mixed with sweet sorrow and honey do reflect the moment.

The dark water solution became salty and dry nit because of the blood but because of the tears.

The blood instead stained the treasure hidden within. That happy feeling on a sunny day. Until a rain storm whisks the good away. Shadows of doubt and feelings of pain, all that emerged from the ocean rain.

All throughout the years you've dealt with pirates and privateers. They stole your liquid gold and burned what was left behind sinking your ship in the water.

A graveyard as its now occured today. Dead float in the drink until bloating at the bottom they'll lay.

A sugary melting acid in a strong bitter mug.
As dark and warm as death. Yet as comforting and soothing as life.
Until the cup is refilled and replenished it shall remain empty and barren like the calm watching sea.
Arriving upon an instant will the dawn return, placidly hoping for the time its poured out again. Steaming and hissing, bubbling in the containing item.
Waiting for that moment it has chance to wave again.
Although you wont notice as it is just a second in a normal sunny day, telling its story untold and unheard in a miscommuning world. A sad world to live in.
Garth Lebowski Nov 2015
I open my fridge door and what do I see?
A half empty bottle of beer, relishes, old vegetables and water.

I close the door.

My groaning stomach persuades me to open the door once more. Like an alter ego, I obey it's commands.

I'm sure this time, there will be food, food that was invisible just a second ago. Food that I will see, if I look hard enough.

I grab the chilled silver handle and give it a pull. Wide open swings the door to reveal food galore!--

Oh wait, there's no food, not even a decent beverage. There's still just a whole load of nothingness and hunger.

A deep dark depression cuts me like a knife through butter. no food here, no food there, nothingness all around just starvation and suffering.

I close the fridge.

The cycle repeats itself.


Such is life.
Hunger and fullness are true emotions, just like love and life it can depress you or fill you.
Molly Pendleton Jan 2013
We sit in a café
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in our grips

Surrounded by folks who also have
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in their grips

But we are not here
To chat on about the weather
Our significant others
Or careers; no

We certainly are not
You glance at me
In a nearly
Conversational manner

“So you had your heartbroken”
You say, a combination of an
Unsurprised sneer and a nostalgic frown
Upon your face

“So I had my heartbroken”
I repeat, my lips cracked and my mouth
Blistering slowly from the heat
Of my seasonally appropriate beverage

“Are you, like the good little kid you are,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal?”

“I am, like the good little kid I am,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal”

“I haven’t even given into that
Deep, gut wrenching temptation
To do something terribly
Terribly destructive”

I state this in a mockingly proud way
Before pinching my chapped lip between my teeth
And gnawing on it until a swell of blood
Dripped into my seasonally appropriate beverage

“But what I have found”
I say, slowly, licking my coppery lips
“Is that despite all these
‘Coping Mechanisms’”

Your expression is inquisitive
Brow raised, eyes lit up
Like storm clouds with lightning
Stirring somewhere behind them

“I suppose you’re wondering why…”
I state slowly, before sighing an a
Somewhat irritated manner
"I’ve thought this thought too many times before..."

“Because no matter what
My mind refuses to even ponder
The thought that I am meant
For anyone but her”
Sue Dunhym Apr 2011
Grounds of caffeine and capsaicin
Surround my feet.
Tiny specks spilt
From a nonchalant cupboard.
Effective, yet useless
Down by me feet.

Gather the specks
And boil the concoction!
Mix the beverage
And pour it into a cup!
Drink, *******, drink!

How morose. How macabre.
The dog has moved to another tree.
The ***** merely ignores it. Rejects it.
Give a visage of violence.
It’s alright now, you’re safe.

She calls again.
You answer.
The tree is not the tree.
But a special tree.
A sip, a sip, take another sip.

Gulp it and see.
See the busy bumblebee,
And the ascending anathema
And the cacophanous ****.
It is all beautiful. Ambiguous. Curious.

How odd, the drink I consume.
And there you stand. Oblivious to me.
I call and you turn, briefly.
Are you a ghost? Angel? Demon?
I don’t know.
But you begin to blur.
It cannot be stopped.
I will miss you.

Grounds of caffeine and capsaicin:
What a beverage. What a drink.
No bricks. No lemons.
Just my serendipitous spill.
If only I had
Grounds of capsaicin and caffeine.
copyright of TP Flusk
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

    I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
<>

one.
he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

two.
platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,
June

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

three.
a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?

drink

four.
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

five.
which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
what!
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

six.
the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,
everyone.

Hatred,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

seven.
the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

eight.
since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
supper
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like
brunch

by the way,
do have the time?

nine.
Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

ten.
loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

eleven.
I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...
entrapment,
maybe?

twelve.
dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

thirteen.
there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

fourteen.
******.
the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
or
trust but verify

fifteen.
my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

sixteen.
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

seventeen.
asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,
alright

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

ateteen.
some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

ah,
never mind,
you know how this ends.

humbug.

nineteen.
man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
Cardi-b-Cleopatra,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

twentea.
coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
teeth,
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me
egotistically.

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
names!”


twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
or
“each according to his own stupidity.”

twentyfur.
we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas
anally


twentyfiver.
ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
how,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
so
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

twentysick.
The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]
/Ba2

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

twenteaateth.
people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

twentytentygoldniners.
“alliteration”
a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.


for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”


hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
<>
the end for now
BASIC Sep 2016
21
One
Peer pressure is a virus
Two
It seems our generations genes were all bought at the same store
Three
It's a lot easier to smoke **** than to be a flower
Four
So used to being spoon fed we need help to have fun
Five
Now creativity and imagination comes in a bottle
Six
Unable to cope with our emotions we control them with liquid medicine
Seven
Pollution is so bad it has made its way into the mainstream
Eight
The idea that recklessness is living life is a lie
Nine
I've been told to make memories but was the only person who could remember the night before
Ten
Alcohol causes Benjamin Button Disease
Eleven
I've only ever babysat kids my age or older
Twelve
I find it amazing that people can spend so much time with liquid but stay just as shallow
Thirteen
Anyone who ever told me they could handle themselves sang a different tune after a handle
Fourteen
I've been told alcohol brings out your true self but couldn't recognize friends after a few beers
Fifteen
I know people with the glass shards of a broken bottle still lodged in their heart
Sixteen
I know kids missing parents because alcohol is thicker than blood
Seventeen
The only thing cool about drinking is the beverage
Eighteen
I've been asked why I don't drink by the same person who just spilled their guts on the carpet minutes before
Nineteen
How come every time I tell someone I don't drink I'm congratulated
Twenty
If you have a shot you better not waste it
Instead we take shots and get wasted
Twenty One
This is for everyone who mistook me for just another clone
Adam Piercy Dec 2012
I walk into my office/abode, closing the door behind me. It's 9:00 PM. Well, 9:03 PM. I sit down at my desk and open my laptop, placing a tall glass of diet cola on the mouse pad next to the computer as a make-shift coaster. Three ice cubes float in the bubbling blackness. I've found two ice cubes won't make your beverage cold quickly enough, while four ice cubes will overpower it — water it down. You can't have that. It's got to be three ice cubes.

I open up my word processor to a new document. I've got to write something — this blank rectangular expanse has haunted me for long enough. I type some gibberish, then delete it. What do I want to write? I remember reading somewhere you're supposed to write what you like.

I minimize the page and open the Internet. No new emails. I could watch **** for a bit. I've always preferred the "amateur" videos because the people in them resemble actual people. You know, the guy's a little overweight, and the girl's got excessive arm hair, or a weird mole. He mounts her from behind, sweating profusely. Their bodies jiggle for ten or fifteen minutes. There's no eye contact, but you can tell they're in love. The TV's on. The guy looks up at it sporadically. Maybe makes a face at the cell phone he's filming his ******* on. The picture quality is low, and the audio is pretty tinny, but you can usually make it out all right. I saw this one video of a guy and a girl getting it on and some other dude was there filming it. You could tell it was an amateur video because she was kind of weird-looking. But, like, did he ask his buddy to come back to the motel with this chick he picked up and film them *******?

No, I can't get behind all that glossy, glamourous, professional ****. There's too much Botox and plastic surgery. They look too good. And it's all fake, too. These people have *** for a living. Watching them go at it, it just feels empty. They're not really into it. And I don't know if seeing guys with twelve-packs and ten inch ***** invokes a certain inferiority complex in me or what it is, but I know I just don't care for it.

Okay. Back to the writing. Now, what do I like to write? I like action movies, so... how about... a serial killer. No, a contract killer. So it's a serial, contract killer who... but there has to be some sort of conflict. Okay, a serial contract killer who falls in love with... but there needs to be something that makes it unique. Something unique that sets it apart. So how about he... or she?... she falls in love with...

I wonder if I have any new messages on Plenty of Fish. Maybe that cute brown-haired Asian-looking girl responded to me. What does "D2F" mean?

No, she hasn't. Well, when did I send the message? Yesterday night? Let's see when she was last online...

Today, at 4:13 PM.

Ah.

Well, maybe she just didn't notice it.

Yeah. That's it.

Maybe the target falls in love with the killer. Maybe they meet early on and they hit it off or something at some swanky soirée. And then... she's hired to **** him. Or her. Yeah, that could be interesting: a lesbian contract killer. Never seen that before. But she's got to be hot. Yeah. Not like the monster Cameron Diaz played in that movie... Monster. But who hires her? Her husband? Yeah, that might work. But would he **** her for being a *****? Or maybe... she stole something from him. Some money. Or she found out he's a criminal, and she's gonna squeal.

Lesbian **** is interesting. Especially when they use the strap-on thing. But I don't know why they **** on it first. I mean, it's just plastic. Maybe they know it's mostly going to be guys watching it. Who knows.

But seriously, why would that cute Asian girl not respond to my message? Her profile did say "msg me :)", after all. Her profile said her favourite book is Fight Club. I think she meant the movie. I wrote "haha ya brad pitt is the shiiit". I don't know. I never know what to write in those messages. I always feel obligated to say something about their profile so they know I didn't just look at their pictures.

I'm good-looking, aren't I? I've had girlfriends. I've had *** a bunch of times. I haven't had *** in a while, but... okay, so I don't have a six-pack, but I go to the gym. I just get so anxious with all those muscly dudes walking around. Maybe I should get a private trainer.

I need more diet cola. No, wait — no more soda. Maybe all that aspartame is messing with my head. Anyway. Back to the contract killer. How many pages do I have? Six. Well, the average movie is about a hundred minutes, and if one page equals one minute in screen time, I'm only... oh look, I got a new email.

Stef341 has responded to your message.

"not my type, sorry"

Huh.

Well, whatever. Fight Club is a stupid movie anyway. How are Brad Pitt and that other guy supposed to be the same guy? That doesn't make any sense.

Back to the script. I need a title. Every good movie has a good title. How about The Lesbian Killer? No, that's too risqué. Nothing with lesbians in the title. This is a serious movie. With a lot of passion. Maybe a *** scene or two. Whatever, I'll just call it The Contract Killer. Starring Cameron Diaz.
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY: A Dreadful Tale about a Dead Anglo Mother, A Dreadful, Avenging Syrian Aunt, A Stolen Baby Sister, and a Hateful, Unfaithful, Defaulting Father.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With people, people who hardly know
Your vices, your intrigue, your lies, and so,
You’ve ruined lives, and now I will show

How demonizing you are, with just your thinking
About your “slemly” self,  just linking [Nice in Arabic]
That self to your own, and not us--no one else
You belong in no company, your old-time thinking.
Adopting my sister, without any inkling
Of what it takes to challenge the motherless
And seeing we ended up, also, being fatherless.

Travesties galore made this woman happy
You won hearts, but you seemed quite daffy.      
Childhood, telling us we’d never be as good
As your Syrian daughters - such a strange brood!
This kind of “teaching” by a Syrian mom was kinda lewd.

She verily and surely became our ISIS
She thought who could ever, ever be like us
She raved for hours so very against us
To that red-headed family so she could easily best us!
Humiliating us at every stop
We really, really got a lot
From her, the decadent Queen of ISIS
No, she’d never, ever be like us!

Twenty years to a guileless young person
Is a forever herstory an eternity…
A lesson, an identity…
Carried on secretly, destroying our Syrian identity.
She stole that connection, filling it with confusion
She with cruel humor would **** our loving illusion
Stopped it in its growth,
Forever unseating that family oath.
To care - without any rejection.
It was She that was The Great Defection.

Mary, Mary how does your hatred grow
Picked on those who had no Syrian power
But you didn’t see yourself becoming lower
To the ends of the earth, heartless black flower.

In her mind she’d be our Mother
But as this poet, I did not know it
Things would be better if we like sheep
Worshipped Mary, into the deep
Quite similar to the rest of her Keep
Then mayhap we’d enjoy their fully undeserved sleep.

Taught my dear baby sister like her to hate
Would I had the power to shut up her pate
Her mouth was evil to the core
I never, never could stand more.
Her hatred entered me, made me sore.

Screaming at us to keep us out
Stupid Daddy joined her in this falling out
She, successful -as any lout.
By God I thot I must be evil
Their strange behavior was not legal.
Would that she’d accept me, that dangerous eagle.
I lost my sense of self and ‘came very sad
Would that I could be like she so glad.
‘Tis fifty years now, and I can’t stop crying.
No one ever heard this “mother” sighing.

Hell, Mary, full of Face
Recognizing only your Syrian race
Did anyone else matter? Just your primitive face?
Everyone one was hurt, except you and your nace
There’ll be no one, ever, that could take your place.
Laughing to destroy our wanted Arab destiny
Which you did, and did, successfully, with your fantasy.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
Like plants, you lined us up all in a row
One good, two bad - you did the choosing
And what did you leave?
Only us, who did the losing.
You didn’t water those two plants.
Treated us two as if we were ants.
Watered sissa so she would grow
Your dreaded deeds no one would know
Judgement is left only to God.
But you and Dad should’ve returned to your sod.
Your behavior to the motherless seems very odd.
My sister and I two tossed peas in a pod.

Deserting us suddenly knowing only this hateful group
There’s nothing to which she wouldn’t stoop
Her sick obsession to hurt the powerless
Speaks of a very worst yes, cruel foulness.

We lived at a convent school very protected
Visiting weekends this aspiring ****,
Two sisters know she made a very strong mark
She was not our blood, we couldn’t take part
Of this constant coldness on her part.

And another Aunt with two daughters, good
They were always with us, always stood
The opposite of this wicked would-be aunt
This family, Americanized and very sane
Never did play the ancient Ottoman game
These Aunts were our world - our windowpane.

Two aunts - endowing us with a Syrian heritage,
One, the bad one, with too much leverage
The good one to teach a cheerful Syrian beverage      
With balance, love, and the length of days
Not like the other, the one who dismays.

We represented that bad woman’s target
What it came from. Could it be her precious Margaret?
No, not at all her peaceful daughter
But the other, gladly joined in on the slaughter
Making serious and even much more, fodder.

We had no tools to breach this hate
I guess that it would have to be our fate.
To live our lives just disenchanted.
Our hearts broke, as if forever lancets.
With Syrians there’d be no more dances

Taking my sweet sis turning her against us
She did truly give strong heed to finally fence us.
What ever could we find for our defenses?

Dad, real Dad, inebriated dad,
Fell in with them: became this negative father
Sought their pity--likening me as a foreign daughter
He was in love with them, weakly turning
But in turn, the two of us, spurning
Back to his Syrian fold back, not farther
Unwittingly, unrepentedly, uncaringly, joining the laughter
Discarding his American daughters to a mental slaughter.

At his picnic - family there - he called us foreigners
Foreigners we were, surely, when with them
They couldn’t ever believe in us,
Dad influenced them, peeved at us.
Made us feel like little fools.
No, we never had the tools
To fight this ignorance - Change these mules?

Punishing, punishing us as wedded women
Accused of all that they gossiped about
What did they say? And this truant dad a lout
Speaking of us in downing tones
I’d feel far better had they broken my bones.

Closing his relationships to his
Two lesser liked non-Arab sisters
Would there would be a better mister
He considered us two a mere sinful blister.

We ran away from this horrible drunk
He hated his daughters and he stunk
And then we suffered the worst of any they would dunk
Uncomfortable at their Arab-speaking home
We stopped visiting long before their moan
We were “no good”  said our Syrian family
Would that we knew that we’d be anti-Family.

They had something to hate and did they do it
We had no idea we were just a joke
Their words, their disgust, far more than a poke.
Their anti-American provincial views
Made little sense - such perverted mews
All we loved, we would really lose.
There was never any right to choose.

That Family didn’t speak, avoided us
At sissa's Syrian wedding. It was all mined
That scene returns to me all of them lined  
Winding its way into my unbidden mind,
They were so, so truly unkind
We always would be to them the “Other”
Yes, us, us, us, without a mother!

We lost three mothers, our real one gone
Also our good step-mother quickly on
Add Mary to that three, glad she is gone
Perhaps Dad guilty of the first two deaths
I shan’t continue - you’d lose your breaths.
  
But Hail that Lady, she would change our world
Sending us suddenly into a whirl.
How to change the young with screaming?
She’d not change but destroy our dreaming
Waking horribly from our Syrian dream
We just didn’t fit their shady crème de la crème.

Everyone was fooled by this greedy witch
She and her daughters I’d deem as *****
What was in them, caused their making?
Taking away, taking, taking, taking.
Good cousins now, have seen an awakening
My work of writing revealed Mary’s faking.

Hail Mary full of Face
Only using her charms to erace
The sisters she wished not to embrace
With threads of lies an unrevealing face
Syrians’ acceptance of her goldarn place  
No one ever will she replace  
In every way she used her mace
A clever poison to keep her place
Successfully, she’d snidely hid her dreams
Wearing a mask to hide her themes.

She’d always hated us through and through
We didn’t know it till she did what she’d do
Her masque did work, from dusk to dawn.
Hatred of us was what she would spawn
She would definitely **** our spirits
Would that I could reveal all her lyrics.

Our Syrian sissa’s wedding put us in place
That even there we could have little space.
No other family events could we be included.
Engagements, baptisms, we would be excluded
Their intentions now were completely nuded.   deluded!

You stole our little baby entering the world
Through our Mom’s Death
You stole my Dad’s affection
He also her straw man, worshiping Mary‘s fiction
Her stand could only be that of affliction.

Hail Mary full of Face
Face that faced nothing exçept winning the Ace
Did no one ever tell you - you were a case?
Using your screams to stuff our mind
And even more shrieking to clog our mind
No other Syrian family could be so unkind.

Always filling us with her delicious food
Only to turn against us, trussing our good mood.
I’d like to regurgitate all that poisonous food
Anything about her became totally lewd.
She bragged of her daughters - were they really that good?
When we were children, told us we’d never be like them
We never wanted to be like those hurting us.
Took our Dad’s affection, he also deserting us
We never but finally saw that they were into hurting us.

She has attacked us screaming, screaming on end
Never an explanation, never to end
She took money, stole sister too, not a lend.
With this cruel treatment, we were not able to fend.
I’ve never heard such venom in any human voice
It seared through both my ears, such an odious noise
Those first twenty years were so very splendid
But later with her actions - all was ended
With her allotted time this is how she would spend it.

Sister, affections stolen, obeying by fear
Couldn’t counter - with a mere
Stand up to this fraud of a Mother Dear.

Our baby sis had became her clay
She would remake her through many a day.
She owes us much, this lying thief
No family tree would know, not even a leaf
She stole and changed our beautiful blood
Returned nothing except a bad bad flood
Of making our names into family mud.

She then gave out inimical messages
The taunting that came from her mealy mouth
From Damascus, that lousy mouse.
Couldn’t discuss, but only scream
What ever, ever, did she mean?
This Family into which father bought.
Their apathetic “reasoning” I was never taught.

Her daughters conscripted to the Mary core
Following her words, her iron ore
Inflated us with much heavy criticism
To fill our sissa with a lack of witticism

Lying, lying she always, always hated us
For twenty years, she consistently slated us
For slaughter, just like little lambs
Motherless, she took our little lamb
She won, didn’t she, in her sham?
Mary & dad really fated us with their sick flim flam!

She’d tackle anyone, anything in her path
And she did, with her oh so dreadful wrath.
What powered this extremely devilish mind?
She had never, ever, been really kind.

Our sodden father turned to her
She was Goddess, he deemed Something
While we were nothing, nothing, NOTHING!
It didn’t happen till twenty years after
From kindliness to hypocrisy
One would not believe.
Our real selves never to retrieve.

A sweet child, sissa, full of love
Knew they were cold and she let us know
After those years, sadly though
Turned into another hateful *****
Forced to be like them, else be ditched.

Dad, dad, the precious Syrian lad
Embraced the family gatherings that they had
Youngest of the Ikmuks - he was mad
Allowed them the desecration of our pad
They could say anything--made it their fad.

He wouldn’t speak to them of their travesty
Worshipped them, and ever drastically
Wanted to be Them, lest he be
On the Outs from the Family Tree
Ousted, married out of the Tribe
Hardly now, when this happened, few are alive.
He refused to tell them we both should be here.
He would never, ever, play it fair.
“Dad, if you go, I’ll never be the same.”
He would never, never take the blame.
Of his paltry stabs at being a human
Go stuff him in a jar with more rotten cumin.

Never defended us, never, never
Always took their part like a mismatched lever.
Usually a Dad with a daughter would stay beside her
But then, he gave Mary a far wider rider.

Gatherings went on, by the family Mare.
All our lives had been spent with them before
But Iron Lady with Iron Ore
Came through later and before.
She would win, so well connected to her vile kin
Change, girl, change, you’re just an Anglo fem.
Don’t, please, don’t pay much attention to them.
Sudden hate - my thoughts now were dashed.
I changed - they took all I had and then they smashed.

They brought us into their sickly Ottoman lives
But all of them acted as if we had the hives
They, centuries‘ habit, it was the mid-1950’s why so bold?
They were too much, too much very, to behold
We were stricken, treated as in days of old
We would never be part of their unhealthy mold  [Mould?]

Regular at Church. What kind of God could she worship?
You know who should have been told? The Syrian Bishop!
The She-Devil not even relishing the Church script
Eternally, she would always, rip, rip, and then grip!
Instead looked to those after Church who would serve her!
She did just this with a total fervor.
No Communion, no worship, but her only feats
To seek and add to gossip in the streets
Afterward. When-Where everyone meets.

Se enjoyed the Devil of Power over those she knew
Verily, she should have been thrown in the loo.
Few new. Only the rejected two.

Mary, Mary full of Mace
You never did achieve much grace
Wish you could have finally
Fallen on your ignorant Face
There’s really not going to be any space
To explain your bad translation of a very good race.
The Syrian families I always know very well
Would never have made this kind of hell.

The Syrian race is good, except for this “mother”
I speak from my place as the dreaded ”Other”
You are and were a terrible, mother
You’re a crude example of this Middle Eastern  race.
Very few of them did see through your face.

In that family I barely gleaned this toxicity
But, never, ever, did I witness much felicity.
They llaughed and laughed about any Other
Played well their acts as if they cared
They knew Syrian-like we would not fare
We, Dad, all sisters three - fell for her snare.

What think you, God, of these poor children
How il-ly this Family thoroughly tilled them
Two non-Arab daughters’ given bad repute
Their shocking beliefs really made us mute
All that came from her demented mind
All that encountered Mary’s “kind”
She destroyed our conception of self
This hypocrisy would make one melt.

She infiltrated us, her daughters, and my Sissa
That we were not as good as she - but she lost her mister
Had Uncle [our blood] lived, this would never have occurred.
But Auntie [not our blood] surely had demurred.
Her hooked-nose criticizing, and simple daughters,
Psychologically--against us-- they joined in on these slaughters.
Kindness for two decades to rent, later they spent
Hell on the motherless, but hiding that intent
Taught her daughters: “Don’t be involved with them”
We really do know some of what she did, or said,
This is the kind of meal that she constantly fed
Her masque nearly hiding her evil bent.
Too bad she wasn’t forced back into her Syrian tent.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, How does your world work?
You won, you won, you ignorant, piece of work
You demanded respect from all of us, treacherous,
She got it, didn’t know it, then she brought down the two of us

Sneaky, low-life, hypocrite witch
We always thought we had a niche
But lost kids like us did never snitch
We wouldn’t, didn’t open up about that *****.

We had a twenty-year comfort zone with her
Deserted at last by her flying fur
Stolen, deserted at last by Dad--that foul mister
Stolen, deserted, lastly by our pretty baby sister.

This left us changed by this She-Devil
Would that there’d be a way to counter her evil
We couldn’t - she was always far too strong
An ISIS for us - this would last too long.

After these years, I could not grow
Was I a real woman? -  I didn’t know!
Being a mother couldn’t show
That this Family created a list of woe.

When Sissa had babies & a mom to help
We did this alone - all this we felt.
Her faulted hatred never did melt.
I didn’t know how to take a stance
Nor could I find out how to advance.
We had to oppose Aunt Mary’s dance.

That Sissa could not bo
This poem represents many years of my life. It is all true.
Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed., Author, "Mayflower Arab: A Memoir"
Thank you for accepting my poetry. April 16, 2015
aar505n Jul 2015
We seem to gravitate towards coffee shops, even those who don't like hot beverages find themselves there. I suppose it's a good place to let go your baggage. Lose yourself for five minutes. Loosen up and unwind. That's hard to do even on a good day. The world always has an agenda that needs seeing to. Rather selfish of the Earth to be honest, and quite damaging to your self worth. You can't be at it's beck and call 24/7. But we try to, dear God do we try. Of course this leads to us burning up rather spectacularly. Giving, worrying, stressing, doing. Until we are left smoking, steam rising like a freshly made coffee. But nothing is fresh here. Burnt coffee. Unusable. No longer capable of the great feats we once were. Like the world had chewed us up and spit us out when we're no longer useful. What a *******. But what can you do to stop a *******? Not much as they are inheritly selfish - deep down in their very core, nothing but molten arrogance, festering beneath their skin this sense of entitlement. That is what it is. You can't change the world from what it is. Just as much as you can not change who you are. So take five minutes and go to a coffee shop. Lose yourself in a hot beverage. Watch the steam rise and be thankful it isn't yours.
kara lynn bird Jan 2013
I'm a greet-you-and-meet-you professional
I get straight to the point and don't mess around.
I'll ask you how your day is,
If you found everything okay-
And if you prefer paper or plastic.

Like a superhero from a comic strip-
I'm out to make you smile in five minutes
or less.
I have the super power
To turn you away from your favorite alcoholic beverage
Or turn you on-
It all depends if you can pass the test,
the secret code to a top secret nuke shelter-
No pass, no go.

I'm like a greeting card,
Everyday; a new message.
Sometimes I'll hear about the weather,
Other times,
I'll hear intimate details which I really don't care about-
But I'll pretend I do...
Things like-
What you're having for supper,
How much wine your sister likes to drink
Or the fact that you make the best homemade sauce.

I'll get to know you the more I see you,
And like an app on your smart phone,
I'll remind you to come again.

I'll see your kids at their worst-
Moments their grandparents don't get to see.
I'll learn about your financial status,
Your marital status,
Or the fact that you don't have a status at all.

I'll take all of your complaints
And sometimes pass them someone else-
I'll hear all your requests like an overworked DJ
And if you're lucky...
Your wish will be granted.

I am a food slinger,
A cash ringer,
A handle-your-food winner,
I am grocery store cashier.
Francisco DH Nov 2012
The smell of caramel danced with my nose
As did too, the scent of fresh bread
I look out the iced window fogged up
and i saw you

You entered and let the cold air in
And I had a thought of evil towards you
For you let the cold bite my face  and made me shiver
But when you spoke I felt hot as the coffee I held closely

"A Mocha please." You said and flashed the cashier a smile
She smiled back and gave your change and let her hand linger just a bit longer than it should
you laugh a bit and waited patiently as she tried to strike up a conversation
You being a gentlemean talked with her and then your Mocha was brought
She gave you the cup

You turned around and walked to a table near mine
I caught a wiff of your beverage and smiled
I looked at my clock and shot up, I was late for work
I ran up and tried to cut in front of you with my coffee

Stupid me,I should have waited
We collied and I got your shirt covered with me Carameled drink
My face turned red and I stampered an apolgy but you held a hand up
"It's okay, What's your name?" you asked with a smile

How could you be so calm?
Such gentleman you were
I said it and you gave a smile that melted my heart
"well, here's my number? call me later so i can give you the bill and maybe we can go out sometime"
I took it, staring at the card and felt warm

Our fingers touched and I knew right then we were going to be more
Thank You my Caramel Coffee
I thank you for giveing me a perfect man
A wish of the perfect encounter
st64 Dec 2013
marvel at the complex-pattern
painting such a span of swirls
light-panels less than shimmer
in the afternoon shadows on the wooden kitchen-table
biggest fear - your leaving


1.
beautiful summer-days lost in your eyes
oblivion dances like a wily-***** at hypnotising fire-licks
from our languid-bed, I'd lazy-feed you lox-on-crackers
and everything you liked
heaven never had it so good

........................till

woke up and *you weren't there

where'd you go to?
no letter, no call.. for days


2.
to overcome this fear
I brought in a  b-i-g-g-e-r  one
that used to drive me to serious-pitfalls in the past

off to the exotic pet-shop, my toes marched me
and I got one - very toxic thing on legs
without a natural terrarium

once home, I set it free
I set free.... my biggest fear
        to blot out your absence
        to overcome your presence
        to forget you

it crawled around and made a home
while I hardly breathed nor slept
and moved about on ginger-steps


3.
I kept feeling strands of your hair
          in my sleep
          on my cheek
          inside my cry
and woke to moonlight bathed in sweat

I did not wash your pillow, after weeks now
I bury my face in olfactory-memory lingering
and pine for you, but I see your missing set of keys and..

/ scratch .. scratch /

I hear a sudden scurrying
heartbeat jumps out cage
eyeballs to the parquet-floor

nothing.


4.
I'm getting used to this new pet
and she doesn't mind my breathing
                    oh, I swear she's a brain-scanner
                    when she looks at me that way
                    like she can read me.. through and through

I dare not pet, I dare not touch... ohhhh no!
       I leave her the daily-bowl of delicious, fresh worms
       to find it empty in the evening
I guess, thanks for freedom.. of sorts

one day, I left the window open
as I jotted down some poignant thoughts
at my antique-escritoire
    espied her legs upon the solar-sill
    thought she'd be running... a leaver, too
but no..    
                 she was sunning all her legs awhile


5.
the season's changing.. leaves are falling
crackle of wind in the air

now, I'm making me some coffee in my silver whistle-***
hot, solo beverage to calm my settling-mind
when.. ping-ping.. comes a text
lo and behold....
it is you...

you!


6.
delirium / delirium /
(I'm on cloud-nine... you're coming home tonight..
                                      you love me so much, you say..
                                      made a mistake..
                                       you've got something big to share..

I've taken time to prepare a special-meal.. candles and all your faves
but must pop out quick to get some lox...)



I'm back now, got the stuff now
key in lock
but the door.. jammed by a weight.. of sorts
can't seem to push the ****-door open...
shoving hard, I see........







fear compounded by a minus
simply multiplied
disaster





S T - 4 dec 13
plan(e) in the air.. pushing tin's a fine way to get there :)



sub: fly

days fly by
on wing of trust
in rusty-daze
Emily Pancoast Oct 2012
Dining Hall

The day that Darwin dies
you call me at lunch
surrounded by raucous boys
who would ridicule your tears

Milk

You’re downing a glass
as I sip my wine

Separated by years
and words you don’t know

Our preference in beverage
is the space between us


The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack

Lullaby redhead croons my fingers bend three at a time choking out two-syllable death trap.

Constellating

Sandwiched between
fresh books
spines not yet cracked

Secretive soulmates
sharing espresso-scented
pecks on strawberry lips

Hush Hush

Hands that aren’t yours
hold back my hair
dampened
tears shed
over words you threw
shattering
showering me with shards
of the way you once felt


Day Long Marriage

Air-conditioned summers
bare skin on leather couches
your hand resting
on blue ruffled *******


Happy New Year

Crouching
behind closet doors

your voice
at once comfort and affront

I’ll forget the words you say
still clutching my phone
wishing it was you


The Other Emily**

Purest form of you and me
Benadryl-induced delusions
refusing sleep
exhausted
warm and doe-eyed
in the glow of your fondness
Lover of Words Oct 2012
You are my morning cup of coffee,
My hot, steamy, caffeinated beverage made to wake me up,
I sip you,
Bitter,
Some sugar to cheer you up?
I dowse you in vanilla cream…
Any better my darling?
How come you are so nasty?
Not a morning person either?
Well I can't blame you,
Why do I think I drink so much of you?
Because I like you?
Well I do,sorta, the effects you bring to me are quite uplifting,
I shake,
Nervously,
Oh you startle me and delight me,
I feel comforted as you break open into my bloodstream,
My body on fire and ready to start my long and trying day,
Maybe we can get through this together,
Another cup is what I think I need of you,
Whether bitter or not we can make it through,
So my little cappuccino, so frothy and frilly,
I want you to know that I need you,
Like to start my morning, my every morning
Whether you are just black, or a venti latte with skim and carmel syrup stirred inside,
Or else I be stuck in bed all the time
There be no you to keep me awake or alive,
No reason to go outside and try,
No motivator, no mover, just me living my days on my own,
How terribly depressing I must add,
So I'll keep you company if you keep on stirring my brain with your caffeinated ways
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch

Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin

I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse

Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin

Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain

Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin

Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...

Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
...who knows?

— The End —