"bigs" poems
I worry so much about you,
About how you feel,
What you feel,
Wether it's pain sadness or happiness,
I worry all the time,
I worry or that fact that I will not always be here for you,
That one day you'll need me a I won't be able to come,
I worry that no matter how hard I try,
You will take the most painful route,
Of death pain and sorrow,
I worry all the time ,
I worry over little things and bigs,
But my worrying is justified because I care,
And I care with all my body mind heart and soul,
About you,
So I worry all the time.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
Mother’d say, don’t go by
How blue a man’s eyes are,
But by the size of his bank
Account, and she thinks on
That now, taking a sip of wine,
Holding a cigarette, some things
You don’t forget, some things
Are branded into the brain,
Especially Mother’s words,
Her philosophy, her way of
Viewing the world. She pauses,
Watches her husband parking
The car from the window, the
Way he walks around it, gives
The door handles a pull, taps
The bonnet like some ******
*** Yes, hubby’s got the dough,
Got the big bank account, buys
Her expensive clothes, rings and
Pretty much other things, but love,
Affection, that sitting side by side
Holding hands and kissing sort
Of thing, he just can’t bring, has
No clue what to say or what to do.
Sure he has the connections, the
Right kind of friends, takes her
To parties, to functions, gets her
To meet the Mr Bigs and their hold
On the arm, give a pretty smile, wives,
But he doesn’t give her love, or know
How she feels or if she wants children
Or not or how well she is or if she’s
Got the pox. Sure, he can **** her as
Good as the next guy, give her a car,
A necklace, get her to see Paris, Venice
Or wherever, but he can’t give her that
Deep down sense of being wanted, of
Being needed for who she is, just like
The rest of the wives she knows, an arm
Hanging, pretty smile wearing, well dressed,
Bright eyed wife, but unloved, unneeded
Just another possession for him to have
And hold, with a beautiful complexion,
But with a heart grown bitter and cold.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
What’s so funny?
I was remembering an Army Barracks day.
A day before Boot Camp graduation
We get our first set of official orders.
Assignments posted on bulletin board.
Striking me now so hilarious;
How the dumbest among us,
Got picked for Intelligence Corps.
Amusing the thought that
Thugs with lowest class standing
All seemed G-2 bound.
Jesus, the anchorman, got Fort Meade,
Considered The Bigs by talent scouts.
Although I was 6 foot-one,
In this or that corner
Weighing in at one hundred & 95 pounds,
My Yerkes scores too high for NSA duty.
They sent me to college instead,
Doing COINTELPRO field
Campus surveillance of
Jewish intellectuals,
John Birchers and
Radical, anti-Castro,
Cuban exiles.
The University of Miami,
Known as “Suntan U” back then.
Miami: the eye of the storm in 1972.
A Republican Convention in progress.
New wine in old wineskins;
No thing to write home about.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Go ****** your opinions and your political minions up another ass’s ******* or maybe take that noise, and show some glamour and some poise like the bigs wigs on capital hill, filled with the ideals of the real, reality sets in with a pen on paper and a veto or a stapler to add another pile to another pile stacked high with paper and anger and a wager on top of all that to rate his and her, him and them, freedom or not, this is when the world goes black, back to a rack of what was and what wasn’t and isn’t and hasn’t been or whatever may come, from, whatever’s the machine in charge of the largest country on a scale of humility to ego, eating eggos daily, watching bombs drop and proms go on like any other day, a dance filled way too high with alter personalities and ratchet fatalities. This is another normality in this bleak reality of life. Full of wisdom, full of strife, take your knife and force it down someone’s throat, coat it with words, thoughts, sought after beliefs and chiefs of the mind. Find what’s real, what’s good, something borrowed something bought, this freedom we fought for, blood sweat and tears for, die for, cry for, ride it till its outlasted every past and bold and rash incision upon decisions. Fission fusion and confusion driven, is a country with stripes stars and bars, filled with past and present Heros, veterans, bet again they’re there for the third night in a row, about to row away down te river of blood and dirt and dignity, until the tugging of righteous voices slices the void of sorrow, but that’s tomorrow, today is just a work in progress.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
The toddler sat in the high chair,
And stared at his tiny hands,
He wondered, where had they come from,
And his name, they said, was Hans,
He seemed to recall another place
Where he’d lived, so long ago,
Before he was part of the human race
Though the words, he didn’t know.
His body felt like an alien
It was hard to make it work,
His legs and his feet were clumsy, and
He’d only just learnt to walk,
He found that his hands could pick up things
He could drop them, or could throw,
And watch the reaction of bigger things
When they’d shout, or tell him ‘No!’
They both were bigger and stronger
But the biggest one was rough,
He’d lift him out of his high chair, and
His voice was deep and gruff,
The other was soft and caring and
Had fed him at the breast,
Would carry him round and cuddle him
But the voice was shrill, at best.
Two spirits sat on his shoulders that
He didn’t know that he had,
One kept muttering, ‘You be good!’
The other said, ‘Be bad!’
‘Don’t listen to him, he’s always grim,’
Said the good one on the right,
The other had said, ‘Remember me?
He’ll make you feel uptight!’
He vaguely remembered the darker one
From the place that he’d always been,
And thoughts went fluttering through his mind,
Like scenes in a distant dream,
He knew, as a thrill spilled over him
That the good one made him sad,
And he couldn’t listen to both at once
But the dark one made him glad.
He’d watch as the bigs lit cigarettes
And the room filled up with smoke,
The haze had returned to comfort him
Though once in a while, he’d choke.
He’d stare and stare at the cigarettes
Intent on that tiny glow,
For it lit a spark in his memory
And he suddenly thought, ‘I know!’
One night while the bigs were fast asleep
He crawled on out of his cot,
Went for the box of matches that
He’d seen them use, a lot.
His tiny fingers had struck a match
And he sat and watched the flame,
As the darker one on his shoulder said,
‘We’re going to play a game!’
He struck a match for the curtains, and
He struck a match for the couch,
He then set fire to the tablecloth
And burnt his thumb, said ‘Ouch!’
An ancient memory stirred within
That would make his face perspire,
Caught in the middle of Dresden once,
And sat in a lake of fire.
The big ones woke, began to choke
And rushed on out to their fate,
They tried to rescue the baby Hans
But for all of them, too late!
He sat and chuckled within the flames
Felt nothing inside his pyre,
The dark one said, ‘So much for games,
You’ve had your play in the fire!’
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
So late at night,
When the all the birds sleep,
An owl awakes,
With bigs eyes,
Eyes picturing you,
Waiting for you to rise from slumber,
An owl awakes...
Flamingo you are,
What more I can say,
Beautiful more than anyone,
A charming bird,
Ready to fly in the open sky,
Play with clouds,
Rise high and high,
Just don't forget this owl,
With open eyes,
Eyes with you in them,
Awake so late at night...
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Yo, I’m tha new ghetto, sworn in king
Mi Hollywood name is Mr. La La
I don't need 2 listen 2 no lo ****
‘Cause all ya barberin’, is just blah blah
I take wat eva hood rat, be wantin’ 2 ***
Just don't tri and steal mi hard earned bling
You're so friggin dope, well thank you, mi new sister girly
You remind me of an ex Brady, she 2 waz a dirtee little birdy
*** into mi crib and I shall show ya tha best time
Grab a smoke and choke on dat hot *** it won't cost ya a dime
Ride-by just dun, bi sum kids on a bike, it seems
Leaves images I witnessed, carved into mi nightly dreamz
Wild streets aren't designed 4 everybody out there, but me
Dats wi they invented, plain old grey sidewalks, 4 free
I feel totally naked widout it, I'm not a bad **** dirtee turtle
Dats wat mi mama once said, but even I'm shell shocked, can’t ya tell?
But wat ya see, is wat it really means, or so it should
So yes, it's good 2 be tha king of tha whole **** hood
One day I spilt the beans , on sum loyal corner crew boys
I told tha popo, I know dats so lo lo, but they killed using one of mi toys
If you’re not encouraged in life as a child, like most of uz
You'll always be in a cage as an adult, so wats the big fuss?
Attacked Mr Bigs crib and forced his family out, widout any doubt
Nobody likes a smelly snitch, 4 they will be hunted down and blacked out
They chose a new leader 4 da team and told him, ‘Ya better be able to cope’
But, he waz a brother, who neva new how to tie up all tha loose rope
I came on back and killed tha whole **** hood
A true gangsta haz pride and doze wat he should
I just rode on bi, in mi lo ridin’ convertible Jaguar cat
Shot up and sliced up, all doze forma ****** of mine, and dats dat
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
In the heliopause
Where the suns magnetic field stops
Between the stars
Man has no cause
Where the solar winds drop
Away from the heliosphere
In a universe so cold
Interstellar space grows
In matters of gases, ionic & atomic
Wearing molecular masks
Cosmic rays blasts
Intergalactic space
Where it's safe from human trash
Primordial nucleosynthesis
Produce nuclei
Without hate without race
Bigs bang
unstoppable isotopes
In particle rains
In the heliopause
I had a dream
Where peace was
Radiating in a radiation
Far from us
Where transient astronomical events
Occur in evolutionary stages
Of massive stardust
Where there is no Hollywood
And progenitors accretion
Form the art
There is a space
Interstellar
Without a human face
To bring it to ruin
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 5:36 PM UTC