"borrowing" poems
I had built a wall
Layer by layer
Mortar and stone
Until it was so high
And so strong
I thought no one could break it.
But I overlooked something
Because when I was done
There you were.
You just slipped right past my wall
Without even noticing its presence.
I was too surprised to push you out.
And then a funny thing happened
I was happy
And at peace with the world
And reconsidering my wall
Reconsidering
What I was protecting myself from.
I didn't have much of myself
To give away
But I gave you some of what was left
But not so much
That it would destroy me
To have to take it back.
Because I'd been though that before
I gave away so much
And still most of it is gone.
I've been hurt into being
More cautious with my feelings
Than I used to be.
And it turned out to be
A good thing
A blessing inside a curse
Because when you gave that piece back
It hurt
But I knew it could have been worse.
Because you can't break something
That's already been broken
By another.
There wasn't any part of me I gave you
That you could destroy
I didn't give you that.
I keep my heart close to me
Because it belongs to another
You were only borrowing what I had left.
So I will be fine
Because I've been through worse
And you are not my Kryptonite.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
Congratulations, you now have a sweet *** ride
It was really my own fault for leaving it outside.
I have to say, I’m almost impressed,
because stealing a bike must have been quite the test.
In broad daylight, no less, you snuck up to my house,
snatched up my bike and scurried off,
quiet
as a mouse.
My neighbors must have been distracted, you picked a great time,
to steal that bike right off my lawn, the perfect crime.
I hope that you took it because you loved it a lot,
not so you could sell it, get some money,
and buy,
lots of ***
But I’m sure that’s not the case, you wouldn’t do that,
I’m sure that you’re just borrowing it to bike off some fat.
Or you took it because you couldn’t afford one for your kids,
if that’s the case don’t worry,
I’m glad,
that you did.
Regardless of the reason it was taken for,
I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll leave my bike out no more!
Anyway, I hope that you’re now really happy.
Good day to you.
Sincerely,
Me
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Last night we celebrated 40 years,
out to dinner we went.
So different than our wedding day
We ate and reminisced.
At sixteen I didn't have much sense
and at 23 you even less.
How crazy we were way back then
You in you bell bottom jeans and vest,
I in a black mini skirt and boots.
We road around until we found
a mailbox with Rev. on it.
In we went to get hitched,
borrowing your brothers' wife's' ring.
As the preacher pronounced us man and wife,
a box of kittens was my main thing.
A nudge from behind brought me back
to the day I'll always remember.
As we walked out the door
the ring I gave back.
Oh what a memory we did make
but the best of all
was our wedding night.
You road around drinking beer with your brother-in-law
and I went to a tupperware party!
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have never seen.
This pink rose is something trying too hard to be red.
Slashing and ripping at clothes with sharpened words,
claiming it’s merely the thorns of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon me: I can not handle the sickly sweet
succor stuck under my suffocating nose. He holds me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees red where there is none
-- o r p e r h a p s t h a t ’ s j u s t t h e b l o o d ? --
this pink rose has me trembling, fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s stronger than me, but the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such a small
world, such a small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.
I can’t walk these halls
with comfort or safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my back and face.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Dear Santa
all i want for Christmas is a penny lover
a women that enjoys the small things in life
the lincolns instead of the benjamins
thrift instead of trendy
peanut butter instead of steak
my bottom shelf written poems instead of polish
the small things in life, Santa
the small things
is that too much to ask for
your gift to me
sans the star spangled spangled
the fireworks
the silver, glitter and confetti
i would endear
can you help me Santa
i dream
i dream real
a simple snowfall
me with her on the bunny trail
doing the bunny hop
later sharing a hot cocoa
borrowing heat, and time
Santa in my dream
i can see my mirror
a pincher
a thinker
wrapped pretty
maybe in ancient ski gear and attire
but together
and maybe in love
santa, in retrospect
i ask for a lot
because my heart would be filled
Merry Christmas
Logan Robertson
12/3/17
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
I want to tell you about time, how strangely
it behaves when you haven't got much of it left:
after 60 say, or 70, when you'd think it would
find itself squeezed so hard that like melting
ice it would surely begin to shrink, each day
looking smaller and smaller - well, it's not so.
The rules change, a single hour can grow huge
and quiet, full of reflections like an old river,
its slow-turning eddies and whirls showing you
every face of your life in a fluid design -
your children for instance, how you see them
deepened and changed, not merely by age, but by
time itself, its wide and luminous eye; and you
realise at last that your every gift to them - love,
your very life, should they need it - will not
and cannot come back; it wasn't a gift at all
but a borrowing, a baton for them to pass on in
their turn. Look, there they are in this
shimmering distance, rushing through their kind
of time, moving faster than you yet not catching up.
You're alone. And slowly you begin to discern
the queer outline of what's to come: the bend in
the river beyond which, moving steadily, head up
(you hope), you will simply vanish from sight.
3.6k
What failures
oh the failures of leaving home at seventeen
of living and thriving as a minority foreigner
of working and studying to post-grad levels
of maturing wonderfully and being up and decent
of loving and marrying and creating a good home
of no crime, no debts, not a drunk, not a player
of no stained reputation, no borrowing or theft
of being easy-going, nice and friendly, an all-rounder
what failures
the failure of being successful and capable in grace
the failure of doing so well a white neighbor burgled
the failure of saying that's not right, you're rotten thieves
the failure of standing up to bullying thieving mobs
the failure of being gangstalked and destroyed
the failure of being an educated professional black
the failure of being a solid, courageous, wholesome man
the failure of knowing you can't do wrong and get by
Ladies and Gentlemen
these are my failures
Its all there in black and white
its the failure of being a minority
In the british democracy of the Socialists
for it is greed to work hard and be successful
its a failure for blacks to aspire and do well when your white
neighbor is a drunken, welfare dependent waster and thief
And Blacks beware, for if you dare tell them to go change
you will be stalked, hounded, smeared, defamed, humiliated
harassed, bullied, slandered, sabotaged, and basically driven to
suicide or a breakdown
They manufacture Failures to reflect their own failures
They call it Trading Places and dish it out to 'Uppity' Blacks
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
sparklers are for the people who
love more
than they could ever
be loved in return,
for the ones who
exhaust
extinguish
their own light for others
to only appreciate them
for a moment and then
be forgotten,
for those who run out in rainstorms
for people who won’t even
stay with them in the sunshine,
for the ones who wait until
everyone around them is shining before they
ignite their light and glow.
but you can’t live by just
borrowing love for an instant or
living with the
ashes of other’s achievements;
you die a fresh death every time you listen to
those voices
that crash down on you like hail until
you’re too numb to move
you’re too over it to try
you’re too cold to ignite
at all.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 11:22 AM UTC
Good old Hawk. He was quite a guy. The truth of the matter was that Hawk was a needle freak. He was hooked on morphine. He had hepatitis. There was a whole in Hawk's arm where all the money went. Sad but true. Except for enough money for two beers for the Hawk and me.
Who has to hear it. No one, everyone. Needles can be useful for medicine: they can also be a curse. You pierce the skin and feel the ruch and the juices flow unil you get your fill. But there never is a fill until it's over. Don't kid yourself. It will be over because it's a dead end trip.
You'll crash at the end of your last trip. And the trip you have on earth will be on of misery and despair. Nirvana doesn't come cheap. Hundred dollars a day habit could lead to desperate measures. A life of crime, scamming, pawning, betting, borrowing, and stealing. I'm glad to say Hawk held himself above all this. It could not have been an easy road out to travel.
He overdosed three years before the end.
Hawk actually died and was revived by some kind of good fortune, or was it good fortune? Hawk after this had no memory or regular thought process. Hawk wasn't the same man after that. It was not a pretty sight. He was a hollow man, a mere shadow of his former self.
I grew tired of telling Hawk the same thing over and over again. He lived with us for a few years. He moved out into a group home which he didn't like -- too much macaroni. About six months later Hawk was found on the floor of the group home bedroom. This time he was really dead. I don't know if needles were involved. I never heard the details. I like to think needles were not involved for the last three years of Hawk's life. I know he was clean for all the time he stayed with us. However, a great deal of damage had already occurred when Hawk came to live with us.
Hawk was a night person. He would lie there on the couch watching TV all night long with our dog Ming faithfully by his side. They loved one another those two. They were soul mates. Hawk gave Ming her favorite toy - a little blue ball.
Hawk never gave up. His sister would come with raspberry pie and Hawk would glow for a few days.
Anyway, I gave Hawks eulogy. The song for the eulogy, "The needle and the damage done" by Neil Young.
To soar like a Hawk. To crash into the ground.
I'd like to think his spirit soars like a hawk. Maybe now Hawk has found the peace he never found in this life.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
Overlooked as if too good
Too sweet causing cavities
Borrowing glances never getting them back
holding hands, loose, and even lonelier
All you wanted to do was be happy
Chances don't exist for opportunity is everything
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Money scarcity
low circulation
high prices
High demand
More expenditures
less earned
Paid goods not delivered
The delivered not paid
Borrowing for debts
Accumulation of misfortune
death of loved ones
More crimes committed
A life of inequalities
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
I held you gently when you were most fragile.
You solid cloud.
Borrowing your calcium shell from
The turtle who flew.
Sitting among the twigs and
Thorns you made your throne.
I held you gently when you were awakened.
You precocial chick.
Watching your pinions grow
Into deadly nibs.
Seeing you filled with
Self-defined joie de vivre.
I held you gently when you were set to be free.
You helium ball.
Soaring to your motherland where
You are meant to be.
Looking at all the faces and
These radiant faces reciprocate you.
I held you gently when you were shot.
You bloodied phoenix.
Burning peacefully with all the might
You could possibly muster.
Embracing your demise with
Nothing more than an expectant smile.
I held you gently when I was most fragile.
Yet I know your short life had been worthwhile.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
As my heart surrenders to this place of hours
I give my thoughts new fire to rise
To tender whispers of honesty from lips
I trust in curves I cannot see
With my eyes
One rare pleasure comes in as never before
Driven beyond my pulses beat
Borrowing beauty from inviting sighs
For my own tribute of solitude
Bittersweet
I would wait on the sands of time for release
From this place my thoughts linger
Surrender up this poet’s peace eternally
If my heart surrendered to whispers
Of tender honesty
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
lately, it seems when you call you speak you mind,
motion to hang up before i can even consider mine.
do i exist simply as a gateway for you to speak?
my lover leaves me lonely,
my best friend soon to be alone on a plane
back home to me; tape him up in bubblewrap
beg him never to leave
so much time is spent in this room
isolated enough to warrant yellow paper
still, the textured white walls seem sentimental
they do not feel as big as the bed
it is so lonely without you, darling
but even when you are here,
it remains so empty
i reach for you in the night.
try as i may, even when you linger
you are so far, my darling,
too far to reach; too far to hold.
and i find you only see me once i turn away.
is it my eyes that alarm you, so full of emotion?
or do you want me just close enough for warmth,
but not close enough to listen to?
the broken furniture holds your motion,
still are the shadows that hold your shape,
and i cling to the pillow that isn't quite your length
but it will let me hold it; it will let me love
i picture you in the shower,
borrowing shampoo, speaking of coconut cream
and my dreams are only tinted memories
are you leaving me in the chill of the air conditioning?
perhaps i'll never know until you finally close the door;
the season has only just begun, my darling
there are so many half hours still to yearn for you;
i'll be quiet and laugh at your commentary until the credits roll
i'll quietly await the sudden goodbye.
May 13, 2022
May 13, 2022 at 2:17 AM UTC
I'm disowning my name.
In America, my name is cumbersome
and clumsy
and confusing
so I'm leaving it behind.
See,
my name starts with an S and ends with a Z
and one's a mirror of the other
so they're like bookends
for a collection of letters
that spell a name
that I never really felt belonged to me.
Every morning, when I wake up,
I wriggle into my name
but it doesn't feel quite right.
It's like borrowing your best friend's jeans
even though she's tall and skinny
and you've got a hundred generations of Puertoriqueña swirling around the blood in your hips.
I don't like my name
cause it doesn't diffuse across your lips.
It bursts through your teeth.
It's got a weight on your tongue
that brings down the sound with the weight of
a thousand sinking ships.
I've got a
Hispanic Titanic of a name
but my skin's so white
it seems impolite to claim an ethnicity
that only lends its elasticity
because of my father
and the people that brought him here.
My name is not me.
It never was.
It is an anchor that keeps me on the island of what my family used to be.
I am not a race.
I am not a category next to a box on a sheet of paper.
I am the syncopated heartbeat of a tribal drum.
I am the ****** whisper of water on the sand.
I am the sunburn on the corrugated tin.
I am the hunger in the stomachs of the working poor.
So when I die
let me not be remembered by
fifteen letters I did not choose
seven syllables I did not select
three titles I did not ask for.
Let them tell stories of
what I did
where I went
what I saw
who I loved
the words I spoke
the thoughts I formulated,
ignorant of my race
free of bias and prejudice
and preconceived notions
of what I should have been
because in the end
none of this will matter
I'll have no strength for words
but with a penultimate breath
I'll still be able to smile.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Procession line Vicar,
Speaking with the lowly vigor,
He picked up from a Detroit ******
Calm down…no one said ******
Found prosperity
Through a bottle of clarity
Gift wrapped for charity
Then stolen in hilarity.
Refrain borrowed from a borrowing line
**** rolling down on an incline
Rest at the bottom to recombine.
Face up, mouth open; laying supine
Riots over a turn of phrase
Vanquished hope in lost praise
Lawyer’s bout due for a raise
Pointless comment regarding gays…
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
Sometimes we lose ourselves
and borrow different identities,
sometimes we fall apart
and embrace new ideologies.
Sometimes we lose our voice
and everything drifts away
we act as we somehow forget
that everything’s built on our choice.
Sometimes we forget who we are
that there’s something of higher importance
which should make us feel clear and right,
but sometimes our vision gets blind.
Sometimes we question ourselves,
end up by borrowing different selves,
because sometimes we lose our trust
and become as vanished as dust.
Sometimes we torture ourselves
with wrong thoughts and unreal dreams
we get caught in something I’d call
the one’s self abandonment act.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
I find comfort in the place inside my head where I can think. A place forever changing with the instability of my emotional state. This special place is a canvas being painted as my life progresses, in the deep blues of despair and soft yellows of contentment. Borrowing smells, visions, and people of memories past and present to build a beautiful escape from reality. It is impossible to remember an exact moment in this place, as it, like all matter, is in a constant state of motion.
Somedays the bright light of early morning is shining in, the dust particles collecting and shimmering like glitter in the air. I can hear birds chirping, harmonizing with the soft, kind voices of my childhood. A hand reaches out to touch mine, their thumb stroking the top of my hand and their fingers tickling the inside of my palm, as if to say: “It's okay, you're here with me now”. Whose hand that is, I can never quite be sure.
There are times where I sit with my cheek against the cold damp window, watching the water scrambling and morphing into new shapes and sizes as it runs down the glass, listening to the rain pounding an unsteady rhythm to which the thunder and lightening dance. The looming darkness intensifies the sound of beating hearts and broken voices. But once again, a hand touches mine: “It's okay, you're here with me now”. Regardless of the emotions it may evoke and the darkness that may linger, it is always much safer than reality here.
At times I am alone in this place with only the babbling of a nearby brook, or the comforting melody of a familiar song to keep me company. Here, I am allowed to be in a moment without the threat of interruption. Here, I am able to think, to breathe.
It can be a place of panic, anguish, or even hopelessness; but no matter how it's ambiance is affected by my mental state, it will always be a place of stability.
In this moment, my special place is far from this room that confines me. It is full of the people I ache to see again, full of memories of times before bad decisions robbed me of all that meant anything in my life. The song “July” by Youth Lagoon is playing: “If I had never let go, then only God knows where I would be now. I built a bridge between us and then slowly burned it. Five years ago, in my backyard I sang love away. Little did I know that real love had not quite yet found me”.
Today it is a place of regret and desire, and the hand is one I long to hold again.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
**Dear Nat,
When I grow up,
I think that my
Wonder Woman cape,
that flys behind
so gracefully,
as I wrestle villains,
intent upon
World Destruction
will morph into a
***** dish rag
that hangs limply
from my shoulder,
as I tend too,
mountains of
folding and training of
hysterical toddlers
to be stable products
in society
Is what shape,
this cape, marking me
"all-grown-up'?
Signed,
Helen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
Dear Wonder Woman,
(Borrowing from and with apologies to
Arthur Herzog Jr. and Billie Holiday...)
This ball you tossed,
Arrived early morn,
Forcing me tocontemplate
the choice between
Shaving, and /or poetically,
dispelling your
Grand Confusion.
Fancy that, as I pondered
How to best express,
The obvious reply,
the BS&T; sang the answer
Obviatin' the need,
To discuss your heroics,
The care, the feed,
Those you care for,
Attend their needs.
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
God bless' the child
who can stand up and say
I've got my own
Ev'ry child's, got to have his own,
His very own.*
I could be more explicit,
That when I was a child,
A red dish cloth was a
Perfectly good ASAP cape,
That defeating bad guys
Hungry work that needed
Ring Dings + milk, to soothe a
Superhero's Superman
And both arrived courtesy of
Wonder Mom.
So rather than ramble,
Let this preamble
suffice:
*God bless the child
that's got his own,
Wonder Woman*
N.B. This message has been approved by the
Justice League of America, Australia Branch.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
How do we explain a near death experience
Especially when it was the first fresh breath we took
How to explain light
When dark is all that’s ever know
How do you turn to blasphemy
When God’s light directly shines
And enlighten the most important movement of one’s life
How do we even begin to explain
When we died for the last time
Still we can try borrowing quotes
And metaphors, rhymes and tinker of words
Though they will be as useful as trying to eat fire and sip rocks
But how do you stitch a soul into something
When you’ve only known hollow inside
This was how it was
When we saw them for the first time
You don’t realize drowning
Till you touch the surface for the first time
It was a dance slow and steady
Our beings so close even air changed it path
Yet so far way, we couldn’t have been further apart
It was was that time when time didn’t exist
when blood came easy
And breath came harsh
How do we explain them
Without tassing every sorry excuse for a phrase
Into the river in despair
Full of more soul than soulful
And holding more sorrow
Than a broken something in middle of the most beautiful
...One thing
The sole living evidence that god existed
And a sweet sting that The devil is not too far behind
For something so divine cannot exist without
Existence exiting itself
A faithful service, a conspiracy between coincidence and fate
Masters of talking to much and saying nothing
While being too much and existing nowhere
Who bear more meaning than meaning of meaning itself
And holds less meaning that the word iqwbefbl
This is the most accurate description of the time
We saw, when the heart of stone spared a beat
For the first time
And the last time
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC
Sorry you're not finding it to your liking and to my knowledge,
"Borrowing" isn't the "norm" on this site, it's the exception to the rule.
I read poems; but, far less than what's posted. Who has that much time?
From what I gather, the alleged person who "borrowed", was a tad upset.
Upset and sought revenge due to comments she didn't agree with at all.
Her revenge; a rapid and endless stream of posting posts by fellow poets?
I am so not into and highly allergic to mentally draining drama. ARRGH!
I'm on daily when I create poetry and my friends are also to lend support.
Does it matter how many hours adults spend on this site or on the net?
Better question; Is it really anyone's business? Short answer; Who cares!
In regards to criticism in general: They're "personal opinions" and that's it.
If you fall apart, get upset or are seeker of revenge over random's comments,
lock yourself indoors, don't go out in public and don't post on the internet.
What's truly impossible; Finding a way to please everyone at the same time.
Grow a thick skin, roll with the punches and graciously learn to take criticism.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return
a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.
Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.
Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC