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"broadcast" poems
I rolled out of bed to start my day, but the power was off my all electric home, as still as a grave. No coffee, or toast. The refrigerator not cold, the freezer started dripping the contents soon to spoil. No computer, no cell phone service! I began sweating profusely, no air conditioning to cool me. Not even a TV Emergency Broadcast Alert, to release this uneasy feeling of topsy-turvy . I drove into town seeking a pay phone, with not a single one to be found, gone the way of the dinosaurs, extinct now too I assumed. My old truck had no computer chips, most cars did and were dead in their tracks. I needed gas but the gas station pumps electric computer driven, all DOA to boot. The Nations electric grid had crashed, blacked out, stone cold dead everywhere. All heavenly satellites blacked out, expired. Everything computer related (and that is about everything), had ceased to function as had the electronic reliant world we had created.   The street throngs of dazed people walked around like zombies, clutching blacked out dead computer devices, knowing not what to do. Not even talking, forgotten I guess how to do that too. As dependently defectively programmed as the useless devices in their hands. In a panic I did awake finding that this scary dream world was indeed all fake, a nightmare of fearful unconscious thinking. My electric clock was still churning, It's music alarm blaring, birds outside still singing, my cell phone started ringing, it was merely another Robot call, Welcoming me back to the 21 century.
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Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
Dinosaurs and Devices
I rolled out of bed to start my day, but the power was off my all electric home, as still as a grave. No coffee, or toast. The refrigerator not cold, the freezer started dripping the contents soon to spoil. No computer, no cell phone service! I began sweating profusely, no air conditioning to cool me. Not even a TV Emergency Broadcast Alert, to release this uneasy feeling of topsy-turvy . I drove into town seeking a pay phone, with not a single one to be found, gone the way of the dinosaurs, extinct now too I assumed. My old truck had no computer chips, most cars did and were dead in their tracks. I needed gas but the gas station pumps electric computer driven, all DOA to boot. The Nations electric grid had crashed, blacked out, stone cold dead everywhere. All heavenly satellites blacked out, expired. Everything computer related (and that is about everything), had ceased to function as had the electronic reliant world we had created.   The street throngs of dazed people walked around like zombies, clutching blacked out dead computer devices, knowing not what to do. Not even talking, forgotten I guess how to do that too. As dependently defectively programmed as the useless devices in their hands. In a panic I did awake finding that this scary dream world was indeed all fake, a nightmare of fearful unconscious thinking. My electric clock was still churning, It's music alarm blaring, birds outside still singing, my cell phone started ringing, it was merely another Robot call, Welcoming me back to the 21 century.
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44
Of all the super heroes who exist like legends, or monuments in entertainment, or essential cultural commodities, and my favorite is Moon Knight. Never met a good reception. Never had a particularly well done story. I like Moon Knight in theory; a superhero with mental issues, with friends who face the moral challenge of playing into his insanity, versus helping him stop serious crimes. It seemed like a social commentary to me; why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes? How is it we understand absolute power corrupts absolutely, yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet is really in the best interest of our species? The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero, diving into the night with a decadent radiance, he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it- for his enemies to know he's coming. Does it make sense? No. Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with being morally black and white, but does struggle with keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing, no face shown... just darkness. All the emotion in the world broadcast through two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green, often white. A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight; Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane. A failed son who won't die. Here's to it.
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
"Moon Knight."
ah, enslave without compassion bound ancestors you must impale go seek and show no mercy let those who escape carry the tale all the sufferers bearing witness to their ministers spilling their blood staggered screeches from bleak recesses regicide plotters bend to the dust with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny slimy enshrinement brings into question what's divinely lamented for scatter populations with ruthlessness let them choose sycophancy or sword reappoint difficult commanders for instigation unbroken awaits kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion never quite sure of their fate with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny let the cowardly unlock the gates for you to heroically claim what's inside crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder all the world is your ****** bride punctuate the roads with tollgates ***** monuments to broadcast your name all your banquet's guests are your enemies entertain them with one another's shame with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny under your tyranny
0
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Unmitigated Conquest and **********
High above dear Maple Street There looms a cold iron curtain of fear That dares to drop and let all the monsters Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos As in Europe despots gift a new World War Trembling parlors hug the radio Hallows Eve: the radio Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war And that heavy iron curtain of fear Eclipses the sun and invites chaos In vacant hearts of men into monsters Halloween Night: the monsters Now dance to the tune of the radio Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear Riding hysteria, imminent war O great catalyst of war Twisting the minds of men into monsters Diving your hands in that great pit of fear Now throbbing with screams from the radio No fences nor faces can save Maple Street Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos And we call it Chaos This boiling of minds all stewing with war Once masked with humanity on this street Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear And when that curtain of fear Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos And the broadcast fades on the radio And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war What will we make of all of these monsters Scattered about in a daze through the street Where there are minds of fear and war, Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters; Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
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Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
The Monsters are Due on Maple Street
High above dear Maple Street There looms a cold iron curtain of fear That dares to drop and let all the monsters Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos As in Europe despots gift a new World War Trembling parlors hug the radio Hallows Eve: the radio Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war And that heavy iron curtain of fear Eclipses the sun and invites chaos In vacant hearts of men into monsters Halloween Night: the monsters Now dance to the tune of the radio Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear Riding hysteria, imminent war O great catalyst of war Twisting the minds of men into monsters Diving your hands in that great pit of fear Now throbbing with screams from the radio No fences nor faces can save Maple Street Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos And we call it Chaos This boiling of minds all stewing with war Once masked with humanity on this street Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear And when that curtain of fear Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos And the broadcast fades on the radio And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war What will we make of all of these monsters Scattered about in a daze through the street Where there are minds of fear and war, Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters; Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
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39
http://watch-nfl-football-live.com/nfllive2014.html http://watch-nfl-football-live.com/nfllive2014.html Hey NBA Basketball fan, Watch Detroit vs Toronto live exclusive American, National Football League and other football matches in our online TV. It is too much easy to watch the NBA Basketball match even you also watch the other important matches around the world. NBC SPORTS, Ch4,TV channel will Detroit vs Toronto live stream game 2014 season. NFL fans don’t delay your time to watch this match live. Click & enjoy every football moments live broadcast on live football TV. Detroit vs Toronto live Online HD TV2PC : Match Shehedule: Detroit vs Toronto live Competition: NBA Basketball 2014 Date : Monday, January 12 2015 Time : 7:30 PM EST FSD, TSN2 Watch NBA Basketball Live TV On PC So you Can Watch NFL Game online on on your PC, Mobile, Mac, i Pads, i Phones, Cell Phone, Android and laptop. Enjoy to watch live stream online National Football League. Stream coverage NFL online tv, Live NFL games watch on sky sports TV, CBS, NBC, bet with sky bet, bet fair TV, ESPN TV, fox sports tv, internet tv. Enjoy NFL live broadcast, live sop cast, live telecast, live coverage, live stream online.Watch Live NFL Games & Live College Football Games Online Here. >>> Don’t Miss the big game show<<< http://watch-nfl-football-live.com/nfllive2014.html
0
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
*Watch* the match Detroit vs Toronto live HD TV
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
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May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
VERSES OF CAUTION TO AN AFRICAN GIRL
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
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36
Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle, and there's that obligatory radio broadcast, the one that warns of inclement weather- rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha. You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky, the improbable tornado dropping great whites on the California shoreline. One arm curled around my waist, you tickle erratically until I squirm away, only to creep back again, and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger, wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish, but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far knowing how it would end. The extras scream and scatter, arms flailing, going through the motions of surprise, stumbling in their scripted attempts to flee the inevitable. Predictably, they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped in the hammerhead's belly has this peaceful expression, as if she can't quite remember why she ran away in the first place.
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Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Sharknado's On Again
Sung to the tune of The Lumberjack Song by Monty Python. Back-up Mounties optional. I never wanted to be Sandra Dee! I... I wanted to be... A LESBIAN! (piano vamp) Leaping from bush to bush! As they float down the mighty rivers of Finger and Thumbia! With my best girl by my side! The Blond! The Brunette! The Giant Snookie! The Natural Red! The Little Spinning Skinnamarink! We'd sing! Sing! Sing! Oh, I'm a lesbian, and I'm okay, I like to broadcast that I'm gay. Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay, She likes to broadcast that she's gay. I see straight girls, they're not like me, But I think that can change. If they'd just let me kiss them. Their lives I'd re-arrange. Mounties: She sees straight girls, they're not like her, But she thinks that can change. If they'd just let her kiss them. Their lives she'd re-arrange. Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay, She likes to broadcast that she's gay. I cut down guys, I wish and hope, That others would join in. I wish straight women would think, that *** with men was sin. Mounties: She cuts down guys, she wishes and hopes, That others would join in. She wishes straight women would think, that *** with men was sin. Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay, She likes to broadcast that she's gay. Oh I'm a lesbian and I'm OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK K!
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May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The Lesbian Song
Talk-show queen Oprah Winfrey with her entourage is going to Australia and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report on the state of the colony of Australia Colony? Yes, that’s right Australia is still a British colony - How else do you explain it? as the Head of Government in Australia is still the British Monarchy and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain, has her representative a Governor-General in Australia; and the Aussie national media faithfully reports that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island and the TV stations broadcast visions of which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in are surprised to learn of Australia’s status at citizenship ceremonies and the young man explains to his grandma: “Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia; sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.” And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment are heard to remark: “Oh no – does this mean we still have to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?” But then they are consoled by the fact that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years so we can all still get on with our lives and the nation will continue to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos until such things may happen… Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey and her entourage this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under: Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
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Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
Colbert Report: Australia
Talk-show queen Oprah Winfrey with her entourage is going to Australia and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report on the state of the colony of Australia Colony? Yes, that’s right Australia is still a British colony - How else do you explain it? as the Head of Government in Australia is still the British Monarchy and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain, has her representative a Governor-General in Australia; and the Aussie national media faithfully reports that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island and the TV stations broadcast visions of which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in are surprised to learn of Australia’s status at citizenship ceremonies and the young man explains to his grandma: “Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia; sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.” And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment are heard to remark: “Oh no – does this mean we still have to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?” But then they are consoled by the fact that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years so we can all still get on with our lives and the nation will continue to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos until such things may happen… Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey and her entourage this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under: Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
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39
I was doing something when a flash smashed out to every corner of the room. It came like ominous bolts of lightning had leapt from the light bulb bursting inside, as though storms had been brewing slowly under a muzzle of glass frame. I regarded how strange it was to be fed up to a thrum of 75 watts in its lifetime, to finally break its broadcast. I look to a tungsten tongue, see the ember flick into the dark and say, I lost my religion.
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Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
The Light Bulb
Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—
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4k
A Goodnight
Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—
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56
We're sorry for that brief interruption Someone hacked our station for a minute We're now using some simple deduction To try to find out the perfect culprit. You hear static? Hello news viewers, audio is clear? Good, it is, time to let the show start We've seen their boring little white lies here Right in between commercials for Walmart Stay tuned for more!
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Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Broadcast interruption
I want to write poem tonight... I want to run out of my sight... To hug myself & go to hell... To tell it bye & then it tell... To punish myself because of my past... God will show me my life's broadcast... I am 19 but where is my youth... I know where it is,I know the truth... Don't shout myself ! Be quiet please... Don't be angry ! breath & release... Why should U confess,my dear heart...! You should be silent in this part...!
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Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
*My heart...Myself...*
too much disney, too many flashing images of a worthwhile epilepsy... what about photo-sensitive epilepsy what of dyslexia-sensitive epilepsy? i get the elvis shakes fearing the worst when seeing people spell out certain words. then you see the word d'uh... and you stop believing it happened, because no media broadcast the story with a d'uh being relevant to the countless rapes and ontologies exaggerated as a norm basis (i.e. normal) of being human.
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Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
dyslexia-sensitive epilepsy
What's happening to hello poetry? I don't need to know when the next soccer game is And if I can watch for free. Only football I know is American like the pride that's in me. My blood doesn't boil the native sounds of my country. Since my  motherland is the Dominican But America my step motherland won custody and raised me, since the age of three. Don't forget is not who made you but who you fed you, who clothed you, who saw your first shot to a basket, who saw your first catch, who kept your body warm when you got another cold, and so on. This is "Breakfast for Champions" Just ask Kurt Vonnegut What's happening to hello Poetry? Show your art Get your due diligence Don't sell us your dreams don't broadcast your business unless is a story, book signing or deal. I don't need a spell to make a girl fall in love. I got these words For and to whom I might propose Love or an indecent occasion of lust. Let my words be the for front on this site but they're second to my actions. Since I don't speak much b'cause my Latin accent. What is happening to hello poetry? Private messages by strangers who don't write or speak words. Claim is urgent and as a poet You know kind hearted, love lost, And so on... You just might want to message their Hotmail. Sad story under prosecution Sad story the relation is abusive Mocking the painful truths of some of us artist. Just wanting a piece of the pie But when I order I even eat the crust and never leave crumbs. Take offense or not I just don't give a ****
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Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
***
What's happening to hello poetry? I don't need to know when the next soccer game is And if I can watch for free. Only football I know is American like the pride that's in me. My blood doesn't boil the native sounds of my country. Since my  motherland is the Dominican But America my step motherland won custody and raised me, since the age of three. Don't forget is not who made you but who you fed you, who clothed you, who saw your first shot to a basket, who saw your first catch, who kept your body warm when you got another cold, and so on. This is "Breakfast for Champions" Just ask Kurt Vonnegut What's happening to hello Poetry? Show your art Get your due diligence Don't sell us your dreams don't broadcast your business unless is a story, book signing or deal. I don't need a spell to make a girl fall in love. I got these words For and to whom I might propose Love or an indecent occasion of lust. Let my words be the for front on this site but they're second to my actions. Since I don't speak much b'cause my Latin accent. What is happening to hello poetry? Private messages by strangers who don't write or speak words. Claim is urgent and as a poet You know kind hearted, love lost, And so on... You just might want to message their Hotmail. Sad story under prosecution Sad story the relation is abusive Mocking the painful truths of some of us artist. Just wanting a piece of the pie But when I order I even eat the crust and never leave crumbs. Take offense or not I just don't give a ****
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30
My Sunglasses I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow I use black plastic as onyx shields So Tucson, I see you. There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands They tell us we’re wasting our time Telling the roadrunner to run back home When its nest was here since the beginning of time Tucson. I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere. I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences. Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see. Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast They tend to only record your overdoses and murders Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far. Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist, Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in. I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds. I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown. To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you On walks home I photograph your murals. Listen to the poets in the hallways. Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’. I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses. Framed your mountain ranges in my frames. Took cover in your shades. Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow Tucson I see you.
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Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
My Sunglasses
My Sunglasses I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow I use black plastic as onyx shields So Tucson, I see you. There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands They tell us we’re wasting our time Telling the roadrunner to run back home When its nest was here since the beginning of time Tucson. I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere. I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences. Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see. Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast They tend to only record your overdoses and murders Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far. Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist, Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in. I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds. I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown. To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you On walks home I photograph your murals. Listen to the poets in the hallways. Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’. I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses. Framed your mountain ranges in my frames. Took cover in your shades. Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow Tucson I see you.
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45
Stay well, table, inviting me to sit by your side, sipping tea, stay warm, books, wrapped warm in your covers, steeped in Spirit, stay well, koel, sing the same way every stuttering morning that comes lisping in the winds and the tongues of the swallows stay well, gulmohar, ever alive in a glow of blooms warming bare the summer heart stay well, pens, ever meditating this way, conjuring up all the stories I tell in verse stay well, my droid phone, go on, recharge yourself in your morning asana tied to the mains stay well, web, where I plug in and broadcast my thoughts and receive blessings and grace
0
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Stay well - a morning poem
You broadcast your faith Singing praises in your posts But is that how it really goes? Is faith really your focus; your motivation For getting drunk and partying With evangelical consistence Is God lighting up your life As you light up a blunt Faith is just your innocent front Don't let yourself believe we fall for your facade We know what you really do and so does God
0
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
Facade
"Begin to work with the Net of Light," they say, **"by thinking of a vast lighted fishing net spread over the earth and stretching into the distance, as far as your eyes can see. This is the great Net of Light that will support the earth and all life on this planet during the times of change that have come. The Net of Life covers the earth from above, it covers it from below, and it bisects the earth like a great grid-penetrating, holding, and touching everything. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth while the energies of yin and yang shift. And they will shift,"** the Grandmothers say; **"the change has already begun.      "Walk forward and take your place on the Net of Light. Somewhere where two of the strands come together forming an 'x' or a 't' is a place that will feel just right for you. Walk forward and take your place there. Here you can rest and allow the Net of Light to hold and support you while at the same time you support it.      "We have many times told you that the Net of Light is lit by the jewel of the heart. This is true,"** the Grandmothers say. **"Experience now as the radiant jewel of your own heart begins to open and broadcast its light along the strands of the Net. Every person who works with the Net of Light is linked in light with others who also work with it. Experience your union with people all over the glove who are now connected by the Net of Light. Some of them call it a Web of Light, some call it a lighted grid, some call it Indra's net, but whatever they call it, it is the same construct. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth steady during these times of change that are upon you.      "As you call on the Net and find your place on it,"** they say, **"think of receiving and sending light throughout this vast network. And as you think this thought, instantly your energy will follow it, and you will feel the Net of Light working in you and through you.      "Experience your union with us and with all those who work with us. There are thousands of you all over the earth. Also experience your union with the sacred and holy places on this planet and the sacred and holy beings that have come at this time to avert the catastrophe that looms over the earth-the great saints, sages and avatars that have come now and gladly give their lives in service. Experience your union also with those of good heart who seek the highest good for life on earth. Know and feel the power of this union and let your body experience this force of and for good.      "Once you have strongly felt this power, begin to cast the Net of Light to those who do not know about it. Cast wherever there is suffering on earth,"** the say, **"to human beings, to animals, to conditions of every kind, to all forms of life, and to Mother Earth herself. Cast also to people who are longing to serve, but have not yet found a way to access the Divine and as you cast the Net of Light, many who have until this moment been asleep to the fundamental connection we all share, will begin to awaken and feel the spark of divinity within themselves coming to life. Now ask the radiant Net of Light to hold all life in its embrace and know that each time you work like this, you are adding to the reach and power of the great Net.      "Cast the Net to all women and men everywhere,"** they say. "Cast to the leaders of this world to remind them that they are a precious part of the Net of Light that holds and supports life. Cast to the animal kingdom, asking that every animal receive what it most needs. Cast to the plant kingdom and to the mineral kingdom as well. Cast to everything that lives," the Grandmothers say, "and when you have done this, ask, 'May everyone in all the worlds be happy.'
0
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Meditation on the Net of Light from the Grandmothers via Sharon McErlane
"Begin to work with the Net of Light," they say, **"by thinking of a vast lighted fishing net spread over the earth and stretching into the distance, as far as your eyes can see. This is the great Net of Light that will support the earth and all life on this planet during the times of change that have come. The Net of Life covers the earth from above, it covers it from below, and it bisects the earth like a great grid-penetrating, holding, and touching everything. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth while the energies of yin and yang shift. And they will shift,"** the Grandmothers say; **"the change has already begun.      "Walk forward and take your place on the Net of Light. Somewhere where two of the strands come together forming an 'x' or a 't' is a place that will feel just right for you. Walk forward and take your place there. Here you can rest and allow the Net of Light to hold and support you while at the same time you support it.      "We have many times told you that the Net of Light is lit by the jewel of the heart. This is true,"** the Grandmothers say. **"Experience now as the radiant jewel of your own heart begins to open and broadcast its light along the strands of the Net. Every person who works with the Net of Light is linked in light with others who also work with it. Experience your union with people all over the glove who are now connected by the Net of Light. Some of them call it a Web of Light, some call it a lighted grid, some call it Indra's net, but whatever they call it, it is the same construct. This is the Net of Light that will hold the earth steady during these times of change that are upon you.      "As you call on the Net and find your place on it,"** they say, **"think of receiving and sending light throughout this vast network. And as you think this thought, instantly your energy will follow it, and you will feel the Net of Light working in you and through you.      "Experience your union with us and with all those who work with us. There are thousands of you all over the earth. Also experience your union with the sacred and holy places on this planet and the sacred and holy beings that have come at this time to avert the catastrophe that looms over the earth-the great saints, sages and avatars that have come now and gladly give their lives in service. Experience your union also with those of good heart who seek the highest good for life on earth. Know and feel the power of this union and let your body experience this force of and for good.      "Once you have strongly felt this power, begin to cast the Net of Light to those who do not know about it. Cast wherever there is suffering on earth,"** the say, **"to human beings, to animals, to conditions of every kind, to all forms of life, and to Mother Earth herself. Cast also to people who are longing to serve, but have not yet found a way to access the Divine and as you cast the Net of Light, many who have until this moment been asleep to the fundamental connection we all share, will begin to awaken and feel the spark of divinity within themselves coming to life. Now ask the radiant Net of Light to hold all life in its embrace and know that each time you work like this, you are adding to the reach and power of the great Net.      "Cast the Net to all women and men everywhere,"** they say. "Cast to the leaders of this world to remind them that they are a precious part of the Net of Light that holds and supports life. Cast to the animal kingdom, asking that every animal receive what it most needs. Cast to the plant kingdom and to the mineral kingdom as well. Cast to everything that lives," the Grandmothers say, "and when you have done this, ask, 'May everyone in all the worlds be happy.'
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7
Boostin' and we're mobile But we still don't see no bars Laugh it off in the back of the car Smoking cigars Whole lotta trouble lately that's been creepin in my mind Cash low ******* status when I get into a bind Settle balances breaking tablets in half just to unwind Knock over knock-offs inching my self from suicide I told myself that I'd do this suppose it's do or die Cause I'm cracking under pressure influenced youth who will ride Down to make this money they don't want me to make I'm prone to make mistakes taking steps that I hate Toward the door with more in store than what they see on my plate But how do they expect me to eat? No one's feeding me grapes Palm fronds fannin' my face Can't relate To the ******** they paint Fade to gray This has been a public broadcast
0
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
"Boostin' '14" (Art of the Steal)
there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her. even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in. years pass, and the girl never writes anything back. i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to. i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional. i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night. i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes. i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded krishna for ******* and the thousand days that followed: day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine. day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open. day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone. day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it. we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend. to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll, but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics   ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them. i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building. years pass, and the girl has never written anything back. i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to. even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.
0
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
layla
there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her. even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in. years pass, and the girl never writes anything back. i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to. i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional. i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night. i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes. i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded krishna for ******* and the thousand days that followed: day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine. day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open. day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone. day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it. we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend. to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll, but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics   ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them. i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building. years pass, and the girl has never written anything back. i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to. even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.
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36
Screen time We need to have Essential Moments of mandatory misery Grasping, tugging emotions Un-liked, ignored emoticons The puffed-green faces of ourselves Dot The landscape and portraits of Screens Screaming at, about, into The refined, together Socially happy selves That we would be, should be If we abide broadcast expectations Joyful, complete, happy, helpful Free… We are not Not always Precisely completed Or so These moments Remind us With beautiful Misery
0
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Digitally Intimate
Better natured today than yesterday, smelling less like cigarettes and more like laundry detergent, you sit across from your therapist at the bar and ask for one more boilermaker. You say, How do you desire what you already possess? And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk. That's a bad drunk. You're in a floral print A-line dress, one you bought from your sister-in-law. She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things and though her Facebook posts make you want to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger and thumb a seam that's already coming undone. Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar, almost alone, and promised yourself you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are. Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't seem to summon, and you wonder why *** is such an important thing. It's so brief, forgettable, full of abject compromise. *** is an inherently violent act, don't you think? You say to the therapist.   If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond. You don't repeat the question. You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar. They're commenting on your hair and your arms and going on and on about your likability. Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30. He gives the place a nighttime feel. He kills a row of lights and turns on the colored bulbs, the blues and greens. The TV is turned down. The music is turned up. This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music. There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can close your eyes and drift. Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in. You have your therapist put in for an Uber. Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say. Oh yeah? the therapist says. Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed. Maybe the question should be how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess? That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no sense of self. You'd always be bending. I've been a plus one for a long time. You say bending. But I wouldn't be doing anything new. I already do all these things. But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying to reframe, you know? Why? your therapist asks. You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
0
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
F L O T U S
Better natured today than yesterday, smelling less like cigarettes and more like laundry detergent, you sit across from your therapist at the bar and ask for one more boilermaker. You say, How do you desire what you already possess? And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk. That's a bad drunk. You're in a floral print A-line dress, one you bought from your sister-in-law. She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things and though her Facebook posts make you want to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger and thumb a seam that's already coming undone. Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar, almost alone, and promised yourself you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are. Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't seem to summon, and you wonder why *** is such an important thing. It's so brief, forgettable, full of abject compromise. *** is an inherently violent act, don't you think? You say to the therapist.   If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond. You don't repeat the question. You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar. They're commenting on your hair and your arms and going on and on about your likability. Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30. He gives the place a nighttime feel. He kills a row of lights and turns on the colored bulbs, the blues and greens. The TV is turned down. The music is turned up. This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music. There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can close your eyes and drift. Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in. You have your therapist put in for an Uber. Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say. Oh yeah? the therapist says. Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed. Maybe the question should be how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess? That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no sense of self. You'd always be bending. I've been a plus one for a long time. You say bending. But I wouldn't be doing anything new. I already do all these things. But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying to reframe, you know? Why? your therapist asks. You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
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56
You are a poet lacking poetry A composer who never penned a symphony A clown plagued by misery A broadcast not shown on T.V A duck pond missing mallard mates A panda without panda traits A perfectionist who makes mistakes A pacifist who fights and hates _
0
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
You Are...