"brodie" poems - Hello Poetry

the homeless are ******** in the streets, well some of them are the homeless have been ******** in the streets a lot lately when they are not getting scatological on the streets of seattle they are conjuring the other images of themselves, because there is always so much more to this story as they sit on the sidewalk and/or in entrances of shops, restaurants, and other commercial establishments throwing empty beer cans in the street at the people walking past they say seattle is going to be the next san francisco because that is what tech is, nothing new forgotten already done ideas redone same price tags same coast line same **** in the streets they must have thought something better was here, waiting for them when they rode into town from other towns housing, more drugs, a new life in these streets that they **** in not sure what they heard their tents under the over pass their trash upon the hill overlooking the highway their tents always have a highway view their trash too i should be that afraid of my own life of what tomorrow will be oversharing in a voice that is not my own miss jean brodie in **** city style

0

Jul 26, 2018

Jul 26, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC

july-hearne

Joan Armatrading Songs Called Down To Zero

the homeless are ******** in the streets, well some of them are the homeless have been ******** in the streets a lot lately when they are not getting scatological on the streets of seattle they are conjuring the other images of themselves, because there is always so much more to this story as they sit on the sidewalk and/or in entrances of shops, restaurants, and other commercial establishments throwing empty beer cans in the street at the people walking past they say seattle is going to be the next san francisco because that is what tech is, nothing new forgotten already done ideas redone same price tags same coast line same **** in the streets they must have thought something better was here, waiting for them when they rode into town from other towns housing, more drugs, a new life in these streets that they **** in not sure what they heard their tents under the over pass their trash upon the hill overlooking the highway their tents always have a highway view their trash too i should be that afraid of my own life of what tomorrow will be oversharing in a voice that is not my own miss jean brodie in **** city style

30

I can’t help somebody who thinks, or thinks he thinks, that editing a newspaper is censorship, or that throwing bricks is a demonstration while building tower blocks is social violence, or that unpalatable statement is provocation while disrupting the speaker is the exercise of free speech... Words don’t deserve that kind of malarkey. They’re innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they’re no good any more, and Brodie (a character in the play, a would be writer) knocks their corners off. I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.

0

Dec 20, 2014

Dec 20, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Tom Stoppard on Words (from his play, "The Real Thing")

I can’t help somebody who thinks, or thinks he thinks, that editing a newspaper is censorship, or that throwing bricks is a demonstration while building tower blocks is social violence, or that unpalatable statement is provocation while disrupting the speaker is the exercise of free speech... Words don’t deserve that kind of malarkey. They’re innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they’re no good any more, and Brodie (a character in the play, a would be writer) knocks their corners off. I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.

1

Drones are UFO UFO ain't real bro Stop lying to me you're fake Brodie how come you say what you won't *** She's hot man just hit One!! You gay dawg I know huh.. It's okay bro you like butts They stole the rainbow from Noah's Flood and they hang on it like Pride umm.. You should shut up zeal YOU don't know nothing You're a Doom & Gloom so please back up.. Why do they hate me when I'm trying save someone?

0

Feb 9, 2016

Feb 9, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC

Xelle

One of Superman's Quotes

Drones are UFO UFO ain't real bro Stop lying to me you're fake Brodie how come you say what you won't *** She's hot man just hit One!! You gay dawg I know huh.. It's okay bro you like butts They stole the rainbow from Noah's Flood and they hang on it like Pride umm.. You should shut up zeal YOU don't know nothing You're a Doom & Gloom so please back up.. Why do they hate me when I'm trying save someone?

10

Eight, Three, Zero Lighted flares, all directions streaming Atmosphere exultant, saw not an opportunity for askewness Waved banners, displayer of the iconic Blue, White, Red For the breeze ruffled these shades Gallantly proclaiming, alas, the Republic Dassault Rafale, engines roaring ahead Nine, Zero, Zero A precipitous shift in mood The cheers were different, in fact Almost as if fading White, White, White The vehicle shifts its gear The man’s foot unforgivingly pressed on acceleration Ploughing through, snowplow through ice One, One, Two They dial, no longer are Their shouts for some celebratory cause Tucked under the rubber, eternal slumber Four, Score, Four Young and free, they were not exempt Fatimah, Jean, Brodie, Christianne A lone rider, forlorn in cessation Fourteen, Seven, Sixteen A new motivation for commemoration Juncture of remembrance For the bravest hearts Liberté, égalité, fraternité Kept in ******* a formidable bulwark War wages forth, yet for the Hexagon We weep.

0

Aug 3, 2016

Aug 3, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC

jordan-ang

Pour nous pleurons

Eight, Three, Zero Lighted flares, all directions streaming Atmosphere exultant, saw not an opportunity for askewness Waved banners, displayer of the iconic Blue, White, Red For the breeze ruffled these shades Gallantly proclaiming, alas, the Republic Dassault Rafale, engines roaring ahead Nine, Zero, Zero A precipitous shift in mood The cheers were different, in fact Almost as if fading White, White, White The vehicle shifts its gear The man’s foot unforgivingly pressed on acceleration Ploughing through, snowplow through ice One, One, Two They dial, no longer are Their shouts for some celebratory cause Tucked under the rubber, eternal slumber Four, Score, Four Young and free, they were not exempt Fatimah, Jean, Brodie, Christianne A lone rider, forlorn in cessation Fourteen, Seven, Sixteen A new motivation for commemoration Juncture of remembrance For the bravest hearts Liberté, égalité, fraternité Kept in ******* a formidable bulwark War wages forth, yet for the Hexagon We weep.

32