"brogue" poems
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
***** nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
god pity me whom(god distinctly has)
the weightless svelte drifting ****** feather
of your shall i say body?follows
truly through a dribbling moan of jazz
whose arched occasional stepped youth swallows
curvingly the keeness of my hips;
or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips
my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,
(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid
female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,
laughing body with wise ******* half-grown,
lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone
of I Want a Doll,
wispish-agile feet with slid
steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.
8k
Fewer adults are laughing,
It's not funny any more;
We leaned on poles to direct our titter,
Quite harmless in its day.
And Engine 9's been derailed,
We're catching tigers,
But It's still okay.
We rolled our eyes at Jewish jibes,
And salesmen in the barn;
Or the Newfie warning,
*Don't slip on the ice,
Don't ya know, bay, it's hard frozen*.
We've pulled our collective heads out,
We're sniffing old world air.
I liked the self-effacing glibs,
Affected with a brogue.
Now there's a hard line on a country bridge,
Across a brook, or penal school ditch.
It's just not funny any more.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
He was taken into custody on Friday
After he got off a bus in Marseille
That had come from Amsterdam
By way of Brussels,
According to police.
The manhunt began
After he opened fire
At the Jewish Museum
In the center of Brussels,
Killing at least 3 people,
Obviously: an anti-Semitic attack.
He was taken into custody
“As soon as he set foot in France,”
According to François Hollande,
Congratulating himself
For an efficient round up of
The usual suspects, all Jihadi
Round trippers from Syria.
He was taken into custody in a mere 6 days--
A magnifique display of French efficiency,
A sublime achievement by
Our furry friends in
Police-Protective Services.
The swarthy perp was carrying a Kalashnikov--
That’s AK-47 for you NRA gun nuts--
A handgun, ammunition, a baseball cap,
A small video recording device, and a
Copy of The Koran,
All items matching
Descriptions of the gunman,
And, even if not, a known-terrorist
Named Mahdi bin Laden,
Carrying an assault rifle
Would have been enough
To fit the profile,
Justify the profiling,
Sufficient to stop anyone
Passing through Customs,
Except, of course
The French Corps Diplomatique,
Wreaking most of the havoc in the EU these days.
There was once a time when any Thom, Dieter or Heine
Could get outta town on a ratline,
Blessed by the Pope,
Assisted by the OSS.
A white linen suit and a Panama hat:
Was all it took any Schutzstaffel
To pull off another Argentine makeover,
Melt into the landscape,
Speaking Spanish with a thick German brogue.
It’s nice to know
Jew persecution is criminal,
Socially frowned on these days.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
“I’ll see you later.” My Father said as they wheeled him off on the gurney.
“Good Luck, Pops.” my heart in my throat, as he went on his last journey.
He left us in that hot July, when the heat waves’ course had run.
I wandered in shock and disbelief like a world without a Sun.
For a long time after Pops had passed I struggled with depression.
Life went on for others; at least that was my impression.
Yet even in my darkest night I had my memories.
Sometimes, in the deepest sleep, Pops would return to me.
In his deep rich Irish Brogue he’d speak from beyond the vale.
My Memories of unconditional Love can never fade or pale.
To have been loved as we two loved; there is but one Love greater.
As I woke and rejoined the work-day world I whispered “I’ll see You Later.”
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
And my nerves
Are like useless hands
At the edge of an
Argument.
My foot had a fight
With a brown brogue
And lost,
And it pays for its defeat
With nakedness.
I carry a jaundiced bag
On my hip,
Like an oversized yellow blister,
And I empty it
With a tremored hand
Against the cistern.
Half of my face
Went numb and
I dumbly
Stared into the bathroom mirror,
Astounded that I
Could still smile.
My most meaningful relationship
Is with laxatives!
I romanticise my gut,
Where the flora lives,
Because you have to
Love your body,
Somehow -
Don’t you?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Good day, constant friend, you
Please me great;
Belie your subtle pleasantries,
Free yourself from blithe
Mannerisms and speak freely.
We are not amongst company, we
Share no ill will nor rogue
Dissent. You are a brother and a
Sister to me, as I am to you, and
We will not allow sallow weather to
Defuse our brogue discourse.
You are amongst friends.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
She sailed across in 1882,
From a town in Cork called Skibbereen.
To work and save was all she knew;
Just a lass she was, only eighteen.
She wed a fellow **** a charming sort,
He sired three children, then he left.
She had no lawyer had no resort;
He left her broke, marooned, bereft.
My mother told me stories of her Irish Gran;
She said the woman had a brogue;
When she got old her hair was white as sand;
The no-good husband was a rogue.
My mother asked her many times about her life;
“What was your childhood like in Skibbereen?”
“Ach, it was nothing but hardship and strife;
The times were harsh, and meals were lean.”
She never went back across the sea;
Never set foot in her country again;
Lost touch with the whole of her family;
Was penniless at her life’s end.
And now my mother too is gone;
She died with one regret;
She never got to see the place;
The house where her grandmother slept.
My mother, I did what you could not,
I made this trip for you.
I touch the stone in the very spot
Where the root of our family grew.
It’s nothing much to look at, a ruin in a field;
But I take a moment and grieve;
This is where our fate was sealed;
When that girl decided to leave.
She left her homeland, all she knew;
Sailed off to the great beyond;
The one thing she could never undo
Was the rupturing of the family bond.
My mother, you made us hold our family dear,
To promise our love so strong;
Was it because you saw so clear
Your grandmother’s pain so long?
I bow my head and say a prayer,
And ask for a portion of grace;
For you and her, travelers over there,
In a foreign, mysterious place.
I hope you’ve met her in that land,
And maybe now you understand.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Which do you prefer, Haunted Girl-
the city street sidewalk churned
up by heel and brogue
or,
the sweet-talk waves of home?
Settle in the sand while fingers
meld and touch the palms of hands,
let the hour glass beach pass
time between our toes,
have an appetite for shallow
dives amongst wave-tip whites;
whipped up by swell’s whisk,
stare until we sing for the dead men,
fire flares of affection in the form of kisses!
use a tool to sketch our future floor plan,
comment upon the Moroccan oil hair tan,
watch that man trace the coast of France upon his wife’s thigh;
hear her cry as he reaches Cherbourg,
talk of Vienna flagship stores:
forerunner fashion you make look lace,
mention the trees and the shipwrecks,
past relationship breakups and upcoming commitments,
describe, in detail, what you hope to happen
and what happens to that hope.
Fly back home.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
When she opened the door and saw him standing there
Her first thought was
Holy crap he's so obsessed that he swam the Atlantic!
Well, his hair was dry
So she realized this thought was not reasonable,
But she couldn't formulate a second thought
Because that's when the shock started to set in
And all she could say was
"You exist!"
Awestruck,
Reaching out to make sure he was solid.
It was just like she'd imagined.
His lithe, sniper-trained body stood less than an inch
Above her own over-worked and over-fed frame,
And his brogue-heavy voice tumbled out
Without a type-face to give it cadence:
"You exist, too…"
Palm to palm they stood there,
Staring wonderingly at the other,
Unconsciously twining their fingers as though,
If they didn't hold on,
They'd flicker out like a computer shutting down.
On her fifteenth birthday she'd told him
"I'll be eighteen in three years. Then I'll come see you."
And in those days
The Atlantic Ocean didn't seem like such a big thing.
It seemed that its breadth was just a story moms told to keep their kids from wandering off,
From sneaking out and stone-skipping across its waves
Until they splashed up on some foreign beach.
Dimly, she thought she could flatten herself out
And fling her body so that she'd bounce her way across the ocean
Right to his door.
In those days
She was leashed by a modem,
Bound by the words typed out in real-time;
"I can't wait until I'm eighteen. We'll finally see each other."
On her eighteenth birthday,
She no longer wore her computer collar,
And she wasn't thinking about him
Or the Atlantic.
But looking at him standing in her foyer,
She couldn't quite remember
When two screens and a modem
Became too fragile to bridge two continents.
Virtual hugs crumbled under real life kisses;
LOL couldn't replace actual laughter;
Emoticons couldn't replace ****** expressions.
For all that she loved him,
Something was missing,
Lost in IP addresses and chat rooms,
Only to be found again
Dropping its luggage on her bedroom floor.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
(in a thick Scottish brogue)
Reality bites,
And so do I.
This little worm on a hook, called "distraction" is wriggling wry...
Let him fill my insides!
Terrified, I now fly!
Wired to a wizards whimsical wishes
Flying fishes wondering why.
Lost it, from snowballs to fishes;
Did the point get diminished?
Illustrating imagination,
Illuminating our kingdom nation;
To the darker side.
That Joker cannot hide.
S'come down to You & I.
I'd die, to hear a reply;
Wade through the ****** tears in Your eyes... please, hold me tight!
Alone; I'll never defeat, "the other guy".
God knows, my mother tried...
But the warlocks worm...
She swallowed a juicy lie.
But, through repentance-true...
She will turn around and choose to,
Follow You.
Lord God, I'm calling You.
Please hear my cry, I am so blue.
Know I'm not trying to impress anyone,
Just looking for thee open Son.
The snowflake it takes, to deliver an avalanche, must have a similar feel for that;
Just how I feel in-fact.
The ground from which I "fell upon"
Lets loose, now I'm falling so fast and all my friends are falling too!
Are we tumbling to our doom!?
The air in the room, is vacuumed out;
No doubt your mind is frozen solid now.
With the Genjutsu shout;
Your feast is ceased and now,
Its only famine and drought.
Why all this camotion, inside our souls?
Who speaks it? Who needs it?
Distractions, just aren't enough, and they're starting to take thier toll!
**** it. I'm done.
Guess I'll just let the dice roll!
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
There is a certain type
that I am apt to like,
a Galliano smirk, it's true,
won't make me take a hike.
A bourbon habit, one raised brow
a slow-drawled "Well, hello" -
call me a sucker, I don't care,
I admire a brogue-shod fellow.
Wrap him up in hairy tweed
mixed with well-packed denim,
the physicality of Welles
and literaryness of Heming (way).
Politics were not a factor,
or nationality,
he engaged my interest
with his brand of flattery.
Challenging in points of view
debating through small hours,
I'd much rather conversation
than all the world of flowers.
For I've no need of roses
to get my fix of blush.
His whispers in a crowded room
will rise me to a flush.
This man of perfect manners,
I'm as Venus when I stand
with my jazzophile Jupiter,
conjuncted, hand-in-hand.
Shooting stars if wished upon
may bring one single wish.
Thus I knew, the day I met him,
I had found my bliss.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
There are these moments all the time
Where I think, "This is not the life I signed up for.
This can't be my life.
This
Is
Not
My
Life."
But I am dizzy and hungover,
Stumbling to the kitchen for water
Wondering how I got home last night.
25
and tail-spinning--
How did I get here?
Last night
I had a glimpse of many could-have-beens.
I found myself wistful for a life I never had,
Risks I never took,
Words I let fizzle out on my tongue,
Courage that left me when I should have chased it.
A boy with a brogue nearly brought me to tears
Drunk and disoriented
Inadvertently reminding me of a future that's
No longer mine.
After every margarita
It feels like I'm falling further and further
And I'm scrabbling without footing,
Tired and dizzy,
Losing my way,
Wondering what all I've walked away from
All these years
Because I was always so scared.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
A friend asked if my mother had a brogue.
She was forty when she landed here,
She probably did. She must have.
What does a child hear?
I was accustomed to it.
I only heard her voice.
Others no doubt did. Liked the lilt.
I heard the voice,
Not the accent.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
At first I would have nothing
to do with him.
He waited outside my
small flat everyday
Soaked to the skin
in the November rains.
I asked him to go away
But he flashed his
beautiful Irish smile.
And said no
not until you go out with me.
I will wait here forever.
I thought a few more days
He will leave.
But that night I heard
a commotion outside.
He had a group
of Irish musicians
And was
serenading me with
I'll take you home again Kathleen
And
When Irish eyes are smiling.
I don't know when
I fell in love with him.
It might of been then.
All I know it was long ago
And they were
the happiest days of my life.
He sang to me everyday
And called me
his American Colleen.
He always
made me feel so beautiful.
I have lost my smiling
Irish singer now.
When the sickness came
He just smiled
and say it was a bit of a cold
But I knew ...I knew….
Now on cold November nights.
When the Seattle rain is endless.
I look at the
bloom of the old lamppost
Outside my flat window.
Where he waited
and sang for me?
And in my head
I can hear his sweet Irish brogue
Singing so sweetly his soft celtic voice.
*I’ll take you home again Kathleen
To where you heart will feel no pain*
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
I slept in a red cot
On the SS Columbia.
In the middle of the cabin,
Brothers and sisters
Bunked vertically
On either side.
Seven in all.
We disembarked at Montreal,
Where my sister
Unclenched my white-knuckled hold
On the mahogany rails.
That moment was synapsed
And impermeable.
My third love
Taught me everything about love.
Miss DeGurse, Grade One.
She was taken by the dimples
And the brogue, but smart me,
I passed, we parted;
She to her farmer fiance,
Me to Grade Two
And Sister Hildegarde.
I learned valuable lessons,
But love was already learned
For a life-time outside family.
The soutane didn't fit anymore,
And the incense left me distracted.
The flickering shadows over the folds
Of Joseph's and Mary's statues
Have fewer outlines
Under the light of less candles.
Books replaced Church,
Then illuminated religion
In gold-leafed pages.
Women went well with books
And still enrich my every day.
Loss is all around.
No eulogies or memorials, please.
But remember me
When you splash in July,
Observe nature prepare for winter,
Blink flakes off your lashes,
Or bloom up and down your street;
Then gather,
Read something I wrote,
And Remember
I used to notice such things.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
All alone
In the middle of the floor
Lies a leather brogue -
Nothing less, nothing more.
It's toes are battered,
Ripped and weary -
In fact the whole scene
Is a little dreary.
The deceased shoe's lodger
Along with his feet,
In sprawled horror,
Lies broken and beat.
A once great mind
Here lays at rest.
There's no doubt about it,
It was one of the best.
And just one thing
From his hand, I pry -
An empty bottle,
****** bone dry.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Moi Saint Paddy Fake Trump Petted Family Irish vignette
At the tender age of fifteen years old, Aaron O’Harris boarded the Dublin gangplank and made a mental note to drop the “O” as this paternal grandson faintly recalls such anecdote told to me when just a wee itty bitty teensy weensy whipper snapper of a lad.
His decisive gait echoed across the wooden walkway.
Straight away (on that blustery march dawn – circa late twentieth century), he briskly boarded the ship that would shortly depart from the Emerald Isle and take him to America.
My paternal grandfather quickly wiped away stray tears at the prospect of severing ties with a large brood of siblings.
An abusive alcoholic father and passive mother would hardly notice the absence one son among a dozen plus offspring.
Matter of fact, a voluntary choice to become an immigrant in the Matzoh land of milk and honey would translate as one less mouth to feed.
The journey across the cold waters of the Atlantic began in earnest once the captain and crew pulled up anchor and instinctively oriented sights toward an invisible point thousands of miles distant.
While on board the long journey, he (known in traditional Gaelic as Sainmhíniú) kept the tedium at bay and kept himself occupied with divers pursuits.
An accidental trait eventually discerned in him from others to be a natural born leader by other passengers.
A good many of these other fellow countrymen and women (many with small children in tow) shared the common goal of starting life anew in the United States, and discovered him to be adroit at not only playing such games as checkers, chess, cribbage, but adept with singing (in traditional Brogue), and performing fancy foot work.
Improvisational songs (based on tunes from the home of Eire) evoked sadness at leaving the motherland (steeped in a rich history steeped in legend and lore), yet also excitement about beginning an adventure with countless opportunities to witness potential fortune or fame.
Visions of streets paved with plenty of golden wealth brimmed and danced supposedly available and within easy reach for those who possessed pluck.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
This place is a museum now; this great hall where my father stood.
Here he waited on line with all the rest. He waited for admission.
He was dressed in his best with a few dollars in his pocket,
and the address of his sister and her husband in New York.
There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.
My mother, Helen, was native, first generation born upon these shores.
My father was a laborer; the quarries and mines had made him strong.
His years in Scotland plus his native Irish brogue
was baffling at first to those Ellis Island clerks.
There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.
My Dad found work building a bridge high above the waters reach.
He started out a near illiterate but slowly learned to read
From discarded copies of the New York Daily News.
He met my mom at an Irish dance.
There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.
My mother’s voice was all New York; a dialect of English speech.
She loved her numbers, and clerked for Met Life, but she may have longed to teach.
Instead she sat with me in our small kitchen
Teaching me my numbers as our dinner was prepared.
There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.
For those of you who have heard me speak
And found my own accent hard to place.
I am a little of old New York and a little of a fair green place.
My American voice is but the echoed music of my race.
There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 7:44 AM UTC
If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.
This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.
Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.
Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.
Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.
When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence
Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
.
Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
.
A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 8:11 AM UTC
I don't believe in soul mates but
I will fall for the man
who can read my poetry aloud
translate it properly, from page to voice
without compromising rhythm, or sound, or rhyme,
With a gentle poet's brogue.
The man who sees the notes of my soul
I tucked between the lines,
and finds he made the same notations
in the margins of his own.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Family Tree
They come from far and wide
once a year to mingle and snack
on catered shrimp and small talk
in the long line that snakes around
the room to the open bar besieged
five deep, the beating heart
of the party until the string band
starts up and everyone hits
the dance floor, limbs loose,
knees high, hair down, skirts hiked
generations of farmers and drifters,
rail men and conscripts, schemers
and failures, a cacophony of native
brogue and broken English, long
lazy vowels stretched to breaking.
The men have my nose, the women
your eyes, but neither you nor I claim
the crazy cackle coming from
a skinny gal with electric
hair or the flat, vacant gaze of
a fellow in coveralls,
hands like hay rakes, yellow
fingers balled into fists. The bar
closes at twelve, they start to drift
away, arms draped, propping each other
up, telling the same old tearful tales,
falls down wells, battle axes
to the head, starvation in alarming
numbers and many iterations of
pox and croup, ague and catarrh,
bilious fever, dropsy and the flux,
melancholia, milk leg and screws,
a miserable game of one-upmanship
savored by all as they disappear
into the night, fore-bearers eyeing
us at the door, polite yet taciturn,
playing things close to the vest
mum on the matter of the higher
branches of our family tree.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects
being ma late mama's boytchik
(now, she long since deceased,
whose cremated remains of day
scattered to all points on compass)
fondly referencing
both sisters as dabchick
incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue,
especially when angry, she quickly segued
from mild expletive fiddlestick
the latter playfully aired,
when kibitzing wit bubeleh
reminiscing being dirt poor,
nonetheless zee mother
every now an again homesick
regaling the whole mishpokhe
(meaning us brood of kids)
interrupting herself
with frequent non sequiturs
discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects
as if external forcefield
jimmying a joystick
interleaving disparate threads with subsequent
tangential linkedin snippets
with feigned lovesick
chatting 'bout cockamamie
"Grandpa Moishe"
and his chaim yankel posse
(to escape hen pecking nudnik
"grandma Rebecca"),
a trenchant termagent bubba,
not averse to incorporate dreck
in the same sentence with zayda
ostracized him
scoring figurative placekick,
whence upon his schlepping back home
met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick
king atmosphere choking tearfully
"mother" recounted
farblunget anger thick
lee palpable extremely discomfiting,
particularly when ("mom's")
girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt,
where penury churned moribund thoughts
viz empty cupboards
devoid of bare necessities
a figurative apropos yardstick.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC