"budgeted" poems - Hello Poetry

Nine years and still we cradle our grief carefully close, like groceries in paper bags. Eventually the milk will make its way into the refrigerator; the canned goods will find their home on pantry shelves. Most things find their proper place. Eventually the hummingbirds will ricochet against scorched air, their delicate beaks stabbing like needles into the feeder filled with red nectar on the back porch. Eventually our child will make her way back to us. Perhaps. But I’ve heard that shooting ****** feels like being buried under an avalanche of cotton ***** For now it’s another week, another month, another trip to Safeway. We drive home and wonder why it is always snowing. Behind a curtain of snow, brake lights pulse, turning the color of cotton candy, dissolving into ghosts. And with each turn, the groceries shift in the seat behind us. From the spot where our daughter used to sit, there is a rustling sound— a murmur of words crossed off yet another list, a language we’ve budgeted for but cannot afford to hear.

0

Mar 10, 2017

Mar 10, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC

jonathan-witte

Expiration Date

Nine years and still we cradle our grief carefully close, like groceries in paper bags. Eventually the milk will make its way into the refrigerator; the canned goods will find their home on pantry shelves. Most things find their proper place. Eventually the hummingbirds will ricochet against scorched air, their delicate beaks stabbing like needles into the feeder filled with red nectar on the back porch. Eventually our child will make her way back to us. Perhaps. But I’ve heard that shooting ****** feels like being buried under an avalanche of cotton ***** For now it’s another week, another month, another trip to Safeway. We drive home and wonder why it is always snowing. Behind a curtain of snow, brake lights pulse, turning the color of cotton candy, dissolving into ghosts. And with each turn, the groceries shift in the seat behind us. From the spot where our daughter used to sit, there is a rustling sound— a murmur of words crossed off yet another list, a language we’ve budgeted for but cannot afford to hear.

47

Igor found himself producing the hot new reality podcast about the first [known] father-son transgender family; he only produced the pilot then left the States in disgrace after homophobic thugs attacked the set & beat down the cast & crew in a ****** riot captured live on multiple hi-def cameras from the multiple angles already set up for the extravagantly over budgeted podcast [his master footage recorded on multiple flashdrives hidden all over his person - the podcast project went ahead w/out him backed by lucrative corporate funding, Igor editing the original material into his next feature; Eli lowered the tinted window & passed Igor the Cuban, Igor lighting it on his way around to the passenger side; YA ne mogu ostat'sya v Rossii, he says; why's that? asks Eli, lighting his own cigar & driving off; Boleye poloviny prestupnikov - gey; Eto stanet khorosho izvestno; Eli waswatching the street, scouting for new talent; u can't worry about that kind of **** Igor. u showed people what those ******** are really about - - a bunch of angry **** w/ shaved heads, who knew; opening the sun roof, Eli blew the Cuban's smoke towards the Saint Petersburg sky; Igor reclining the leather seat, [ ] [ ], [ ] [ ], [ ] , [ ] [ ] [ ], [ ] [ ], filling his head w/ night

0

Aug 31, 2018

Aug 31, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC

johnny-noiπ

paren', ty dolzhen zabrat' menya v aeroportu.

Igor found himself producing the hot new reality podcast about the first [known] father-son transgender family; he only produced the pilot then left the States in disgrace after homophobic thugs attacked the set & beat down the cast & crew in a ****** riot captured live on multiple hi-def cameras from the multiple angles already set up for the extravagantly over budgeted podcast [his master footage recorded on multiple flashdrives hidden all over his person - the podcast project went ahead w/out him backed by lucrative corporate funding, Igor editing the original material into his next feature; Eli lowered the tinted window & passed Igor the Cuban, Igor lighting it on his way around to the passenger side; YA ne mogu ostat'sya v Rossii, he says; why's that? asks Eli, lighting his own cigar & driving off; Boleye poloviny prestupnikov - gey; Eto stanet khorosho izvestno; Eli waswatching the street, scouting for new talent; u can't worry about that kind of **** Igor. u showed people what those ******** are really about - - a bunch of angry **** w/ shaved heads, who knew; opening the sun roof, Eli blew the Cuban's smoke towards the Saint Petersburg sky; Igor reclining the leather seat, [ ] [ ], [ ] [ ], [ ] , [ ] [ ] [ ], [ ] [ ], filling his head w/ night

31

I am not a number I am not a cypher. I am a real live person Not a hypothetical one. I am part of a portion Of the total population Not an ignorable thing Only fit for eliminating If it suits a demographic, Budgeted body politic; Something looked upon As something better gone. By some venal banker, Number crunching ****** I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do? I am not a figure, a jot. A squiggle on a page, not Some negotiable loss Decided upon by a boss Who wants a higher bonus Jettisoning an onus Foisted on him by liberals. My problems are not literal, They are real and due To be looked through For a way to be humane In matters mundane, And not as profitable. Don’t be despicable. I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do? Talk to your accountants And see what the amount is To do things for fiscal gain Without causing people pain. There has to be a way We can all have our day; Our place in the sun Things good for one That are also good for all And don’t cause a fall In the economy and health For those without wealth. If the rich lose big gains They will still eat again, But the poor just may not With what little they’ve got. I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do?

0

Jul 10, 2015

Jul 10, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

I MATTER

I am not a number I am not a cypher. I am a real live person Not a hypothetical one. I am part of a portion Of the total population Not an ignorable thing Only fit for eliminating If it suits a demographic, Budgeted body politic; Something looked upon As something better gone. By some venal banker, Number crunching ****** I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do? I am not a figure, a jot. A squiggle on a page, not Some negotiable loss Decided upon by a boss Who wants a higher bonus Jettisoning an onus Foisted on him by liberals. My problems are not literal, They are real and due To be looked through For a way to be humane In matters mundane, And not as profitable. Don’t be despicable. I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do? Talk to your accountants And see what the amount is To do things for fiscal gain Without causing people pain. There has to be a way We can all have our day; Our place in the sun Things good for one That are also good for all And don’t cause a fall In the economy and health For those without wealth. If the rich lose big gains They will still eat again, But the poor just may not With what little they’ve got. I matter. Please remember I’m real And the turning of the wheel Might make you a rich man But your carefully worded plan Might crush me underneath. Is this what you bequeath To the society that bore you? Is it the proper thing to do?

71

More often than not my machinations are little more than fragmented ruminations and disjointed alliterations Occasionally preoccupied by rhyme, reason, or cravings for another season Color and light dancing against the doodles left dog-eared among the daily drudgery crowding my deliberations Purposefully thinking my thoughts more thoughtfully in these days of superficiality and commercialized faux reality Deliberate silences budgeted between listless noise. On days when everyone's vying for vocal real estate & everyone's talking with nothing to say.. I take a fast from my voice. I withdraw from myself, deep within my mind.. I attempt to reconcile with that girl I was -forgive myself for letting her leave again. How can I come back to her after what we've been? I've lied to her too many times for her to let me back in.

0

Feb 8, 2018

Feb 8, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC

helen-burns

Missing Myself

More often than not my machinations are little more than fragmented ruminations and disjointed alliterations Occasionally preoccupied by rhyme, reason, or cravings for another season Color and light dancing against the doodles left dog-eared among the daily drudgery crowding my deliberations Purposefully thinking my thoughts more thoughtfully in these days of superficiality and commercialized faux reality Deliberate silences budgeted between listless noise. On days when everyone's vying for vocal real estate & everyone's talking with nothing to say.. I take a fast from my voice. I withdraw from myself, deep within my mind.. I attempt to reconcile with that girl I was -forgive myself for letting her leave again. How can I come back to her after what we've been? I've lied to her too many times for her to let me back in.

6

Can’t get my head round the email “Help me get it right” “It’s why you do what you do” “What you do best” “This will wipe out the opposition” After much soul searching he took the role A fugitive who lives with an urban family An honest story that comments on our times Or an expensive risk? It’s a case in point I could tell you stories you couldn’t print. A deal was made Much needed publicity This one can’t miss A sure fire winner Lavishly budgeted? Almost everything was shot at the ranch.... I Remember the poster in the foyer “The Goal of the assassin” “Two ****** hours” Initially the subject of media ridicule An eyesore trashed traded or hauled away Luckily fast forgotten It died a humiliating death

0

Feb 27, 2018

Feb 27, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC

Lazrin

B Movie

Can’t get my head round the email “Help me get it right” “It’s why you do what you do” “What you do best” “This will wipe out the opposition” After much soul searching he took the role A fugitive who lives with an urban family An honest story that comments on our times Or an expensive risk? It’s a case in point I could tell you stories you couldn’t print. A deal was made Much needed publicity This one can’t miss A sure fire winner Lavishly budgeted? Almost everything was shot at the ranch.... I Remember the poster in the foyer “The Goal of the assassin” “Two ****** hours” Initially the subject of media ridicule An eyesore trashed traded or hauled away Luckily fast forgotten It died a humiliating death

24

These days in budgeted decadence You twist on your thrifted finery And leave me to mine own You are children marching the cobblestones Like soldiers into lines that you know very Little of, together and alone Collective and individual struggles fought Black coffee for the morning Ethanol for some inky hour after twelve None of your souls have been bought Yet, and I hope they won't in the true dawning From the cutting of the safety net, may you delve Into futures sufficient and abundant, All ye heirs apparent.

0

Oct 13, 2022

Oct 13, 2022 at 7:43 PM UTC

desibel3

The Bristo crowd of kids

These days in budgeted decadence You twist on your thrifted finery And leave me to mine own You are children marching the cobblestones Like soldiers into lines that you know very Little of, together and alone Collective and individual struggles fought Black coffee for the morning Ethanol for some inky hour after twelve None of your souls have been bought Yet, and I hope they won't in the true dawning From the cutting of the safety net, may you delve Into futures sufficient and abundant, All ye heirs apparent.

14

The words are gone, the parties cracked glowsticks spilling their blood on the sidewalk. The minutes that felt all mine, personal, a glove around space-time that I dictated - now they’re standardized to measure the effects of real disparities in theoretical constructs. But my fingers twitch, my teeth find skin, the coffee keeps coming but the world doesn’t slow. And someday I’ll LOSE IT and bike naked through my new streets and claim it all back, the dark spangled world I used to inhabit, that evaporated in the false lights of the city. Give me back the yellowed bricks and the pensive dizzy walks home. Running through the forest with the vultures up ahead and the cracked pavement underfoot, woods rising like spectres, autumn crackling on all sides, loneliness lifting up my steps and fog curling around my neck. The songs all say the cities are exciting but the outskirts are alive, the outer places plead, they love you with a desperation those glutted urbanities won’t understand. They’ll call us home someday. That dark earth, the gnarled tree. Empty fields and brick-husk-buildings will welcome us with fireflies and curving mist and the quiet dramatics lost to the souls beating their spreadsheet hearts, with space budgeted x for family and y for ******* and the bullet-to-the-heart z (complacence). They’ll call us home, remind us the world is made of ghosts, the bones of trees, the bodies of clay, and the dust of flowers. That bluebird chirping is the only true sound you’ll ever hear. The pine needles and the wind are saying something important, and I live in a world of windowpanes! The fog is lifting, the sun is rising, and all the ghosts are going home. The waterfalls keep falling, but they fade from memory. The rocks jut towards the heavens, just as always, but my appreciation fades. Now I’m left -

0

Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC

aile

Age be ******

The words are gone, the parties cracked glowsticks spilling their blood on the sidewalk. The minutes that felt all mine, personal, a glove around space-time that I dictated - now they’re standardized to measure the effects of real disparities in theoretical constructs. But my fingers twitch, my teeth find skin, the coffee keeps coming but the world doesn’t slow. And someday I’ll LOSE IT and bike naked through my new streets and claim it all back, the dark spangled world I used to inhabit, that evaporated in the false lights of the city. Give me back the yellowed bricks and the pensive dizzy walks home. Running through the forest with the vultures up ahead and the cracked pavement underfoot, woods rising like spectres, autumn crackling on all sides, loneliness lifting up my steps and fog curling around my neck. The songs all say the cities are exciting but the outskirts are alive, the outer places plead, they love you with a desperation those glutted urbanities won’t understand. They’ll call us home someday. That dark earth, the gnarled tree. Empty fields and brick-husk-buildings will welcome us with fireflies and curving mist and the quiet dramatics lost to the souls beating their spreadsheet hearts, with space budgeted x for family and y for ******* and the bullet-to-the-heart z (complacence). They’ll call us home, remind us the world is made of ghosts, the bones of trees, the bodies of clay, and the dust of flowers. That bluebird chirping is the only true sound you’ll ever hear. The pine needles and the wind are saying something important, and I live in a world of windowpanes! The fog is lifting, the sun is rising, and all the ghosts are going home. The waterfalls keep falling, but they fade from memory. The rocks jut towards the heavens, just as always, but my appreciation fades. Now I’m left -

7

So I wake up & think, "Ohh, a message on Whatsapp, I'll check that baby later, for that nourish I will cater, hmm outside it looks mild, take your time Si, punctuality is the last reserve of the boring, said Oscar Wilde. But you don't want to get the "where have you been" glare & the "I've been sat here for ages" stare." So I gather my sleepy head with all my power, get my work game on & hit the shower. As I cleanse my skin layer by layer I ponder, "hmm, have I got enough juice in my MP3 player to see me through on the 192?" I scrub quickly in a ******* sigh, "oh oh oh fuckkkkk! Si, you've got shower gel in your eye!" All my thoughts of enough walking music to hurl me up the road are lost in my optic feeling like it's going to explode. "It hurts! It hurts! **** you vanilla & raspberry, is the cyclopitic pain really necessary?". I now don't have time for thoughts of on time hurry if I'm going blind or not is now my greatest worry. The stupid anxieties vanish in minutes of strife, like they do in real life, I don't think I'll care that I haven't budgeted for pre payday weekend beer if I get a call saying you're not here, & from what I know you disappear. Not to dwell on what grief does loom, you & me right now sail through the future gloom; you're the best of the best never stop, I love you I love you I love you lots. This soapy grip on my eye starts to ease, anxious not in the July breeze.

0

Jul 2, 2020

Jul 2, 2020 at 8:42 AM UTC

simon-soane

Shower Power!

So I wake up & think, "Ohh, a message on Whatsapp, I'll check that baby later, for that nourish I will cater, hmm outside it looks mild, take your time Si, punctuality is the last reserve of the boring, said Oscar Wilde. But you don't want to get the "where have you been" glare & the "I've been sat here for ages" stare." So I gather my sleepy head with all my power, get my work game on & hit the shower. As I cleanse my skin layer by layer I ponder, "hmm, have I got enough juice in my MP3 player to see me through on the 192?" I scrub quickly in a ******* sigh, "oh oh oh fuckkkkk! Si, you've got shower gel in your eye!" All my thoughts of enough walking music to hurl me up the road are lost in my optic feeling like it's going to explode. "It hurts! It hurts! **** you vanilla & raspberry, is the cyclopitic pain really necessary?". I now don't have time for thoughts of on time hurry if I'm going blind or not is now my greatest worry. The stupid anxieties vanish in minutes of strife, like they do in real life, I don't think I'll care that I haven't budgeted for pre payday weekend beer if I get a call saying you're not here, & from what I know you disappear. Not to dwell on what grief does loom, you & me right now sail through the future gloom; you're the best of the best never stop, I love you I love you I love you lots. This soapy grip on my eye starts to ease, anxious not in the July breeze.

34

I wore a very serious look like a tempered dog Moved down to the shelve and picked a few items, Little time had been budgeted for the location. In a rush, I felt a hand passing over my head, I turned at once and looked. Mother Nature had stripped naked A Painted face from lashes to neck A straight chest like that of a model Curved body not comparable to mannequins Less to say like a drained princess An age determined by closeness Sounding with a soft pitch…’’I take the blame”. I immediately nodded to the Y-axis Wondering if the devil had come To warn me about death. For this time I wished I had Gods number To book or even subscribe for a creation, One of a kind who looked younger Than its creation. Dashing out priceless smiles that captured the Attention of the by passers, it so happens That originals really shine for ages.

0

Jul 24, 2014

Jul 24, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC

thomas-bron-mukama

Greater Than The Founder

I wore a very serious look like a tempered dog Moved down to the shelve and picked a few items, Little time had been budgeted for the location. In a rush, I felt a hand passing over my head, I turned at once and looked. Mother Nature had stripped naked A Painted face from lashes to neck A straight chest like that of a model Curved body not comparable to mannequins Less to say like a drained princess An age determined by closeness Sounding with a soft pitch…’’I take the blame”. I immediately nodded to the Y-axis Wondering if the devil had come To warn me about death. For this time I wished I had Gods number To book or even subscribe for a creation, One of a kind who looked younger Than its creation. Dashing out priceless smiles that captured the Attention of the by passers, it so happens That originals really shine for ages.

22

So I wake up & think, "Ohh, a message on Whatsapp, I'll check that baby later, for that nourish I will cater, hmm outside it looks mild, take your time Si, punctuality is the last reserve of the boring, said Oscar Wilde. But you don't want to get the "where have you been" glare & the "I've been sat here for ages" stare." So I gather my sleepy head with all my power, get my work game on & hit the shower. As I cleanse my skin layer by layer I ponder, "hmm, have I got enough juice in my MP3 player to see me through on the 192?" I scrub quickly in a ******* sigh, "oh oh oh fuckkkkk! Si, you've got shower gel in your eye!" All my thoughts of enough walking music to hurl me up the road are lost in my optic feeling like it's going to explode. "It hurts! It hurts! **** you vanilla & raspberry, is the cyclopitic pain really necessary?". I now don't have time for thoughts of on time hurry if I'm going blind or not is now my greatest worry. The stupid anxieties vanish in minutes of strife, like they do in real life, I don't think I'll care that I haven't budgeted for pre payday weekend beer if I get a call saying you're not here, & from what I know you disappear. Not to dwell on what grief does loom, you & me right now sail through the future gloom; you're the best of the best never stop, I love you I love you I love you lots. This soapy grip on my eye starts to ease, anxious not in the July breeze.

0

Jul 2, 2019

Jul 2, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC

simon-soane

July

So I wake up & think, "Ohh, a message on Whatsapp, I'll check that baby later, for that nourish I will cater, hmm outside it looks mild, take your time Si, punctuality is the last reserve of the boring, said Oscar Wilde. But you don't want to get the "where have you been" glare & the "I've been sat here for ages" stare." So I gather my sleepy head with all my power, get my work game on & hit the shower. As I cleanse my skin layer by layer I ponder, "hmm, have I got enough juice in my MP3 player to see me through on the 192?" I scrub quickly in a ******* sigh, "oh oh oh fuckkkkk! Si, you've got shower gel in your eye!" All my thoughts of enough walking music to hurl me up the road are lost in my optic feeling like it's going to explode. "It hurts! It hurts! **** you vanilla & raspberry, is the cyclopitic pain really necessary?". I now don't have time for thoughts of on time hurry if I'm going blind or not is now my greatest worry. The stupid anxieties vanish in minutes of strife, like they do in real life, I don't think I'll care that I haven't budgeted for pre payday weekend beer if I get a call saying you're not here, & from what I know you disappear. Not to dwell on what grief does loom, you & me right now sail through the future gloom; you're the best of the best never stop, I love you I love you I love you lots. This soapy grip on my eye starts to ease, anxious not in the July breeze.

34