"cary" poems
im tired of supporting this economy with my wealth and greed
i've barely had a chance to consume this world
i've barely had a chance to breathe
yet im stuck under this rock
somehow i've become so sedated
numb to real life
numb to the very touch
raging with fire spewing out of every hole in my body
i pick up with slack for everyone
get nothing, get nothing
get not a god ****** thing in return
my thoughts are mice; quiet, nimble, and unwanted
i take care of this store like a child, wellfed and nurtured
but its a ton to cary when no one aknoledges what they do
take care of the front, take care of the back
take care of the front, take care of the back
i dont want to be here and of course im picking up the slack
i dont want to be here and of course im picking up the slack, no questions asked
too young in mind
too old in spirit
im living off of pure fumes of instinct now
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
oh my sister,
there are 77 dreams
I wrote in a journal
there is a glass of water I left
on some patio
there is a box of wisdom
I buried at a dusty crossroad
there is a beach where you are
I can see you in the waves
the razzle of the sand
like a billion speckled stars
and the horizon—black galaxy
next time I see you
you’ll be tan
like Cary Grant
but alive
and without the baby turtles
I asked for
I’ll ask how it went
and you’ll say
*like a book
like a dream
like a starfish*
are there even starfish
where you are?
if there are, please don’t
eat them
it would hurt your mouth
until then
look at the sun
she is beautiful—even I
a wannabe recluse poet
can appreciate nature
through my window
Dewy
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Right now, it's unclear
how to feel about this latest development
between us
because
at any moment you're libel
to switch gears in your speedster train of thought
on to new electric spark tracks
of ecstatic playtime poetry frivolity
or serene raindrop contemplation
and, while the exciting allure of spontaneity isn't lost on me,
it can be a bit confusing
in terms of how one should express themselves around you
and how much of your baggage they're willing to cary
in addition to their own on any given day.
I'm not mad at you,
just confused and worn out.
But I suppose it's hard to find solid ground
on digital windows and words.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
I want poetry to break out of it's underground cave
Break out of the solitary lonely, locked cage.
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change
I want to illustrate beauty in a verse beautifully maimed
I want to communicate the tender sudden pulse of a surface wound
I want my poetry to be blueprints for change, in the world, or a room
I want to connect the universal nerve of tremors and feelings
I want to connect wires and vessels, shifting cells and ceilings
I want to broadcast this current human condition,
Rewiring like a revolutionary electrician
I want to transcend my, and next time,
With my poems added to anthologies
And each of their lines
Being recited by literary scholars and dedicated readers
But I have accepted some poets are popular during their lifetimes
Like Alice Cary, and Maya Angelou
With acknowledged, renowned, printed
Published Stanzas, and lines.
I want to at the very least, be one of those who guard a hidden, folded..
[Rather than outdated, infamous, tattered and broken]
..genuis.
Or maybe an answer to some past hanging question
Found in the very letters in my words to
The trademarked inflection
Breathing a bashful verse that grew in this universe
Or the next
To strengthen roots of the beauty of language
The older, the wiser, the more interpreted complex
Not the unknown but claimed roots of American poetry
And some
May close the **** kindle. Or rip out the last page.
After I die, I might return with bones live with rage.
Because if nothing has happened, I will continue to say:
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change.
Because we are destroying a world we should be killing fighting to save.
(Hopefully this shan't be said again from a grave.)
Each person who has read solely to write one more page
Take your weapons, inspire, engage
None can lay bricks until a clear path is paved.
iii.viii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:41 AM UTC
You know how in the movies
Cary Grant got away with
Everything? Like in Charade
He tricked Audrey Hepburn
Into helping him and went by
Peter, Alex, Joshua, each time
She learned his "real" name
Thought "I know him now and
I could love him better than he's
Ever been. He will never lie to
me again." And she dreamed
About his olderman lips and
His olderman hips that had
Certainly been around the block
A few times and definitely knew
A thing or two about the things
Her mother warned her about
She leans into him anyway
The sweeping music begins
The camera pans discreetly
Over to the wall, modesty
Is the best policy afterall
And the next morning he's
Singing in her shower, she's
Finally solved the mystery of
How he shaves in that sensual
Chin dimple get a woman to
Do it for him, she's weak in the
Knees thinking about her hand
On the razor and getting weaker
When he saves her from Walter
Matthau's evil clutches and James
Coburn, the other villains are long
Forgotten so they live happily ever
After and sing together in the shower
For about a week until she learns he's
Someone else. Not even Peter, Alex,
Joshua, so many men he's forgotten
He leaves her crying holding the
Straight razor in her forlorn little
Fingers. He was just a guy named
Arthur who charmed her with a
Funny accent then walked out the
Door and ran up her water bill like
A cad
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Who is he no one knows, its as if hes Nameless.
Yet hes kind, strong, loving and shameless.
He walks to where hes going, hes homeless.
In his shoes i would shurely feel worthless.
Yet his strength to cary on seem endless.
He has nothing, yet he gives love,
His integrity is boundless
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Honest
He who doesn't work, works **** or just can't commit
He homeless
He an affair and a **** good fix
****** with a tendency to show underwhelming ****
Twisted into nicety by such anger at the human, the wants
Good at *** when in love
Un-abused
Un-poisened
One of my best mates like
Dyslexic thick ****
A problem
Step child and real life son, grandson always, always, grandson
eldest unappreciated, underestimated, paranioder? Paranoidist.
One of the needers of therapists
Panicked by past
Fractured by future
A depressive, doesn't drink, do drudgery like drugs
A fearfull mess mummy's boy
Fatherless
Fathered less
A letdownshowoff
overconfident,
Anxious, ex husband, probable poofter, please Goddot, please, let he be a cheater
A ex punk, definite ***** pushover, almost poet
So easily hurt, yet never hurts
My love one. (Cary you Guardian)
Too damed romantic
Cant read but by gosh buys books
Genius
artistic, Autistic, an idiot and just another bad student
manish
Little Boy
child
Unable to be alone and not a good flatmate
Justifier of the almighty grey areas,
The cheated...
the Strong willed.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Gentle giants
Looming white
Arms flailing
Silent in the dusk
Where Cary Grant once ran
Through corn fields in a tidy blue suit.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
nope
i lied
i lied i lied
i lied i lied i lied
i lied i lied
i lied
what did i think this was,
some kind of fairytale?
some magic world where
all the storms in my head
could just be waved to a calm
and i could just cary on living
my life
in a normal
healthy
happy
way?
am i that naive,
even now?
have i not been shown
enough times just how very sick
i am?
can i not be capable of giving
a **** about myself
just once?
am i just doomed
to sit and punch myself
in the stomach again and again
and again and again and again
and again
till my knuckles turn blue
and oh, what then?
do i care?
does it matter what happens to me
when there are fifty-two reasons
it shouldn’t matter
and fifty-three
why it does?
i don’t know
i don’t know don’t know
don’t know
but it’s time to go
the heck
to sleep, so
why am i still writing?
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
You see her walk fearless
as she let the wind cary her
Her smile makes your heart beat faster and faster
She look as if she could fly above the ground and up to the clouds
You want to feel her soft pink lip right under yours
Her mouth makes the perfect O
The deep dark brown color of her eyes looking right through you
You just want to take her by the waist and kiss her
She is like an angel brought straight from heaven
You would pay dimes and nickels just to have her
But when you see her with the boy next door your face is flush with anger and sadness you would love her more than he would
The girl is more than on fire, SHE IS FIRE!!!!!!
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
The best thing about
Haiku is that if you run
Out of room you can…
Polar bears rarely
According to my knowledge
Play Marco Polo.
Sing with your eyes closed
And your audience can be
A thousand panthers.
The television
In the front room bites me when
I pet it too hard.
Is it still a haiku if all seventeen syllables are in one
No one can deny
My right to dream. Ah, someday
An all-moose hockey league.
Too late at night, I
Wonder if Shakespeare wrote D’s
The way I write mine.
I rearrange my
Furniture to make room for
More hopeful years.
James Dean. Rock Hudson.
Montgomery Clift. Cary Grant.
I’d hit it, girlfriend.
A girl of the streets
Offers him the right price for
One more game of checkers.
My bed does not face
The window. When it rains,
I always sleep through it.
I have not seen a
Sunrise in years; I don’t
Use public bathrooms.
…always continue
In another. [Something neat
About a panda.]
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
You are not your mother
And you are not your father.
Your life is your own
And the only sins
you should have to cary
Are the ones you commit.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Your face
Sooooooo **** cute.
Your lips.
soft. Oh my god...so soft
Your eyes.
Perfect. So bright and full of life
Your hair
The way it blows in the wind got me worked up, ***
I love every thing about you.
Your voice is so soothing
I could be in the middle of gunfire,
Hear your voice
And
relax
You cary me away into another world.
my wonder woman
Perfect in all ways...
Better than wonder woman.
Better than any woman.
If i may,
Can i say,
You are hot.
****
Beautiful
Stunning
all of the above
Your personality is unmatched.
I tell you this alot.
But only now have i chosen
To focus
On you
Further
And see
What my eyes see
As well as
What my heart sees.
I love you.
My dear, dear Angel.
Just knowing that you love me
Sends me to the moon
(That was cheesy af)
But its true.
Baby,
Oh my god
I love you
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
like the clown said to the boy-i’ll show you how to float
of euphoria-we’ll wear the coat
and we will. i’ll caress your lips and cary you high
you’ll be looking down at the stars; not up; the emptiness will terrify
we will swim through the clarity
and dance in the serenity
we’ve probably got an addiction
because the highs unsafe; causing the tempermental fear of friction
i promise you one thing. we will never come down.
keep snorting untill you feel the crown
the crown of heaven, the call to angels. i pray we’ll never fall
but we will, we will, we will. never forget how it feels to withdrawl
promises broken and dead cells cover the mind
we’ve fell, we’ve fell so far. it’s hard to leave something like this behind
it lingers-destroys us-suicidal thoughts arrive
can we feel it? i don't think we're going to survive
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
I don't lock glocks
An' I don't ride with a nine
I don't pack Heckler and Koch
But when I step over the line
I'm packin' more heat than a Navy Seal
I got both hands free
Because I gave up the wheel
I got my arms stretched out
So I can seal the deal
He had his life snuffed out
So He could finally heal
Us
The killers and the accomplice
When He said "it's finished"
His plan was accomplished
His face beat and anguished
The Devil thought he'd vanquished
The One by whom he was banished
But he must've been astonished
When the only Lamb unblemished
Made good on His promise
That was given to the Psalmist
Death had been demolished
Its power was abolished
Humanity refurbished
He suffered because He cherished
The impoverished and the ravished
Malnourished and the famished
So I pack heat, but it's a different kind entirely
Not a weapon, not of man that is
I cary knowledge, that His spirit lives inside of me
I cary peace, in the knowledge that I'm his
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
I wish I could dance like Fred Astaire.
Or Gene Kelly just to show you my moves.
I'm sure all of them would impress you.
I wish I have the charms of Cary Grant or Gary Cooper.
Since that seems to be the type to impress you.
Of the dashing looks of Tyrone Powers.
Since that seems high upon your list.
But, I'm just a me.
You have the grace of Grace Kelly.
And the independent heart of Katherine Hepburn.
And the good looks of Yvonne Decarlo.
All ladies of style.
Still, I'm just me.
Who else should I be?
If I pretend to be another.
Then I would be fooling myself.
And you would never see me beneath the myth.
So, I be me.
Until you see the best in me.
I know my qualities.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 6:52 AM UTC
*Why must we cary on,
Why are we told to be strong,
Why do we fight if it a war,
i win each battle,
but i've lost the war.
How can i fight,
when i have no power,
How can i be the one,
Why must i be the one to fight,
When all i want to do is leave,
Why do we have friends,
when they are bound to give in,
Why do we bother,
fighting in the southern wind,
Why, Why must we?*
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
Tonight was nice
Not splendid
Not great
Just nice
I guess
We underestimate
The word ‘ok’.
Everyone makes it a competition
To be better,
A description of
‘Not the same’,
But I’m doing alright
After today.
No prescription.
I felt fine.
No assistance
To make each breath mine.
I make my own way.
I cary on through.
So don’t make me say
My time was spent better than you.
I’m allowed a simple ‘ok’
And you are too.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
come and find me,
wayfaring soul
chase the heat of my smoldering coal.
the embers of an eternal fire
spread wild as dogs, mad with desire
and i will walk upon a sea
the tides forever carry me
as flames gently lick at my feet;
i will not bleed, my heart will never cease.
the dream from which all life is taught
the realm from which all love is sought
i walk that line, the rope is taut.
there are beings in the wind
they whisper to me to pretend that i am one of them
a fluent river in my head,
a flowing coordinated thoroughfare of dead
these spirits cary me away
carry me to the grave
to awaken them.
and so they sing with me,
they breathe with me,
they live with me.
inside of me there is a seed;
the roots of every tree
intertwining with my dreams.
shaping reality
i am the awakening.
they live in my breath
they allow me to see
the realm of passing death
softly brushing the reeds.
finally free
eternally
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
I see them walking down streets with names like
old buckingham
old gun road
westchester common street
robious
hugenaut
broad
grace frankling main cary
carry the weight of a group of ****** up **** ups
trying to "make a difference"
delusional *******
difference is made from killing a status quo
and their hands shake like childrens'
take a stake in the mental quake of the plasticity of the fake looking for mates
I'm tumbling down sure fall peak
free fall
until falling free is forgotten as a quest
childe roland to the dark tower came
yeah I went to college for a little bit there
broke out when I broke out of a sane frame of mind
swallow the sludge created by incontinent consumerists
snakes on trees make better friends than invisible fathers
but get these depressed lunatics out of my sight
feeling a fight bubbling up
complaints are for the complacent
so I don't see you
fear or hear no evil
evil makes good possible
using my vice versa as my vice
quoting bible quotes verbatim
I don't ft right
jigsaw piece chewed up by toddlers
jam me into place
and cover me in duct tape to silence the protests
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
I am done trying to satisfy you and it feels so good to get you off my back.
I tried to cary you for three years occasionally dropping you to see if you'd react but you were clinging on to me for dear life and while trying to save yourself you were drowning me along the way.
I used to believe that I was comfortable drowning and that it became apart of my human nature that we all ocassionally felt helpless and incapable of standing on our own two feet but the entire time it was you making me feel like I needed a life vest although I already knew how to swim.
Even when the time came to let you go for good to fend for yourself against the waves you still tried to save yourself and tried dragging me down further but I finally held my breath and untied the block you tied to my ankles. Im not gonna lie I did this to you too but I let you think you were free then got scared because you made me feel like I was sinking without you.
But I finally solved the puzzle to my happiness and it doesnt involve you.
thanks for wasting three years of my time.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
It's no fable.
During the forties, who didn't admire Clark Gable?
With the common sense of Rhett Butler.
For instant.
Who didn't want to be Cary Grant?
In Affair to Remember.
Admiring and loving a woman forever.
Who doesn't know a shy man like Gary Cooper?
Who came across as a true trooper?
Who stood his ground in High Noon?
And what man didn't burn for Elizabeth Taylor?
With the beauty to make them roar like the MGM lion.
Or is it only me.
Maybe, I'm just living a Hollywood's dream.
Thinking of things I wanted to be.
Lights, Action, Camera.
Is all I use to remember.
When I was pretending be Tyrone Power.
Maybe I was Sean Connery.
Doing all the secret agents type things.
Maybe I'm the Lone Ranger or the Cisco Kid.
Out to do justice for those in need.
These are the things that fantasies do.
When you realize pretending is better than a toy.
Which has been replaced by computers.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
I was sitting in traffic
From the belvedere 2nd st exit
Through 2nd and Byrd
And cary, main,
Franklin street
The parking garage on my right
On my left:
Buildings anonymous
I see the Wells Fargo bank
Looming over cars
And more cars
This country
It's drowning in concrete and cars
And these people
They drive like cows with no feet
In my car I'm a fuming ball of impatience
I say
**** this ****
And to my left
In building anonymous land
A pretty looking artsy/hipster girl
Says
I know, right?
Connections
Lost in a green light switch
Grace to the alley
Which takes me to 1st
Takes me about 10 minutes
I park illegally
And ask a middle age black couple
*'scuse me,
What the hell is going on?*
They respond
the two street festival.
thanks.
I go into my apartment
And life goes on.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC