"cassidy" poems
Just sitting there,
Staring
Eyes full of pain and sorrow,
but feeling nothing.
All the pain and suffering
has taken every good thing from her.
Her smile, her laugh,
The way she used to love life, Gone.
With now feeling nothing, But the emptiness that was left with her.
-Cassidy Rae
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
First, I am from Cassidy
a heritage left behind in Ireland 100 years ago
when a young girl crossed the Pond
Searching for a place in the New World
I am from Sin City
where ungodly saints reign supreme
and the hot summers are barely bearable
Within its glitzy, barren landscape
I am from a Dramatic Family
where music is the main language spoken
where, if you announce you’re left “full,”
Someone will proclaim to be “Fuller!”
I am from Low-income Neighborhoods
where ****** kids have nothing to do
but play hide ‘n go seek
And have ice cube wars
I am from Music
an instrument in every room of the house
with two musicians for parents,
You can only assume on what will become of me
I am from American Traitors and Famous Scientists
Catholics and Musicians,
Military Families and Abandoned Individuals
That’s where I’m from.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.
What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.
I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.
If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.
Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton
So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.
Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
3.1k
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
A simple touch,
A simple brush of your cheek
A Simple kiss from you,
Is all I need to feel safe
-Cassidy Rae
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Hopalong Cassidy
When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
By judy
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
Hopalong Cassidy
When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
My father believes my mother is a hawk
Circling above him building bonfires
I think my mother's soul was born again into my dog
I can feel her there when we hold paws
My sister believes in a heaven
Where good people get their everything
And float
Over streets paved in Tiffany diamonds
I am outside.
*My dog barks at a bird in the sky
I twist the ring off my finger
The stone flashes in the sunlight*
Uncertainty lingers in hearts and minds
I was Butch Cassidy in a past life.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
She sees nothing but disgust
She sees someone who is not good enough,
Someone who can't live up to anyones expectations
Full of self hate
Absolutely drowning in it
Hopelessly waiting, that someone will come and save her.
-Cassidy Rae
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
take me down
that poetry lane
where complex thoughts
and emotions reign
tease me
with your radical wit,
riffing rhymes through
torrid twists
and tacit turns
of whim and satire
****** me
with copious sips
from your cup
of cryptic allegory
laced like lyrical jello shots
for literate minds
rock me
to the beat of shackle-free verse,
channeling countercultural cues
from cassidy to edson
and jack
shock me
with lucid volts of eccentricity
from every storm and saga
in your life
make me
yearn for more
of your creative core
and essence,
scouring shelves
virtual and real
for another surreal rendezvous
with a poignant piece of
you
down
your
poetry lane..
~ P (#Pablo#PLII)
8/18/2013
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
The importance of new life so easily forgotten,
Common sense, family, friends hurriedly lost,
Never did he offer simple respect they deserved,
“…how conceited it was to think of just me,
This angel, now gone, I just..failed to swerve,
Too late, teasing my ego with stolen youth,
Selfish pleasure – my starter, sickly dessert,
My main course, served cold an’ breathless,
This image, this perfect life, this Innocent,
Head bowed, my remorse is too little, too late,
My daughter alone, tired of waiting, asleep,
A kind, faultless wife – unaware of the horror,
Hand-cuffed an’ charged with manslaughter,
My eyes forever tearful, I now see in my mind,
The grief of the mother in this shameful theft,
Haunting me through the past and the future,
The darkness I have left, the unknown space,
I am so sorry, I was drunk and driving too fast,
Numb in what I am for the childish careless fun,
I am a father now to have realised - I have taken,
I will never forget, for she will never be gone,
That I, John Cassidy, have caused this death…”
The remorseless will always be quiet, alone,
To their pain, their old acquaintance until an end,
Love lost, hurt forever loaned from the senseless.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
*A feeling
Is not about who is best
Art
Is not a contest
To insist on a victor
Is an ego that has broken
Showering hate upon the lives
Of hearts that are open*
What may or may not be poetry
Is instead the heart of our family
You commented rather pointedly
About your superior ability
And eloquent verbosity
Most likely derived from history
Of the friends of Neal Cassidy
And other written eccentricity
Yet you forgot your humanity
And instead introduced a monstrosity
An ego steeped in personal vanity
Insisting on being treated royally
Demanding your subjects bow immediately
As you crashed into the sea of tranquility
Planting your flag of superiority
And crushing our words spoken so plainly
But heartfully
Because the letters are unworthy
To one who is challenged emotionally
Unable to live peacefully
Amongst those who wish to learn gratefully
About a craft you have reserved selfishly
For yourself and those you deem to be equally
As adept as yourself in the vagary
Of references you declare to be wholly
Fresh and newly
Minted by your ability
To walk around the cliché so gracefully
While we repeatedly
Use words such as lovely
Or heavenly
Or tearfully
Or holy
So we beg you openly
To understand what is primary
In a place for the novice to publically
Air their emotions unapologetically
And speak candidly
And unconditionally
About how painfully
It is to live freely
In a place so worldly
Where men think judgmentally
******* the life from those who live meekly
And wish to exist thankfully
Amongst those who understand brotherly
Love and who affectionately
Praise those who tenderly
Open their hearts to humanity
Giving mercy
To those without the gifts you egotistically
Bludgeoned us with so artfully
But failing miserably
To impart insightfully
Your wisdom for those who willingly
Would receive daily
Your transcendently
And insightfully
Spoken songs of serenity
But instead you callously
Reminded us unfortunately
That mere man is weakly
Empowered to exist commonly
And instead arrogantly
Cuts the rose greedily
Leaving the thorns sadistically
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
I’m just sitting here in the dark, waiting for this life of mine to start.
Wondering before I leave this world, will I leave a mark?
Or is it true, and I’ve been doomed, from the start.
But I’m getting so tired of being so alone,
Take this burden off my back and leave it on the road
Got to leave this place before it swallows me whole
Find a little fresh air that really suites my soul
And I’m headin out on the road,
finding that fresh air, that suites my soul
And I’m headed out on the road, were it leads I don’t know
Now I got some good friends, and there going to go with me
Like good old Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy
We headed out west till we found the sea.
Hoping on this journey we find the meaning of the word free
Cause we’re breaking those bonds of that mental slavery
That were given cause we live in this society
And we are all looking for a little something to believe
But my position on that decision is completely up to me
And we headed out on the road,
finding that fresh air, that suites our soul
And we headed out on the road, were it leads I don’t want to know
Now driving across the land, and sleeping in a van
Sweating in the dessert air, getting that beach sand our hair
Sleeping on misty mountain tops, getting woke up by the cops
Just going what we can, trying to find out how to be a man
Playing music in the street, for a little change and something to eat
Spending all you time and all your cash for a little bit of fun
and a whole lot of gas
When you heading out on the road,
finding that fresh air that suites your soul
And you head out, out on the road,
were it leads you ain’t ever going to know
And you head out, out on the road,
You find that fresh air and it suites your soul
And you head out, out on the road; you find it leads you home
(Zeus's Woodshed)
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
Dear God:
Re Eva Cassidy
Been waiting/wanting to write you for a long time
About Eva Cassidy.
Had to let the anger settle,
Had to find the write words.
Many months have past, perhaps years,
Since I stumbled across the voice of this angel,
Memorial Day, it seems like the write time to
Try once more.
But my anger has not settled, it has trebled,
It has risen and is unquantifiable, irrevocable,
a line crossed, a feud, that can never now be amicably settled.
I have a retinue of good curses, experienced friends,
Looking to meet up with you, who understand that
Blessings and curses, for full effect, should be rarely used,
Especially inside a funereal poem honoring the truly great.
But for Eva, there's no question, you dude,
Got a fleet of F bombs coming your way,
When the children have gone to bed.
When Eva sings "Imagine,"
The purity of voice, miraculous,
I know you were afraid
And so took her young,
Lest her voice raise a generation of questioners.
**Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to **** or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...**
You got the power,
You make mistakes,
We all gotta die sometime,
But you better not take the special ones too early,
Or I may stop writing to you, and then,
What ya gonna do? Who will comfort me?
Eva will, that's who,
When we walk together in Fields of Gold...
Shelter Island 5:00pm
May 26
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
I have every right to be angry with you
because that is the the only emotion pumping in my veins as I sit here
for the hundreth ******* time
trying to compose a rhyme about
how stupidly, how redundantly, how repetetively, how pathetically, how disgustingly
in love with you I was, I am, and I will always be
because there will never not be a part of you inside of me
Together, we defied everything
Anyone could see our differences before our similarities
but I've never seen more clarity than when you drive your car
I fickle with the radio, and we sing until the road behind us
spreads its wings and we soared
higher than any pipe we'd light or drugs we'd scored
The absence of your passion for life weighs down in my stomache
filling me with a daunting silence
I see your old house with its white picket fence and it calls to me
like cubes of cheese to a mouse
you taught me how to love
I'm not goos at recollecting memories and regurgatating them on paper
but if I could tell the tale of how we saved eachother
of how we learned to become our own savior, our own mother
Because I failed somewhere along the way
and I think about you every **** day
The skin around your eyes which used to simply serve its purpose
as protective epidermis, has sunken, down
I'd never try to make you frown
but you look like **** dude
and that sounds pretty rude
but in the past we sailed across the ocean
suspended by our hope wheeling in motion
you've given up hope and I'm unable to cope with your inability to cope
I am unable to cope with clouds in my kaleidescope
I am unable to cope with you doing dope
because I looked at you like a blind man who had never seen the stars at night
I would never tell you what's wrong from right
but we belong on the sea, Cassidy
I will never be able to explain how you changed the seasons for me
through any seasonal depression you've made up all the reasons,
I continue to fight on
One day I won't feel unsatisfied with my poetry and
I'll be able to conduct something lovely about a girl named Cassidy
but for now, I need to study for anatomy
Mr. Matthews would not excuse tears on my lab
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
Nothing is more beautiful than sipping tea or coffee
While admiring lovely roses as they sprung into view
this beautiful June Morn
Or Even
hanging out on the boardwalk looking out to sea
Thinking of grandmother crockpot beer and beef stew
However, how can it be more memorable?
As old tires buried half way into the front lawn
Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about Dawn
Your classmates ...Cassidy and Tate
who recently passed on
Then you notice stifling weeds babies between the lilies
You bounces back when reality jogs your memory
The stifling **** suffocate the lilies
It’s a life lesson to learn from nature flowers
Unhappy raucous behavior every passing hour
through life little things
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
I'll be Butch Cassidy;
you be the Sundance Kid.
We'll jump together?!!
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
You are my sun
My moon
And all my stars
Without you
I would have nothing to grow the flowers of my mind
Nothing to light the path in the dark of night
Nothing to gaze out at
When I need some hope
That there is more out there
For you and me
You are the metal rod in my spine
Keeping me from falling over
You are the pencil in my hand
Begging me to try just one more time
You are the smile
That lights up my face
When you whisper “I love you”
You are the pink elephant I clutch
As I fall asleep
Keeping me warm
You are the 18 pairs of Converse
Inhabiting my bedroom floor
Always providing me protection
You are my freedom
The thing I will always fight for
You are the tissue
Always wiping away my tears
You are the tracks on my brain
Reminding me of how lucky I am
You are the hose
Spraying down my burning kitchen
Washing away all the bad
To preserve all the good
You are my legs
Giving me the strength I need
To dive off the block
To sprint from the starting line
To wake up each morning just to see you
You are my camera
Snapping memories that will never fade
You are my safety knot
Always there if I need you
Always there even if I don’t
You are my favorite sweater
My security blanket
My warmth
You are my hands
Feeling the softness of your skin
The bite of the first snow
You are rainy days
Perfect for movies
Wrapped up in blankets
You are my heart
Filling my veins
With all they need
But most of all
You are my brain
Keeping me going
Making everything work
Giving me ideas
Letting me love you
You are my love
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
While she's getting her
hair done, I'm in the
pub where the bartender-
lady is hung over,
playing Alanis Morissette
unplugged
and asking me without a word
not to speak to her
but listen quietly to
*would you forgive me, love,
if I danced in your shower*,
and I'm more than happy to
sit at the bar with a pint of
lager and break radio silence
by whispering
got any Eva Cassidy?
as she looks up from her coke
and whispers back
I could marry you. Yes.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
I was born fast and moving in the back of a bus 8 ½ miles outside of New Orleans. I was not noticed until my ***** cries wafted to the front of the bus, heard by a 50-year-old transvestite named Is-he-dora trying to homestead in Kentucky. She put me her manicured under arm and carried me off. You see, mom pulled up her ******* quick, smoothed out her cardigan, and popped a Quaalude before the driver could realize she climbed out of the emergency back exit.
My first drink was bourbon through a ****** I teethed raw leather, the heel of an old boot, and a mannequin who was named Dolly. She only wore red satin and peacock feathers. The gals only bathed her in sesame oil with almonds floating in the jar. She smelled of mom. My school was on the laps of the people in the back of racetrack stables. I take my learning fast paced with a side of jockey.
I took to the streets half paved by the beats. Cassidy may have had the road, but I had the words. I was thrown out of every Mormon congregation south of the Mason-Dixon. I made it to New York in a bathtub in the base of a pick up truck for the purposes of shoplifting for fun and profit. I vogued my way through Harlem, and at night I slept with Dolly’s sister in the bedding section of bloomies.
Here I am. Right in front of you. Can you see me? Can you smell me? Can you feel me?
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
The simplest message of understanding that I can put forth to you is...I believe in you. I believe in us. I forgive you. I'm here. I love you. That is all.
Listen with What a Wonderful World- Eva Cassidy version ❤️
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 1:22 AM UTC
At least they taught us language
riding on the bus
they taught us how to spell
and table manners
the written word
They teach you how to smile
and that there are things
which have no shape
and how to kiss with open eyes
like pressing your face
against a mirror
In the back they teach you how to dance
and how to sleep outside
and a handful of names
of some now lost constellations
In the front they teach you how to drive
and how to talk to Cassidy
what’s beyond the window
it’s mostly dust, I suppose
And we drove across the country
riding on the bus
speaking words of bird
and beast and beat alike
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
I am sorry I tried calling you that one time
when I was drunk off lonely and whiskey and Four Loko.
It’s just that your hands were so good at keeping
me together. My body still sometimes collapses into the shape
of your mouth. I am such a soft, malleable thing, and it has taken me
too long to realize that you are also this. More important,
that you are more than my memories. That you exist free
and independent of my life. That my idea of you that crosses
my empty highway mind is not you. And with this, I am so sorry
for all the nights I tried to split your heart open just so
I had a place to rest. I did not understand how you were no
longer me anymore, how the you I had in me was a postcard
and not the city. Forgive the fury, the angry prayers tossed towards
the dark of my 3AM ceiling that were meant for your neck.
You were asleep that night where we started to break, and my skin
felt taut and sunburned, so red and wanting to scream, but Cassidy
told me that it makes sense why this was so frustrating. The rusting
of four years should make me mad. It meant I cared. And I still do.
And I still get the urge to hollow my arms so you can fit better, you
this new person who has grown and loved and spilled over into
a newer night. I forget so often that I can’t carry you like I once did,
and that you don’t know how to hold me anymore.
Even now, I’m still apologizing.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC