"certificates" poems
every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.
love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.
every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.
the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.
every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.
acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.
every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.
love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.
if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,
if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,
the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
Education is the ladder.
Education is the key.
Education is the mother of success.
Education is the process of receiving or giving systematic instruction.
Enlightening experience of learners.
Learners stop making teachers lose the war of education because of being distracted by the social world.
Boys stop believing in drugs and alcohol because alcohol is an intoxicating drink that slow down and depressing the brain.
Girls stop believing in affairs and believe in education because your certificates will never leave you but boys can leave you and left you with gift of tears in your back.
Study hard because time wasted never regain.
When you are willing to learn you will stay humble and be the good coach to your friends.
Principal words
Time is money if you are wasting your own time you are wasting your own money.
Remember perseverance is the mother of success.
Education is the key .
Education is the ladder.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
For Connie, a Friend Indeed
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom
There are flowers and scents and catalogues
But –
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Woof!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And *** leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.
When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.
There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.
Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.
So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.
5.4k
Your smile dawned on me
As the moon rose and you walked out
Into the night to sing . . .
. . . And then return later
With the glow of music on your cheeks
To sit and talk sharing your day
Between slices of Jarlsberg
Grateful beyond words
That this could be so
I kept bringing you to me
To confirm that you were really you
Buoyant with Vivaldi you climb
The steep stairs to your attic room
And there sitting on the bed
Take this carved wooden box
In your hands and with joy open to me
your childhood your adolescence
your young womanhood bookmarked
With precious paper tokens
Cards letters drawings
certificates of membership
Ephemera of memories
Every piece a jigsaw of your early years
I see you twelve fourteen twenty
A dear girl bright eyed so alert to life
Gathering its mysteries to herself in
Trophies of love and experience
Still and more so
and more so still
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment.
My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming.
My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children.
My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done.
My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares.
My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:
**A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds
More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.
Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.
It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as
such on death certificates.
More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.
Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all
religions and at all levels of education.
About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing
the horrible cycle of abuse.
About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one
psychological disorder.**
And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included.
And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children?
When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’?
I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
we learn to speak,
we learn to write,
we learn to count,
that's education.
but everything changes in high school,
education is slowly losing it's true meaning,
we compete for high marks,
we compete for good grades,
just to overcome the fear of getting into 'bad' colleges and universities.
we learn something without knowing the purpose,
we memorize facts without understanding,
that's education of modern world.
it had made it such that,
people are judged on their level of education,
Diploma, Degree, Masters, PhD,
important certificates just to get recognition from the society.
so think about it,
are we really educated or are we just a person,
who everyone calls 'nerd'.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
If you care:
My
life is a little
box
and I dreamt of a
little box. The more I watched the less it
was. In
a solid white something. Lamps. A
table. Clothes. Proper punctuation and
capitalization. Unthinkable hopes
and blasphemous suppositions. Some force
that I can’t call God, just my sick
dream-logic, blew it to ashes. My world-cube. My mirrors.
My books. My awards and certificates and
All my precious stanzas. Cinders and pronunciation alone remained.
At this, I
smiled and
shook my soul
with the Prophet. My own music burst out
before me like mathematics
(My very breath guided by an
infinitely ascetic
sweep) and like oil paint (in
a world that glows
like neon and
breathes out empty
space) and I awoke from whiteness. I fold
myself into four
like the
secret of flight. But you don’t care.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
that's all you have.
Ive got words too but I don't use them
to describe my "inner landscape".
they just get in the way of "experiential knowingness"
of my personal energy field of unconditional love,
they just get in the way of being my beingness,
for I am where there are no edges.
For I am and equal individual independent and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe,
which you can immerse yourself in,
merge into and become as one with me,
like I am eternally one with you.
if you can drop the Mind and Conditioned Identity in the head,
of the body that you are incarnated in temporarily,
just for this your latest lifetime,
and it could be your last lifetime as a human being..
that's the only condition--drop the Mind--let it go--you don't need it--
but it needs you to deceive and manipulate.
The Mind needs you to survive but you don't need the Mind to survive
for you are as I am and we all are eternal and self sufficient,
beyond edges and dimensions.
Just imagine the Universe and all that is in it inside your head,
impossible you cry but that's truthfulness in action.
I know who you really are even though Ive never met you
and am unlikely to ever meet you,and when I say you I don't mean your body--.
I don't mean your "name" or curriculum vitae or certificates on a wall--or photographs of a face among billions .
I mean you--the individual Isness--that small part of me that you are--as I am that small part of you that I am.
The body is just a vehicle made from mere flesh,to get you from point A--birth--to point B --death--.
it has attributes and emotions and possibilities but it most definitely is not and never can be YOU or me--.
Youre incarnated in it in order to realise your true nature as a small but equal independent individual and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
You are,like me,the Isness of the Universe incarnated for this lifetime
in the body that surrounds you but unlike me you are
in the grip of Mind permanently--unless you dissolve Mind consciously.
Minds are the obstacle to union with the Isness of the Universe
and I am the Isness of the Universe incarnated in this body--
just like you are--and so the mind in the head of that body is
the obstacle to union with me.
The only difference between you and I ,female or male,
is that I am permanently Mindless by choice
and you are struggling towards
becoming permanently Mindless--unknowingly.
My struggle to become Mindless
and Conditioned Identityless is over thankfully,these last few years.
I live in the body but the body is not me.
I use the body for my many pleasures
but no pleasures of the body can compare to the pleasure
of being in union with the Isness of the Universe.
One can only be in Union with the Isness of the Universe when one is Mindless.
Words are absolutely useless for describing my inner state--
for my inner state is not of the body--
it is not made or nourished by the body--
my inner state can only be experienced.
Words cannot set you free--they can only make you a lifelong prisoner of Mind--the controller of what should be your words--but arent.
And individual Minds must coalesce into GroupMinds
which are families and relations and clans and tribes and races and nations and religions and politics and all the other groups that prevent you from becoming your true nature which is that of being a small but equal,individual,independant and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
You have always that encompassing edge to your body--the skin.
I have no edges--my skin is permeable and insubstantial.
I am the Universe extant.
I am the Isness of the Universe.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.
What a view.
10% me
90% what I never thought I would be
"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."
I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.
I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.
The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.
There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.
The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...
I think it's time for a walk.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family.
Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown.
Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals.
I
See them, smirk or folly with time, silently.
....which they seem to quite often.
Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends"
and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long
All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage
Themselves, instead
after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework,
cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health
were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities
emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be
Written out of History
One by One by One.
II
Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle
for people who witness
and go without.
III
But what price success?
Is it to be counted in public
or left behind in wreaths?
Stern evidence
of favour, fought for and won
or shaky good fortune
One life's profitable fluke
IV
Does the cost of success itself
admit backstories of other kinds of loss
that children
without the chance of ever knowing
or changing their inheritances of fate
are powerless to cease the flow
of their own anonymity
all for the insistences of the unarguable
and for merely treading the average?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
Give me a dollar until I am dead
Paint the whole sky blue and red
Count out the days until tomorrow
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the rains to fall
Stop the car just to yell at the trees
Close your eyes so you can feel the breeze
Write down your history so that you aren’t forgotten
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the leaves to fall
Line up your books in all the wrong orders
Put on tinted lenses for the city in different colours
Call your brother’s voicemail just to hear him again
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the towers to fall
Burn up old certificates for the fun of it
Eat a hundred chocolates for a golden ticket
Watch every blockbuster here in town
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the tides to fall
Whisper your wishes across the ocean
Trace your crop circles out in the open
Three letter words are hardly important
I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the hammer to fall
Break the hourglass to hold the grains
Run after the last train until your chest heaves
Write down your last words on wilted flowers
Search for the den where the old fox hides
Out in the sun, you couldn’t be happier
Oh if someone’s listening
If anyone cares
I’ll miss my own funeral
If it means you’ll be there
Cause I’ll be waiting
Waiting
Waiting for your ***
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
From the kid killed in front of the bodega to all the women being ***** along with police brutality
Someone’s playing Thanos because we’re dying off rapidly
There won’t ever be a food shortage because half the population is gone in an unknown fatality
When will we see the end to this
Millions billions and trillions of dollars dumped into our military but there’s still no sense to this
But this is the make America great country that I’m living in
How can hell be any worse than the one we’re living in
I’ll probably see more people dead than I’ll see graduated
There’s polar opposite feelings when death certificates and graduation certificates are allocated
Never catch me outside in my house is where I’ll be located
The blocks getting hot and only by the guns that inhabit them
And it’s all fun and games
Until police brutality or false identity gets you killed and your life lives on through people that have inked your name
And no matter how many memories you had with them it’ll never be the same
Because their watching over you at a height no mortal man can obtain
I’m not trying to be a pastor trying get people to follow the words I preach
I’m just praying the ones I love stay safe in these summer streets
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
Meet the Whisperer....
(Oh, and you will want to, promise :)
1.
He can shape and mould
To aught pleasure he desires.
When he calls them at will
Supple compliance at his command.
Yes, they come like twitching magnets
Real easy beck and call.
Such happy slaves are they
Very few recalcitrant ones.
He twists and trims their sides
Makes them kneel before his want.
He will harness their might
Bend them sweetly to his gratifix.
Perchance, skittish on occasion
Yet they serve their master well.
They can spread to furthest capacity
Turning dried veracity into well-loved fable.
He whips them to submission
Insanely alive, they need birth certificates!
Yet tenderly, he caresses, explores
Renders dramatic echoes in outrageous lore.
2.
They melt like marvelous putty, toffee in deft hands
Makes them caress YOU sensuous, everywhere...
They reach deep, tap in and touch your core
Delight or thrill....or equally meet your mind.
Yes, they can stick you with bruising truth
Move you, or bring you to your knees....
They can furnish context with telling content
And with stunning detail, woo the sox off thee :-p
He articulates every brief encounter
With sage and timeless passion.
Molten liquid drips from his entrancing tip
In gilt carriages headed your way....
When the whisperer appears, best be ready
To receive what he may see fit to flay on you!
If that's too tall an order, it amounts to
Clipped wings, falling sadly short of flight.
Be willing to taste that mesmerising lilt
Indebted you'll be to the lack of crude reality.
Oh, reader...retire not spirit of droll mind
Revel eager in rich spark for riveting trips.
Yes, he is the one, your...
One and only word-whisperer.
(Enchante, cher lecteur :)
bows
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Jerry Singing at his Lathe
Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.
Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.
Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.
Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.
Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.
July, 2006
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
For my Pop Pop
I want to see you.
Even in your frailty
As your bones shake in the gentle wind like chimes
I want to be close to you.
Your flesh is nearly transparent
The veins in your face and the thinning of your silver hair
Make you look much older than the 71 years
That have left rings on your skin.
Some say you were a poor father
And an even poorer husband.
You never got along with my aunt
Your daughter
Your beam of light shining through the sidewalk cracks
And she began to shine for other people
But her brightness reflected off of ice
And I know her coldness is not merely human nature.
Pop Pop, why were you always so kind
To my sister and me?
It's like we thawed your hardened spirit
So we could see the softness lying underneath.
Funny how it's just natural
For a three year-old and a newborn to make a grown man crumble.
I don't want to think about the fact that you may never walk again
Because your disease can never steal where we've been
Although, perhaps mundane
Steak-and-Shake, our rented condo,
And plenty of barbecue spare rib joints later
All meant the world to me.
I wish I could say something other than
The last time I saw you was on my sixteenth birthday.
It's been over a year since you stayed in the Sunshine State
And I traveled home to my garden
Pop Pop, it was hard as the years went by
The only way we got to know you was through $20 gift certificates
And the static on the other end of the telephone
On birthdays and holidays.
I wish I had called you more
Because now it's hard for you to speak.
Daddy said you had a shotgun subtlety when you spoke
"How bout them Phillies?"
"Oh....the cancer spread."
"Have you been to a game in a while?"
Pop pop, now I'm the one who's shotgun subtle
"How's the hospital food?"
I'm scared I won't get to see you
"How are you feeling?"
I'm scared you won't get better
I love you, Pop.
I'm scared.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
~
from the anthology of the unwritten,
from the tombs of the stillborn,
where carcasses of idled titles and orphaned stanzas
do not compete for proof of life,
and
nameless birth certificates unissued,
yellowing and wasting midst
crumbling aleph bet spawn
here
comes a poem of concession
comes a poem of summation
of a life lived, knotted poorly, not well,
worse cursed as vanilla inadequate
the satisfaction in the writing,
the gleeful breaking of the sac,
the gushing relief giving way to
the childbirth of a new moon-poem,
arrested, wrested
a single plague affliction,
the cancer of weakness,
means Pharaoh wins
the cancer of weakness
no cure, no pharmaceutical poultice,
spreads insidious; one day - pain in the remote,
your big toe, then
next you can only street stagger
begging forgiveness and the kindness of strangers
hoping for the accidental cure of touch,
the miscellany lottery ticket probability of low chance
the visible mark you leave,
a weak indentation upon a pillow,
it is the dented head, cut deep by the shadow,
shake it out and you're a disappeared one,
nothing to show,
did someone once sleep here?
you were once upon a time
binary
a 1
now a 0 -
flip flop bottom top,
listening to Frank's "That's Life"^
my litany too long;
woeful work this business of flailing,
posting a tired-out self help love poem
ain't no cure for the falling-out-of-love
black and blue, self-inflicted bruising blues,
the wrists ache
the bones don't freak
but squeal, somebody's squeezing me
the alarm clock, a death knell,
everyone saying don't worry
you got a proven record,
the boss's eyes twinkling
"but what have you done for me lately?"
funny
Death says
Hey, aren't you the boss?
Who shall over rule thy Dominion?
What have thy done to yourself lately?
Answer: never end a poem with a question mark @
3:06am
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
My love is torn apart
Like the yarn that comes from your sweater
You know it’s there
But you never know when it will start to unravel
Unravel 'til there is nothing left but one long string,
What’s left is my love for you
From the tints of red and blue
I never saw anything quite as beautiful
The way the thread touches your soft skin beneath it
Like it wants nothing but to be worn,
And worn out
Your love runs deep
But it doesn’t tap into the water
That makes up 90% of my body
Flowing through,
Every heartbeat
Every pulse
Every word
That comes out, is for you
More importantly
Every word
That doesn’t come out
Is for you
I keep most things in
Like a safe that has been untouched for years
The dust on top aches to dance
And whirl about
But its duty is to hold our families most prized possessions
The type of holding that no lover knows
Birth certificates, life insurance, wills,
But does any of that matter aside to prove we are but a tiny piece in the puzzle of life
We see ants like we see people, just another thing that is in the way
We’d rather stomp on their souls than lead them to where light is
Because if someone is in our way
At the wrong time,
Better believe we will make it right
Have to be at this very important meeting, at this very important time, to get very important money, to buy very important things
What a shame
We all are
But you never shame me
Sitting at the top of the highest tree
Looking about with your telescope eyes
You cry
“We are all tiny fragments found within the oldest ship in the sea!”
Underwater broken up and scattered about
The captain tries to collect us, reconnect us
But would rather drink instead
He is our god, for all we know
His head is cloudy and his eyes are dull
He gathers our pieces to construct them as one
But is rocked by a wave and loses us forever
What were you to me
But a dream,
But dust
On the flower that I gave you
Two months after we met
That you kept on your dresser
As if it would make a difference if it was there or not
Your ocean like eyes showed me the answer when I showed up that day
I was lost in them but I heard you say
“I’m going away”
My heart sank like an anchor holding up time on a never ending clock
Ticking away until one day it stopped
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
old letters postcards color slides
entries in diaries drafts
of letters maybe never sent
fill boxes after boxes after boxes
left to me by my parents and their ancestors
going through them
I sort out letters documents certificates
prayer books with scribbles on the margins
school grades awards old birthday wishes
of all the photographs I only keep the ones
on which I recognize the faces
those of the strangers I have never known
and never will
I ditch
together with the many color slides
of mountains I have never climbed
and never will
and of my parents friends whom I don‘t know
and never will
with whom they somewhere spent good times
all these were part of my dear parents universe
in my world they mean nothing
have no significance beyond allowing me
to glimpse selected moments of the lives of those
who‘ve come before me and have gone
disappearing quietly
into the mists of history
leaving blurred views
as through a frosted window
about their pleasures loves anxieties
catastrophies and tragedies
enough to tease imagination
too pale for certainties
hints from the past
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
It’s about my husband Alex,
He’s a truly wonderful man
But I fear Alex has gone
For a trip to Wonderland.
He works hard, and long
But lost some of his grip
On reality as it really is
And seems to be on a trip.
Ice trays that fill themselves,
Self-closing cupboard doors,
And magic laundry chutes
That puts clothes back in drawers
Ketchup bottles with 1/10th ounce
And leftovers never consumed.
And of course automobiles
Driven but never get tuned.
In Alex’s fantasyland
He lives across a chasm
Where only he gets hungry
Or gets to have an ******
He doesn’t answer doorbells
Or incoming calls on the phone.
And, when he’s watching games
He is demands to be left alone.
Presents given out by him
In his fairy tale existence
Are often gift certificates
After a round of insistence.
And, don’t ask my husband
For the date of our anniversary
Or the dates our children
Showed up in the nursery.
I am only mentioning all this
Because I totally understand.
I have read quite a few books.
I have been to Disneyland.
But what I don’t understand
And can’t get into my head
Is why he hasn’t heard me yet,
Or a ****** word I have said.
It isn’t like I haven’t complained
Or told him what I wanted.
But he looks around like maybe
He thinks the house is haunted,
Because he is hearing voices
That he can’t quite understand.
See? What did I tell you?
Alex lives in Wonderland!
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
Love is a joke between two idiots
Who do not understand it just cuts
Fake certificates declare illiterates
This is how they make their huts
When they go through its real fire
They immediately bound to retire
This is how they think and aspire
They term their love just their desire
Love is just an idiots tale with trail
This is how they always just fail
What is love where beauty is to hail
Only pleasure is together they sail
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
I recall the evening invocatory call to the will of the 'Almighty' by
a visiting Pastor .. Ladies with fans , gentlemen waving hats .. Thunder
hammering the next county over to the west , streetlights filled with bugs and the occasional brown bat ...
Babes crying out , children becoming restless , his oratory becoming louder with each concurring "Amen' from the crowd ..
Tent ***** swaying ever so gently , the sweat on Dad's forehead and the smile on Granny's face , a stick of gum from Mom to get me through the evening sermon on a humid southern night ..
Tables lined end to end filled with potato salad , fried chicken and baked beans .. Ambrosia , peach pies and cakes .. Sweet tea ...
Evening dinners with gospel quartets and old time bluegrass bands ..
The kids receiving their Vacation Bible school certificates after the congregational feast .. The drive home ..Carried indoors , tucked away in bed with fond memories ..
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
Another *****
over easy on the ice and just another would be nice, but it would then progress and mess my morning up
and so I dazzle and make a cup of tea,two toast,some marmalade and look at me,as
sober as a high court judge,which is just about as sober as one can be,when one sentences to prison and relieves a man of liberty.
What Identity this man,
who can decide a span of time that another would pretend ,and inside where the attitude of days is played out on the prison walls,and in the canteens where I have seen great mountains of men fall and go to waste,
I have also seen those other men of God,men of Satan waiting for the dinner bell,and as thick as thieves they all fell into fighting righting wrongs ,dinner gongs and more mountains fall in the dining hall,more wasted words upon the wall.
1... I never did what they said
2....I was framed
3....The cops are bent
and those these words were never said or spoken each broken head and blackened eye was another,and one more reason why,
I lent myself to education,got certificates,elucidation but it was all a waste of effin time,the judge was right,send this man to jail
and ticked the fail box on his score card,
Hard labour never did me any harm ,not that it did me any good but for some it poisoned and where the blood runs hot,eyes bloodshot,riots,guns and more blood runs.
The sums seem never to add up and so I make another cup of tea and think how fortunate it was to see the end game,to see my own name written on the hand rails and when all else fails,
it's head or tails,win or lose and only one can get to choose one's
final destination
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC