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Joe Wilson Apr 2014
The Victoria plum-tree that we planted this year
Is now full of blossom that looks lovely from here
The creamy white flowers and the brightest green leaves
Makes beautiful colour as Springtime relieves.

The garden of Winter, this year so wet
Does blossom herald a ‘best Summer yet.’

It’s quite true of course that village life so snug
Can have a tendency to make one feel smug
But for years our’s has struggled, it now has no shops
And a pub that’s near closure though it still sells the ‘hops.’

We don’t take it lightly the community here
For we know we could lose it which would cost us all dear.

It’s not really the money though the costs would be great
But there’d be no Village Hall and no Summer Fete
No chats with our friends over stiles by the field
Nor any more eggs from the local chicks yield.

We don’t take it lightly the community here
And we will fight to keep it which will cost us all dear.

Villages struggle much more nowadays, ours does.
Turtle Grylls May 2013
what da ****
like mayo?
got beef?
Mad Libs
Asian Jesus
Brown Rice
Asian Eminem
Royce Da 5'9
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.

Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.

The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.

Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.

My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.

Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Get your finery on and let the games begin,
Does it look like you'd trust him?
Blackout suit, purple shirt,
Crimson tie, dangerous eyes.
Sly, slick, sardonic and wicked
wearing a gentlemanly disguise.

The dinner was alright
now get ready to fight.
White powder on the counter,
A dusted card and a rolled-up fiver.
Finish up your line
and get out there.

Codine chills, calm is instilled,
Colorful lights, relaxed thrills.

No chats so I'll settle for that.

A while later
and we're back in black. Hometown
Lets get completely smashed;
Go hard or go home.

Messy nights never get old,
River of glass across a broken road.
Tonic wine is best served cold, though
the medicinal properties remain unknown.
A bottle of B from Buckfast Abby, they always
blame it on the buckie, infernal commotion lotion with its cough-syrupy sweet nectar.

Just the end of another debutante night,
Staying classy while we drink and fight.
Making hedonistic debauchery stylish
'cause we're Irish.
Maria Imran Jun 2015
Going back
through our chats
a tight knot
a knot
I choke
it wells up
I hold
on to dear God
Mercy, mercy
it hits
I drown, I drown
a poem comes
to save.
Ardent lovers and scholars austere
Love equally, in their twilight years,
Powerful and gentle cats, their masters’s pride,
Who like them are cautious and indoors abide.

Friends of science and sensual delight
They seek the silence of the night;
The dark god would have them guarding graves,
Were they so humble as to be his slaves.

They have the air of a sphinx on a throne
With thoughts of solitude they lie alone,
Who seem to sleep in a dream eternal;

Their fertile ***** are full of magic sparks,
And gold patches  and sable marks
Sparkle dimly their eyes infernal.
Nadia Dec 2013
Parents sent me to see a therapist.
Therapist said you can speak freely and tell me all.
Therapist won my confidence so I opened up and told all.
Felt great having someone to share all and felt cared for.
Mind felt good and school rumors about me meant less.
Parents had a money fight and therapist quit seeing me.
Asked therapist to keep seeing me therapist said no.
Show me the money and I keep seeing you as a patient.
Hurt returned and felt like could talk to no one again.
Therapists are like prostitutes you pay to get a part of your body serviced.
I never will be married in real life.
I will settle for a net ceremony on gaiaonline with a guy I met.
He can't wait to hit it in virtual reality.
Got no real life experience in *** but learning to sext.
Getting better at it and practicing for my online wedding night.
I'm 18, I hate my parents and their ****** up lives.
Mom got home at noon from her overnight date with one of her men.
Men like my mom because she opens her legs for all men she meets on the net.
Dad likes his ****** he chats with on Facebook.
Think he cheating on his evil ***** who got with him for his money.
Dad likes them young like me and she wont be young forever.
She will be like my lonely mom ******* men she meets off personals.
Real life marriage is not in my plan.
Settling for an net marriage with a guy I met off personals.
Am I going to be like my mom?
Liquidchaos Sep 2010
A brush of lips,
a trace of fingers
against warm flesh,
The warmth of your eyes
The simplest of seduction.
A heated sigh against
a cheek of another,
the whisper of
'I love you'
and I'm yours
The simplest seductions.
A simple embrace
and the strength of
our ever long chats
The sight of your smile
sends a heart racing
The simplest of seduction.
The feel of your lips
upon the flesh,
a quick hug to
show that you care.
The simplest of seduction,
and forever I'm yours.
soray Mar 2015
I miss you more than ever. Your chords on Saturday afternoons, your hugs on Sunday morning, your smiles on Monday chats, your kisses on Thursday nights.
L B Nov 2016
Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind— none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community.  Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.

Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.
Lucky Queue Nov 2012
In the dark of night, in the middle of a storm
A dish falls, shatters
A shriek tears the relative silence
Pale pink blood blossoms in the water
While rich red blood wells up in the hand
Tears falling like a blinding waterfall
Stabs and throbs of aching stinging searing pain
Blood and pain and tears fill the mind
A flash of white tissue beneath the torrents of red
Panting sobs and hyperventilation
Panicking as victim is rushed to the ER
Mother tries to comfort daughter with story of healed,
Previously lacerated toes
Two words blurted between gasps of pain: NOT HELPING
Arrive to an empty lobby, excepting a nurse and receptionist
Focus on nothing, only the hand
The possible tendon torn, the skin shredded, the blood spilt
Dishtowel now soaking red irony fluid instead of clear soapy
The story repeated 6, 7, 8 times
A nurse asks if I smoke or drink
A radiologist asks if there is any chance for pregnancy
And for a moment I am shocked out of my pain into pondering
The corruption of the modern generations,
Such that I am asked these questions
Any friend of mine would quickly tell that
No, I'm not that kind of teenager... but how many are?
Then I am whisked from the x-ray room
Off for stitches, they say my tendon is cut
That I need stitches
The fingers no longer gush, but that triviality is soon remedied
A doctor probes the wound for shards
Nurse flushes it clean with chlorohexadine
Both renew the flow
Doctor returns, stitches both fingers and chats away
Grand tally of five stitches, a splint, blankets of guaze,
And a roll of medical tape
Prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, both given
A scoffing glance, but instructions are followed
Forbidden from any activity with the right hand by my mother
I struggle even to write, simple chores soon a nuisance
First time the splint and stitches are gone,
Doctor number two declares my hand usable
First time the little finger bends, the half healed skin splits
So all for a plate, a hand was rendered more useless
Finally getting around to dealing with my hand injury... also very frustrated by how long it's taking to heal, so this became a bit of a rant...
Odysseus is angry without knowing what reason scared hopeless longing not a good student teachers raise suspicions Mom claims he is mentally not right in third grade parents send him to well-known psychiatrist conducts many tests finds Odysseus’s i.q. scores quite high doctor’s diagnosis is learning disabilities emotional anxiety recommends weekly appointments Odysseus continues to see various psychiatrists all the way through college in late 1950’s early '60’s psychiatric field is somewhat unreliable one downtown child’s psychiatrist chats about other patients then gives Odysseus baby ruth candy bar another psychiatrist with office in Wilmette tells him parents need therapy advises he will someday live independent of parents free of their influences

Odysseus Penelope Ryan Siciliano play in undeveloped land across from Schwartzpilgrim’s apartment building there is big tree they often climb near corner of commonwealth and surf streets Ryan is going on about his favorite actor errol flynn and movie “they died with their boots on” suddenly two bigger older boys approach bully them down from tree Odysseus does not recognize older boys from neighborhood bigger older boys push Penelope to ground then elbow trip Odysseus punch Ryan in stomach panic shoots through all three of them bigger older boys glare down with taunting eyes after terrifying moment Ryan then Odysseus jump up flee across street they hide beneath parked cars in underground garage of Odysseus’s building hearts pound in terror hearing footsteps on concrete grow louder they hold their breaths voice speaks out "they’re not here they’ve gone Odys where are you?" Odysseus and Ryan crawl out from under cars feel ashamed of their cowardice in front of Penelope and putting own self-preservation before her protection Ryan is particularly disturbed explains his family are sicilian code of conduct Ryan insists Odysseus swear never to divulge their weakness Odysseus promises later Penelope tells Mom

harper is broad-minded exceptional school housed in old english tudor building on second floor along hall is long glass cabinet displaying among other things 9 large jars each containing developing stages of fetus girls wear uniforms of navy blue skirts with knee socks white blouses blue sweaters which are school colors boys are allowed to wear blue jeans and shirts in good taste Miss Moss teaches fourth grade classroom is duplex with stairs leading up to balcony directly under stairs is secret meeting place and beneath balcony are classmate cubbyholes there is sunroom facing south overlooking entrance stairs to school where older students hang out Odysseus thinks Miss Moss is pretty wonders why she is not married she has deep blue eyes dark thick eyebrows premature graying hair she wears in bun he has crush on Miss Moss thinks she is best teacher he has ever known she teaches greek mythology assigns each member of class character in ancient greek mythology Odysseus is appointed Hermes son and messenger of Zeus Hermes has affair with Aphrodite resulting in child Hermaphroditus Hermes also fathers Pan rescues Dionysus saves Apollo’s son there is voice speaks inside Odysseus’s head no one can hear voice except Odysseus it is voice of smart-*** disobedient twisted child when Miss Moss says “where shall we begin today?” Odysseus automatically answers in his thoughts “how about up your sweet ***?” it is uncontrollable voice for his amusement only often he tries to ignore voice but sometimes it speaks out when voice speaks out Odysseus gets in trouble his friends think voice is funny adults get offended when he reflects on classmates at Harper and distinction of their privilege he wonders what went wrong they are troubled class in fifth grade they cause miss penteck to have nervous breakdown and retire other classes produce famous actors playwrights renowned restaurateurs prosperous investment bankers leading doctors Odysseus’s class produces delinquents gangsters social dropouts drug addicts suicides they take their privilege and run it straight to hell

creature inside Odysseus can be little monster teaches Penelope how to go berserk going berserk involves entering strange residential building in neighborhood elevator up getting off about middle floor pushing all elevator buttons scrambling down stairs knocking over umbrella stands spilling ashtrays ringing doorbells pounding doors running out lobby doors escaping uncaught Penelope is good warrior princess brother and sister can be little terrors

Ryan Siciliano and Odysseus go to see “the magnificent seven” at century theater they head south along broadway street college-age girl with large bouncing ******* appears walking north Ryan and Odysseus glance at approaching girl then nod to each other no plans uttered as college girl passes both Odysseus and Ryan reach up grab her ******* pet squeeze then run do not look back keep running laughing all the way to theater they watch movie with jaws hanging open mcqueen is brilliant all seven are so groovy movie inspires both Odysseus and Ryan.

in 1960 Mom and Dad send Odysseus and Penelope to sunday school at temple shalom teacher calls him aside "Schwartzpilgrim what do you want to be when you grow up?" Odysseus answers "architect or maybe an indian warrior" teacher says "do you know story of judas maccabi? he was a great warrior leader learn about the festival of lights and wield your sword wisely Odys Schwartzpilgrim" Odysseus replies "yes sir" two weeks later he gets kicked out of sunday school for pulling seat out from under girl during solemn religious service he never learns hebrew nor is he bar mitzvahed

Odysseus is hyper-sensitive about race and religion knows he comes from race of people who once were born into slavery nazis systematically exterminated millions of them at aushwitz-birkenaub belzek chelmno majdanek sobibor stutthof treblinka black and white photographs of faces emaciated children adults flicker before his thoughts knows jews are hated not considered caucasian in europe and russia not allowed to own land for many centuries what does it mean to be member of race of people who are despised and blamed? he sympathizes with all minorities particularly negroes who were forced from homeland collared into slavery and native americans who were cheated out of land and slaughtered by white people
Fox Sep 2013
I cry because happiness is a harder concept to grasp than sorrow.
Because sorrow greets me as an old friend.
Fondly reminding me of my mistakes,
my flaws, and my current inner desolation.
Reminding me of how I failed
and how I cannot fix my mistakes.
While we reminisce over a bottle of melancholia
and a plate of regret.

Leaving me with yet another notch on my belt
of nights I cried myself to sleep
and days I came to school
with bloodshot eyes and a quivering lip.
No one notices another kid
with leaking eyes and a shaking frame,
just another kid, no name.
They pass you by because
pretending everything is alright is more
convenient than noticing they are broken.
I cry for the times I can’t.
You know that feeling when you try to blink away tears
and smile like everything is okay?
Yeah that’s me every day.
Every day I have a reason to cry,
I feel like that shouldn’t happen.
But I also feel that people don’t cry because they are weak.
It’s because they have been strong for too long.
They are the people that hide their silent tears
at the back of a closet and bury broken smiles
into the corner of sock drawer
hoping to deal with them someday
when they have the time for them.
But soon …There won’t be enough room
for the hidden emotions that you think are irrelevant
and can be dealt with another day,
soon every emotion you hid will come out of the closet
and show its face in the most unpleasant way.
Tears. You can’t escape them.
I cry because she cries,
my best friend, drowning in her own sorrow,
I cannot help but drown with her.
For what is a friend if that friend will not jump
into the murky depth we call depression, sinking ever deeper?
At least we sink together.
Treading conformity, stress, humiliation,
we tread together.
As we sink deeper, we try to grasp
at the bubbles of happiness escaping our lips,
somehow bring them back.
We can’t, because once they’re lost no amount
of pretending can give us the air we sorely need
or the fake smiles to get by without question, day by day.
But at least, we drown together.
So many times I have looked out to a warm sunset
and felt chilled to the bone.
Because if I let go of the railing, life would go on.
Because if I did not exist right now nothing
in the world would change.
It would just erase any memory of all the ***** ups
I collected like stamps and baseball cards.
Because no amount of blankets and soothing words
can warm the icy thought in the back of my head
whispering in the persuasive voice of a friend, “What’s the point?”
I cry for the people who don’t think they matter,
who think that turning to something
to relieve their pain will fix it.
I cry for the people who think
killing themselves will make them feel alive.
For the people who get lost trying to find themselves.
For the people who put on a mask
desperately waiting for someone to see through it.
And for the people who cut themselves
trying to become whole.
Breaking themselves down bit by bit,
holding all the pieces,
and waiting for someone to put them back together.
I hate it when you get down to your lowest point
and suddenly people care.
But then they think sending you to a shrink for an hour
will cure a lifetime of dysfunctionality.
I cry because when he calls himself my friend
he isn’t looking forward to our chats
he only looks forward to his next cigarette.
Him and his smirk and his look of relief
as he glances at the clock
thinking the minute hand has just passed $105.50.
I leave the room feeling more confused than ever
because I can’t explain how ****** up I am,
the words fail me when they usually flow like honey from my tongue.
So I just sit still trying not to break the silence,
cupping it in my hand as if it were a piece of glass.
Because silence is so fragile, even speaking it shatters it.
Silence and my disposition of the moment
feel like kindred spirits more than ever now.
I feel broken.
I cry because this entire explanation is just eloquently realizing that **I am sad.
This was actually supposed to be an anonymous essay for school but my friend told me that it was too beautiful to be wasted on people who didn't give a ****. Cautiously optimistic that people will give a **** this time around, and if not then c'est la vie.
Chad Chumley May 2014
You’re being replaced with other attention now.
I’m finally talking with other women.
I realize now that you were a huge section of my time at one point.
That’s what made us a couple.
It’s when I left the country and our talking faded into small chats
And then arguments, stress, conflict.

I’m jaded by our divorce.
It makes me have little hope of another marriage.
It even makes me not want to spend time on trying to make another one.

But I might only be kidding
Since I’m really just waiting for my new friend to message me back.
New relationships have so little webbing it’s hard to tell if they exist.
Juliesen Night Mar 2014
Another day passed,
As I gaze at that door.
Staring at the pictures of us.

I wished those video chats,
Never ended for us.
As we talked for hours,
Comparing our hearts.

As I gaze at that door,
I wait for a signal.
A knock, a voice.
Telling me your home.
I wish he would see these poems that I write. They are truly from the heart..
j carroll Jul 2013
i extract poetry from your facebook chats
and tenderness from your skype calls
this: the compromise of a romantic heart
in the face of modern ephemera
since i cannot scale your balcony
like i memorize your wall
(o sweet o lovely wall
thanks courteous wall)
nor can i woo you or ****** you
without google as my cyrano
i worry for the endurance
of a love without tree-carved initials
and sigh over perceived corruption
caused by emoticons over emotion
though i’m sure if mr wilde could text
or byron could bbm
they’d not forego their lovers’ notice
for the sake of pure romance
they’d embrace any fleeting mention
with disregard for rose colored glasses
not moon over the glare of history’s glance
they’d kiss them with x’s
and serenade them with youtube
and covet any moment not spent
with them on their mind
so my conflict is resolved
and my star-crossed thoughts soothed
when they caution most ominously
that anything on the internet
can never truly disappear.
Jaderbug dreams Apr 2015
He came into my life at a summer camp that felt like a prison.
We didn't know each other then; but we do now.
During the first few weeks that fate brought him into my life were the best I've had so far.
We were so deep, so exciting, so vulnerable.
We knew each other more in those few weeks than most married couples know in nine years...

I went back to Colorado, he went back to Oklahoma.
We never left each other really...
Late night phone calls and video chats.
Text messages and snapchats.
We were together even when we were apart.

Then that day changed everything.
That horribly wonderful day...
Those three words people long to hear spilt from his mouth.
I rejected them.
We still talked, yet not like we used to.

Months went by and I realized that I needed that crazy boy in my life.
I flew to him, his presence near my body made me tingle.
Cuddles and snuggles came and went.
I was just about to repeat the three words he once spoke to me when there was a knocking at the door.
There she stood, looking like a goddess...

He stuttered trying to introduce us.
The best friend to the girlfriend.
I was mortified.
I was crushed.
He could see the pain in my eyes and returned the look.
She could care less for the sad atmosphere we gave off.
The next two days were nothing but her.
Then it was time for me to leave.

Another two months went pass.
He called one day crying.
I tried to comfort him even when these tears gave me joy.
She was gone, that I knew.
What I would do, I didn't.
Comforting him as best I could, he stopped crying and started laughing.

I knew my time to tell him was near.
Time stopped when he called.
Midnight chats turned into midnight slurs when I dozed off.
He thought I couldn't hear him when he said the words that make my heart jump.

The next day he called again and again.
Confused I called back in a panic.
Come get me from the airport he said.
I went and brought him back.
A movie marathon was needed when we arrived.
Anchorman was the first choice.
Him in boxers, I in yoga pants cuddling on the bed.
Laughing at the words said.
He dozed off, I mindlessly said those three words in a whisper.
He answered them with the same.

Surprised I looked at the beautiful man laying next to me.
He said them again yet louder and while looking into my eyes.
A spark, a fire, burning inside took over and finally our lips met after all these years.
David Blaikie May 2019
I miss our chats, the endless days
It felt like time stopped still;
Our hands together, lying down
Electric pulsing thrill

Eating ice-cream, stolen moments
And laughing all the while;
Feeling happy, loved, contented
That perfect beaming smile

I miss our silly time together
Being someone new;
Learning and discovering
All the while with you

Throwing paint and stealing kisses
Crackling touch, like sparks;
Trembling lips and shaking knees
The beating of my heart
YUKTI Mar 2018
I was waiting for him on the escalator on one side of the road 
My Heart pumped at the highest rate when all at once realized abode.

Saw him looking generously dashing riding a scooter
He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and his hair were messy but modish.
And here I was standing in my usual tank top and jeans,
hair tied in a messy ponytail
just then He saw me, waved And parked his vehicle near my usual bus stop
I walked to his way with my bag full of books.

We sat on the bench and started random talks about everything except what we thought about.  
He then started using his phone and I was beginning to feel ignored. He on a spur of moment stopped and stared me and mentioned about our chats and phone calls
"How it started"
"How it became more Frank and comfortable"
"How good friends we became online but never met in real life" strange isn't it?

Then I told him I have to leave and the 'awkward silent moment' and he finally spoke "yeah"

We shook our hand and he refused to let me go
So I smiled and left his hand and eye contact and stood in the row

The bus started moving and I saw him standing there only, shrugging his shoulder and leaving that place.

That was my first and last with him or anyone!!
Your comments are always appreciated.
H J St Jul 2012
What am I thinking about on these hot summer days
besides your cool, coy, cheerful gaze.
Oh, I'm moving forward but still pondering on
of your sparkle in the distant northwest horizon.
I'm thinking of those twinkles in your smile
that travel 1000s of fiber optic online miles.

I'm saddened to read your goodbye... and see you go
You, and your online profile... that is... this thoughtfulbeau.
I'll miss your Hi!, Hey!, Yah!, Yeah!... and your full smile
your patience for my replies... and willingness to stay online awhile.
I'll miss your  attempts to banter... and our brief chats
your witty answers... and allergic opinion about cats.

Sigh. . . .
With your goodbye and turning off the dating light
I could choose to wallow in my own spite.
I feel the loss but not rejected or hurt
I'm filled with positive regard and a connective comfort.
Such as nectar turns into honey by a bee...
you sweetened my besotted feelings into endearing bounty.
So it feels right
knowing your heart
has found its light.

A local love
who hears your voice
respects your choice
and hopefully fits
like a warm glove.

So keep your lights bright
to keep each other warm
through the cool and comforting
Portland nights.

Peace out... ;o)
Written and posted in 2012 w/ a 2018 grammar edit.
Caroline Aug 2013
"You look tired."

"Have you been getting enough sleep?"

To tell you the truth my system's out of whack.

All because of you and our video chats.

I've been up all night with you,

8 hours of no sleep.

Talking about things, just you and me.

JJ Hutton Dec 2010
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the *******,
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***,
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Copyright December 16, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
A Thomas Hawkins Jan 2012
You're looking old, my friend,
and if I may say, a little sad.
Such is the nature of the honesty
our chats have always had.
And now your looking tired too,
worn down, defeated.
Where once I saw an extrovert,
I now see a man retreated.
The boy you used to be is gone,
never to come back.
The fresh faced look of yesterday,
hides 'neath stubble, grey and black.
The wrinkles now say character,
where their absence once said youth,
and eyes that once said innocence,
now show experience and truth.
That's not all, there's something else,
as if a sadness shrouds your soul.
hiding scars you cannot heal
whilst two halves remain unwhole.
But you know my friend, its up to you
and the chances that you take,
for our path is one we draw ourselves
by the decisions that we make.
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
Molly Smithson Nov 2011
5' 4".
125 lbs.
Dark brown, but not black,
Raven, (that's the word),
Hair, wavy, and messy-like

She rolled out of her ivory sheets,
Threw on a men's waist-shirt,
Some black jeans,
Loafers, and
A scarf,
Red, flaring as she quickly jolts

Down La Rue St. Honore
With her coffee in one hand,
Her 27 in another,
so quintessential and yet

There is a fire within her,
It burns from  beneath her decolletage
Down to her en pointe toes
As she races up the Metro steps.

Throaty, but clipped,
all wits and guiles
She directs: Concisely,
Critiques: Encouragingly,
Chats: Intently,
no texting or tweeting,
Her focus like a beam,
Warm, yet sharp
Glowing upon their faces

Yet there she is,
Eating her lunch alone
The pigeons crowd the park bench,
And for a flash you feel pity,
Until you realize it's her.
She has no qualms,
Doesn't believe in loneliness,
But being alone? Oh yes,
besides the characters in
her dusty hardcover and
The fresh air keeping her company.

And finally that flame,
So eternal, burnishing,
Brightens as she gasps,
Holds him close, nibbles
On his ear- she is in the
Garden and will taste,
And she will tempt you too,
Oh yes.
Her tattoos, hidden from
The light of day,
Are illuminated in the shadows.
They decorate that soft flesh
With the places she stays,
The beliefs she holds,
The people she becomes.

She is the girl at the crosswalk,
The man in the tailored suit,
The child playing pretend,
The old lady on the balcony.

Meat Stevens Dec 2016
Sitting down and drinking wine
Taking pictures of
each other
Sitting down and drinking wine
Snapping chats of
Sitting down and drinking wine
Instagraming shots of
one another
Sitting down and drinking wine
Facebook albums
Unlimited selfies
Sitting down and drinking wine
Beach shots
Fake candids
Sitting down and drinking wine
Take one of me like this
Now like this
Sitting down and drinking wine
I don't like that one
Take one of me like this
Sitting down and drinking wine
Janek Kentigern Jan 2019
So your motorbike gets you from A to B
With no hiccups or fuckups or stops in between,

No ponderous walking just to **** time
Or impromptu chats with a friendly old guy,

An excuse just ramble and gather your thoughts
Explore a some places or visit old haunts

If you find something new in an old part of town,
You find that there's worse things than sometimes breakingdown.

I admit it's frustrating to get to work late,
Or have your dinner plans foiled whilst out on a date.

But When friends say "just get a bike that works'
I reply "one that doesn't sometimes has its perks."
I live in Hanoi, Vietnam. There are worse places to have the occasional breakdown.
A Child’s Story

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

“Come in!”—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in—
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!”—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
- Save one who, stout a Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce and inch before me,
Just as methought it said ‘Come, bore me!’
- I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest **** with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Calip’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stepped into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by—
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!”
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six”:
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church-Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.

So, *****, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Coyote Nov 2011
Sitting round the barbecue
there's Paddy, Jeff and me
Mary is on Paddy's right
as happy as can be
Kath is sitting next to Jon
while Chrissy chats with Fay
Paddy passes round the brew
on an orange, plastic tray

Someone grabs a guitar
and begins a happy song
No one knows the melody
but still we sing along
Over comes old Lucifer
his hooves are keeping time
Three hot dogs on his pitch fork
(and one of them is mine)

"I hate to break this up" he says
"the boss is on his way
And if we don't pass muster
then there will be Hell to pay
So put away that beer my friends
and hide that barbecue
Now everyone look miserable
and maybe we'll get through".

A golden light came shining in
as Jesus crossed the room
Paddy swung a pick ax
and I swept with a broom
And Lucifer he cursed at us
and cracked an evil whip
And then a half gone Fosters
went and fell from Paddy's hip.

You could have heard a pin
drop as that bottle hit the floor
Lucifer just shook his head
he knew what was in store
But Jesus Christ he grabbed
that brew and gave a wicked smile
"For an ice cold pint of Fosters
I would walk a country mile"

So the joint again was rockin’
And Jesus lead the way
He said “if it were up to me
I think that I would stay”
Then he downed another bottle
And he said ‘oh by the way,
My dad would not be cool with
this so hold your tongues, ok?"

We never let the secret slip
and all is right and well
And if you’d like to join
us at this barbecue in Hell
Then we have a simple rule
you see, that everyone abides
You can come and go eternally
but religion stays outside.
*The late great Paddy Martin and I had a running joke. Whichever of us left this world first would buy the beer in the great beyond. This one's for Paddy...
Q Jul 2013
I used to know you like that
I used to know you better
I used to know the details of your smile
I used to know the workings of your brain

But we grew apart, miles apart
And now you're to far from my reach
And the distance hurts, it kills so sweetly
And I don't realize how far you are until you're gone

And I've missed you so badly lately
I miss you more than I miss myself
I miss you more than the old me who
Missed you better before you'd even left

I'm sure in some years, we'll have awkward chats
And I'm sure in some years I'll not be so bitter
And I know you think in some years we'll be friends
And have borderline domestic conversation about our kids

But I miss you now and I'll miss you after those years
I'll miss the easy camaraderie we've had from the start
I'll miss our borderline romantic relationship
I'll miss people asking if you were mine and vice versa

I miss the way you used to pull me flush against you
And I miss how I'd wind my arms round your neck
I miss how I felt your heartbeat beside mine
I miss how safe, how loved, how dependent I felt then

I miss how you'd calm me down with your presence
I miss how you'd take care of me, though I fought it tooth and nail
I miss feeling like I could try to overcome my fears to be with you
I miss how oblivious you were to how I felt, no matter what I did

I miss your irritating smile that always makes me do the same
I miss they way I used to feel when I wrote poetry about you
I miss the way you tried to hold me, though I was too scared to let you
I miss the way you looked when I mentioned other people purposefully

I miss the way we never said those three words; we weren't that far
I miss the way you broke me down and I let you, though it hurt
I miss the way I rebuilt myself to need you less and ended up needing you more
I miss the way you smiled when I couldn't do without you

And now we talk around the elephant in the room softly
And I hate averting my eyes like this, but I can't stop
I hate how we're just friends, even though it could be more
I hate how it should be more. It should be more, and you know it

I hate how I'm moving on, finding other people to fill the hole you left
I hate how I still feel empty, even though it's not been long enough to call it love
I hate how much it hurts to see you, though I mask the pain and smile
And I hate how I miss you even more than I miss myself
Sally A Bayan Aug 2015
Morning rituals make you rush
But someone gets up earlier than you
You never get the chance to be first
Ah, there's a wet towel on the sofa...again!
The tiny water puddles on the floor leading to the bedroom...

The kettle  is whistling now
You bump onto each other in your haste
And you both look at each other
Eyes brighten up....slowly give out beamish smiles.

There's toast and jam on the table
Steaming instant coffee is ready, but first,
You make a cup of fresh brew, hand it to him
His eyes squint, while he sips his hot tea,
You sit, eat, without much talk...just looking,
Like, looking at each other, and what would follow,
Would suffice to complete the hours of the day...
But, you're both dressed up... all set for
You start your day....he starts always leave ahead...

In the office, you remembered:
"What's the matter with me?"
You forgot to charge your cellphone and ipad last night
So you look for the charger
Only to find out, both are fully charged...
Your eyes sparkle...with much longing
Ahh, you wish for time to fly
So you could head for home, fast!

He's usually very hungry when he arrives
You hurry...chicken afritada, it will be...
Wait...the frozen chicken has been thawed...gone!
You see a *** of chicken salivate!
You surmise, he must've done this after you left this morning,
You look up...thank God for this angel He has given you,
And for microwave ovens, too! tell yourself,
"Okay, okay....I'll do the dishes tonight! ...and the coming nights!"

Life is perfect with its mix of the sweet and the bitter
Blockbuster moments and flops...together...apart
Uncontrollable smiles, frowns... tickles, tears
Even the coming....and passing of life
Days don't always end up on a high note...yet, now,
You sit, and recall all that had happened this morning
And the past mornings, evenings, weekends...
All that he did....does for you each day
All that you for him everyday
All the chats you share before bedtime...until he snores,
All these combined efforts are much better ways, better proofs...
He rarely says those three words most often said by lovers,
But, you soar to Heaven, when before falling asleep,
He puts your head on his chest, and whispers to you:
"You mean the world to me."


Copyright March 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
**...My thoughts right now---why not a feel-good poem today? ...we can always create a perfect scenario in our daily imperfect world....***
Sentosa Mam Apr 2012
its been a while since i last heard from you
day after day and not a single word from you

you tell me not to be paranoid
but how am i not suppose to think about those things when i hear nothing from you
to think that you no longer want me
to think that i no longer have any significance for you

i miss you so much and not a word from you i get
not to mention your voice
your sweet, soft, beautiful voice
its been weeks since my pitiful body has heard your voice

i sometimes wonder if all those long chats over the months even mean anything
you'd tell me you feel these things and tell you the same
but how did we end up here
how did i end up suffering, begging for you to say something to me

i wish you understood how much it hurts
how much you not being around makes my skin crawl
and how much it makes me want to scream
plead for you to say something

i just miss you, thats all
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018

Walt Whitman
walks by me
somewhere in 1891

I nod to him...he nods to me
lost in himself
Clinton is being inaugurated

Brooklyn Bridge
saunters by
dressed in the summer of '67

the subway
wears its best graffiti
the music of trains and Coltrane

the Flatiron Building is jaywalking
the Empire State
chats him up

a child's hopscotch
almost washed away
a moment's masterpiece

Robert Moses
looks across Long Island
longs to build the city only he sees

he gazes into my future
I look into his past
I pass Robert Mapplethorpe

a man in a white suit
nailed to the darkness
by so many stars

an old saxophone player
busks Rogers and Hart in Central Park
"...I didn't know what time it was..."

two obese Chinese
take up most of the sidewalk
both speaking fluent - Irish

Leaves of Grass
lies scattered across the road
read now by the wind

a car caught in traffic
blares out Joel's
"New York State of Mind"

I laugh at such
a happenstance
a walk-on-part in my own movie

escaping the borders
of the body
I walk through times

I am all the times
of the world
they intersect in self

Walt and I
sitting on a park bench
waiting to go somewhere else

an 1990's rain
falls on an 1870's NY
they are beginning Brooklyn Bridge

I meet my self
coming and going
an older and a younger me

time held prisoner on the wrist
I turn and walk away
into this the newest of centuries

— The End —