"cheryl" poems
Just as you Sing to the Pop-Diva's Tune
The Robins will cower and chirp for more
I speak for some News I brought this Noon
Though I believe you have heard this before:
The Pilgrim comes out of the Pool. And begs
Your Seasoned Pucker as you make-decide
His trunks are no-offense. In Truth his legs,
Thick as moss beg your humble dear Confide
I guess you were advised after your Shift
He requested for your charmed Experiment
Second Ghosts appeared; They in turn bereft
And granted his Fantasy's sentiment.
I should go now. Since more time to pursue
Before he stabs me with a Knife-in-Due.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
I twisted the dollar bill around my finger and then into a bow.
I rolled it up.
I twisted it around my finger once again,
wishing the lady in front of me would order already
instead of asking what EVERY drink was.
I just wanted my latte.
I don't want to have to wait until next Christmas just to order it.
Oh my god, lady! Get out of my way!
Finally, she turned to the man at the other end of the counter, who is waiting for his coffee.
What did you get, Jim?
Caramel Macchiato, Cheryl
She turns back to the cashier, And what's a Caramel Macchiato?
It's an espresso, consisting of milk and two-three shots with caramel syrup, ma'am
Hmm, I guess I'll have that. A small please.
Just as I think she's done, she steps back in front of me.
And a red velvet cookie...you know what, make that two.
The cashier rings her up and I'm slowly nudging her away from the counter.
Hey Abby-ONE CARAMEL LATTE, MEDIUM
I smile, Hello Maddox.
$4.23
I hand him the 5 dollar bill and he stretches behind him and sets my latte in front of me.
Thanks Maddox.
I take my latte and change and walk around to the back, up the back stairs and into the book store.
I sit cross legged in a mustard colored vinyl chair, setting my coffee on the flat arm.
My shoes fall to the floor.
My book falls open to where I marked it last.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I continue to read and taste the cheap caramel in my overpriced latte.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
When Cheryl Blossom said,
"Her
name was Heather,"
No one else heard
The silent emphasis,
but it rang in my ears.
A persistent stinging in the back of my throat,
tearing at my eyes
pouring from my mouth,
coating my tongue in a thick,
black and red
vicious drink of liars.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
in the balcony one late afternoon
i saw a mossed cypress tree, with
curved and drooping branches
a shield from the glaring rays of the sun
at noontime, i realized it was
i sat on the wooden lounge chair
as my mind started reeling
brimming with words and lines
stimulated by the ambiance
provided, surrounded by the
picturesque views....but i
suddenly thought of a distant friend
a good soul, a good friend
i miss Cheryl, my friend
she would have loved to be here
in this seaside village,
for some time off, to mix her colors
paint something from the sea
a touch of Neptune's world, maybe
for her poems to write.....
some fresh air, walks any minute of the day
so worries and fears and uncertainties
may vanish, evaporate
like bubbles dissipate
.....into thin air.....
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
Darrell
Rhymes with barrel
and Christmas carol
and several names
like Cheryl and Meryl
If I was writing a rhyming poem
I'd rhyme your name with "peril"
Not that I'd do it well
But it's better than rhyming it with "sterile"
I could make up nonsense words for rhyming sake
like...larrell and parrell and tarrell
And I could write a poem especially for you
and the impossible to rhyme with "Darrell"
I'll fail miserably at it
But I love you enough to try
Maybe I'll improve on my list of "Darrell" rhymes
and make you as happy as a pie in the sky next to bread made of rye sitting on the plate of a famished guy, tie, buy, cry, lie
Again, I tried.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
I met him beneath the lilac tree
One gentle moonlit summer’s eve
The ring; his dream was given to me
And I noticed there was a breeze.
A tree started violently sway
The ring became under threat
Night passed quickly to become day
And I noticed that the Earth was wet.
The lilac soon lost its perfume
The bad weather had almost cleared
However, the sky had lost a moon
And I noticed he had disappeared.
Cheryl Love
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
She was a childhood friend of mine,
even if quite briefly,
who was the type of girl who would trap mosquitoes in her books,
or put her retainer on a napkin beside her lunch tray.
And she'd give me a very condescending look
(one eyebrow raised, and the like)
if ever I mentioned my poetry.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
I'd thought I might do something crazy
Just to get it out of my blood
I'd been thinking about myself too much
And that's never a good thing
Praying I'd find some strength inside
Some grace and self discipline
Life isn't about what I might want
Though that's probably a good thing
And if I look away at times
I can't quite look into your eyes
I may not trust myself to speak
A bit afraid of what you'd see
If I'm confused once in a while
Appearing lonesome and fragile
I've tried hard not to let it out
That's not the me I'm all about
I'd thought I might do something crazy
Just to get it out of my blood
But that'd be thinking about myself too much
And that's never a good thing
By Cheryl Klassen
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 1:28 PM UTC
~~~a repost~~~
(For Cheryl Love)
I am on this part of the world
while you are there on the other side
an enormous sea stands between us.
We are both just tiny specks from where we stand
it is not a high wall that separates us-
but giant waves and scary
windstorms,
an ocean of strong currents existing.
And yet, we speak, we think, like
we are just a few minutes drive away
it's like you're just next door
a matter of three knocks away
we chat and we laugh cheerfully
like the day would never end
like the sun would never set.
These physical barriers that separate us
couldn't hinder us from smiling
Only a few words spoken
would send us laughing
we see ourselves on skype
the gleeful sound of our giggles
is unstoppable and contagious
for we giggle just about anything
Our mouths never close,
there is always something to discuss
something to laugh about
like the day would never end
like the sun would never set.
We radiate positive energy
we vibrate with pleasant thoughts
dwelling on hopes that
one day we would meet in person.
We shall have long talks
we shall have long walks
we shall cook
we shall make beads
everything...we shall do together
we won't run out of things to do together,
like the day would never end,
like the sun would never set...
Though far apart,
the music of our giggles
shall play on and on
in our hearts
in our minds
in our ears.
There is no doubt,
our friendship, our music would live on
like the day would never end
like the sun would never set.
Sally
Copyright August 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
There came a point when the cancer spread to your brain,
A point in time where you couldn't even yell out in pain.
When the clicker was a telephone,
And you sat in a hospital bed all alone.
Not noticing the crowds of friends coming to say their goodbyes.
Some to laugh and some to cry.
All talking to a woman they used to know but now sits silent,
Minutes passing and closer to dying.
I was then only in my adolescence.
Sixteen.
cruel and mean.
I waited for the crowd to dissipate,
Standing in the doorway,
thinking of what to say.
To the mother whom I said I hate,
Yelled and fought and ran away.
I lied next to you,
covered in confusion as to what to say,
What to do?
"I'm sorry for every bad thing I've ever said and done"
"You really are the best, mom"
Thinking it was too late and you didn't understand,
I went to leave but you raised your hand.
Caressing my arm as we lie in silence together,
A moment that resonates in my soul forever.
The moment my thoughts were free,
The moment I made my peace,
The moment you made the decision to leave.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
A footstep is heard
a stone's throw away.
A creak of a twig snaps
Like a squeaky doorway.
Silence haunts the wood
Desperate for something
Anxiety is the order of the day
But alas there is nothing.
A rush of the wind
drapes tension across my face
The rain suggests play
But leaves no trace.
Then there she is
The sunlight is following
The sight of her very being
is absolutely amazing.
I cannot speak
My words do not come out
I am overwehlmed with excitement
I cannot even shout.
I want to say something
Just something audible
but my eyes are filled with tears
this moment in time is incredible.
I just want to hug my friend Sally
we have met for the very first time
But I know this is all a dream
and words are just in rhyme.
But I wish it were true.
and my dear friend Sally I wish a sincere
and Happy Christmas to you.
Your friend Cheryl
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Hard to go on...so little information
So hard to know to trust my instincts or
to just be open
Try to let go...those 'perfect' expectations
I just never know...what with all my imperfections
***
(CH) I get nervous
Questioning my very self
All my introspections
Everything I think I know
My experiences
Every thought and nurtured hope
Comes down to fear or love
and learning when to just let go
***
I get tired...too tired to bother trying
Never dreaming, but overanalyzing
I get lazy, and sometimes I get whiny
Procrastinating...
and in general; just wasting time
(CH)
(instrumental bridge)
I get fearful,
sometimes feeling uninspired
Things seem hazy some days
Often I feel strung too tightly
But if I close my eyes
It all just disappears and
if I express it right
I only hope it comes out clearly....
(CH)
By Cheryl Klassen
© 2011 Cheryl Klassen (All rights reserved)
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
I’m sitting on the porch,
and I’m listening.
To the crickets, the air conditioner, the cars.
I feel, at once, very at home.
Summers of Governor’s Place past, eating Otter Pops outside until our tongues turned a weird brown-gray color from the combination of different dyes.
I remind myself to look up, to look at the stars.
Yes, they’re still there—the same ones Katie and I used to “moonbathe” under, lying on the warm concrete of her driveway.
How have I forgotten to look at the stars?
“Look at the way the light is hitting the building!” was my constant refrain in Paris. I was always looking up, soaking it in.
But of course, in Paris, everything is beautiful.
Certainly, my life now has a lot of light to be seen: In the morning, when the sun pours into the stairwell through Isaac’s stained glass.
In the evening, as red bricks seemingly absorb the sunset’s oranges and reds and then reply with a cooling lavender just as the light begins to fade.
I want to see, I want to know every chirp, every dribble.
I want to inspect each speck of dust, greet every ant circling the sink in the kitchen.
I need to know every part of my life and the life happening within and around me.
The details may not always be the shine of a moonbeam cast upon a dreamy French rooftop —but in fact, was the color of our Popsicle tongues not also the exact same hue?
Look up
Look around
Take in where you’re sitting, where you’re living. Stop counting weeks—you cannot make a science out of spontaneity.
A train sounds in the distance and I pause because I want to invite that, too, to be a part of this moment.
I keep coming back to Cheryl Strayed’s “I’m going to put myself in the way of beauty.” . . . I just think I’m going to look closer around me.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
The world grew sick
it happened so quick
and so the people prayed
in spiritual foundations laid
the people went to see
the healers to be set free
hurt souls seek relief
and beyond belief-
~the healers got sick
songs lathered in Purell
as the death tolls swell
ringing out the Sioux band’s
cared for with gloved hands
~hands that caught rain
now wracked with pain
Standing Rock tumbles down
as fits of coughs drown
“My girl, I don’t know what to do-“
the words of a dying healer
once free to roam
in death
kept far away from her home
When they pass on
all that knowledge gone
the words and ways of old
lost as voices go cold
Breath taken away
also yesterday
is gone around the bend
ways of old set to end
-the sacred fire untended
No more secret Candy
or cherished smiles
veterans vanquished
peacemakers in pieces:
Porcupine
Bear Soldier
Running Antelope
Cheryl and Jesse Taken Alive
lovers from the start
Cheryl and Jesse died
only a month apart
holes in the Taken Alive heart
Their moccasins remain still
big shoes for others to fill
Standing Rock’s hills rolling
as graves keep filling
~the healers got sick
hands that caught rain
now wracked with pain
the sacred fire untended
... still, the fire burns
out of the ashes, Nola, a child
of those Taken Alive learns
to hear the call of the wild
Young pup’s paws will fill the boots in time
though Standing Rock’s still,
still it stands
rain to be caught by fresh hands
new ears record the tree’s chime
“We’re still here,” Nola said
Taken Alive stands still
at Standing Rock
~
NM
01/15/21
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 7:20 PM UTC
They talk
we hear
they walk
then reappear
where did they go?
its all too queer
should thy know?
bother
they would say
a world sat on the ledgr
a sarp one at that
it saif in anuncertain tone
im going to die
why?
\the Lord called my name
I came in, dropped by
to say goodbye
neer a true word said in jest......CHERYL
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.
Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
**** **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)
See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone. And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
I thought it was a need
that made me different
I thought I needed
something to redeem
I thought it was a need
for something magic
I thought I knew
the essence and the theme
It wasn't just a need for
something unusual
It wasn't just a feeling
That comes and goes
It wasn't just a thought
I couldn't process
It was just too painful
for me to show
I thought it was a need
for something stable
Thought that I deserved
a certain peace
I thought it was a need
for love and safety
I thought it was a need
for the strength to succeed
It wasn't just a need for
something eclectic
It wasn't just a feeling
That came and went
It wasn't just a dream
I couldn't possess
It was just too brutal
to understand
I thought it was a need
for self-actualization
Thought I needed space
and time to breathe
I thought it was a need
out of co-dependence
I could not fathom
the need to be free
It wasn't just a need
for something electric
It wasn't just a feeling
I couldn't arrange
It wasn't just a hope
for some affection
It was just the energy
we exchanged
I thought it was a need
for my own acceptance
Thought I could be
strong and still optimistic
I thought it was a need
that was unrealistic
But it was just another
weakness I could never admit
I thought it was a strength
Kept me indifferent
Thought it just a phase
I tried to pass through
I thought if I could
Give it some attention
Maybe I could learn
To stop blaming you
© 2002 Cheryl Klassen
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sometimes I see her at the side of my bed;
Reading me a story;
Kissing me goodnight,
The lights go out
Sometimes her face is so clear
Like I saw her yesterday;
She is right there in front of me
I reach out to give her a hug
She ripples and fades
Like she
was never
there at all
Sometimes I hear her heart,
Beating like she's still here
When it stops, the pain starts all over
When she's gone, time stops;
When she returns, we bleed;
When she returns, we breathe;
When she returns
We are free
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.
The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.
- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse
The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.
The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley
to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave
- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 1:56 PM UTC