"clem" poems
If wishes could be measure,
Clem would have reign in wealth,
Before he had a date with death.
Poverty battled with him with all pleasure.
In the tribulation, all his gray eyes saw was a
jubilating future.
In my clan, the death are kings,
Their testimony barely bear guilts,
Tales of that of dove and angelic.
In these imperfect world, they are made perfect and heroic.
That of clem wasn't different,
No hair suspected him of having a great for a kin,
Who in death embraced him to a golden casket, in Italian suit, shoes and a cow killed.
His burial got what he never begged for in hundred fold
Hmm! A late beggar decorated more than a groom to a royal fold.
As all gathered round his six feet for a final bye,
The in prophesied happened, Clem breath resurrected and all flee,
Even the priest, men, women and their kids.
Clem awoke into a dream,
Agitating against mankind and why array of
fortune should perish with a beggar like him,
While there are countless beings escaping death each dawn in perpetual poverty.
Griefs stricken for his old him,
He rose, undertook his golden casket, sold it and became a king.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
Clem, the rodeo clown
wears a bold painted smile,
a bright plaid shirt and bib overalls
with cuffs too short for his legs.
Between the rides and roping -
Clem banters with the emcee,
wheeling off groaners and
scrambling in and out of his barrel-
playing the air-headed bumpkin.
But Clem is nobody's fool;
when that gate opens, his real work begins.
Bull and rider explode from the chute
and the game is on.
The cowboy weaves and writhes to stay on top
for that eight golden seconds
that will earn him his pay
against a half ton of feral energy
stomping and lurching to fling him to the earth.
With eyes as keen as a hungry hawk,
Clem tracks every buck and lurch
for any peril sign - and then it happens:
the rider is hurled airborne,
landing inches from the driving hooves.
Clem seizes the cowboy with
a linebacker's grip
and swings him safely over the fence
as wranglers speed the bull from the ring.
The show goes on and Clem
has plenty more jokes for the crowd
who knows he's never a barrel of laughs
when a rider's life is on the line.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Beginners. The part in Beginners where Georgia takes young Oliver to the art museum and playfully tilts her body to mimic the juxtaposed metal frame installation. Or when on one of their drives in their 1982 Mercedes-Benz 300 D Turbo Diesel, Georgia tells young Oliver "You point, I'll drive," so Oliver knee-jerkily points his finger to the direction opposite of where they are driving, and Georgia calmly steers the car out of control without any bit of hesitation. The fact that Oliver keeps the "You point, I'll drive" tradition alive with Anna years after Georgia's passing, but never explains or even mentions to Anna the backstory and significance behind these words, it's just something he casually incorporates in his counted moments with her, which conveys through indirect verbalization just how much she means to him.
Oh, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Don't even get me started with Joel and Clementine, and all their heart-wrenching, perfect one-liners and phrases.
"I'm Clementine. Can I... borrow a piece of your chicken?"
"And then you just took it... without waiting for an answer. It was so intimate; like we were already lovers."
And,
"I could die right now, Clem. I'm just...happy. I'm exactly where I wanna be." All the right words, in the right sequence, with precise pause and emphasis.
Or,
"I'm a little out of sorts today." A line I secretly quote and have casually adapted into my every day utterances.
And of course the infamous Tangerine and Joely Sequence;
"You're pretty, you're pretty. You're pretty... you're pretty... pretty.."
Both of these movies mean so much to me. These are the kind of things I would tell you. These are the kind of things that would mean something to you, that would lead you to finding some bit of magic in me, and maybe even make you fall in love. But you've never asked, and you don't, and you won't. Still, I wish that you would ask.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
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Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
clementine,
he pricked your skin
fragrant and newborn
his fingers tainted flowery zing
to him,
clementines like a thursday dream
creamsicle gleams
clementine,
you are well
a throw of a coin
a chill of a moan into the wishing well
for you tinyclem
i gather your peeling petals in my palms
perfumed sweet
my sweet clem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
Oh women
They **** a man
Who could die for them
Taking them a gem
And die for he
Who could **** them
With love's clem!
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 3:51 PM UTC
My thoughts today are of our old home, Clem
I’m wistful and so slightly sad
All the time that has passed since seeing them
No longer a young boisterous lad.
I miss the trees and the creak of the gate
Of the cottage where once we did live
The river that flooded when it was in spate
The forces that will not forgive.
O this town is a fine place to find us, Clem
Though it’s not like being back at home
So today I’m wistful for our cottage again
For the hamlet from where we did roam.
And if son, you’ve these thoughts as mine
As you’re going about your day
Be ready to gather those things of thine
For soon we’ll be back on our way.
©Joe Wilson – Dreaming of home…2015
Written in a style similar to O. Henry
William Sidney Porter (1862 – 1910)
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
How can happiness abound
When hungry kids are around
How can I sleep knowing well
They live in a complete hell
How can I be proud of myself
If I have a pitiful story to tell
How can I turn a blind eye
When a child is blind in one eye
Because their day begins and ends badly
Every day they wake up very early
To collect dunks from malnourished cows
Who can no longer do the daily plows
Grace to the condition of the arid soil
On which the family would have to toil.
So...
How can I go to bed at night
Knowing something's not right?
How can I retire to a deep sleep
When those alive can no longer weep.
Because their lives were beyond broken
When for lights they look up to Akon
Because their leaders don't care about them
All masterminds of a rather brutal clem
The Notorious, heartless and evil warlords
Who became wealthy and turned landlords
It breaks my heart to see wartime millionaires
Keeping their dead brother's bones as souvenirs
So ..
How can I hesitate to expose this evil
By these heartless sons of the devil
How can I allow my voice to be silenced,
When power sharing is not yet balanced.
Why shouldn't I feel very bad,
When their angelic eyes are sad?
©️IvanBrookspoetry
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
Are you exactly where you want to be?
If you died, would it be happily?
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 2:55 AM UTC