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if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah
Wk kortas Dec 2016
Custom, tradition, and the twang of steel guitars
Strongly suggest I should embrace my station
As the woman done wrong,
Weeping quietly in some dark corner
At the Come On Inn,
Or, even better yet,
Wailing in a full, tear-stained voice.
Know this; I will not Patsy Cline for you,
Any man or moral of the story,
Nor will I indulge myself
In some country-crossover measure of revenge.
I will march into that bar,
And play that song for whoever on the jukebox,
Dancing without a trace of regret or malice
And I will leave that old roadhouse
In the same manner I will live
The rest of my days here on earth;
Head high, chin forward, shoulders straight
Alone or accompanied
As I—and I alone—see fit.
Terra Lopez Aug 2014
She says
She listens
To Patsy Cline
To pass the time
And I wonder
What it is
Now
That you will
Do
To pass time
Skaidrum Jan 2016
...
"Take your crimes and medication."

Pill one.
I have come to loathe eating.
Countless days pass without a morsel of food,
typically weeks without a real full meal.
I find it remarkable, really;
that my sense of taste and hunger became living corpses
that linger within my mouth like something died on my tongue.
I have a few options at this point but here's my choice~~
~~leave the silverware clean, bare and cold---
it's purest when cold.
I don't even know why I am not hungry.
I never thought I'd see the day where I'd decline the offer on raspberries.
(They always will be my favorite...)
Now, my ribcage blooms like a garden~
~rib bones that beg to flower through
the soil that is my skin.
Skeletons don't sit at the dinning table because
starving is a special kind of beautiful.
Yet this is oddly okay to me.
And when I do dare to silence it,
the mild sting of hunger that pulls you like the moon;
It's regret that's delivered in a bullet or two.
Disgust crawls up my spine and drags nails along
the lining of my stomach.
Don't eat that, it's poison.
Rejection becomes my immediate releif.
Family and friends can't help but worry
Eyes flicker to the length of my waist,
voices question my weight when I'm lifted
the subtle stare at how my bones scream against snowy skin.
I don't blame them or the rumors;
I know I am skinny, and I know am empty.
I just don't want to eat anymore...
I am so sorry for that.
(Am I supposed to be sorry for that?)

Pill two.
Don't ask me if I got any sleep.
The answer will always be "no", or "not enough."
I was diagnosed two years ago with insomnia.
You don't know what suffering is until
you can't ******* sleep.
I didn't think it was that bad,
boy, I must've been related to ignorance.
It's torture watching the world never press pause.
My record is six nights and seven days, almost a full week
Caged myself in because my thoughts
were killers for freedom.
Why can't I sleep?
Here's the catch though;
I don't like sleep either.
No comfort calls your name,
not when you can remember every dream you've had since
the year 2009.
I don't have happy dreams, for those of you that do not know.
They call this disease hyper-realistic dreaming,
it's something my doctor hesitates to openly discuss.
(They don't have the answers to my mother's panicked questions or my father's accusing glare.)
They're terrified of the unknown too.
The concept of dreaming in such detail,
of every person place or thing
isn't exactly treatable
Fun fact:
I talk to the dead sometimes.
You know, people who have passed away.
They tell me it's the regrets that ******* you behind your back.
Hyper-realistic dreaming is absolute madness.
Pretty sure wonderland doesn't look any different than
the waking realm.
The word nightmare,
yeah, I don't like using it.
It visits whether I'm awake or not.
Doesn't make a ******* difference.
But the doctors only care about my insomnia.
Figures, I mean.
"It's just a sleeping sickness, strong medication should fix it."
Liar.
Rest has become a form of torture for me.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this.

Pill three.
Speaking of torture,
I own 19 scars that I never asked for.
My father is responsible for 18 of these scars.
Abuse is just a 5 letter word.
Funny how death sits lightly in 5 letters.
Pain is just a 4 letter word.
Oh look, so does life.
I've been waiting for salvation but I know I'm not worthy.
My father is the root of my depression.
I am his flawed design and greatest disappointment.
"YOU *******----"
hands crash into my lungs
nails engrave wounds like some sick reminder
you don't need to remind me
I already know what I've done wrong
please dad, don't hit me

Yet instantly I hit the floor harder than any stone does.
I cry quietly, forcing the sobs to talk the language of silence.
If he knows I'm suffering it'll only make it worse.
Praise is something that does not pass his lips.
"You're ******* worthless, you ugly girl."
Insults act like vultures that never quite leave our house.
"You stupid blonde *****, DO IT RIGHT."
My grades weren't high enough to please his highness.
(I had a 3.975 GPA this semester.)
"I can't wait to watch you fail."
A disgusting disgrace of a daughter that's never going to fill the shoes of "enough."
There are so many times where I have been punished for
my "crimes",
kicked, beaten, scratched, sliced, man-handled, hit, and bruised..
I don't think it's fair to name the rest.
It's all an act of order to obtain my obedience.
The secrets within these walls sneer at me~~
~~how unfortunate that our walls are white.
You see blood is a hard stain to remove and red likes
to leave the ghost of orange upon the white paint.
I don't think you understand,
that this has been happening ever since I was his little 7 year old.
Or, you know, maybe longer.
Oblivion flew south and reality crawled in long ago.
You can't just chase reality out,
she's a force of nature that takes the life out of all of us.
I have been a victim to my father for as long as I can remember.
An example of the cycle of abuse continues tonight;
Tonight my father told me,
"I wish you were dead."
That can be arranged, dad.
You don't know pathetic until you've seen me lying there
after the aftermath that was my most recent "mistake",
clutching the ground like maybe if I pretended enough
it would hold me.
They tell me it's just the alcohol talking.
That all of this was his own father's doing.
My dad had it "so much worse."
I'm sorry your father hurt you, dad
I'm sorry you feel like you have to hurt me.


Pill four.
My wounds make their homes beneath my heart,
six inches to left, furrowing downwards.
This is the nerve that throbs in death's long fingers.
False strength will save those who you love.
Good thing I "believed" I was strong.
It's a ******* joke.
I'm not strong.
I am a white angel dressed in lies.
Yet there I was;
Standing with perfect posture as the universe
and my friends stacked their troubles
up my trembling shoulders and back.
Nicknames spilled off their tongues,
I was proud of these titles that I don't actually deserve.
I am the psychiatrist.
The Healer.
The Caretaker.
The Mother
The Saint
The Kind Maiden
The Helper
The Keeper of the Dragons
The Poet of the Wolves
The Moon Warrior
The moonlight weeping through the willow branches;
The Person Who Fixes Everything
The Wise Guardian Angel.
How couldn't they notice I was nothing divine.
Plucking them from the coffins of depression and despair
that they laid themselves to rest in.
It is no easy task.
And sometimes this means their words are
the gashes to glide down my arms and sides,
blood making the puddles at my feet.
Physical pain is bearable when it's for them.
Again we revisit the word
"Abuse."
As they are humans and they practice this sin
upon me.
I accept the harm with no self-defense.
Because I was cursed to love them.
Even the ones,
that reek desolation upon my soul.
They have all gone for the **** before.
You can take it out on me,
I will balance your burdens.
"Let me help you..."
I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm here for you
I'm sorry I became like this?
(I definitely am not supposed to apologize for that.)


Pill Five.
I have a past lover, she is my Wolf Girl.
I have learned to love her like ambrosia in a bottle.
It doesn't matter that I am no longer her lover...
She is and always will be my best friend.
We once talked about our friendship like a legend.
One man that went off to war,
and how he left his loyal dog behind.
The loyal dog waited for his master until the man returned from service and suffering;
the dog's love never swayed.
For many years they remained apart and alone
paths refusing to entertwine,
but once reunited they picked their relationship up and continued like nothing had ever separated them to begin with.
We never decided who the dog or the man was.
But we both have always known.

I hold her responsible for saving me, and uncovering
the remains of a silver child.
She ripped my heart open to expose the stitches and raw emotion;
below my feet sung the wolves,
along my collarbone perched the stars.
The moon basked in my skin when she told me,
You are beautiful.
I knew she was lying but I still forced those words down my throat,
swallowing the growing flame of black lies.
To this day I will never forget,
even if she has forgotten.
I don't see a reason to hurt, I knew I was unworthy to begin with.
Sifting through a jar of ashes I found our memories,
the day we first met, first became best friends...
She was the wolf and wasn't afraid to bite the hand that fed her.
That was how she taught me to survive,
Trust me when I say I learned more than just survival.
Casting a glance at the past 5 years I recall
what the value of strength was.
She lent me her own,
~so I bargained my way to the heavens~
a prayer for the day I would become a goddess of divinity-------
---- I found out Naïve was my middle name.
The demons found me and I had no fangs to sharpen,
so they tied me to a willow tree.
There I was possessed, and hung by my wrists,
humiliation and weakling branded into my ankles.
"This is how we put dreamers in their place!"
Is what the shadows screamed in octaves of smoke.
And that was how my wolf girl found me,
hanging and half-alive in my favorite crying tree.
She....
She laughed with sunlight flashing in crystal teeth.
Before plunging vicious knives into my stomach.
Until the  words gouged at places hidden beneath tender poetic flesh...
My screams never reached another living soul.
Dragging open my belly to reveal what innocence I had left,
I watched as poison caught fire to her words;
I was annoying
I was clingy
I was loud, unaware, and
oblivious.
I loved the same she had loved
stolen the moon from her nightless sky without realization
and caused heartbreak and spread disease in her wake
she knew what the demons did~~~

"And yet you loved every second of it, didn't you Lycan?"
~~~~
I know, I know
all of that was so long ago, yet I cannot help myself.
I don't hang from trees anymore,
and I don't talk to wolves in sheep skins any longer.
That doesn't stop me though;
The questions slither into my palms and onto the page
where navy ink scratches letters
into rotten white paper;
Like snakes in the tomb of my heart.
"Why did you save me?"
"Why didn't you save me when I needed you most?"
"Oh wait, right, you never had to..."
"What love could you possibly harbor
for me?"
"Did you ever love me?"
"No, probably not."
"Will it ever be okay again?"
"Why didn't you let me in when you needed me?"
"Was it worth it?  Jack I mean...was he worth it?"
"Was it worth those seven months?"
"You're more than lust."
"Did your sins finally catch you, Lycan?"
Wolves find glory in preying upon the weaker species.
You knew I was weak from day one.
"Why didn't you **** me when you had the chance?"
I'm sorry I defiled you.
Apologies that you went to the trouble of teaching me the hard way.

And finally,
I'm sorry that I dared to love you, Allie.


Pill six.
Let me put it in simple terms;
I hate myself.
I have come back from the brink of death for the thousandth time,
and I'm so sick of it.
My mind is a battlefield of depression and
I am no match for the darkness that borderline feasts on my soul.
They never left after they hung me pretty in that tree.
Thoughts that take my life piece by piece like casualties in war.
No, you don't understand.
I am beyond saving.
I have been,

for a very long time.
No matter how long I look into a mirror
I cannot find a trace of beautiful.
The glass doesn't bother lying to me, not anymore...
That's how I know all of you are lying to me.
I have let the insanity slide a dagger into my spine
ripping a **** upwards to my neck.
This is where bone touches the air and I don't recover.
R e l l a p s e
I hate everything about myself,
what I have become,
wallowing in the pity because I am far too tired;
to swim, to try, to leave.
I descend into the black sea of ink that
I bathe myself in every hour to keep from feeling agony.
As a poet, it's the only title I hold onto with an ounce of pride.
Among the fields of grief I lay in my oaken coffin
pathetic words snaking into my mind
betrayal chewing at my insides,
memories play hide and seek between lost and broken treasures.
There is nothing left.
Not anymore.
And never again.
What more can I give when the nightfall erases me?
How much longer must I endure
my punishment for being human?
I was never mighty but
my how I've fallen.


"Are you okay?"
Don't think, just lie.
"How are you feeling?"
Lie faster.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Lie for their sake.
"How are you?"
Whatever you do
"What's wrong?"
Just lie
"You seem kinda off today..."
If you tell them it's all over.
"Kira, are you alright?"
Lie until the truth becomes one.
"Seriously, you're...you're sure you're alright?"
You can't let that monster out, she'll destroy whatever you love left.
"Are you lying?"
"I'm so...so sorry everyone.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm......s--"


I forgot to mention I have pills to take now.
For my insomnia, way back up in pill two up there...
Special pills that play roulette with the grim reaper.


Instructios:
"Kira, take only one pill at a time.  Please make sure to count if you swallow several at once.  These pills are very dangerous, potentially deadly if not consumed correctly."
"Alright."
"Take one pill, and if you can't fall asleep in an hour wait til tomorrow night to take two.  If that doesn't work, then the next night take three, and then four.  Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Kira, please be cautious if you take five. I cannot stress enough how much I want you to be careful, it could damage your internal organs. It's like asking for a light coma, for 20 hours you'll be asleep."
"Okay."
"And Kira...whatever you do... NEVER take six pills.   You won't wake up after that.    Promise me you'll never take six...
"I promise Dr. Cline."
Well, I lied.  Shocker, right?
I am so terribly sorry that I cannot keep my promise...

One
Two
Three
Four
Five...
Only....Six
that's all it takes.





I'm sorry is the only signature I leave on my suicide note.
...
.


I couldn't keep this in,
it's not poetry it's a rant.
Apologies for my confession....


But it's over now.
The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks

Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song



Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best

Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song

The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot

Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Ryan Bowdish Oct 2013
I want to fix everything all the time
Maybe that's why I'm greying early.
Anxiety only feels good when I commit crimes
Ironically, because it's always there in me.
I think when I'm thirty I'll be bald
Alopecia will hit me by the time I'm twenty five
Can't breathe with palpitations, or so they're called
With these heart murmurs, I'm amazed I'm still alive.
Nostalgia makes me laugh and cry simultaneously
I know I take myself far too seriously
I'm tired of holding and losing things near and dear to me
Like acid drops and alcohol my blood's relatively
A relevancy and tell me, do I look infected to you?
I hide behind pastimes and impulsive rap lines
But nothing in the world could be farther from the truth
With smashed cats on road sides and fast forgotten rhymes, I
Wake up to Jim beam smiling over me
Cover leaves and evergreens childishly wind chime
I two-time everyone I meet to some subtle degree
And I've told my mom to die one too many times
But it's cool because without these angst phases
I'd have no words to express the connectable times
Which are the worst times, remember what I say
LSD and new Mexico make me want to fly away

Do I have a clue what I'm doing when I'm drinking at six thirty in the morning?

Today, around noon, I met true doom
On the train tracks of my Oklahoma culdesac
There was a dog split in four separate pieces
And though it was full of countless diseases
I thought Jesus, no one needs to see that
Considering the fabulous place we live at
So we picked up his leg and his two ******* torsos
And his head was twelve feet away from the track, more so
Rotten his teeth crushed, his spirit forgotten
Sought for life out of the fences he was brought in
Though we looked, no collar was around
So we put the poor ******* three feet underground
Brian cline built a cross (he was tossed)
And lost and crossed the best friend he fought
And I forgot for a minute the duties I hate
Because for once I did something that needed no reinstatement
Mourning wood does no good and frankly neither do I
Because when mom drinks she drives, and it puts suicide in my mind
But I got other options left to use
My throbbing ******* is sore, my bush blue and abused
Tattoo bleeding through, misconstrued my good graces
All these racists are faceless, playing miss Ohio's nameless
At full blast, backward, like present turned to past
If it were that simple, God knows maybe I'd last.

Do I have a clue what I'm doing
When I'm drinking at six thirty in the morning?

Bible belt majority, getting snotty and disorderly
Conformity torturing me, the owls hooting quarterly
In minutes, it's finished, let'***** it and stick it
This sickness is missing a home and I can't ****
Coffee in my *** is uncomfortable, but a necessity, like a
Suppository, strapped down the old man, the orderlies
Are ornery. I'm ***** but I'm tired of ***
Wishing I could love someone I've never really met
I can't rest at night with these relentless dreams
Waking me up with cold sweats and hoarse screams
My mind is reamed by the thought of Lucy in the mail
All the while hoping my friends keep themselves out of jail
I know this isn't hell, but I still feel like I'll fail
Chasing my own tail out of the fear that this isn't real
And don't tell me these restless moments are just deja vu
I know I saw all this coming when I was dazed in my youth
Swollen lymph nodes in my neck and in my back
Blowin smoke right back, who will be the first to act?
I'm tactless and laughless, and hapless, this mattress
Had lasted, in fact it's madness, this last kiss?
I've wracked it and cracked it with no decryption key
With all this frustration flying around, no one can hit me
But you scream all the way up the staircase
And I hope to the devil I never forget your face.
Wrote this a few years ago when living in Oklahoma. Thanks for the title miss Ohio's nameless to why?  And Josh "yoni" wolf
Sjr1000 Aug 2015
There's a little boy
crying out into the night,
His mother's arms
hold him tight,
He puts his head
on her shoulder,
Nightmare dreams,
They disappear,
With a shudder he begins to feel,
a little sanctuary
so near.

There's a homeless man
sleeping outside tonight
behind the mall,
His beard is long,
His hair is *****,
He changed his clothes
in a thrift store
late last week,
the voices scream his name,
All he's looking for is
a little sanctuary.

There's a politician on
the stand
had *** with another man,
Tried methamphetamine
religion too,
Even hypocrites
are looking for
a little bit of sanctuary.

There's a woman on the road
tonight,
Two kids sleeping tight,
Johnny Walker's asleep
in front of the tv,
There's an internet
between her and her lover,
She turns up the music,
Patsy Cline's singing
Stand By Your Man,
All she's looking for, though, is a
little sanctuary.

The money's gone
the house is going,
The ***** is flowing,
The tears are rolling,
He steps outside
on the deck,
looks up at the stars,
Smokes a cigarette,
Looking for a little sanctuary.

Lover's up in a cabin loft,
twist and shout,
Grasping at straws,
Grasping each other,
Holding on tight,
For a moment of bliss,
Come on in,
Give'em a little sanctuary.

Insomniac mind,
Racing thoughts,
Won't shut off,
The days are long,
The nights are longer,
Every fear and dread,
Keeps raising their ugly head,
Quiet her thoughts,
She would if she could,
But all she can do is wait,
For a little sanctuary.

Soul survivor knocking on
the gate,
Waiting for the light,
Waiting for a world just right -
Putting away all sin and vice,
Hoping for a little sanctuary.

Garden Buddha sits on the path,
hands unfolded,
Quarter smile on his lips,
Serenity's smile,
Mastered the art of waiting
and just being,
A little sanctuary.

These poems I write tonight,
Words all tumbling
through my hand,
I don't know what I write them for,
I don't know where they go,
Where they land,
Only trying to see through
sanctuary's door,
maybe there's a little more,
A little bit left for me and you.

It can be so hard to find,
Maybe it's just a state of mind,
Sometimes so close
Sometimes so far,
We long for the day
to have the night,
We long for the night
to have the day,
But either way,
We're all just looking for
a little sanctuary.
L B Mar 2019
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”

Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically

She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance  
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--

back to that forbidden foot-slide

Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run


hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Lighting a cigarette from an old time matchbook while driving a standard shift takes some skills.  Betty was an 'effn ballerina at the wheel
Cat Fiske May 2015
and in the world of unknown,
the boy sat alone,

he was so much on his own,
and he wanted a friend so bad he was willing to make a clone,

and he thought more about making a friend in his mind,
because he didn't know his own cline,

and when he saw her,
chills went up his chine,

she made jaws drop,
and sweaty chins,

and you imaging what her love was like,
like raw sugar cains,

and you give me so many pains,
in all my veins as you come closer,

are you walking to me? does someone care?
do you want to stop being alone and be like, umm... **pairs?
I used the words from a word ladder go figure
Brian O'blivion Sep 2013
this aria spans
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4the cit
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                               ures
a
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5the longwal
kof                                                      ­                walls of the hydra's throat
ter.....m.i.n.a.l s-t-~'ation
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lf light

                                                           walls of the hydra's throat (one born every minute(
7k
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kcell                                         ­       walls of the hydra's throat1neborneveyminute
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                     vei,'ns
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_come__t ce_lls wall
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tto_n we__lls c__all
alt. title: "(how to write like ee cummings....but without the talent)"
Sally A Bayan May 2017
..[O]..
:::::::and
:::::::::::::::::shy
some moths dare
hang around a light,
dim, peeping....a lone
terra cotta lamp........not
bright enough....to guide a
journeying mind.....through
some dark paths......one....two
more  lamps could help stop the
tripping..... .on life's many humps,
it makes the air....stale......with sighs,
uncomfortably moist, with  cold sweat
the window curtains are a shield, a weak
wall, pregnant  with longing
and apprehension.......soon
it will collapse, more moths
will fly free........the fleeing
the healing.......could make
nights longer...........the air
staler...............in this dark
conquering.............silence
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::­:
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Evening rain  showers  merge with the
humid air.......the strong scent of the
growing pine tree...the scarce light
the aroma of chicken, simmering
in a mix of vinegar, soy  sauce
...............garlic and spices
penetrate my nostrils and
infuse the atmosphere,
and.....disconcert  me
i'm taken back, i gulp
i salivate...a late solo
dinner awaits...glass
of  wine.......beckons
i give in....i sit by the
garden table.......raise
my wine glass.......i say
"Cheers!"...........tonight's  
.................not so full moon
..........is shy............and hazy
as i hum....Patsy Cline's, "Crazy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::Sunday moon, May 1, 2016:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Sally


Cop­yright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...an older poem, edited...
just recalling some night...the moon of more than a year ago....and the food on the table that night...
a poem shaped like my terra cotta lamp in the garden
Mark Sep 2019
Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang
If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry
But, won’t stay around for any old music sang
If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy
While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo
Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio
Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star
They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar
Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more
Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar
Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt
Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys
From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed  
Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’
All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land
Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline
Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand
They started a war, that could’ve been stopped
By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine
Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.
kim bye Feb 2012
the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.
James Greenfield Jun 2015
The sign on the marquee says "Live Tonight",
But the lights they have been dimmed,
For the stage it will be empty,
And the curtains have been trimmed.

The plane was lost in Tennessee,
And the golden voice was stilled,
The disc-jockey held back the tears,
As he announced that Patsy Cline was killed.

Country stars and fans alike,
Were saddened by the news,
For a woman whose love of life,
Was to sing the country blues.

The Grand Ole Opry is silent,
At the loss of a good friend,
But the music from this country star,
Will last till time does end.

The sign on the marquee says "Live Tonight",
And Patsy Cline will sing,
For the lord so loved her beautiful voice,
That to heaven, Patsy, he did bring.
I got my guitar
i'm sittin' here
writing songs
and drinking beer
written nothing
you'd want to hear
really...nothing...squat

no one bugs me
working hard
the kids are
playing in the yard
the dog is sleeping
keeping guard
I've nothing...bupkiss...squat

I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues

had some words
but  no melody
not a **** note
has  come to me
i'm writing
a silent symphony
I've got bupkis,, nada,,,squat

last one I wrote
wasn't  mine
nice and easy
in three quarter time
turned out it was
Patsy Cline's
I've got bupkiss, nada, squat

I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues
Sebastian Macias Jul 2016
The atmosphere today was ****
Los Angeles County Dept. of Public Health
Communicable disease cline SPA 4
Many of them didn't want to be here
Some didn't even know they were here
And myself, well, I'm on my 7th ****
5th bottle of water, 10th patient
My lunch was barely going down
No ****, just the fact
It' only 1p.m. here in LA LA LAND
Last time one of these crazy *****
Reached around my desk and called 9-1-1
I liked her, she had style
She said "SOMEBODY TRYNA **** MEH!"
What in the actual ****?
She had been the only one in the room
I felt her pain.
I went down to my local bar
It was country music night
I sat and listened for a while
Then, called it a night

I didn't get the music
It was poppish, bubblegum
I finished up my beer and  left
I wished I hadn't come

When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
They may call it Country music
But, it don't sound right to me

All I saw were baseball hats
On backwards I should stay
Kids were doing jello shots
And the "band" just couldn't play

They didn't sing of horses
Old Glory, or the West
They sang of drinking on a plane
And getting drunk and messed

When did we lose Western?
Where did Western go?
This isn't   country music
It's something I don't know

On Tuesday I went back again
Open Mic night would be fun
I came in with my guitar
But, I didn't bring my gun

I got on stage and started out
Singing songs...all Western
I was the only one without a cap
I was wearing my old Stetson

When did we lose Western?
Where did Western cease to be?
This wasn't what I grew up on
It isn't right to me

Cowboys, farms and Johnny Cash
Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline
That is what I like to hear
That's the music that is mine

Next time I go in there
And it is Country night
I'm gonna ask "what country?"
And I'll end up in a fight

When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
This may be Country Music
But it don't sound right to me
Kathleen M Jan 2014
Anne came and  left  but I remember  the sweet  cider and the wood stove, the smell of her paints. She sings songs from Chicago, and brings to life the northern lights on the canvas, the wolves, the scenes. Her songs, the guitar she plays. She croons about damaged men and neglected love. Country and blues, telling me about the costume she has for her next bar song night, her singing partner will be a Patsy Cline look alike. Anne makes Saskatoon jam, tucks me in on the couch, and tells me stories.
We walk along the trails on the acridge, Anne tells me about plants we see, like the pea vine. She encourages me to climb the tallest trees. She hears me sing and sees promise, talent, a dream waiting to happen. She gets me into theater, one of the greatest gifts I've ever received.
She brings me flowers to my shows and I always find her in the big crowds.
I remember the painting, the beautiful field with billowing clouds lazily crossing the sky in the wind. It was in the apartment that she shared with her boyfriend. He had an awful temper and it took more than it should have for Anne to finally leave him.
She stayed with us for a while, a few lovely months before leaving.
It was a few years after she disappeared before I found the demo CD of Anne singing her country and blues. Sometime I just sit and play it on repeat, its a treasure, a gateway to all those memories.
Memories of a proud and beautiful woman who helped shift my life in the direction of art and creation. A woman who was there when I was an infant and when I was a child.
I love Anne and the memories she left in her wake. Anne came and left but I remember everything.
Jim Davis Sep 2019
Hot summer ending
In late evening listening
To loud Patsy Cline

©  2019 Jim Davis
Finally in the low 90’s here, smidgen of rain!  SOCKS Spell it out and you’re talking Spanish!
So far the ground appeared
never thought I would see again.  
World seems so much nicer
from afar.

All it took was one sparkle
from one star.  
Clouds swept through
and through--
a transparent bloodstream
casting me into delirium,
dancing the sky
carelessly.

But flight isn't my course,
I cline with
the wind's will
and wisp.  

This descent
all too familiar.  
I will not return to
what grips me down,
that which grips us all.  

Let this coming clenching
have but one final victim:
My breath.
Allow my exhale
to rise in its departure
so it may stay
lost in the cloud,
a haven I forever seek.
Initial draft.
JoJo Nguyen May 2016
Another grey, rainy day
in Somerville
maybe that's why Patsy
Cline loops back
in baby's arm
bringing back Tom
ole Brentwood roommate shortly
after OJ murdered Nicole
and Bob who wrote the song
died in 2014 but it didn't
ripple through any brook
of our shared nook

Strange

Strange how we can only tell
stories with other peoples
stream
Strange how yours still in all
my dreams

How strange
I've hated you since Patsy Cline's fatal plane ride. She tried to die 9
times to beat thousands of speeding fines before her plane hit 5 live
power lines that lit up Camden, Tennessee's sike-a-**** **** mines.
Ottar Feb 2015
(Audaci Favet Fortuna)
sum
  are
     won,
sum
   are
                    earned,
         some are,
funny, some
                  are burned
and the smoke is moved
heaven-
                                       ward, with open hopeful hands,
cupping the wind,
                           like wings...
                                                        ­ Sending the
                                                      remnant­ wishes
home giving
feet to dreams.
                                                    Sums lost, some cost
                                   lives of the unfortunate,
inhale the wisp on the wind,
   to guide, a way from the ashes,
and hot coals heaped on the heads of the guilty, inspiration from any source better not back an unlucky horse, a trifecta;
      there is no handle on reality, there is no night dreams that succeed once exposed to the light of day traitor trials, and you think that once
you get on your knees to pray you will be stuck and stay that way, you your voice to the heavens, will be invisible smoke, a clear cold thermo-          cline,
that there is no help there; but you'd be wrong; the choice you chose before you burnt your fortunes, fortune which favours the bold, a silent tattoo, not a noise until the needle hits a nerve.
Ramble and a in-laws family motto
Jo Barber Mar 2018
That ragged blue couch
Is held together by nothing
more than habit.

You walk towards me,
a warm drink in hand.
The steam floats up, up, up,
twirling and dancing
like the ballerina in my old music box.

The window hangs open,
a summer breeze blows in.
The air is soft and blue,
cooling with each darkening hour.

Do you remember it so?
No?

It was the last summer before the funeral
and speeches, each word with less meaning
than the next.
It was the last summer of sun
and silence so sweet.
Of iced tea and long walks through the streets.
The last summer of fires and marshmallows,
and of Patsy Cline, oh so fine.

It was the last summer
on that old, blue couch,
a summer wind blowing,

with you there.
This is a revision of a former poem of mine about my father's death.
Chameleon Aug 2016
I feel like Patsy Cline,
walking alone at midnight searching for her love.
Replaying the soundtrack of us over and over in my head.
Having too much fun taking showers together,
laughing our heads off on the couch.
Going for a drive and ending up in our spot overlooking the highway.
Early morning and late night trips to Tim Hortons, Waffle House and IHOP.
Listening to The Beatles, Daft Punk and Alt-J.
I wish I could remember the sound of your voice when you called me beautiful.
I wish I remembered what it felt like to be in your arms.
I wish I remembered your laugh.
However I do remember how proud, how elated, I was to be standing next to you.
You are sunlight and everything good in the world and everyone knew it.
I wish I knew if you missed me.
L B Sep 2019
Luis was lured from the chicken coup
by a cold lunch meat sandwich
Luis who knew nothing of clothes or care
nor when to eat  
nor what to do
nor who to love
Nor how to plead
nor what to say

Where does love go...

Sweet love...?

...for the boy
...become man
"mentally deficient"
of a Mom
"mentally deficient"

confined to the scraps...
in that hospital
of days...
such as they were
of cold and lack
of anything approaching care
____

At a group home at last
with what was allotted, allowed
in a room of his own
A record by Patsy
played over and over and over again--

“Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely
I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue”

Why might-- your little heart be so broken?
Till the Sunlight came
in the woman
"The Mommy "
of dinners
and Christmas
and music
and showers and bedtime
Dropping your pants in the bank for attention of--
"Mommy"
whose scoldings you craved
whose lap was a pillow
for flicking your ear lobe
to smiles and giggles and singing
so desperately missed as she washed the dishes--

"Mommy"

of part time and sometime
of someone
who loved you
a while
while she could
in the aching of life

For what it meant for a minute
to Luis--
a lifetime of love in your voice
that the angels of heaven could never replace
so they envy
so you go
so she comes
to you Luis
a gift
of the God
who could never forget you

“I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying
And I'm crazy for loving you”  


To my daughter Phoebe, the bright and shiny one, for the time she gave in this group home.

Lyrics by Patsy Cline
My oldest daughter, Phoebe, worked here and loved them: Luis, Alan, and John.  I am unspeakably proud.

To all the underappreciated and caring residence workers.
twas stupid
Buck whom
stump this
cline and
ways are
clear then
to hear
horror stories
confabulate his
sign into
a marking
he'll soon
come to
like in
this mire
that love
will aspire
When note on stones more particular than. he
Bailey Nov 2017
It's so nice to put my song book on the shelf again
.
Novelty
.
C+
.
Appointments
.
Sad and sleepy, Billie Holiday plays
.
What matters is that I love myself
.
And all of the children and all of the townspeople and all of the angels and all of me told him happy birthday
.
Don't play house
.
I feel like a failure
.
"One of the most dangerous things you will ever do in your life is actually listen"
.
I love the smell of white noise in the afternoon
.
Three sets of keys all piled into one
.
I don't want to be a maybe, I want to be a dream
.
Lovers?
.
Ke$ha concert
.
I trapped him in my hips
.
I never knew how bad I wanted to slow dance to Patsy Cline until it happened with him
.
I fold up the second time and put it in my pocket
.
Happiness
.
Jude kyrie Jan 2016
It was wednesday evening as always..
Like clockwork the old man
Took his regular seat in the mostly empty
basement bar fuull of yesterday's
so out of place
living in a lost time.
he ordered two glasses
Of white wine
and put a quarter
Into the old wurlitzer jukebox

Patsy Cline always patsy
no one else.
Her sentimental tones filled
The room in gentle sweetness
From another time.
the new patrons
knew he was back.

To spend one night with you,
in our old rendezvous
And reminisce with you,
that's my desire


It was here he had  always taken her
dancing talking falling in love.
Every possible wednesday.
Right upto the time that heavens
Whispers called to her she
followed their haunting sounds
And they took her away from him.

So long ago now so very long ago
Patsy crooned softly as always

To meet where gypsies play,
down in that dim cafe
And dance till break of day,
that's my desire


he felt her hand slip nto his as usual
He stepped into her arms as always
And they were young once more
and so in love.

They danced alone
on the small dance floor.
The outside world faded away.
Patsy joined them singing
So beautifully their song

We'll sip a little glass of wine,
I'll gaze into your eyes divine
I'll feel the touch of your lips,
pressing on mine
To hear you whisper low,
just when it's time to go
Darling, I love you so,
that's my desire


he looked into ber beautiful eyes
Tilted her chin upward
And kissed her softly
Then as he sat down
tired and old.
She faded into the nightglow
He whispered softly
See you next Wednesday
My darling

As he left the café
He could hear patsy
Almost whispering
The last refrains
of his favorite song.

**That's my desire
That's my desire
Lauren Salvo Dec 2017
By: Lauren Salvo

In 1961,
They were barely
old enough to drive,
but Robby’s Grandpa
had just given him
a ‘49 Chevy for his
17th birthday.
Robby was thrilled
to take his friends wherever
they wanted to go.

Less than a block away from
their high school,
Franklin Central,
was a railroad track.
Trains would come and go
early in the morning
and late at night,
waking the families that lived close.
And sometimes, the trains would pass
in the afternoons distracting students from
their studies,
and keeping people from getting home
a little bit faster after school and work days
were over.

One Wednesday afternoon
on the way home from school,
Billy crammed four of his friends
into that little red Chevy
and they headed
home for supper.
They sang and laughed
as they listened to Patsy Cline
and Chubby Checker on the radio,
As the chorus of “Crazy” played,
a train barreled down the tracks.

The train’s horn sounded,
and the tracks rattled.
Robby stopped and looked both ways,
but it was too late.
The train’s impact tore
the clothes off of each one of them;
stripped of their lives too soon.
They never had the chance to move past
that railroad and follow their dreams.
Fifty-six years later, five crosses,
one for each of those kids headed home
in the red ‘49 Chevy,
still stand tall along the railroad at the
crossing of Franklin Road
and Edgewood Avenue.
Jude kyrie Sep 2015
Thats my desire


It was Wednesday evening
Like clockwork the old man
took his seat at his usual table
in the mostly empty
basement bar and ordered
two glasses of white wine
He put a quarter
Into the ancient Wurlitzer jukebox
full of records from another time.
Patsy Cline always Patsy
sprang into romantic melody
Her sentimental tones filled
The room in gentle sweetness
The years melted like ice in spring.

To spend one night with you,
in our old rendezvous
And reminisce with you,
that's my desire


It was thier song
It was here he always took her

dancing talking falling in love.
Every possible Wednesday.
Right up to the time heavens
whispers called to her she
followed their haunting sounds
and they took her away from him.

So long ago now
so very long ago.
Patsy crooned softly as always

To meet where gypsies play,
Down in that dim cafe
And dance till break of day,
that's my desire


Then as he fell almost into a dream
She took his hand as usual
He stepped into her arms
And they were young once more.
and so in love.
They danced alone
on the small dance floor.
The outside world faded away.
Patsy joined them singing
So beautifully their song

We'll sip a little glass of wine,
I'll gaze into your eyes divine
I'll feel the touch of your lips,
pressing on mine
To hear you whisper low,
just when it's time to go
Darling, I love you so,
that's my desire


he looked into her beautiful eyes
gently tilted her chin upward
and kissed her softly

Then as he sat down
She faded into the nightglow
of mystery.
He whispered softly
See you next Wednesday
My darling

As he left the cafe
in the cold night air.
He could hear patsy
Almost whispering
The last refrains

*That's my desire
That's my desire
Kurt Philip Behm May 2022
When death sent out its calling card
the heavens came in view
Psalms to reach the Angel’s ears
one voice had broken through
Grace within her every word
each feeling soul infused
Patsy singing from above
—to bless the chosen few

(Remembering Patsy Cline: May, 2022)

— The End —