Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
疲れた Sep 2013
My councillor once told me
that living was just like walking
we learn to walk through life and sometimes
we accidentally knock into things

and some of us,
we might learn to avoid knocking into things
or grow stronger so we break whatever we knock
but some of us might continue tripping on rocks
and after knocking things,
over and over and over again,
we get tired of falling and scraping ourselves
and we find that we soon fall into despair

and maybe one day, some of us will learn
to break our obstacles or avoid them
but some of us?
they never get up.
some metaphorically, some literally.
judy smith May 2015
An upcoming fashion show, and I don’t mean to be unkind here, is lacking in both. It’s just the way it is. These models are beautifully ordinary people, your neighbours, and their designs are self-crafted, each suiting the model’s personal interpretation of high fashion. It’s the social event of the season. Everyone in the “know” will be there.

Eight models and an emcee will take to the Capitol Theatre stage in Oxford Thursday at 7 p.m. for the third annual Foolish Fashion Show. Foolish is the operative word here. It’s an evening of fun, with each model parading across the stage in four outfits during the show. The fashions are indescribable literally. You have to see them to appreciate them.

The show is the annual fundraiser for the Oxford/Pugwash Unit of the Canadian Cancer Society. To date the show has raised about $5,000 for the society’s Lodge That Gives in Halifax.

The show was the idea of the local unit’s Bev Clark.

“At the time there were no people to canvas door-to-door,” she said. “People were getting older or had less time. There were also other fundraising campaigns going on at the time.”

After seeing a foolish fashion show elsewhere, she decided a similar one would work for the local cancer unit. The first show was a sellout and the models of the evening agreed to take to the stage the next year.

Each designer/model is responsible for their haute couture. With the final result left to their wild, some might say perverse, imaginations the creations are a sight to behold.

Unit secretary and past president Bob Hunsley in his best 007 voice introduces himself as “Bob, SpongeBob.”

“Every good fashion show should include good costumes,” he begins. “Here, our unit president Edna McCormick is wearing her all-weather coat. In this coat she is well prepared for sunshine, rain, fog and snow and all the wind that blows (the coat is adorned with representations of each weather condition). Notice her “son” hat (which is a tribute to her son).”

Jane Smith is new to the Foolish Fashion Show runway.

“I came to the show last year and really enjoyed it. It looked like fun,” she said.

First time jitters?

“Doesn’t bother me a bit.”

This show is one in which you can’t do anything wrong. You show off your creation however you deem fit. It’s all fun.

Tom Kay, is making his modelling debut also. And what will Councillor Kay be strutting his stuff in? Not to give too much away but a muscle shirt like you’ve never seen and shorts will be worn.

Nine-year-old Emma McCormick is also a featured model.

It’s a show not to be missed.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015
Pink Hat Jun 2017
Dear Mohammed,
Did you know.
Brits own 8 million dogs and
lavish 10 billion on pets
In Syria this must cause mirth
for its distorted priorities
but in Britain it awakens the soul
to love one’s animals most
It's a companion with few conditions
and reinforces  quaint traditions.
Do you find them funny?

Dear Isaac,
Did you know.
Why the sky is blue
You must have coloured it that way
It isn’t easy explaining but I try
The seven colours of the rainbow is light
Like the ocean it’s made of waves
Blue is the shortest so it’s nearest
Red is the longest so it’s  far behind
Arsenal still beat Chelsea though.
Are you laughing?

Dear Khadija,
Did you know.
You are beautiful and gifted
Bet you were surprised when they said
yes - let the world see your mind
and picture your thoughts
of the dark skinned man and woman
which is the colour of their diversity
When you reduced them to flat shades
Their conflicts became your success
What are you thinking right now?

Dear Mierna, Fatima and Zeinab,
Did you know.
Curling tongs are cool
Confidence is better than looks
Girls are doing better in school
Fifty-six countries had women leaders
Boys prefer curly to straight hair
but Beauty is mostly within
Make up is for the beholder
Smiling eyes are a winner
as a sure sign your heart is open.
Who said smile and the world smiles with you?

Dear Yahya, Firdaws and Yaqub,
Did you know.
Football was born in China
The first club was Sheffield FC
Messi is only five six
The number one rapper is Jay-Z
Your eyes and heart Firdaws
left its mark with its brushes
Inside is a free spirit
that roams across your sketches.
Who is your favourite artist?

Dear Baby Leena and sisters three and five,
Did you know.
Halloween was a Celtic belief
to mark the start of winter
School trips in year 6
can make friendships forever
Fingernails grow faster than toenails
Hair grows at half inch per month
just in case you like them painted
or wanted long locks for fun
You will soon take your first steps.
You cannot wait to run?

Dear Maria,
Did you know.
The home of the Bird of Paradise
is in faraway South Africa
The lotus sacred to Buddhists
is a symbol of hope and peace
Roses adorned Cleopatra
created by Chloris and Aphrodite
Hydrangeas are from the Himalayas
when pink the Beating Heart of Asia.
Do you like flowers?

Dear Jessica,
Did you know.
Australia was born in Dreamtime
onto a land that owned Man
Incas once reigned supreme
In the heights of a mountain
Fish and chips married in 1860
in London by the Bells of Bow
Bruno Mars was number one
but now he is second.
Where would you like to go?

Dear Amayah,
Did you know.
Perrault wrote Cinderella
and Beauty sleeping in the Forest
A princess likes to impress
like a jewel she’s so precious
Rapunzel had very long hair
Snow White very fair skin
Little Mermaid had very sad eyes
The Goat Girl a very clever mind
Would you like to read them all?

Dear Jeremiah
Did you know.
Writing is fun because you connect
with other inquisitive minds
Twenty-eight curved and straight letters
compose Arabic words in a line
The Chinese started before everyone
have characters nine thousand
Whether with a pen or a stick in the sand
No longer are the words confined.
What words will you write first, I wonder?

Dear Mr Councillor
You do know, don’t you?
Isaac has lost his pencil case
Jessica cannot find her tickets
Princess Amaya is looking for her dress
Jeremiah wants some paper
Fatima needs to read the Quran
Maria is desperate to water her plants
Mohammed keeps longing for the Sun and
Khadija is preparing for that accolade.

Forever there is a drought.

You, Mr Councillor, were the outline in their lives
and the shadow in our fears

Pinkhat
22nd June 2017
to those who suffered and lost
Bogle Oct 2013
As long as it doesn't hurt,
I want you to imagine watching me being torn apart,
by powerful galloping stallions in a crowd full of naive people.
   As I'm torn,
my deepest darkest secrets that only you know,
come pouring out.
   You have become protective of these secrets because you have helped keep them for so long.
so you can feel my pain as the incidence unfolds before your eyes,
there is nothing you can do but watch and feel.
   This is why I burnout and freakout,
every time I hear the word councillor or support,
it's like someone taking your job and getting respect for not knowing it like you did.
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
She started to reorganize the kingdom,  to give it access to the sea,  
To modernize the economy, and any army officer had a college degree.
That superpower had one weakness: she was stronger than her king.
She reorganized the political administration by creating a diplomacy ring.

She used the high trees belonging to their forests  to build  many ships.
She opened gold mines by using slaves  being  beaten with hard whips.
Reforming the toll system, she rose the taxes to pay for the army wars,
And created the overseas colonies to have many ports on the seashores.

She dissolved the parliament not wanting to consult with them.
A lot of  protests took place in the main cities her behavior to condemn.
The archbishop retired, because she reduced the ecclesiastical rights.
The new archbishop was trustful to her, and made new religious rites..

This way, Surah held completely the religious and the political power.
To advocate her prerogatives, a new Doctor Fox she started to empower.
Surah created a new high society at the John's court to control his life.
The old nobility lost the independence, which was a major cause of strife.

Surah met John and asked him to give her a part of his kingdom.
John gave her a big province , which it became her  new sub-kingdom.
She recruited and trained a new secret army, being ready to strike him
Clearly knowing  that his chances of winning this battle are pretty slim.

John knew  he was too young to be a ruler and allied with Frederick.
To make friends the vassals for this battle with Surah, they were quick.
When her army was subdued , she really saw the fire of God as sacred.
She had to face His army, and to see how her own men were massacred.

There always had been poverty, but at that time, after seven years, there were many vagabonds on the streets. Frieda was preparing the dinner waiting for Pauline to come. Eda , their friend, helped her. Eda worked as  a servant for a rich person. Her husband was a digger. Pauline entered the house in a rush being very upset and saying,

'A **** stole my bag .'Eda said,'Hoboes have no license to beg.'
'I tried to catch him , but he ran so fast.' 'You should shake your leg'
'People like him are tied to a cart, and whipped till they are bloodied',
Said Pauline,'they're forced to return to their homes being so muddied.'



'By law, the vagabonds can be made slaves for ten years', said Frieda.
' If they ran away during this time they're made slaves for life’, said Eda.
'Some  people have to rely on poor relief', said Pauline. 'Others thrive.
After having money they're forced  to pay a tax to keep hoboes alive',

Said Eda.'The overseers can provide work for any able-bodied vagrant.
If he refuses to work he's whipped, but he waits to be caught in flagrant’,
Said Frieda. 'The pauper's child goes to the employer to be an apprentice',
Said Eda.'For many poor people, drinking gin is their only preference.'

Pauline said, ‘I would like to eat roast beef cooked with pea.'
'My dear, meat is a luxury. We have  bread, butter, potatoes and tea' ,
Said Frieda.'By the way, where's Surah now?''She's John's vassal
As a landless queen.’Pauline smiled.’ She lives in her old castle.'
(Mary , Clara and Sarah, another nun, were preparing their dinner. On the table , there were corn, carrots some cheese, a little bread, a bottle of milk and six eggs.)

Mary said,'Monastery churches were converted to parish churches.
Buildings having monastic cells were left to ruin for social searches.'
'In order to hide, we must build new monasteries in the mountain valleys',
Sarah said.' Teaching poor people, others live near towns having alleys’,

Said Clara.'They live humble lives needing silence to devote themselves
To the worship of God, to copy out  manuscripts placed on their shelves,
To baptize the people, to farm their lands, and for tending their sheep',
Said Mary.'She restricted pilgrims from coming there to pray and to sleep',

Said Clara.'Many suppressed monasteries were hardly hit to surrender.
To confiscate the lands', said Mary,'Surah also convicted any defender.'
'You're right. Those , who agreed to surrender were given pensions for life',
Said Clara,'The transfer of the  lands to the Crown was Surah's greatest strife.

Some monasteries were transformed into workhouses for poor people
Having no income. Throwing out the bell, she built a room in every  steeple',
Said Sarah.'Surah deterred poor people from asking the state for help.
In houses, they wore uniforms being angry, while hearing the dog's yelp.

Husbands , wives and children still live separately , while breaking the stone .
Many children are looking like having a syndrome of the hungry bone',
Said Mary.'What is she doing now?'Clara asked.'John pushed her out the door’,
Said Sarah,'She tastes the peace while recovering from her last war!'
(In his castle, Frederick, John and Matthew, who was Frederick’s councillor, were waiting for the dinner.
John was 19 years old , not a minor any longer. On the table, there were green beans, asparagus, grapefruits, cheese, bread, avocado and eggs.)

John said ,'my mother didn't let her have a very close relationship with us,
But help was there when I needed it most , and aunt Surah loved me, thus.’
Frederick said,'Then, why did she declare war against you? It's strange.'
'In just one year', said Matthew,'it's amazing how many things can change.'

'She taught you everything , this way, you tried to undermine her power',
Said Frederick. 'She threatened to destroy me, but I could never cower',
Said John,'her counselors built a wall between myself and my people.'
Matthew smiled', she was that sound coming from a mysterious steeple'

'Each king ceded to me a part of his land in exchange for his vassalage,
And she didn't like it', said John.'She couldn't add controls to backstage’.
Matthew said,’ You took their territories on the coast to expand the naval power.
You traced the traitors, who were her people to imprison them in the tower.’

’ She had governed your  kingdom while limiting your power and influence’,
Said Frederick, ' and while advising you  to use some diplomatic prudence.'
John said,'then, she used her corsairs to attack my merchant ships.'
Matthew said,'we must trace her, and cope with missing information slips.’

To be continued...tomorrow
Hanna Kelley Sep 2015
My plan is to graduate, go to college in some state
To take my friend to Canada before it's too late

I want to be a teacher or a councillor, something nice
I want to travel around the world, no matter the price

To go see China and learn the language and their ways
To go to Africa and watch how they live for days

I want to travel to India and visit some friends
I want to spend my life in Italy and hope it never ends

Germany, France, Mexico, Spain
Romania, Greece, Iraq, Ukraine

I really need to go to "the land of the green"
Meet up with friends and do everything in between

I know that I won't travel that far or do all of those things
But I have to be honest, it's a wonderful dream
I really want to travel to places all around the world, but that won't happen because I haven't even been outside the U.S.
onlylovepoetry Oct 2017
"Who writes poems like these?"

She, Miss Patty,
from Missouree? Missouruh?
asks me this question
round about a year ago,
after eavesdropping on an open poem line,
about a conversation,
a dialectic chat between me and the big guy in the sky^

(yeah, him, the magic marker Maker, who graffitis our lives only in
ink that just never goes away, cannot be erased,
talkin' bout this 'n that, ending, in a request from him for a
love poem personal (denied, fyi))

my answer:

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook, upon soft pillows for our
tired sighs born in chests with a different kind
of breast cancer.
and upon these tough worn Adirondack chairs hard,
by the bay, we shall coverse in alternating verses

if too hot, the poetry's temperature.
we'll slow drift to the sun room of lace curtains and
heated suicide poems,
and after cool drinks
we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low
of all the noisier creatures asking the trees and the
shuckling cappuccino frothy leaves
where did all those poets come from?
~
so to the question at hand and heart,

Who writes poems like these?

answers scarce, confessions plenty,
evasions conjured,
but tried, tired, and true, indeed
always ask myself, my sole troop,
that very same question every time,
the brain chimes poem time

'tis a truth, sort of, for the question is
asked by me, so oft,
should I, would I,
dare deflect the inflect of the eyes who cannot lie
and write a poem like this,
knowing it ends always only in tears,
or quit while ahead,
while my heart is slow beating,
and the pounding is temporarily,
halftime shelved

when
I ride the bus, open the kitbag,
find messages so privy
with and from the other poets,
(it is a privilege to be so councillor entrusted,)
picking up the gleaming gleanings of
fellow earth-extraordinaires,
reading the tales of the mad lunar lovers,
each of whom believe the moon has been following
only, each of them individually,
from childhood

when
exercising the muscle memories of love and ache
when watching the little gestures of my babies, my loved ones,
clues to who they are,
clues to who they will be.
after I am not

but let me be measured for measure by this:
Who writes poems like these?

well, after every writ complete,
weep and weep, if not laugh uproariously,
for though the question earnest, and I too,
never ever let adulthood interfere
with actions of my eyes, my mouth, my gut,
they all, masters now of me,
forcing me to write with abandon reckless and yet,
slicing off choicer cuts of me, carefully crafted, into
word etchings, painted water colors coming from the body's oils,
for my ration of rationality
has left town
for the summer, following the little drummer
boy,
perhaps, for the (double meaning) good

this each, a parcel of me, writing beguiling amuse bouches
of cache and cant, of poodles who speak human,
long legs in bed, high heels attached, conversations with moons,
crying to my lovers, I am a little boy, so needy,
and then the left foot turns to face
any and all gods who permit their names to be abused
for muddying murdering purposes,
as if we, all humans, all poets, were playthings,
bowling pins and not poets of some, any, the, way,
coming from the place
to where we all speak words, in our differing dialects,
accepting the blessings & curses thereof,
words but never fists

have I answered the question?

suspect not,
cause I am the suspect prime
in the crime
of low poetry
and high mis-demeanors,
and the authorities have been asking me the question for a lot longer than you, but no longer than one peculiar man,
Who writes poems like these?*
and they haven't caught me yet
and I haven't quite caught
the plain answer
Ember Evanescent Dec 2014
I had been keeping a safe emotional distance from her
Since she found out about the cutting, the eating disorders
and all the rest of the lies
I never really could talk to my mother
Especially since she doesn't deal
With shattered souls
Very gently
She yells when she doesn't know how to cope
And it just makes it worse
Because feelings are not logical
And she is more of a logic person
But she was in my room
Talking to me about our plans for tomorrow
Who was picking who up where and when etc.
And I had a song playing in the background
I listened too hard to the lyrics
Memories flashed back
And I burst into tears
At first she did the whole typical of her:
Grow up, get over it, stop being overdramatic and attention seeking thing
but when she saw my eyes
filled with tears
her baby daughter's eyes
in so much pain
she started crying too
and I recoiled at her embrace
I didn't want her comfort
She was never there for me
When I really needed her to be
And I am fairly unforgiving
About things like that
But I had been so alone
For so long
That year, I had spent full days
In black clothes
And total silence
Not speaking to anyone ever at all
because everyone hated me
No one wanted to be friends
With the girl who keeps getting called
To the councillor's office
And as this song brought me to tears
I couldn't take being alone anymore
So I let my mother hold me
She whisper through choked sobs: are you really still that sad about everything that happened?
And I answered in a hollow voice:
Mom. You have no idea...how broken I have been.
And she never did.
Loneliness
Is a scarring
type of agony
my year of complete and utter depression
Ju Clear Nov 2016
Feeling selfish
For resting
Councillor says
Your selfish for not resting
Delagate
Dump
Do another day
Don't bother
4 kids to mother
Pain makes you nasty
Irritable emotional
irrational
Horrible
Meds make you *****
Clumsy dangerous to drive
Rest is all I have
too be my best
Thinking the 4 Ds
Is how I role
Banish these feelings of guilt
I rest
To be my best .
It's challenging managing 4 kids and multiple sclerosis /pain
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
title: humming
body: beside Kafka; one of those 502 bad gateway hacks...


i'm not going to write about how i'm being an *******,
forget that,
i had two weeks of living alone to figure out:
yeah, very doable, i can do this alone...
only once or twice did i find myself talking to
myself... i said something in English then
answered back in ******... wow... two very different
people... they must have met up Berlin: of all places...
but i was glad... didn't get into a boxing match
scruff with my shadow... so no black eye...
thank god my left is returning to normal:
when that psychotic ***** of a cat bit me while i was
trying to wash her for having taken a lazy ****...
wow... i can count four... knuckles...
sure... the cigarette burns on the middle and index
are still healing... but as someone who enjoys pain:
i'm not bothered...
mein gott... we were expecting havoc at the Oxford
vs. Bolton Wanderers match...
only a week prior the fans of the latter team threw
a man from his wheelchair...
maybe it's just me... maybe i look the part...
i'm not some scruffy anemic Asian kid that a good
gust of wind could blow over...
perhaps i belong to a cult of: put out cigarette butts
on your knuckles... make them wonder...
but i'm not even a south-paw...
but like Louis XIV once remarked:
the trick is in the optics... never mind that:
i always admired his brother more...
                                     philippe I, duke of orléans....
him an frederick II, hohenstaufen -
well... there is also philip II augustus,
from the Captetian family...
               but no... i'm not going to be made
to feel like an *******...
Jeminah: Jemma... i thought it was Gemma...
she slandered me...
i already know she fits the stereotype of
an ava max song: oh she's sweet but a ******...
at night she's singing where's: m'ah m'ah m'ah m'ah my mind...
i should have gone to the brothel...
take off some steam...
          girls can hot yoga all they want...
i need a proper good **** to get things off my chest...
i tried psychiatrists,
priests?! i guess i'm a poet...
but prostitutes were always my go-to therapy
sessions... i need to "talk" by touch...
well... i didn't... i also forgot about *******...
i'm so into this little ginger ***** that:
don't get me started... too many *******
obstacles to begin with... the prospect of raising
a boy with her... i'd be keener on raising a girl...
but...well... even Henry VIII didn't get what he
really wanted... so, go figure...
plus... if i landed that lottery ticket of being
recognised as the father... he's 11 now... so that's what?
7 years of coughing up child support?
in the meantime i already sent her a text...
so... you threw that banana loaf in the bin, yet?
knock knock... i left you a bouquet of flowers
at your doorstep, in the middle of the night come the 14th...
and that card and all that sigh and onomatopoeia
and how i hate roses but pink roses can pass...
esp. if they're a pale rose... but sure...
no... it's not purple... it's fuchsia pink... blah blah...
go figure... no reply...
i'm not going to reply her... no chance...
i think she's playing the game of: ooh... when i see
him, next time, in person... i'm going to lay it into
him! he's going to regret it...
yeah... the girls on the stewarding team were having
a spastic mr. fantastic fall-out...
i told her... it's my fault... i just waited...
but when your boy's friendship with the other girl's
boy that's on the team came to the fore:
i stepped in... by telling you:
you slandered me... then blamed it on the other girl...
i even used a confused emoji in the message...
i never use those modern hieroglyphs...
ugh... i must have recoiled with that sort
of drunken spasm of: w.t.f.?!
i even texted her: listen, my grandfather was an alcoholic,
as much as i loved him,
we'd go cycling, fishing, mushroom foraging,
but every time i visited my grandparents
during the summer holidays when still school
he'd disappoint me by having a week-long
drinking ****, black out... **** the bed...
and i know that women that live with alcoholics
build up with "sixth sense" of smelling
alcohol on a man... you've lived two violent
alcoholics, they beat you and your boy...
but the alcohol you smelt on my might have been
my cologne...
stunned... i'm guessing she still hasn't motivated
herself to leave a reply...
what day's it today? Tuesday... ergo tomorrow
is a Wednesday... the day she spends talking to her
female councillor... so she's going to bring me up...
she better talk to her about... meeting me for the first time...
being engaged in a healthy professional team-work
interaction... but... at the same time...
slandering me... while i gave her a bottle of homemade
wine... a banana loaf for her son...
and a bouquet of flowers on Valentine's day...
there's only so much a man can do...
the rest is up to the girl...
            if she want to be around abusive alcoholics
than... drinkers that'd prefer to fight themselves,
who cycle to end up getting thrown off their bicycle
from: there's no adequate onomatopoeia for a sigh...
AH doesn't cut it... it's that's obviousness of the remark...
and HMM is too inquisitive...
i mean: how do write an word that's merely
a sound that's a signifier of: exasperation?
of defeat?
     write it for me... i know i can't...
so back to the "party" song list:
bruce springsteen - human touch
rihanna - cheers
lionel richie - dancing on the ceiling
kool & the gaand - celebration
pink - get this party started
roy orbison - you got it
ghost - call me little sunshine...

   i'm not the ******* in this story... i should be the *******
in this story... very much so...
but since i played the girls against each other...
like i already said... 10 years of drought from
female attention... then... all of a suddden...
i'm getting chest constipation from feelings...
i'm getting constipated and bound
to that metaphorical-misnomerism of
claustrophobia: of the chest, too...
my head is aching: it feels like it's shrinking...
10 years of no attention... if not more...
and then: wham! bam! thank you ma'am...
10 of them show up... with kids...
and they're like: hey you...
                                               what?
the avenues of possible romance have dried up?
now you're all here... and you're each playing
the Brutus role, back-stabbing each other?
but at the same time... with such: obviousness...
you must have forgotten how it was done back
in your high-school days...
you're getting lazy... no: you've gotten lazy...
if a guy can play you off each other
by simply waiting? i told them... lies have short
legs... the truth will come out to the fore:
of its own volition... just wait...
lies breed contradictions...
they're not some ******* array of Zeno's Paradoxes...
there are only contradictions that leave
loop holes in the narrative...
they reveal contestations... irregularities...
x + y ≠ z... even though... it most certainly ought to...
yeah... less English soap opera akin
to Eastenders and more... Jane Austen's Emma...
a trivial load of *******...
but i know i'm going to get the back-slap from
all of this: because as a man i'm sort of expecting
the worst from a #metoo / #metoyou aftermath...
if they're not all clamouring to get into my good books...
i don't know...
i stopped trying to understand women a long
time ago... i love them too much...
but... if ****'s going down this route...
    i'm going to have to think about doubling down...
get some extra armour...
love them a little bit more...
sort of... apply more metaphors of violence...
dismember them... bit, by bit, by... bit...
**** it... we're game...
i'm already half and half away from a drowning
man crazed with saving himself by gripping
to a razor... cutting my hands in the process of saving
myself... gone with the wind...
no... this ***** is going to learn a lesson:
the hard way... by someone insisting that she can
be loved... she will not get away so easily...
i'll give this doe some time to digest some of her
*******...
               maybe she'll do her backwards and forwards
with her councillor and the councillor will be like:
oh, you, stupid girl...

by the way, that's now how algebra works...
but if she's outright willing to self-sabotage...
i know a little a bit about that...
but not so outright, like that...
and just imagine, we used to be men
that would glorify women in song and in verse...
what has become so terrifyingly real
in our quest to rid ourselves from being
influenced by women... that... we no longer
seek, or therefore need,
to be influenced by them?

shocking... i'd want to be a Chris Rea singing
about Josephine...
or an Eric Clapton singing about Layla...
oh man... i wish i could have been those guys...
but how can i be?
my best options are: either prostitutes
or single mothers...
there's no in between!

idiot, serves you right for falling in love
out of touch, out of time, out of what would be deemed
respectable! ******* ****... idiot...
you better slap yourself awake or i swear to god,
i'll find a 4th, a 5th arm to do that for you!
******* plonker... blunt knife...
headless nail... ugrh!
as much as i'd want to sign about women...
i, simply, can't! they're already mothers!
now i have to play the ancient Roman game of
the good, willing, dog with a tail between its legs
goody-two-shoes...

no... the Rolling Stones and the rest of them
can *******... right off the map of time...
right off!
i don't need their influence...
they had their fun... they can take that ****
to the grave... come to think of it:
i would have never liked to have the easy life...
but come on, outright...
give me the pain... don't play this
carrot & the stick game with me...
i'd rather the pain than this game...
like she can... am i going to be writing
generously about single mums?!
i can, sort of, try... i can write a verse about
having smelly socks too...
but you know... it's not going to exactly stick...

shtick...
      nothing around right now expect how black
guys banging white party girls
with sharpnel of language: in the affirmative...
yeah... hmm.. uh-hmm... blah blah...
at the same time...
white boys looking at black girls
"thinking": no, sorry...
i'm not attracted to that...
you better spike my drink with
some ****** before i bed that *****...
sorry... i'm not going to sleep with her....
she'd sooner be Mongolian than i'd sleep with her...
once more... the Pontius Pilate side
of the story...
   i'm... washing... my hands... clean...
of any affairs... that might arise... come from this;

but sure... have your little interracial escapades...
i don't mind seeing more pseudo-Arab tanned
people... the whole interracial antic is sort of
diluted out of existence come the 2nd generation...
you do you...
but i don't want to feel forced into purposively
having to love a black girl: because being
anti-racist is: just about right...
can i just be: non-racist?! do i need to have to side
with the white leftist quasi-liberal anti-racists?!

no... well thank god for that...
i'm not getting sold life for propagandist reasons...
i'm not about to raise a mixed-race child...
sorry... the mammoths had their chance
to **** with the African / the Indian elephant(s)...
but they missed their chance...
no! how did the dachshund come about...
someone broke a few bones
in the frame of the dobermann?

enough, of the gammon... i'm an albino pinky
chimpanzee... sorted...
  enough of this racial pandering...
  deaf! hello? sorry... what?! falling on deaf ears!
it's just so ****** terrible that i don't think
any man will be available to write a love song
using a girl's name in the near future;

Jeminah... yeah... that ***** that slandered me,
then figured out that she was into me...
well... wow! a bit late for that... don't you think, babe?
no matter... now the sadomasochist has
come out... i'm going to ******* drive
you into the ground;
with past experiences from the brothel...
i'll harrow you... given your previous boyfriends,
drunks... battered you...
i'll make having a heart a living hell!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
they want to read you and not think, so too they want to read you and  not see, they hardly care for punctuation necessarily used, so who's out there to please? n'ah really, i was onto something, i meant that if the Kantian thing-in-itself was applied to the cartesian expression, either thinking-in-itself or being-in-itself is jested at, then we can explain the freedoms of disobedience and obedience, truthfulness and falsehood, and the parody of paradoxes, as highest claimants the claimants: (singular plural) choice - whereas will (plural adjective congregating into singular) is always a butterfly fluctuation of measuring an exactness akin to dating and remembering 1066 the battle of Hastings.

mingle Kant with Descartes and you get thought as the
per se* existence - splitting into either fact of coining
phrases or robbing someone: no doubt (existential
good faith) and certainly no denial (existential
bad faith) - mingle Kant with Descartes
and you get the twins
cogito ergo sum mingling with noumenon,
and thus somewhere along the line
you get to see the membrane of the zygote,
like the thought behind a criminal life
where the life is unexplained because the thought
of such a life is "easily" accessed,
so too in reverse, i.e. being a councillor
or a clerk makes such thinking easily explained
for the prop of the life lived "easily" justified via
the person trading tomatoes or lamb shanks
to keep you unthinking in a bureaucratic role.
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
‪Thuk-jey-che bedding for absorbing my tears‬


Thuk-jey-che to my books for helping me to cope

Thuk-jey-che mom for pretecting me

Thuk-jey-che councillor for reassuring me when I need it.
Think-jey-che means thank you in tibetan. I want to give a good thanks to all my friends and family on Facebook for helping me through this rough time.
Styles 12 Apr 2017
They call me The Pastor
a ten year alcoholic who rose miraculously out of the bottle.

Who would have thought our  magnetically charged hearts
were tough as planets.

They call me The Pastor although my rough beginnings
  quickly kicked me out of God's House.

Or so I thought.

I roamed and bled ten thousand shades of darkness only to discover none of it was really mine.

How ironic.

They call me The Pastor, friends of mine, always seeking answers to tough riddles where they lay stretched out inbetween Wrong and Right.

They call me The Councillor for always listening to their problems.

Little did they know I was also trying to solve mine by seeing how they coped with theirs.

We are puzzle pieces to a mystery only we can solve by loving those fragmented parts of ourselves people closest to us threw away.

Do you realize how long it took for me to figure that out?

It feels like a thousand years.

They call me The Pastor even though I rarely quote from scripture.  

My church lives in the heart, in nature, in God's quiet whispers.

I do not claim any kind of righteous, fabulous glamour, nor do I take any money.

If you let people see your heart they will open up and listen.

They call me The Pastor
but I do not claim to be.

I only came by that name because after I roamed with Lions-

I was healed by Eternal Lamb.
TERRY REEVES Feb 2016
THIS LIFE OF OURS - ALL IN OUR IVORY TOWERS,
IS ANYONE LISTENING TO OUR PRAYERS?
LET''S SAY, YES - THEY ARE; SO YOU SAY - SO WHY
IS NOTHING HAPPENING? IT IS HAPPENING -
IT HAPPENS EVERY DAY - THAT'S WHY WE PRAY;
I'M ONE DAY OLDER TODAY - STILL KEEPING ON,
PERHAPS WE SHOULD ASK SOMEONE ELSE,
THE SOLUTION TO OUR PROBLEMS - THE COUNCILLOR;
SHE ASKED ME: 'WHY DO YOU LOOK DOWN AND NOT
MEET ME EYE-TO-EYE,' I SAID THAT I WOULD TRY,
'ARE YOU HAPPY AT WORK?'
'NO, I AM NOT - PEOPLE IRK ME AND ANNOY ME,'
'ARE YOU IN A GOOD RELATIONSHIP?'
'NO, I AM NOT - NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT,'
'IS YOUR FAMILY OK,'
'NO, THEY ARE NOT - SEEMS TO BE A NEW PROBLEM EVERY DAY;'
'STOP - WHERE IS YOUR MINDSET, WHERE IS YOUR FOCUS,
LOOK WITHIN YOURSELF AND RIISE ABOVE THESE THINGS,
TELL YOURSELF YOU'RE HAPPY, GIVE YOURSELF LOVE,
WHETHER IT BE TRUE OR NOT IT'S ALL YOU'VE GOT
TO GIVE YOU STRENGTH AND TELL YOUR INNER SOUL;
WE'VE BEEN WHERE YOU ARE - YOU'RE YOUR OWN STAR,
THERE'S NO ONE LIKE YOU, NO ONE CAN TOUCH YOU,
YOU'LL BE AMAZED AT WHAT GOD'S GIVEN YOU - YOU NEVER KNEW - DON'T KEEP TELLING YOURSELF THAT THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO - WRONG!! SO WRONG.
YOU TELL ME THAT 'I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE - I DO!
WHAT RIGHT HAVE I TO TELL YOU ANYTHING IF IT'S NOT TRUE?
GO ON, PROVE ME RIGHT - GET YOURSELF YOUR OWN LIFE.
Ryan O'Leary May 2019
When Enrico’s Olde Horse
Was Too Old to work, he was
turned out by his master.

It is a quote from a book when
we were at primary school and
perhaps what first signalled that
I was a Socialist, humanist,
naturalist, poet, herbivore as
observed and stated at one of
my book launches, by James Kennedy
the Ex Mayor of Mallow and current
contestant as a councillor.

I would love to know from whence
the quote came from, especially
now that I am in the same position
as Enrico’s Horse, the metaphor for
Enrico being The Fine Gael Government.

It is a very important lesson that has
taken me a lifetime to learn.

Ps


Proposed book title about the abuse
of the elderly " The Knackers Yard ".

The author is currently learning
how to **** whilst walking.
Rhiannon Jun 2016
My councillor told me I was pretty,
And that would be ok.
If those weren't the words,
She was paid to say.
Rhiannon Apr 2016
?
You're hopeless.
Completely utterly lost.
This bizarre abyss of feelings is haunting,
Even your councillor has no idea what you're on about.
Despite this you charge head on,
Armour strong longsword drawn.
Then you shatter into pieces,
As anxiety strokes your face.
Emeka Mokeme Jun 2018
My pen is
not Don Quixote.
It is a brave warrior
just like Don Quixote but
different in battle field.
This my pen is a
General in the
people's army.
It never retreats
or surrenders,
a workaholic.
My pen can be
pesky at times
but not unruly,
and not really a gentleman,
it is an erratic genius.
A minister of peace,
a councillor in crisis,
an advocate in justice,
a passionate lover,
prophetic in utterances,
intuitive and psychic in nature,
it  reads and knows your mind.
My pen,
common but uncommon,
ordinary but extraordinary,
a two edged sword,
piercing the physical even
deeper and penetrating to the
dividing line of the breath of life
and the spirit and of joints
and marrows of the deepest
part of our nature,
exposing and sifting,
analysing and judging
the very thoughts
and purposes of the heart.
My pen is unique,
stealth in action,
a smooth talker,
loves to be held
and pampered.
It has no time to check time.
My pen,
this my pen is my friend.
A good company indeed.
A covert operator.

©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2019
Does Rich Hues ever sleep?
No matter what time of day
or night I submit a poem to
Hello Poetry, Rich boomerangs
back with a response.

If companies had a fraction
of the PR of RH & HP, how
much easier it would be for
everyone to do business.

The only one that comes
close to him, is a local
Councillor in Kanturk
County Cork, Ireland, his
name is John Paul O'Shea.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
title: hoop
body:
s'ah ah lah
habit: all?
ah...                                   as 502 bad gateway hacks go...


mein gott, she finally replied, it only took her days
to stomach my predicament,
like i predicted, on Wednesday she goes to see
a councilor... female issues...
former abusive relationships...
                   how is she going to wriggle out of her
current predicament?
she created this mess and as i asked her:
i hope you didn't find it malicious of me by simply
waiting to get the full picture...
i won't let her wriggle out so easily...
- so we're to never talk again, ever, ever again?
look at her now... changing her profile picture
almost every single day on WhatsApp...
make-up on, hair done all wavy, pretty...
very poignant yet almost dreamy eyes...
first it was always her with her son in the picture...
then just her.... then she with her dog...
then an old picture of her and a female friend
that committed suicide...
and now this one...
   i still think that this cold i've built up...
stuffy nose... harking up phlegm, sore throat...
is a love-sickness...
and those flowers i dropped round her house
with the card... i didn't buy them because i felt
i did anything wrong:
i can't remember the last time i bought a girl
flowers for Valentine's Day...
i don't feel like ******* i don't feel like
going to the brothel...
i had to wait until 12pm to leave the house
having done some clothes washing and putting them
on the washing-lines in the garden...
she replied... she replied... those ******* butterflies
again... go out after 12pm... buy the newspaper
and a bottle of cider... walk around the labyrinth
of English outer-suburban streets in the sunshine...
i still haven't read the message...
i'm gearing up to reading it with two shy whiskeys...
i need to drown these butterflies...
no... wait... i remember the last time i bought
a girl butterflies for Valentine's Day...
at least two occasions...
but one more poignant than the other...
Janina... high-school...
    when i was still a chubby kid... i remember
the ridicule quiet clearly...
then i lost all the weight and... the tables turned...
she made me ridiculous for having sketched her...
anyway... love like an artist... think like a kid...
i'm too old for this ****...
then again: i'm so happy that throughout
my 20s and 30s i haven't been in long relationships:
none at all... i still retain all that hormonal bollocking
you feel when attracted to someone...
look at me... aged 35 and i'm playing
a game of fantasy of love...
            nothing has soured in the purity of my
approach... the girls in my current work
environment just played each other...
i was being perfectly honest... i was the Pontius Pilate
of the situation... i washed my hands
clean of what they were doing to each other...
clearly a scene from a harem...
women are their their own worst enemy...
all the lads in the group were like:
when will this ******* drama end... we're tired
of hearing about it...
- and i have absolutely nothing poetic to add...
i'm just spewing language left right and centre -
there might a occur a breakthrough of brilliance
but i'm still nothing more than
a nervous wreck enthroned surrounded
by either a lake of acid of my stomach
or by lake of bile of my liver...
              now to drink just enough to sooth the nerves,
read her message... reply in the most cordial:
most charming of ways, to sooth this shy doe...
for heaven's sake she actually went to the hairdresser
to take a new profile picture for WhatsApp...
that councillor must have really convinced her
that i have some pretty good intentions...
i saw her only last Friday... making food for
her son in the kitchen... dancing, smiling, giggling,
singing... she looked like was was 16...
that must have left an indentation upon her that
she can't let go off... well... here's my snare...
my charm offensive has reached a second phase...
in the back of my mind: though...
she threw a knife at her ex...
   ooh... but it's just too exciting to give that sort
of woman a pass...
my madness will meet her madness head-on...
i'll probably start crying when i bring
a Vaughan Williams' vinyl to her house
and break into... "petulance": but i don't imply
childishly sulky or bad-tempered...
petulance: in this case is a misnomer...
i was thinking of penitent when i wrote down
petulant...
how will i ever get over her...
                      whirlwind of a red head... and it's
that sort of red that's...
well it's a mixture...
    dark walnut, red mahogany,
   special walnut... burgundy...
                          ha ha... last Friday... she even said:
you could sell this wine...
yeah... i could... but i put so much effort into making
it... i wouldn't want to...
she finished her third glass...
how that glass whirled in her hand...
she was spinning it round and round by its leg
like: no... she wasn't aware of her behaviour...
that's why i was there, to notice it...
i better make this reply a master-class in seduction...
remember... she's a coy doe...
increase the ****** tension... even try to friend-zone
her... but make sure you increase the ******
tension... she's going to be the one making
the first move... she will insufferable...
she needs to feel insufferable... let the cougar
pounce... next time you meet... insinuate a meeting
of hands... when parting do like you already did...
say goodbye to her twice...
actually kissing her cheek...
   keep that eye-contact till it feels like she's
burning...
ask her if she liked the flowers you dropped
off at Valentine's Day...
                                i don't care if she has a kid...
there are no other options exactly: made available...
but... i'm tired of all the cool-&-calm
objectivity *** with prostitutes...
i need to feel this... this is all, after all: primarily
for me...
not unless she "asks"... i will not cross the boundaries
to merely have: "fun"...
the more tension i create the better i'll feel
for having felt anything remotely akin to this
as a reminder of being hormonally charged as a teenager...
more tension... more... more... more...
now... to read her message...
    well: good luck to me... just minutes later she
changed her profile picture once more...
now she appears less serious... almost smiling...
play the ******* game Matt... play the game.
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2019
There is a misogynistic
manhole cover outside
my house.

The local councillor has
suggested its removal.
But what about up-skirting?
april (2020)

.day 26..

nice when folks call and chat
though i understand the fear
on answering

my machine kicks in then
lets them talk to it so i can
take my time in
returning things

i phoned him yesterday
he still has little coal
& thinks the coal man
may just have closed
or decided to retire in
all this confusion, so
he may ask a councillor
for help and assitance

then walk up the back ***** to the top
levels where he can see right over to
where i live and wave

we talked about his drawing, neat
and time consuming.

mine is gestural
more immediate

does not matter how we are so long
as it suits us and hurts nobody else

so we carry on day to day
with chores & that keeping busy

when the weather is good we garden
meanwhile dust gathers in the house

while we we dust, the weeds grow in
the garden

i like some weeds
i tell him the names of flowers
how some are poisonous like
monks hood

tintin and snowy were on tv last night
i was too tired to concentrate

wednesday
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2020
Miss stress told the
councillor that her
worry was because
of an affair she was
having with a married
couple both of whom
asked her if she'd be
interested in a *******.
Ryan O'Leary Jun 15
I'm A Refusée

Despite being here
as a ward of state,
protected by the
constitution, you
have become judge
and jury deciding
to get rid of me,
without hearing my
pleas or argument.

Too many people,
you say, Ireland is
full, I’m not wanted,
nor, needed here.
I am superfluous.

“Go back to where
you came from, you
are only interested
in the generosity of
our states allowances”

Returning is not an
option, but I can see
how the country has
changed and that the
Cead Mile Failte is no
longer applicable for
those of us who arrive
naked and unexpected.

I’m here because of a
circumstance that was
totally out of my control.

I was not the one who
forgot to take the pill or
refuse to wear a ******.


                    <>

For Gavin Pepper the racist
bigoted xenophobic Dublin
City councillor who should
be taken with a pinch of salt.

— The End —