"criers" poems
Up early as usually but this time with a mission to complete Halloween Costumes.
Not a pain free day most definitely, but have kids who rely on me to be a good mom.
Everyone has haters; the two faced, "your girls" wanting your guy or envy clothes style,
or randoms you never met, desiring your life, home or new car bought with hard work.
Most days what's posted on sites about me makes not a bit of difference in my world,
I ignore and move on with my life, know haters have nothing better to do than gossip.
No news is good news and nothing from my usual "Town Criers" saying "Guess What?"
One day got messages in text, "You have been labeled Babylon's ***** by Craiglisters!"
Not a "lol" nor "Roflmao" situation. Thinking, What in the world? and How in the world?
Me, Ms. Abstaining and they, who love assuming and posting drama without thought.
Their world; small town America and believers of truth in "all" internet rumors and media,
not willing to give benefit of doubt, once minds, so limited in thought, have been made up.
E-mail inquiries from potential employers I never met from destinations far far away,
asking and informing that person with such low morals shall never be part of their world.
Drama finds me and neither welcome nor do I seek it out, way too emotionally draining,
believer in live and let live, authored "Celibacy" poem to stop jokes made to my kids.
Who knew that trying for your dreams could bring forth bringers or illogical pure hatred?
Who knew that emotions of my children whom I love, would be affected by narrow minds?
After family conference and with full support, by the way, had to explain ***** to son,
this mom carries on and still on second journey pursuing dreams and making realities.
If I give up dreams it will never be because someone posted bold faced lies on open forum,
it will be because I choose to do it with good reasons and those reasons are mine alone.
Pitfalls? Have been numerous. Will? Strong and still determined to see this through to end.
Tomorrow isn't promised and hear my dad say, "Daughter, go forth and let haters be fuel!"
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days
And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed
The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?
I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense
Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!
See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”
We will have to call especially loud to reach
Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding
In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.
Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t
Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow
Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.
How come we’ve listened to the great criers—Neruda,
Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now
We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?
Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.
Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?
Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.
3.3k
For in the algorithm of their minds lay deep strategies,
But it's a maze to a sepulchre,
a colonial mind with many rooms,
where other men are lorded to their satisfaction
For they stand in the courts, and declared to be like children
their smiles far from sinister,
but their minds create a haven like hell to those around,
though they decorate the sky like the western sun, they burn the roses with their palms like the Libyan desert sun
For their dearth of love, they carry out vengeance on the free spirited, they carry a ******* staff of justice,
they are the town criers declaring who ought to be colourful,
they crown the underserving and deserving,
their tongue a tidal wave of envy,
slander chokes their breath, loneliness fills their temple,
hatred distills their roller coaster pain.
Now I understand why roses wither,
But even the crumbs of love in these cactus hearts
will be taken away.
- Ola Bajo
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
You are hidden from view
You don’t see me
I don’t see you
This makes me nervous,
You see
I know what you have done
Through history
The wars you’ve caused
The blood you’ve shed
Down so many streets
Rolling heads
Armies and power
Rows of stones
Crosses and flowers
Court jesters
And child molesters
Clowning around
Bishops and criers
Lingering liars
Towers and trials
All of the arrogant
Baying and praying
For a male child
****** horsemen
Hunting with hounds
We no longer want you
Around
Sean Hunt May 5 2016
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
i walked along a strange and darkened place
the citizens of which abused themselves
a man who chewed his lip and ate his face
then laid inside a coffin's wooden shelves
aside his neighbors' corpses and their pets
and sang his song long after all his bones
were eaten clean, aligned in metric sets
beside the graveyard's glistened stones
the humid air, pneumonia in lungs
leaked out from nostrils as i ran away
slow motion through molasses climbing rungs
my fear of here and sanity left frayed
a woman over-hunched, upon my "hi",
like pill-bug touched had curled into herself
her head in **** and hissed her grumbled sigh
accused that I had killed the mighty elf
a girl who stabbed her migraine with a knife,
whose teeth were aspirins, dripped from bleeding gums
and claimed her husband was her lawful wife
was following his trail of stale breadcrumbs
town criers cried for Argentina, sobbed
"Evita was evicted from our hearts!"
then rushed upon me these un-living mobs
to eat my chest in torn and ****** parts
chihuahua babies swarmed my ankles hard
and bit with rubber teeth and razor gums
i fell and crushed them like a house of cards
they barked like children yelping in their slums
i bled to death from gaping hollow wounds
and flowed my soul into a sewer grate
under the darkened place's shining moon
an angry molten lava stream of hate.
(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
To the outcasts, the freaks
To the silent ones, the unheard
To the criers, the broken
To the heartless, the damaged
To the screamers, the closed off
To the drowners, the dying
To the breathers, the living
To the strong, the weak
To the flimsy, the fragile
To the suicidal, the struggling
To the raging, the bitter
To the sad, the lonely
To the misunderstood, the confused
To the 'why don't you talk,' the 'why don't you shut up?'
To the 'it's all in your head,' the 'It's not important enough'
To the 'stop acting,' the 'stop faking'
To the 'stop being so dramatic,' the 'there are people worse off than you'
To the 'shut up,' the 'you're making no sense'
To the 'I don't understand,' the 'nobody feels this way'
To the 'I can't help you,' the 'get over it'
To the 'you're weird,' the 'this isn't normal'
To the 'go away,' the 'nobody wants you here'
To the 'you break everything you touch,' the 'just die already'
To the 'broken ones,' the 'freaks'
To everyone, to always
To whatever you do, whatever you say
To everything, to everyday
You are not alone.
~ hk
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
"The Queen, the Queen,
The Queen does come forth," yells a girl from St. Anne's to the patrons in court.
The Queen's procession wraps around the lake right over the bridges and up to main gate.
The criers are ringing their bells.
"Make way, make way," yells Saint Blaise.
The next to come forth is the Kriegshunde of old yelling knockviter to those who would be bold.
Steel Bonnet came next, clinking and clanking like a rusty steel mess.
Then the footmen came forth with pikes so high that they slice through the trees with a fright.
The Mariners came shambling past, those sea-loving folk, you know the ones without anything that floats.
Then the flags of all companies converge in front of the nobles we so deserve.
As you see the drummers called Rolling Thunder precede the Queen's chair,
and a patron yells, "Is that the Queen of the faire?"
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
A flower opens its head
amid a pilgrimaging fire...
one-pointed in color, alone
knowing what it means.
Vibrating the life of that color
unbrokenly--a vow perfectly kept.
Our earth's heart strewing her
joyous criers...something an
extraterrestrial would anoint its
forehead-space with.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June
The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.
It's just what you see.
The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough
one laugh is never enough.
The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs
Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.
I'll just fly.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
She forces me to hang up
at 12:30
I think she's uncomfortable talking to me.
I know she's going to tell
her friends people like me
Feel too.
I'm not people
like I told her.
I'm a lot like the criers
The people in black
Self obsessed in their own self pity.
I'm a horrible mix
Of normal person
And complete social degenerate
To where I can't get along with either.
She's going to tell
All her buddies
who think she's such a great person
That she heard a person like me
cry.
Even more
She's going to tell them
She made me laugh.
She was telling me
How I felt.
“You feel like nothing matters”
She's the world's most depressing hypnotist.
“You feel like you're living shallowly”
Yes.
She's a genius.
I couldn't help
But laugh at the silliness
Of it all.
Jan 13, 2010
Jan 13, 2010 at 9:41 PM UTC
As i shape stanzas, Adam Lanzas **** the cameras, in glamorous stands up, against the manners of actors, in the matters of forgotten factors, in a world gone bananas, I still cant stand us, even when we are dead.
I have tried every side of the bed to no diligence unchecked, in a nervous wreck of annoyance coining in and destroying it, for a bonus, its bogus to know us, but i'm owning it yet, with no regrets and loose concepts to be swept to ***** and on my feet.
I'm obsolete, and my talk is cheaper than most, as i host my feats in a single page, post heathen faze incomplete, as it is only so lonely in the frozen face of flattery, where i may fill my battery, but nothing more, in boring affordability, storing dreams for safe keeping to a later day that may never be, but hey, what does it matter anyway, i will either be, or not be.
I may be just lapsing in luxury, rupturing the subtlety of my structuring around the scars of brain parts too far to reach.
Lets meet on middle grounds with silent screams and loose eyes, fiddling the sounds and singing for the criers, expiring behind less than inspiring doors.
I am just bored, praising the lords of a more recordable source, reliably on course, with a deplorable force, endorsing the chores of servitude, never meaning to be rude, as i enjoy my solitude, while in the employ of the gratitude for what i got, but im not...
That boy anymore, my wonder turned wandering and i will never be that baby again, nor alone, so let go, in knowing the flow can be trusted in showing us something more, said the slave to his ***** before a morbid torrent to show her core to the floor of a showroom, vacuumed into space, awakening to the fate, of monotonous finality, praying to randomly generated gods, for the fogs of war... or anthing more, than this.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
When the morning hits,
Sunrise mourns.
When I see you,
My stomach roars.
Glass full of toxin.
Room's insidious criers.
Tell me,
Why am I here?
Why are you so scared?
Look through the window.
Naked,
It is easier.
Like freedom.
Like space.
Like something I long for.
Dance.
Forgive my language.
For, toxin speaks out of me.
But still...
Morning waits for me, just to say:
“Hey girl, you are not free...”
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
Who will sail down
these laugh line Ganges rivers?
you should hope someone will.
turn to me and whisper,
declare, utter
that in the sinosphere,
they hire crying women
lest we pass, sail, transcend
within the silence we were
ushered onto this plateau with.
lest our Deity mistake the two.
scratch. stratch scratch scratch
on the back of your throat.
Two Hundred and Two Days ago
this would have been
your Angela’s Ashes spiral
into veiled, Catholic interment.
but you’re a heathen
and no criers will have been hired
no doters at your stone
come Dias de Los Muertos
as mother to grandmother,
as peasant to ****** Spanish friar.
but you have a plan.
you,
will be ground into a fine dust
and pressed into a record.
eight minutes on both sides
be not afraid,
be not a swan song.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:06 AM UTC
~~~
"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount
oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden
today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends
I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed
how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths
*have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?*
the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition
***how can I,
this new morning glory,
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?***
~~~
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
one above another
seeking power beyond
Mother, Father, God;
three of a kind
trolled into a full house
to douse the criers with
gaslighting and rhetoric:
"make America hectic";
painting the targets brightly
through the sights of terrorists
sowing blight in the name of
white, white, white
power, money, ***
insecure, bored, loathing--
guns, roaming
thoughts, looming large
online, in hot spots
traffic's booming,
grooming a genocide
that hides in
plain sight
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 12:56 AM UTC
Vespers,
Tidal time pours homeward,
Criers cry,
Lamplighters light,
Cats seek mice or mates,
Prey pray
For one more daybreak.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 10:52 PM UTC
Sound the trumpets.
Tell the criers to proclaim.
Call upon thunder and lightning.
Embrace the gentle rhythem your heart.
And to the shadows in the night.
Show them your passion and
they shall kneel in pain.
Now watch!
It shall happen tonight.
When the clock strikes 13,
the band shall play and
demonstrate their frustration.
And I shall laugh.
For i was the conductor,
of this event.
And the darkness will envelop the scene,
and it will be done.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
As we stand on silver sands. Clutching crosses in our hands.
We pray for death
-and hide for life
In these forsaken lands.
Tucked inside our bed.
Safe from the undead.
-hear the town criers.
And fear the vampires.
We Cling to light,
and hold on tight.
-As darkness
kills our fires.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
*Fill my morose heart with sorrow,
So I can wake up in grief tomorrow,
To be chased by agony's harrow,
And in screech in pain of love's arrow.
Fill my cup with bitter wine,
Drink until I am numb or fine,
The grief has my heart to dine,
When my sun sets, does it shine?
Fill my ears with somber criers,
And surround my body in hellfires,
To forget what this heart inspires,
And to banish love's wretched desires.*
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
She glows red inside.
Until the mountain's roar begins.
The trees tremble beneath her sighs,
knowing the tide will soon rise
within her belly.
The core of all ideas of sin
subsisting only by whats within;
yet the cralwers and the stompers
the choppers and the bleeeders
the wanters the criers
the screamers and the needers
have the plastic vision
they make the skilless incision
into our lives
with old blunt knives.
Shes going to blow eventually
theres no stopping whats beneath
it will all melt suddenly.
It rumbles and it stores
waiting no more
no more
let it outpour
downpour
now
bow
down
to
her.
Anger.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
I arrived from the monotony and found my own.
Yet the me I knew was ground down to a grain and distributed through books and so-called critical thinkers.
All around surrounds the shouts of gender and ***
while the criers plan their bouts of benders and *** and I think...
I'm paying too much for this.
So begone, abscond with your pre-perscribed fate.
I am a warrior in my own right.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Crying is for babies,
Crying is for teens,
Crying may be for ladies,
Crying is not mean.
Don't judge criers,
You may be them one day,
And don't be one of those liars,
Just go talk and say hey.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
What do you think right before you go home.
Works done
Oh yay
I have to mow the lawn.
Maybe laundry
Or TV
Or a home cooked meal.
Maybe ***
Or sleep
Sounds like a great deal.
You're safe.
In your office
With key carded doors
A Computer
Your coffee
On the 21st floor
A printer
It jams
Your boss he gets ******
Your numbers are off
You sent the wrong list.
The laptop just crashed
And so did the market
Your bonus
Your promotion
All the daily commotion.
You think of the game
Or maybe your kids
Drinks at the bar with co workers and friends.
Your job is a pain
Its long and its boring
Carpel tunnel
And back pain are what make you worried.
There is another kind of job.
One that has danger
Adrenaline
Sadness
Heat
And anger.
It doesn't go away when the clock signals five.
Every single day you struggle to stay alive.
The police
Security
Soldiers
And men fighting fires.
Who run to help criers.
They don't worry about the mail or the laundry
They don't ponder on if there's carrots or broccoli
The thoughts that pass through are dark and their scary.
Their jobs in themselves can get quite hairy.
No baseball or soccer
No drinks and no bars.
No dates with the wife
Or husbands or cars.
The questions are asked on a daily basis
Will I live
Will I die
Will I leave all these places
Is he drunk
Is he High
Is he violent or crazy
Will he **** me
Will I **** him
Is this guy dead or is he just lazy.
Who's in the darkness
And who's in the fire.
Who's going to hurt me.
I'm so **** tired.
Can I breathe
Will I burn
Do I have enough air
Will I run out of ammo
Who even cares.
Will I see her again?
My wife
Or my daughter
Maybe my son.
I'd like another.
My parents my friends
Should I fire my gun?
Did he stop shooting
Was there only just one?
We all have thoughts.
Both good and both bad.
We all tend to worry.
About the day that we've had.
Most go home and leave work in the office.
Some don't have such a easy option.
Their job is their life
they never leave work
It follows them home and it always hurts.
Before they clock out
Before they clock in.
The fear and the doubt it tries to get in.
But strong hearts are rigid
They've suffered through pain.
They'll be there tomorrow
They'll do it again.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Raise your glass
to all the Oscar winners
that know how to cry,
but keep your glasses under the table
for all the criers that know how to act
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
Matchsticks and Torches
Another matchstick,
struck and lit,
another flint spark
of an ongoing inferno,
and the town criers,
cry condemnation
for torch bearing villagers
(not on their side),
storming the steps
to further fan the flames
for their own reasons,
as we in the middle, burn.
James E. Roethlein copyright 2021
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 7:23 AM UTC