"denis" poems
Original French
Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
English Translation
Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore
Tell me where, in what country,
Is Flora the beautiful Roman,
Archipiada or Thais
Who was first cousin to her once,
Echo who speaks when there's a sound
On a pond or a river
Whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where is the leamed Heloise
For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard
And made him a monk at Saint-Denis,
For his love he took this pain,
Likewise where is the queen
Who commanded that Buridan
Be thrown in a sack into the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
The queen white as a lily
Who sang with a siren's voice,
Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice,
Haremburgis who held Maine
And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine
Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where,
Where are they, sovereign ******
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
9.4k
THERE is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain,
And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard
Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no
stain,
That she might be that sprightly girl trodden by a
bird;
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing woma-
kind,
Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay
And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance
of his mind:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
The young men every night applaud their Gaby's
laughing eye,
And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had
poor luck;
From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the
cry
And there's a player in the States who gathers up her
cloak
And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would
be bride
With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way,
And there are -- but no matter if there are scores beside:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan,
A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy;
One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one,
Another boasts, "I pick and choose and have but two
or three.'
If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and
light
They can spread out what sail they please for all I have
to say,
Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There'll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,
And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will
be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
3.9k
tinyurl-dot-com/d-m-latest-poems
That's a shortcut to my poemhunter poems.
The search my poems option helps ME find my poems.
Visit the standard webpage or the print-friendly text version.
The end of October 2013 has meant quite a few poems were added.
Some were about the Stephen Gayford wildlife prints.
They are being sold on UK TV's Shopping channels.
I visit their websites and view the images and watch the TV demos.
Since joining hellopoetry, I visited several members' blogs and websites.
I've also visited the youtube-dot-com website to see members' videos.
My Stephen Gayford blog is here: denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
I've checked Google for any websites that have used my poetry.
The images search also found lots of fantastic websites, too.
The deviantart-dot-com website features lots of fantasy art images.
They can lead poets to brand new poetry description ideas.
Just use the search site option for a desired poetry topic.
My Fantasy Art click-a-pic slideshow has some Superhero artwork,
view the wonderful galleries here: jennifersjpgs-dot-shows-dot-it
and some of my Superhero poems have been published based on these.
The Google image 'my name' search found lots of images like never before.
Regards, Denis Martindale.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
my paris begins with
those early days
as a conscious flaneur
i recall the couple
seated opposite me
on the metro
when i was still innocent
of its labyrinthine complexity
slim pretty white girl
clad head to toe in denim
smiling wistfully
while her muscular black beau
stared through me
with fathomless orbs
and one of them spoke
almost in a whisper
qu'est-ce-que t'en pense
and it dawned on me
yes the young parisienne
with the distant desirous eyes
was no less male than me
dismal movies
in the forum des halles
being screamed at in pigalle
and then howled at again
by some kind of madman
or vagrant who told me
to go to the bois de boulogne
to meet what he saw
as my destiny
menaced
by a sinister skinhead
for trying on tessa's
wide-brimmed hat
getting ****** in les halles
with sara
who'd just seen
dillon as rusty james
and was walking in a daze
sara again with jade
at the caveau
de la huchette jazz cellar
cash squandered
on a gold tootbrush
two tone shoes
from close by
to the place d'italie
portrait sketched
at the place du tertre
paperback books
by symbolist poets
but second hand volumes
by trakl and deleve
and a leather jacket
from the marche aux puces
porte de clignancourt
losing gary's address
scrawled on a page
of musset's confession
walking the length
and breadth of the rue st denis,
what an artist's paradise
(as juliette once wrote me).
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Across the hills, across the plains,
Across the sands and seas,
He searched for poems and refrains,
For wonders never cease...
While there's a child within God's heart
And His remembrance, too,
The Poemhunter scans for art,
Esteems each point of view...
Across the noblest hopes and dreams,
Ideals and fancy thoughts,
The spectrum of Man's mad extremes
Proves that it takes all sorts...
While there's a vision, judge or law,
Or simply self-control,
The Poemhunter must explore
Their sanctity, their soul...
He reads the rhythms, rhymes and rules
That writers would relay,
He heeds the wisemen, sighs at fools...
Lets God guide him His way...
While there's a cherished childlike prayer
That words can somehow bless,
The Poemhunter's search will share
God's Truth and happiness...
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2010.
Denis Martindale 1300 poems
http://www.poemhunter.com/denis-martindale/
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
This is an example of a webpage shortcut I created recently thanks to tinyurl-dot-com: tinyurl-dot-com/what-could-be-greater and leads to a text-only display which web browsers help us zoom in on. Extra poemhunter-dot-com website info: The Denis Martindale poet search helps find poemhunter-dot-com/denis-martindale/poems/ and so does the exact title search help if searching for What Could Be Greater? The results page has this exact title search option. Edit the URL poemhunter-dot-com/poem/what-could-be-greater/ and visit a larger text font display that also featuring adverts. Select the print-friendly version there just to read the text version and a few extra links.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Jenifer Garner looked every inch the mom in control as she and estranged husband Ben Affleck picked up their daughters from karate class.
The actress, 43, strode out ahead clutching her cell phone in one hand and car keys in her other as the Argo star, also 43, followed behind with Violet, nine, and Seraphina, six, and carrying a canvas shopping bag.
Garner also had her wedding ring back on, but on the middle finger of her left hand and not the ring finger.
Affleck, though, seems to have ditched his wedding ring altogether.
He hasn't been seen with it on for a couple of weeks at least, although when they first split the pair had made it known they'd still keep the gold bands on around their kids.
Rumors had started to swirl of a possible reconciliation between the two after they were seen leaving couples counseling together in Sana Monica on September 4.
But sources close to them moved quickly to quash any suggestion they might get back together, saying they were simply seeking professional help to guide them through the changes that divorce brings.
Affleck was a doting dad on Friday as he smilingly shepherded his daughters to the car as they snacked on apples.
The Good Will Hunting actor was dressed casually in an olive green t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.
Seraphina wore a pretty light blue pinafore dress with a matching hairband and her favorite purple and pink Nike trainers.
Violet wore an all black workout ensemble with turquoise athletic shoes.
Not with them was the girls' younger brother Samuel, who's three.
The estranged couple are back in LA after Garner spent most of the summer filming Miracles From Heaven in Atlanta, Georgia, and Affleck was reprising his role as Batman for Suicide Squad in Toronoto, Canada.
With those projects in the can, it means they can focus more time on caring for their children as their divorce moves forward.
Affleck is also prepping his next project Live By Night, a Prohibition-era drama that he's written and plans to star in and direct.
The film based on the novel by Denis Lehane and set in Boston is scheduled to start filming in November.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/sexy-formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
You want me.
Again, you do.
You tease me...
Let me follow a trail of bread crumbs.
Leading me to a blithing darkness of nothingness.
And a skip along.
I lag on,
Singing your praises.
I do.
You want me,
You said you do.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
For Denis Joe
Alas, poor Pluto
I knew him slightly
Dangling out there
On the sun system's edge
Unsung by Holst
Who knew him not at all.
Furl browed tribunes smack their gavels
And in a nano - second
Planetary glory dashed to asteroids.
Mighty Pluto busted to dwarfhood!
[Brief moment of silence]
Well, the dwarves will have to have
Their own music now -
Nothing Earth shattering
like THE PLANETS.
A humbler essay, say a trio
For tuba, autoharp and cello.
Modest but catchy tunes
For little orbiters and shakers:
XENA (warrior princess)
CERES (goddess of grain)
PLUTO (mythical silver smith)
CHARON (underworld boat jockey)
Oops, almost missed the big send off.
There he goes now with Charon at the oars.
Arrivederci
little
fellow.
SNIFF!
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
D-Directing is what this guy is exceptional at
E-Ever the master poet of the acrostic format
N-Not many can do it like this super cool cat
I-Inspiring others is what he's so very good at
S-Sighting his terrific work flips one's top hat
B-Brightly his star shines in the vast night sky
A-Always making this day dreamer want to try
R-Really got to work hard at his precise format
T-Time must be spent to be like a super cool cat
E-Elated one shall feel if this poem is of appeal
R-Reckon it may get the master's approval seal
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
Last Wednesday, I went out shopping, that’s rare indeed for me,
Just walking along and stopping when something good I’d see…
But then my nose made me aware that strawberries were nearby,
I followed their scent upon the air until they caught my eye…
I licked my lips and gulped with glee… I got my wallet out…
Went in search for every penny and gathered these about…
I took my darling strawberries home and put these on a plate
And honey fresh from honeycomb poured out the jar so great…
Then came a slurping dash of cream anointing all below…
I smiled as if within a dream, as I surveyed the flow…
But then God stopped me just before I started on my treat…
Reminding me it was no chore, ‘Give thanks for all you eat!’
And so I did, right there and then… For cash to pay my way…
For shops to visit once again… for such a sunny day…
No clouds, no rain, no storm, no gale, warm sunshine, that was all…
A little tan for me so pale… a strawberry miracle…
AND THEN… I swirled my spoon around and licked my lips as well…
AND RAISED a strawberry that was bound to cast its wondrous spell…
AND SUDDENLY I closed my eyes and my mouth opened wide…
And tasted Heaven’s sweet surprise… with joy I couldn’t hide…
I guess that I’m addicted now… it’s strawberries every day!
Do I love them? Oh… Yes, and how! I hope I’ll be OK…
Be careful what you wish for, friends! Or you’ll be like I am…
The need for strawberries never ends, so don’t get in a jam…
I’m running out of pennies soon… and then what will I do?
Just stare down at my empty spoon… red-faced and feeling blue…
Denis Martindale April 2018.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex
An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.
Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the ****
Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
I am one of the best poets on the site
On any subject I can write.
I may lack Neva Flores poetic grace
Or Rue’s literary or linguistic ace
I may lack Denis Barter’s classical touch
I am as useful as telephone hutch
My poetry is as simple as a common man’s speech
It is within every reader’s easy reach
In the literary circle I have considerable space
In my friends’ heart some cordial place
I don’t know much about meter
But I can write a poem on electrical heater
Some poets think My poetry sounds Victorian
I am undoubtedly not a sectarian
Some critics may feel my poetry is out dated
I think it might have been over rated
I am an instinctive and innovative poet
I am at the threshold of becoming great
If you think I am right bless me
If you think I am boasting curse me
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:14 AM UTC
I love to sit next to your beds,
Feel both of you breathe,
Smell your sweatie little heads
And guard the path to your dreams.
I like when your dark eyes dive into
My ocean blue.
I am your rock
Your stone castle on the horizon,
Later, these lines you will mock
At teenage and probably beyond.
One day to you I'll whisper
The story of your sleeping brother.
But in the meantime let me add
Clara and Denis
I'm so proud and happy
To be your Dad.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
"It is very important not to mistake hemlock for parsley, but to believe or not believe in God is not important at all."
-Denis Dedirot(idk who,some random old guy)
Jan 27, 2022
Jan 27, 2022 at 11:00 AM UTC
From prophecy to Calvary... Christ's journey was decreed,
From Bethlehem to Bethany... the Lord fulfilled Man's need...
Jerusalem was yet in store... the visitation set,
The time for people to adore... Palm Sunday still and yet...
Beyond that day, Christ faced His fate... Passover to prepare,
Last Supper Christ would celebrate... Gethsemane in prayer...
But then, for Jesus, no way out! The Cross of Calvary!
Despite His fear, despite His doubt! Christ died for you and me...
It's prophecy that led Him still... for He knew all flesh dies,
But He loved God! Obeyed His will... when promised He would rise!
So death was not the end for Christ... or that friend on the cross,
The Lamb of God was sacrificed... God led Him there because
Although we've sinned, our sins are waived! Today, we're Heaven bound!
We've been baptised! We're blessed! We're saved! And yet we're still around!
But there's a day in prophecy, the Rapture of the dead,
And then we, too... yes, you and me... up to our Lord are led!
Denis Martindale March 2018.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
din historie rodfæster en sandhed i mig
om cigarrøg og fremmede mennesker
deres magt over kønnet og min krop
i forestillingen;
jeg mister arme
jeg ser mit kød hvordan det forsvinder
(det nemme er at falde fra)
indersiden af låret
mavens rundhed brysternes buen ansigtets rene træk
mine læber; deres måde at skille på
nu vender jeg dem altid på vrangen før jeg går ud
i alle disse berøringer
disse berøringer
i én smeltet masse af hud og hår
*
I just want you to know (jeg ser ikke længere hendes ansigt)
i minderne;
kun krop
kun krop
kun krop
*
der vokser et svigt i mig
i mine øjenvipper
når jeg græder tårer som rammer andres hudlag
diffunderer
fra væske til følelse til en berøring to mennesker imellem
vores relation er ikke andet end tag på hud
og afstumpede nik gennem bevoksede ***
*
I metroen;
altid metroen et ikke *** vi kører imod
et transportmiddel der opsluger. du kan se det i øjnene på disse ”mennesker” i ikke-rummet.
og ud på skinnerne, de drømmer, stigende over kanten. En stemme;
attention à la marche en descendant du train
og jeg retter opmærksomhed, for jeg stoler mere og mere på stemmer uden ansigter
på højtalermagt
end på alle de mennesker, jeg kender.
*
I metroen;
jeg er så træt af at være træt af hans opførsel
catcalling som fænomen, der stammer fra metroens ikke-rum
det må det gøre !
den opslugende kraft, han kan lugte den den hænger i luften,
og alle er usikre
må man gerne efterlade sit liv inden man stiger ind?
attention à ton corps et ta voix
du ved aldrig hvilket ansigt han bærer
*
det er en forventning om at være utilpas, der bor i mig.
en forventning om
at blive catcallet
at mærke fremmede mænds hænder på min krop
at iklæde mig tøj jeg tør gå alene hjem i
at sove på gulvet hos venner for at undgå natbussen
*
jeg ved godt
at ikke alt er mit eget valg
*
og jeg brækker mig i metroen i en uber på gaden i min egen opgang
og jeg skammer mig over skammen
den skam forbundet med fremmedes ord og handlinger
*
du ventede engang på boulevard Saint-Denis
og en mand spurgte dig om hvor meget du kostede for at være hans
én hel nat
og det tog mig én hel dag at forstå din tavshed overfor ham
han kan ikke gå og forvente at alle kvinder på gaden potentielt kan være hans til den rette pris
VI EJER IKKE HINANDEN
OG JEG ER TRÆT AF MIG SELV
NÅR JEG LØBER VEJEN FRA MIN METRO TIL MIN HOVEDDØR
og ånder lettet op
bag en låst dør
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
I am dead to her.
It breaks my heart.
No returned calls.
No response to messages.
Nothing.
Ghosting is what they call this.
I am dead to her.
Yet, I am the one grieving.
Mariette St-Denis
Poem 2
#2021mariettepoems
January 2021
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 11:25 AM UTC
Fable VII, Livre III.
« Au diable soient les étourdis
Qui m'ont fait une horrible tache !...
Qu'ai-je dit, une ? en voilà dix ;
Et c'est à mon velours pistache ! »
Ainsi parlait monsieur Denis,
Marchand fameux dès l'ancien règne,
Marchand connu de tout Paris,
Marchand de soie à juste prix,
Du moins si j'en crois son enseigne.
« Conçois-tu bien tout mon malheur,
Ma fille ! un velours magnifique,
Un velours de cette couleur,
Va donc rester dans ma boutique !
L'art du dégraisseur n'y peut rien.
L'eau de Dupleix, à qui tout cède,
Est sans vertu ! - Mon père ! - Eh bien ?
- Essayons un autre remède ;
Envoyons l'étoffe au brodeur.
- Elle a raison ! » - Notre grondeur
Suit le conseil de la fillette.
Amis, plus souvent qu'on ne croit,
La tache est tout juste à l'endroit
Où l'on voit briller la paillette.
992
I do hope everything goes as arranged.
As it is but a delusion sometimes,
everything in this obscured brain 'o mine.
(Yes, I hope it works out.) :::
Maybe, somehow.
Sigh
Life has it's way of being a schmuck.
Perhaps, we could live in our heads. Die in our beds. Become ghost and bobble around hospital beds, secretly trying to make the living better and happier.
Because we are virtuous ghost.
Quite content with being so.
And I'd be happy, if you are happy.
And if you are sad, I am eminently sorry you became a ghost bobbling around hospital beds,
secretly trying to make
the living
happier,
better
and all of those ethical, virtuous
things.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
I’ve made a poetic century
Though my technique is not sound
Consider it a great victory
I’ve succeeded in HELLO POETRY ground
I am not a natural striker of the ball
Ran very hard for twos and singles
Batted with the defence of a great wall
Faced quite a few bouncers
I may lack Rangzeb’s batting grace
My style may be awkward
And I am afraid of George’s lethal pace
My foot work is undoubtedly wayward
I am an instinctive player
Know not the subtleties of spin or pace
And dedicate this century to Denis Barter
I am happy to be in the batting race
I salute the wonderful audience
For watching my indecent play
With a lot of patience
This new year makes their lives so gay
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 2:53 AM UTC
:
It's true that God deserves the best... yet loves the Widow's mite...
That tiny gift showed Christ impressed... because He had insight...
He knew that she gave all she had... that she held nothing back...
At such a time when feeling sad... and things were looking black...
She humbles us, though unnamed still... yet Jesus loved her so...
For she obeyed the Father's will... her money she let go...
:
With empty hands, she walked away... because she gave her all...
She didn't merely kneel and pray... for one more miracle...
She knew that God deserves the best... that's why she was so brave...
Of course, she hoped that she'd be blessed... according to her faith...
Perhaps she heard the Saviour teach... and revelation came...
Yet He's the reason that we preach... God's Good News stays the same...
:
And should we ask for partners now... that they may too invest...
To Heaven's Throne, we humbly bow... since God deserves the best...
Disciples come... disciples go... yet bills must still be paid...
And so we keep you in the know... so you come to our aid...
For without you and all your love... our future would look grim...
We simply pray God grants enough... so you... help us... help Him...
:
Denis Martindale, September 2018.
:
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
I hate and love this place.
I hate the long line of people I have to serve,
filled with naggy mothers,
bleached, fried hair,
silicone bodies the color of bacon.
I hate the heavy ache in my feet,
sign of a long shift,
having to serve food to thankless patrons.
I hate how the juicy, salty burgers taste so good,
adding unwanted lumps and bumps.
Grease sizzling, popping in the air,
Sticking to your skin, permeating your hair.
And yet,
I love the sound of Denis's voice breaking through the blanket of shrieks,
telling me hello in his clipped English.
I love the sizzling of traitorous patties on the grill,
looking for love in someone's stomach.
I love the constant banter between Thomas and me.
I always let him win.
I love seeing the cute, scruffy arcade repairman as he comes to my register
waiting for me to offer a free icee.
He always pays for it anyway.
This place annoys me all the time,
the screams of children, the lack of tips, the way my skin peels off from my fingers,
an ugly result of having to wash my hands every 5 minutes.
And yet, I love it.
Every inch,
the good and the bad.
All of it.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Toad called Denis
wanted to cross a road, and.
did not want to get flattened by a truck
so took all the advise he could find
but did not learn to well.
so smashed right up
asked GOD?
Why could I not cross that road
GOD replied
Your just a toad.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC