"dennis" poems
Though miles may lie between us, we're never far apart,
for relationship doesn't count the miles;
it's measured by the heart.
“Don't measure the distance;
measure my love."
We are the perfect couple;
we're just not in the perfect situation.
I can’t wait for it to come to reality.
I wish that you were here or that I were there,
or that we were together anywhere.
Miles away and you are still right here, in my heart and mind;
Here in my heart, that’s where you’ll be;
you’ll be with me, here in my heart.
No distance can keep us apart, long as you’re here in my heart.
Copyright: Rose Dennis Rodriguez: 03-03-2011
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
My wish for you is that you have a neverending series of dreams and a furious desire to realize a few of them. My wish for you is that you love what must be loved and forget what must be forgotten. I wish you passions. I wish you silences. My wish for you is that you hear the songs of birds and the laughter of children at your awaking. My wish for you is that you resist the downtroddenness, the indifference, the negative virtues of our era.My wish for you especially is that you be YOU!(translated from the French by Dennis O'Connor)
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
[Intro: Honey *******
You ******* ******* stink
Go take a ******* shower
Schwag. Asian *******
[Verse 1: Honey *******
****** I ain't got time for a stupid broad
Cause bro I'm 'bout to beat a ***** and probably lose my job
**** I'm a bubble
Listen, ***** I tell you cool it off
Cause acting smart'll get you deaded
***** I rule the spot
Now, homie, I ain't ******* down to catch a charge, bro
Now her body found the same place she had parked, bro. (Whoops! [x3])
I forgot my ******* ride for me
Cause these ******* that drive for me
Are these ******* flying for free
I gain mine. There's a difference. You remember that
Cause I'm always hungry for the **** that I ain't never had
This here is baby food and be all like, ***** **** a snack! "
See ****** who said I'm crap is asking me to hit 'em back
***** **** that!
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 2: Honey *******
Oh, here I go. There they go in this here game again
Now these ******* praying they gon' never hear my name again
But look, I'm a stay around even although they acting like I can't
I don't sleep at all cause it'll always be my time again
That means I work hard, homie. I don't play around, dawg
Better cut this ******** or your face'll meet the ground, dawg
But after all, it's for the haters and the groupies, though
Find me at the studio
The smart ***** with a stupid flow
**** delivery. Got fans who in the dance
Now my enemies got plans
They just searching for a chance
**** friends cause I'm married to the music
***** cause I gained the world and die before I lose it
So cool it
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 3: Tyga]
***** back, back. Why your *** so flat?
Tell your best friend I want that
I don't pretend, ***** and I don't act
Why you all up in my chat?
Telling people that you know him
If I lend you all on my back
Criss-cross, you wiggedy-wack! (Aghh!)
Duplicating my racks
Introduce you to my life
Yeah, my gold heavy metal
You can't rock out on my level
Yeah, yeah. That's a red Ferarri
And I'm dancing with the devil
***** testing me, you get answers
**** a ***** quick fast, like cancer. (Aghh!)
(Well, well) Make a ***** rubbin money on my **** till it swell, swell
And ya money, money shorter than a elf, elf
And I keep cool J's like LL
(Hell yeah) I don; t wanna start nuttin' ***** lemme finish
All in a ***** net ***** mouth like a dentist
(Dennis) Rodman. Come on, come on
***** is you with it, with it?
Cause I ain't
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
**We’re Gonna Need Some Sunglasses For This Mushroom Cloud
Gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
it’s 6AM I’m in LA it’s been a long night for sure,
just gotta get into that cafe get that cappuccino,
then get safely unnoticed and back to the idling car,
Jar,
of Flies,
sorry I’m not sorry,
that’s a bad reference to 1995,
bad because Jar of Flies was a different year,
different year different name,
’95 was self-titled,
‘Alice In Chains’,
remind me again,
what the heck we’re talking about,
this poem has no parameters,
it’s off course but still going along,
gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
like my glasses like I like my roast,
with my Valentino’s and dark cappuccino,
and you with your mimosa my dear Yoda let us toast,
“To the Next Episode!” let’s go,
No Dre though it’s more of a Good Day,
not to be rude to Ice Cube but I got ice cubes in my flute,
in perpetual motion from chronic transitions of change,
and when I say Change I’m not talking about Rock The Vote,
because we all see where voting got us,
now we got ‘ Donald Duck Mr. Talk A lot of Nonsense’,
we got that stone cold soviet ****** Kim Jong-un launching stunner missiles like Steve Austin,
dropping finishing moves ’Cold Stunning’ but instead of a drop kick he’s bomb launching,
we can’t even stop him as in Kim Jong-un with bad movies and meetings with Dennis Rodman,
Oh My God Son!
We’re really gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
have you ever seen the magnificence of an Atom Bomb,
a mushroom clouds of the most beautiful hues,
a moment of infinite Light just before the moment we’re all eternally gone…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆**
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
sugar plum
apple pie
an cherry pie
an blossoms of my heart
once upon a time
at christmas time
she is the sugar plum
of my heart.
an apple pie of my eye
on this christmas day
hear the song of song
sugar plum
sugar plum
don't break my heart
in two because i love you
true.
you my cream puff
of my heart .
an apple sauce
of my dream.
my little sugar plum
on this christmas day.
sugar plum
an gum drop
dream of heart
cherry pie what a delight.
on this christmas day.
she is my sugar plum
the apple of of my heart
my sugar plum
on this christmas day.
my sugar plum dream.
A SONG READ THREE TIME AN SING THAT A SONG
THANK YOU DENNIS GUNSTEEN
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 8:37 PM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.
Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.
Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***
i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
and then... **** gone, never
to be seen again...
Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
excuses?
irritability...
there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
and conversations,
after having completed a...
well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
**** i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.
p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
so i didn't block him?
*Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.*
and i still have the block option
handy...
mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
trippy ********
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
"Lighten up Francis" -Bill Murray, Stripes
I have you in my head
sitting down
reading
now you're
smiling
looking amused
as you realize
I'm making
you up
It's my hallucination
you'll wear what I say
I like what you had on
yesterday
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
FRED CARVER
3 days after Fred Carver
Was shot dead
In a craps game
We all gathered
At Sparkman’s Funeral Home
For the visitation
I was standing
Behind Fred’s ex-wife Thelma
When she reached into her purse
And dropped something
In the casket
I leaned over her shoulder
And watched a black spider
Crawl up Fred’s face
And disappear in his hair
-Dennis Gulling
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
"The Gathering Storm"
Shifting, churning, swirling, .... the breeze comes spritely
from the slate colored billows of the thunderclouds.
A gentle whisper at first,..... then building to a crescendo,
tickling the underbellies of leaves..... and rolling them over.
Bending the supple tips of branches to a rythmn
unknown to any author of music.
A rythmn of nature following no rules.......
and knowing no bounds.
What reason shall it follow,....
when the flapping of a sparrows wings,
And brief stirring of the air by a single bird,
......a half continent away
Shall have a cause and effect on what...
we feel pulsing against our exposed skin.
Is it not so with us,.... each one of us as a single sparrow,
flitting about and mingling with other creatures
Shall we not have an effect on that,.... that we touch
with our alterations of what is... and what was
We can only have hope,.. to manage the chaos
of the seeds that we sow... and the sprouts of our intellect.
Not knowing what will grow from our aspirations of changing that
that is .... to that,... that we dream it to be.
Shall we dare to become the God that we have worshipped .....
Shall we dare become the ... Sheperd's of the universe.
Perhaps, !! ..... but we must lay down the rules and know the bounds.
Let us not forget,..... we are but caretakers
for the creations of a greater spirit.
"The Gathering Storm"
Written By Dennis Gilchrist
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 9:07 AM UTC
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars
But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site
A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling
He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid
He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun
So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said
The End
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
I have to have time
to grind
myself into
poetry
where everything
is beautiful
even a
raven
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 10:43 AM UTC
Much fruit
from the
Poet tree
Today
Yumm
Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
Non sense fills void
better than anything else
and foreshadows
the outcome
No sense wrestling
these sounds down
to pale patois
of pretty pushes
when the page
is a sieve catching
eyes and what falls
from them
eyes emptied
heart emptied
shaken out like a trash can
On Tuesday
I read
Oak leaves
Under my porch light
they tell me no one has left
recently
I tell them
no one is here
anymore
to leave
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
Or when the door opens
are they just like
Whoa!
This is awesome!
Every
Single
Time
Not like they have to do
long range plannin'
Rotate the crops
Or put up for Winter
They have us
for that
'sif they smelled the danger
in big brains
Growled
Backed away
This
I think
they thought
Is it
the pinnacle
Let those big gangly
doofuses
Grow 'em
They're suckers
for a nuzzle
an' let'm touch u
Wah-woofin'-lah
free food
Don't think they ever imagined
At the beginning
They'd have us farming, canning
and Manufacturing
Gazillions
o' fuzzy wuzzys
to chew
on
Have us training to Ph.D.
In case they get an owie
prolly didn't anticipate
satellite collars though
Cats dominate the internet
Dogs the medical Market
My poetry
could use their marketing prowess
They even have us raising money
to take better care of more of them
You've seen
those sad commercials
As I prepare their dinner before my own
I realize
They've us
instead of reason
**** reason
Bark
******
Bark
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Charles Dennis
I was in my den, in my favorite chair with its
walls of wood and its shelves filled with wares from an
excursion I had taken to a far away land, and collected
these items to place where they stand.
I could hear the clock ticking, hear the wind howling outside,
while I held on to this shotgun, I had by my side.
I glanced out the window and all I could see
were blowing branches and leaves
that fell from the trees.
Wind blew in gusts, the rain started to fall, as I heard a
child's voice beginning to call. I could not make out just what
they said I had strange visions of ghosts in my head. As the rain fell harder
it came down in sheets like ghosts that move without any feet.
As night was waning, the flames started to rise in the
fireplace right in front of my eyes, as witches, goblins and
ghosts started to fly doing loops and dips
and spectacular dives.
My shotgun fell to the floor and right at that time I
heard a knock at the door, just as those witches, goblins
and scary old ghosts passed by. I opened the door as
scared as I was and there stood a goblin not quite
four foot one. It opened its mouth as I shook on
my feet and out came a phrase
“Hi, Trick or Treat.”
© 2009 Charles Dennis
www.charlesdennispoetry.com
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
To many complain
On others
Writes-
How about
Instead
Complaining-
Write-
Instead of maiming
Be polite-
In
Stead of claiming
To be right,
For once take
It your wrong-
Instead of turning abhoring
Into daily trending,
Make poetry beauty
With your poems and song,
Instead of minding everyone elses
Business.
Mind yours,
Instead of back talking-
Close your door.
If your not here to write
Leave this premises-
Instead of using jealously
As anger,
Put down your acts of dennis-
The mennis- instead of making f.e,a,r
Mongering this sites boutique-
Search inside yourself,
Fix the you that is weak.
If claims dont match no names
Hush, to your sleep.
I'm here to write-
Were here to write-
Not fight about your
Bad week.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Once a month in the ghost restaurant
we bring wine,
we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
about the cloacae
of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
tricked her into looking down
the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
in Canada, then selling all the fish
to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
la la la
to my grandson
who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
but hugging among men is an acquired skill
not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
about the secret meanings
of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
about hitchhiking in France
where trapped in a truck
in the remote alps
with a man’s hand on her thigh
she thwarts the tough guy
by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
Literature, home-grown.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC