"diehard" poems
The air conditioner hiccups,
as the second half of
Cole Berlin crosses himself--
a face deeply creased by consequence,
looks to the west,
a surrendering sun fractured--
broken by hundreds of stories--
tons of concrete--
mountains of glass,
and the gentlest gloom.
Mr. Berlin's body devours itself--
as the critics and even the diehard fans
run out of time to play "remember when".
The reality enters,
at first no more than an annoying stomach pang,
then growing,
feasting,
shouting,
until each cell knows--
no time for the comeback.
Whatever beams of sun were once banded,
now dismiss themselves,
as night subs in--
Mr. Berlin, closes the curtains of his mind,
falls to the floor,
"Sorry folks, no encore this time".
A week he lay festering,
no more a replica--
only a ruin.
A fly in a web,
rotating on a world without end,
the record, it spits, skips, smolders in ditch,
contaminating the soil,
the virus gently purrs perfection,
no hiccup, no hallucination--
only swag up for collection.
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 7:12 PM UTC
everything is so ****** up
I'm bleeding enough blood to fill a cup
I hate you
but I need you
I gave you my all
my love for you was tall
but its crashing down
all over this ******* town
they say let it go
as they watch me cry like a show
I want to rip my eyes out
saying I love you with a shout
**** love
give me diamonds
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Anathema's flag
flies no more?
Save at half-mast
in the hearts of diehard's;
forever, 'general-ly'. (lee)
Will Kromantse (Cromatin) blood rise
to salute this gesture?
Will it change our children's future?
Waged (media) war,
whitewashing the *****
a creed
of socio-economic
greed.
© Qwey.ku
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
*There are moments when it’s barely perceptible
An incessant itchy scratch creasing the soul’s walls
Culminating into sparkly luminescent smiles
Dancing eerily on a day dreamer’s visage
Or a soft pain lodged deep into the abyss of the soul
A laceration to the soul
That throbs rhythmically almost in tandem
To the heart’s diehard throb
When it’s too overwhelming a circumstance
Them eyes become awash with emotion riddled tears
Cascading in an unheralded kind of way
Down the glorious hallways of faceless facades.*
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
As I look out of the window
My head laid back against the cushion
Of my side lower berth
My eyes open wider and wider
As they gaze upon the surroundings
The trees, the bushes, the greenery
The mountains, the tunnels, the bridges
The surrounding railway lines, the crossing trains
It is a vivid, and most enchanting dream
However, all good things come to an end
All of a sudden, I am ****** back to reality
As I feel a tingling sensation
I swing around in alarm
And see a creepy little cockroach
Scuttle across the seat
Evidently having made its home here
As I angrily brush the insect aside
I keep my fingers crossed
Hoping against hope
That this is the exception to the rule
After all, hope springs eternal
However, as always, Murphy's law strikes
The little devil is soon followed
By its brother, sister, father and mother
As a family of these incorrigibly evil pests
Unleash a reign of terror
Such that, even the most diehard railfans
Vow never to seet foot in an Indian train again
Especially in a non-AC coach
Frankly, this is the last straw
That broke the hapless camel's back
Dear Railway Minister
You may introduce bullet trains
You may electrify the entire network
You may connect India with China
But, unless and until the day arrives
When we can travel in a clean train
Without the numbing and overpowering fear
Of these evil pests and rodents
Your words mean as much to us
As grass to a lion or tiger
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
The emails have not been kind of
Late –
It’s not sadistic publishers
Or die-hard groupies
(well, mostly not)
No it’s people getting in touch
Wanting a taste of the good stuff
Their mouthful of meat
What they believe is theirs,
A weight I should carry.
Sometimes it’s about poetry,
I only wish more of it was –
But mainly it’s people
With nowhere to turn
And no thought for my situation.
I try and assuage their grief
But it’s no good
I cannot do it.
One day I can take no more,
I am staring at the ceiling
And I hear the telling ping.
I hit delete
It could be Jesus gone viral
But I doubt it,
Even He knows
I’m past saving.
Then I know it’s a diehard,
My phone begins to make
Continual pinging noises;
An ****** of woe.
The buggar then begins to
Ring.
I could fling him across
Main Street
But I only bought him
Two days ago.
He’s not worth it,
And goes away,
Before I can blow.
But sure enough,
There is no peace for the wicked:
Beep, beep
Ring, ring
Ping, ping
I picked it up, primed
“What do you want?!” I bellow.
“Oh... I’m sorry Mr. Hinton, just
To let you know this is Nurse
Georgia, reminding you about your
Appointment this Friday?”
I told her I’d be
There for her.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
dainty
dashing
deep
delectable
----
delicate
decisive
dear
devoted
----
dreaming
darling
dauntless
deniable
----
dedicated
diehard
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
protean nucleic processes polemic yield
explosive diversification
punctuated diversification
Stephen Jay Gould
paleontological hypothesis
spawning sudden flora and fauna
competed against diametrically
opposed diatribe
pairing diehard religionists
versus doubting Thomists
which creationist advocates
threatened non-believers
with damnation and eternal punishment
brethren of god thru tongue did wield
pompous empiricists
fire and brimstone sermons
excruciating punishment of soul
claimants who refute
intelligent design theorists
will meet scimitar and invincible shield!
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
*The tomato soup and the onions
are committed to the sweet potatoes
destruction
Ramin Noodles have nothing but revulsion
for a container of raisins , a box of aluminum foil ,
a pack of crawfish boil
The oven pursues the death of the microwave ,
the refrigerator turns on a bottle of cheap Kroger wine
The toaster oven whines , the kitchen faucet continues to
shine , the asparagus awaits the end of time in a salted
brine , the full sink resembles a modern shrine
Paper plants gather dust , drain pans rust , the garbage is left
untouched , the ceiling fan is in a diehard , unbalanced rush
The house occupants are post vacation slovenly , piles of
clothes are where they want to be , dust bunnies will be handled
another day , a chilled goblet , an old movie , the dress code
pajamas , its residents lie exhausted and anonymous* ...
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
fact or fiction),
his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
sans legendary, fraternity,
and consanguinity subsequently implemented
faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra
necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
within loco motive conveyance
doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
great barrier reef Atoll
lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
(one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
Equus caballus neighing boar)
feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
a deafening applause
resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing ****** pillaging,
And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a *****
telltale global devastation
impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
choking with despair,
thus imperative to grab hold collective
figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
environmental fractured glare
ring ****** impailment here
and everywhere.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
I always wanted a diehard romantic, one who would write me poetry
Someone to create mix tapes whose lyrics would speak of our love.
But I am that romantic. My heart tied up in words and clever verse.
You speak a different tongue: your actions are your words:
You were there at every gig though it never was demanded.
Offered to stay with me in Brussels when cancellations left me stranded.
You share my tastes in fantasy, sci-fi, food and alcohol.
The way you lift my confidence when self-doubt takes it's hold.
You put my needs before your own, in this way you are selfless.
The gifts you give are well thought out, you're always going off-list.
You support me through the bad times, you're a shoulder through grief.
The time you turned up unannounced, I stood open-jawed in disbelief.
You never ask me to change my ways, you choose to love me for me.
At weekend you let me lie-in, then pop up with 'Morning!' and tea.
These are the actions you speak for me,
Louder than words, your poetry.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 2:01 PM UTC
Dastardly diehard downs dark draft
Ardent adventurers admire affectionately
Solemnly sure something serious stirs
Here handling hunger and homesickness
Ideally in ignoble inns
Not noble nor negligible
Gently grinning ****** gaucho gotcha
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 6:53 AM UTC