"donation" poems
kung bibigyang halaga ang pag-ibig
siguro, pulubi na ako
pagpalagay nating
isang daan na lamang ang pera ko
at bawat pagkilos
ay tatapatan natin ng
sampung piso
sampung piso para huwag mo akong i-seenzone sa fb
sampung piso para huwag mo akong i-unseenzone sa fb
sampung piso para i-chat o text mo naman ako
sampung piso para bawasan 'yang init ng ulo mo
sampung piso para patawarin mo ako
sampung piso para kausapin mo naman ako nang maayos
sampung piso para maintindihan kung ano ba 'yang gusto mo
sampung piso para malaman kung ano ba talaga ang nararamdaman mo
sampung piso para bigyang-oras mo naman ako at magka-ayos tayo
at itong huling sampung piso
iaalay ko na lamang sa donation box ng chapel
baka sakaling dapuan ako ng milagro
at matauhan din ako sa katangahang ito
dahil ubos na ang pera ko
ngunit 'di ko pa rin mabili
ang pag-ibig mo.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
I stood there,
Tall and proud,
Half yard behind
Death drop,
Vortex form at toes,
Put fish world in spin.
Crush moss trees with
Splashing feet.
One long gaze
Left to right,
Miles of pool and stream
Spelling poetry in cursive
Through eroded landscape.
Zip down,
Junk out.
Open gates of flesh tap
Muscle relax,
Fresh release
Of human nectar.
Light separation
Casting rainbow shimmer,
A dancing upright
Tower of liquid.
Gravity outstretch
Palm grip
And connect
Via web of
Golden pour,
Chaps eye to
Mother earth.
A converging
Of torrents,
Saturating transparent terrain
With saffron and lemon.
The taste in a frog's mouth
Of sweet ammonia.
Clench,
And donation over.
A momentary meld
Of man and nature.
Those few seconds
Putting context into me:
At one with the scenery,
An extension of environment,
A limb of creation.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
See them standing on the podium of promises
Tickling us to wed them into power
As we stand under the burning sun, sweaty as ever
All ears to their flowered words of which they caress
And powdered our minds with.
They donate maggi, salt, wears and the root of all evil,
To further blind our minds and instinct.
Like goats following a hand with a palm fruit,
We chased them with high hopes to the polls,
Like Esau of old we repay their donation with our votes.
Their desires were met, now in power
At serious battle against their promises,
Our faith getting lean, our hopes bleed in response to their policies.
The opposition jubilant for the failure of the electorates.
Soon, they awoke into reality, spur to abort incumbent reign.
Some took to bombs, guns, cutlasses, few to the streets.
The opposition soldiers are thugs, always hungry to ****
The masses weapons are their mouth, placards,
And solidarity songs, they walk and sing.
They say when elephants fight the grasses suffer
I wonder who are the elephants or the grasses indeed.
A place that suppose to be our home now a battle field
Where everyone fights for self survival
Forgetting the unborn, our toddlers, our heroes past.
It is high time we talked and sack the thugs
But who will moderate
Who will faithfully give audience, who will sincerely talk?
The elite, the elected seems like they are war ready
They have well set up their political troops
A war they won't stand to fight
But escape through thinning air off our sight.
In a molding state
Pigs dare to preach sanity
In a world of questions, ignorance remain the worst cancer
And the apex poverty.
Let not fold our hands and live to die in this doom
If your lips are scared, let your pen speak.
Let not throw in the towel
Until we justfully elapse the reign of the unwanted in one peace.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂
Fatherless broods, whose mothers hoped for change
Fight the law, abort their restoration;
Attack, burn, riot… consider nothing strange
Extorting payout from their host nation.
Fatherhood, dark elephant in the room,
Denigrated, dissed by baby-mamas
In his absence, speaks potently of doom
(Apparently blessed by both Obamas…)
***** donation, filling the wombs with child,
Disorganized communities, off-course
Guarantee police work when thugs run wild.
With marriage faltering in the race: lame horse.
Inhuman nature being what it is
Be careful who you shoot—and hold your ****
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
I Send my words hurling into your airway like swords
I bite off your tongue with every sharp response my body conjures
I have every witty comeback on speed dial to drill into your spine
The way your gays drilled into mine Pull old pennies from my pockets and throw them into your eyes
So you may not look at me the way you have for so long
You're are barely worth my pennies anyways
Here's a donation to your sorry ***
How about I grasp your neck, at just the right spot, just hard enough, to crush your voice box
To dwindle your air pipe just a little
So you cannot throw those trash comments at anyone else
How about I crack each of your fingers
Push them deep into your pockets
So that you can't feel anything without remembering me
You look at me like a mannequin in the window of your favorite retail store
You try yo put a price on what I'm worth
Maybe you can try me on
Throw me on the floor
Grab another
How about I tattoo my name on your chest
So that you cannot take off another piece of clothing
Take off another girl
Throw them in the floor
And not remember me
You will never throw me on the floor again
For I am permanently burned into your chest
How about I burn off each hair on your body
One at a time let it Sizzle down and sear the skin
Let each tiny poor feel the pain one at a time over and over and over again
Until you are left, raw
This
Is the day I speak back when you catcall me from across the street
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
It was an AR15 that the kid used.
A gun that, in this free world, men can indulge and abuse.
A boy who saw him load his gun,
the gunman saw and simply said run,
A word that made the child flee for his life,
just before waves of bullets came upon the school,
The kid looked on and asked himself
why is life so cruel.
How many more people have to die,
before its ****** metal, not tears, that your children cry.
This free world, rife with argument by silly politicians
Men that make decisions, without experience of the repercussions.
This gunman was not a delinquent, he was a child.
Born of your failed systems, born of your sick traditions.
A boy who without second thought, took up his assault rifle
and headed into war with the children that learned ambition with him,
emotion and sudden movement that made them all feel just that little bit stifled.
This free world is one with a core of rights,
A doubled edged dagger,
a topic of discussion that makes the average fat man want to fight.
‘Over my cold dead body’ he said.
LET ME HAVE MY GUN
Because whilst others use it for fun,
the protection I have outweighs the fact
that when a 19 year old comes to school,
all the other kids have to run.
It’s ridiculous, heck its thoroughly imbecilic,
How children have to be careful of the education system,
not because of a
nationwide test
but a,
nationwide threat
of grown men,
looking to prove their ego,
men that can’t go against the party line
that fail to realise that life is more important
than the next donation
than the dollar sign.
You want protection? That’s completely fine.
Just don’t use the bodies of your children
as meat shields and pretend everything’s fine.
Don’t say you’ll do something as if something will change
because nothing will change unless it does.
This free world is not filled with love but truly its filled with hate,
A bloodlust so dense, even children’s blood cannot sate it’s thirst.
Until it's more than just a child hurt, but a country with a bullet wound
Caused by people, who love guns so much but blame it on the loons.
Your pain, I cannot prove.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 6:46 AM UTC
Though in dexterity my physically challenged carpenter father,
Than the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground he enjoyed never!
From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother, why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?
I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?
I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a school,
Where for my provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.
Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.
When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
T'was just before Christmas and I went down to the garage
To have my old car looked at by a fellow known as "Sarge"
He said I need tires and my wipers weren't so hot
My hoses all were leaking and my muffler was shot
The repairs just kept on coming and I saw a sparkle in his eyes
He was counting all my money, he was the devil in disguise
I told him "Thanks, but I would go and get another look"
Before I signed for his repair list and I was on the hook
So I went on to my friend's place to see what he could do
We've been friends for nearly 30 years...since 1982.
His mechanic took it out back and while he had it on the hoist
I saw a woman at the counter, looking rather moist
She said my car is leaking there's a hole that must be filled
I thought that if Rob had a coffee, it'd most certainly be spilled
A girl came in and she told Rob her boyfriend had loose nuts
And whenever he was driving her, they slid into the ruts
Rob stepped back, grinned a bit as he was looking down her front
And from where I stood behind her I could almost see her
Donation to the Angel tree that was standing in the corner
A door opened, a breeze blew in, and there was no time to warn her
Her skirt blew up, exposing her tattoo of some sprigs of holly
And Rob came round and covered her just like Sir Walter Raleigh
I'm sorry miss, for I did look when your skirt was lifted
And I must say, you made my night, for my drive shaft has shifted
And then a man came through the door and said "My name is Nick"
"I've problems with my reindeer and I need them seen to quick"
Rob said "we work on cars here sir , I can fix tires or a hose"
"It's nothing major son, I need a bulb for Rudolph's nose"
"It doesn't stay on like it should and the other deer get frantic"
"And I can't risk it going out when I'm over the Atlantic"
"So, if you would replace it now with something nice and bright"
"I'd pay you well for all your time and for aiding in my plight"
Rob stepped up, fixed Rudolph's nose and said "This one's on me"
"And for all work done in my shop you get a guarantee"
We all stood round as Santa left, for we new that it was him
For he left us each a candy cane in a metal alloy rim
And as we watched him fly away, I'm sure we heard him yell
"There's mistletoe tattooed on her too, but...where I'll never tell!"
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
When Dracula went to the blood bank,
he thoroughly flustered the staff,
for rather than make a donation,
he drew out a pint and a half.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
A needle through my vein,
and it runs, into a bag.
To be donated to someone,
someone who needs it
more than I do.
I happily give, but in return
receive two biscuits and
a bottle of water.
My body will regenerate it.
My soul will never feel it.
My life will never need it.
A bag of myself,
for someone else is given.
Appreciated it is,
as an unknown face,
that smiles on receiving.
A piece of myself is gone,
in the process of giving.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.
Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.
I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.
My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.
I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.
They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.
The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.
The ghetto sperm-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity
BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
Enticing poppy,
an unwitting aid,
one vial of your blood
they **** to accrue.
I’ve never felt you
course deep through my veins
yet, my soul's tarnished,
family destroyed.
**** you, sweet flower,
repossess your gift
that eats from within.
We’ve no want for the
paltry donation
encased in syringe.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
I want to talk to you.
Driving over a fresh carpet of snow, this is a mix of belting Joni Mitchell
and shouting **** as I say a quick prayer
and slam on the brake.
Being an individual today.
Having an imagination today,
that took me so close to you that
it scared me.
I want to talk to you.
Today I described to somebody
the way you dance.
Laughing, I described to somebody else
how you make me smile
and to the same person
how ridiculous this is.
Girl I need an instruction manual to handle you.
I want to talk to you for no good reason other than that I do.
Today I worried and I clawed at my face
and a donation box outside of a Starbucks made me think of you and soften my eyes.
Easy
frightening
a little bit out of control
My legs felt weak in the shower today after months of flying me over to you.
I will give them a rest for a while.
I want to talk to you.
I climbed up a poem as if completely vertical while I was waiting.
It ****** It was hard.
Kiss me.
(I'm sorry, that was rather forward.)
You are a deep bass note hitting hard in the back of my ribs.
I will chase you down a side street, tripping on bricks,
Soaking in the rich autumnal breeze,
mouth aching from smiling too long,
and after I catch my breath from laughing
maybe I might
--not saying anything concrete--
kiss you.
But all I ask of you tonight,
all I can earnestly implore with a distant vision of clutching your hand
is that we talk.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
As so many of you have had difficulty purchasing “We Walked in His Garden” here at HP, I have decided to post the book in its entirety at Poetfreak (www.poetfreak.com). I do alas have one final request to ask of you all. As this project was initially intended to benefit The Matthew Talbot Hostel, a homeless shelter that was very dear to Paddy’s heart, I would ask that you please consider making a small donation to this worthy cause. The amount is entirely up to you.
Checks in any currency may be made out to the Matthew Talbot Hostel and mailed to:
The Matthew Talbot Hostel
22 Matthew Talbot Place,
Woolloomooloo NSW 2011
Australia
If you managed to purchase the book here, I assure you that 100% of what you paid will soon be on its way to them.
Well, with this I must say goodbye for a while. I have some personal issues to attend that simply cannot wait any longer. You have all been wonderful throughout and have shown that although we may have very different ways of looking at the world, deep down, we are a family that truly cares about one another. When you think about it, there can be no greater honor to the memory of Paddy Martin than that.
Patrick
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 6:42 AM UTC
A day will certainly come
As sure as we breathe
When our creator will ask of us
What we did to aid the oppressed
On that day
As surely as who created you
Created me too
It will not be about religion but humanity
When carefully planned and organised jets
Launched rockets
To bomb populated refugee camps
Schools and apartment blocks
At a defenceless opposition
Without an air force or navy
Heavy weapons or artillery
Command or armour
**That's not war
It's ******
It's cold blooded massacre**
As a woman shot in the stomach
Gives birth to a cold blue baby
And a world across oceans changes channels tuning in to the next world cup champion
It was never about taking sides
Israel vs Palestine
There is a truth
To which we must remove the blindfold of ignorance
Searching for a voice of right
Amongst the cries of pain hatred and anger
The sign in a city
Where there is too much to see
Finding peace amongst people who are not ours
Because I see hypocrisy of nations
Who stand for human rights
But only when the human shares a matching ideology
I see hypocrisy amongst media
Where a million wounds and shades of blood
Are inked into black and white letters
Today I read 'An Israelian was killed whilst a dozen Palestinians died'
They turned humans into numbers
Quantitative data
They couldn't possibly de-sensitize it any further
I mean look at the verbs in which they phrased that
I see hypocrisy amongst Muslims
Who stand equal and united
Yet they too turn backs when the interest is not beneficial
And the pitiful nation falls divided
Whether it is a prayer
A strike, a boycott or vigil
A protest or petition
Maybe even a donation
There's a thousand ways to help
But very few who do
So what did you do?
Was it out of sight out of mind for you?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Some stand on the corner and seek a donation.
Stating nothing more.
I believe some of the nicest people, are the homeless?
Now, the meanest are?
Mmmm those with negative comments.
Why?
Don't they get a job?
Good point?
Except, those that donate do so from the heart.
And yes, some are hustlers with a job?
But those with cars might not be homeless at all.
We know not their stories and many have a testimonial to encourage another.
But in my heart, I believe the homeless, are some of the nicest people?
Have you been around those judgemental church folks?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
in-call only, 32nd and 5th
that's a brothel
NEW
visiting
that's human trafficking
INDEPENDENT
looking for a kind and mature gentleman
200 roses
all sorts of devices
all fetishes
2 girls for one
this is not an offer for prostitution
donation is required for my time and companionship only
no email
no text
call when ready
im your best choice
toe curling excitement over and over again
100% real pics
i drive myself
no rush
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
This week, Jesse Herndon has more on her plate than the typical high school student.
She has spent hours after school each day making calls, finalizing details for an event happening Sunday.
Collecting donated items for an upcoming silent auction. Calling every bakery in Greensboro.
“It’s very stressful,” said Herndon, a junior at Weaver Academy.
But it’s all for a good cause.
She’s organizing an event with free pastries, live music, a fashion show and a silent auction, which will be held at 7 p.m. Sunday night at The Blind Tiger, 1819 Spring Garden Street in Greensboro.
Admission is $4 with the donation of clothing of any size. The goal is to collect clothes that would comply with Standard Mode of Dress, or SMOD, the uniforms required at some local schools.
The fashion show will feature clothes from Plato’s Closet, Mack and Mack, and Patina Bridal and Formals.
The silent auction would include items such as Weaver Academy student artwork and a gift bag full of beauty products valued at about $200. Herdon is still seeking donations of items to auction.
The event will benefit Backpack Beginnings, a local organization that provides food and clothing for thousands of local needy children.
All 127 Guilford schools have a dress code, but a few dozen require students to wear uniforms.
Some parents have complained about the cost of buying the uniforms. They’ve also complained that the uniform dress codes vary from school to school, requiring additional clothes purchases if a child changes schools.
Parents and some students also described dress code violations for wearing a jacket with a hood, a logo deemed too large or the wrong color shoelaces.
“SMOD is really expensive,” Herdon said. She knows because her sisters have attended SMOD schools.
In January, the Guilford County Board of Education unanimously approved changes to its policy on SMOD. Principals of current SMOD schools have until June to survey parents on whether to continue requiring students to wear uniforms in the 2015-16 school year.
Now, school administrators at traditional schools also have to get public input before requiring uniforms. Ever two years, traditional schools with SMOD have to reconsider requiring uniforms and demonstrate public support for the policy.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
the church used my burning soul to light the candles for every service / my innocence floated away with the smoke from the censer / the past and present clashed like cymbals / and it hurt my ears.
time ran down the slippery slope of the hourglass / my vocal cords struggled to come together / oxygen left the air / and my flame was nearly extinguished.
so no / I will not give a cent / because I was the donation shared amongst everyone else / even as I burned.
no more.
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 7:16 PM UTC
A child without water,
a rich man drinks his coffee.
A father unable to provide,
a rich kid gets a new car.
A mother lies awake, body ravaged by AIDS,
while the Hollywood hills expose their costly ills.
The dream of equality is nowhere to be found
while the lives of the many are repressed and pushed down.
Executives and suits lived gluttonous youths
while a father works to death to fill his children’s mouths.
There is a solution to this problem of society,
one which the telethon celebs won’t give up quietly.
It doesn’t involve guilt-trips on TV.
It doesn’t need attention constantly.
Socialites shouldn’t seek their own satisfaction
if the only result is our continued inaction.
What is really necessary, what really needs doing,
is to get out there and get ourselves moving.
It’s the work of us commoners
that will fill up the bellies.
It’s the donation of the middle class
that will educate young ladies.
The revolution of giving needs to be started
or else who will care when our own lives grow stunted?
The world all together relies on us all
to give out our hand and make our brothers stand tall.
It’s these simple acts which will strengthen the pillars
of mutual respect for our society’s sisters.
So don’t wait any longer for a celeb to rise up.
It’s these people below them who’ll fill up the cup.
No debutante or heir can fill every belly
by thinking of their pride and unearned glory.
Never before has it felt so right
to be the common man, helping a peer in his plight.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
We were drinking coffee when
depression showed up at the door of the home we built, pounding.
Eviction notice in hand,
your soul parceled out into donation bins.
Foreclosure sign,
caution tape around the chest that I slept on for a year.
I sit out in the sun
to bleach the tan line from my ring finger.
I hold cold cups and shake strangers’ hands
to erase the mould of your grasp from mine.
I want to sear off my palms.
I miss even those nights when you looked at my fire and laughed.
So I make you coffee (but I know I make it wrong);
your ghost in this house still criticizes.
I made you coffee every day because it was all I could do;
my only way of getting into you, a vector.
As the hot brew flowed past your heart, I watched,
like a child at Christmas, hoping you’d feel my love.
Hoping the glaze would clear up from your eyes.
I only wish this were a bond that stayed,
that stayed when your mind put plugs in your ears:
when I screamed and screamed that I loved you,
that I’d rock every little thing you regret to sleep.
I went to the doctor about this dizziness.
He checked my ears, he asked why my eyes were red.
This vertigo--a hurricane made by the page turning in my life.
I am a bag in your wind.
The day you left I wrote you a recipe for how you like your coffee,
because you don’t know, but I have it memorized.
My handwriting changes halfway down the page, as I change,
as you drive farther and farther away.
Our love is a child I’ve carried,
now I’m bent over, sick.
Loss took your place in our home,
but it’s unsteady on its feet;
I have to walk it from room to room.
My name has been yours, possessive.
And although these days I correct myself and say ‘I’ during speech,
My thoughts are still ‘we.’
I still think about your lungs when I cough.
So I still make us coffee every day (but I know I make it wrong).
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC