"donnas" poems
she's got a face like a 1990's beauty queen
high waisted shorts
hair pulled over the top with a miniclip
gun tucked in the back
miniclip
on the front of
her blouse
setting them up
knocking them down
converse allstars that she paid $50 for
grazing the rocks by the waterfall
that she poses in front of
dear 1990's beauty queen
you'd like to be innocent again
but your brown eyes
are locked and loaded
it's just a small trick of fate
that you were born in this decade
the girls here are machine gun prima-donnas
and you were born into them
your high-waisted shorts
won't let you out of it
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
After lunchtime, and before tea
Donna quietly bade farewell
to Mr. Samuels
and to herself.
Calmly, she twisted the bolt
into the lock
and pleasantly drew the curtains
closed.
She gratefully glanced at a photo
of her dog
and touched the piano as an
afterthought.
Making quite certain that everything was
tidy, Donna swept up
some dust she had overlooked.
and then after lunchtime and before tea
on a perfectly pleasant tuesday morning
in a perfectly pleasant day in Donnas life
she sat herself down in the
center of the parlor
and without hesitation
ceremony
or further ado,
in 2 swift motions
cleanly slit her wrists.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:10 PM UTC
Today is Donna’s birthday –
All these many years later
I still remember it –
several times today I thought of her
and gently waved hi
Donna was the name of my first baby,
(short for Donald, my ex)
my girl baby who lived for 4 days
and then changed her mind.
She was a summer baby too.
When I think of both Donnas
I see tiny, Italian angels
petite , pretty little things
with brown golden hair.
I still see the dimples on their faces,
and the bright black light shining in their eyes…
Tonight I hold a candle in their memory
Tonight I drink to the summers of their birth,
Knowing that their lives will always live in me –
Both Donnas,
One, who came to me in childhood.
magically fused by friendship and something more –
and Baby Donna,
whose fragile body held such sweet life
Both Donnas,
who have been with me
through so many changing skies…
inside of me
where their faces are etched in crystal
and their wings
form a door.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
There is a world that no one knows
Where life unnoticed grows and thrives
Where birth and death and all between
Are scrutinised, yet are unseen
Where innocence and purity
In white are welcomed, full of hope
Impinging slowly, edging in
Life’s colour forming character
Where independent yellow gloats
In fierce teen triumph ‘Look at me!”
With fun and laughter orange glows
And reaches high in happiness
Experience and independence
Rich lessons teach and edges darken
Their lives on show, rough judgement falls
And ‘I prefer the red’ is thrown
About and listened to and felt
And colours deepen, darkened hue
In wind and rain and sunshine showers
Red develops, life impinges
Bright happiness or blood-red wisdom
Growing older, growing wiser
Where petals turning in reveal
Quiet pom-pom introversion
While out-turned fingers stretch with glee
Prima donnas, dancing, twirling
Where purple self-awareness turns
Each pink and mauve and lilac from
The bloom of youth towards life’s wane
Yet far enough away, rebelling
Where days grow shorter, sliding past
Yet hands stretch out and cup each face
And noses breathe and fingers touch
And bees buzz past and voices rise
And babies cry and old men laugh
And yet unknown, unseen, life slows
Bright-eyed the purple-rinse brigade
With sparkle-induced energy
Remembering and reminiscing
Their days they fill with endless chatter
Late Autumn falls and nights draw near
White heads do droop and slip, like snow
Fine petals drift into the breeze
An echo whispering til Spring.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
I like to drink in taverns
Where you get beers and a shot
Where the glasses all are *****
And the women all are hot
Where there's blood stains on the dance floor
From a brawl the night before
And you know there'll be some more there
Before they close the doors at four
Line Dancin' Badonkadonks
or Boot Scootin' Prima Donnas
Are never on our floor
There's none of them among us
The good ol' Texas two step
Is all you'll find round here
With both dancers smokin' smokes
and both holding a beer
We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar
Umbrella drinks and blue lagoons
They can keep them in the city
For any guy who drinks that stuff
Well...to me...he's too **** pretty
A shot of Beam, a glass of draft
Waylon on the old juke box
Another shot, a few more beer
And this place really rocks
We don't serve drinks you can't pronounce
Or that take too long to pour
We like our music really loud
Hell...that's what country's for
You don't come here to sit and talk
You come to have a party
So, barkeep...one more time around
And lets start drinking hearty
We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
I am from nothing.
From privilege thoughts
and poor choices.
I am from rumpled
school uniforms
and skinned knees.
From the stinging
taste of red clay
to the black and
blue sleeves of
prepubescent rage.
I am from
giant dogwoods
whose long-
reaching branches
scrapped against
that endless,
black celling.
The forever
nights, holding
on to Dogwood
limbs. Eyes un-
blinking. Starring
into the abyss
of creation.
From
Cap’n Crunch
and chocolate
milk to black
coffee and cigarettes.
I am from
absent brothers
and forgetful
fathers.
I am from
awkward crushes
to adolescent
wet-dreams of
the budding
tulips walking
down our halls.
From the
class clowns
to the wall-
flowers.
From the
fuck-ups
to the
*Prima
Donnas*.
From the Sunday fields
of old and new
to the Wednesday
rivers of the born again.
I am from
the warming
light.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.
Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
**** **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)
See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone. And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
So, we know beautiful people are leaving
Just as a crab with a soft shell hides under rocks
But the Debs and Donnas only have to hide for a short time
Because we are the rocks of safety
The hate mongers are not poets
Not inspirationalists
They are the ones with a one inch *****
Those who desire the fulfilling *** of poetry
But cannot achieve the ******
And so you who write
Be it good or bad
Ignore the poison barbs of bitterness and hate
Just be yourselves
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
The girls I knew upon distant shores
Courtesans to prima donnas to wall flowers to debutants to Thai street ******
I love them all
Some hated me some begged me to stay
Some jumped on me some walked away
Like herding a field of cats
In search of love around the world
Now back in this USA can't even so much as talk to a girl
They all now just walk away
Like herding a field of cats
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
Fake smiles on plastic lips
Prima facie prima donnas
press play on broken records
cheap words on repeat.
'Beauty' preens on billboard prints
as sundown slicker paints the sky
over 'salt-of-the-earth', white-collared wage-mules
and souls too worse for wear.
So they lie, yes, while they lay
in flesh caskets upon prime real estate tombs;
"I've lived the life," they'd say while peering down
on those who lived just to live.
And the world plays this sad charade
in clockwork symphony every single day
as its asphalt veins pump with diesel fumes in streams
from the steel entourage with their precious cargo.
So press play on broken records
for humdinger proof
your sorrowtide serenade
the grovel & groove.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Personne pour toi. Tous sont d'accord. Celui-ci,
Nommé Gladstone, dit à tes bourreaux : merci !
Cet autre, nommé Grant, te conspue, et cet autre,
Nommé Bancroft, t'outrage ; ici c'est un apôtre,
Là c'est un soldat, là c'est un juge, un tribun,
Un prêtre, l'un du Nord, l'autre du Sud ; pas un
Que ton sang, à grands flots versé, ne satisfasse ;
Pas un qui sur ta croix ne te crache à la face.
Hélas ! qu'as-tu donc fait aux nations ? Tu vins
Vers celles qui pleuraient, avec ces mots divins :
Joie et Paix ! - Tu criais : - Espérance ! Allégresse !
Sois puissante, Amérique, et toi sois libre, ô Grèce !
L'Italie était grande ; elle doit l'être encor.
Je le veux ! - Tu donnas à celle-ci ton or ;
A celle-là ton sang, à toutes la lumière.
Tu défendis le droit des hommes, coutumière
De tous les dévouements et de tous les devoirs.
Comme le boeuf revient repu des abreuvoirs,
Les hommes sont rentrés pas à pas à l'étable,
Rassasiés de toi, grande soeur redoutable,
De toi qui protégeas, de toi qui combattis.
Ah ! se montrer ingrats, c'est se prouver petits.
N'importe ! pas un d'eux ne te connaît. Leur foule
T'a huée, à cette heure où ta grandeur s'écroule,
Riant de chaque coup de marteau qui tombait
Sur toi, nue et sanglante et clouée au gibet.
Leur pitié plaint tes fils que la fortune amère
Condamne à la rougeur de t'avouer pour mère.
Tu ne peux pas mourir, c'est le regret qu'on a.
Tu penches dans la nuit ton front qui rayonna ;
L'aigle de l'ombre est là qui te mange le foie ;
C'est à qui reniera la vaincue ; et la joie
Des rois pillards, pareils aux bandits des Adrets,
Charme l'Europe et plaît au monde... - Ah ! je voudrais,
Je voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire
Que je te choisis, France, et que, dans ton martyre,
Je te proclame, toi que ronge le vautour,
Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour !
452
It was Donna Darling’s annual dinner party
A Cotillion approved eatery
Six spoons and six forks
The wrong one, and all the glares one bore
And then waddled in Miss Pillsbury
Her stumpy feet too short to
Do anything but waddle
Uninvited she was
As she always was
Squelching her way
through the narrow doorway.
As fourteen perfectly styled heads
Shuffled their feet under the table.
Boom! Clash!
Six spoons crashing
Six forks attacking
Poor old lady Judith’s knee
As she groaned in pain.
Donna scratching her head
Eyes darting through her invite list
Top-to-bottom, Top-to-bottom
Screech! Went the chair,
Scratching Donnas hand polished marble floors
Like nails on a chalkboard.
Oh, and what she did next,
Almost sent Donna to her upstairs bedroom
To pop some unprescribed ******
As the stout woman grabbed soup
with her chubby hands
And started gulping it down
Before it ran through her fingers.
Frazzled Donna tried, oh she tried
To salvage the integrity
Of her fancy dinner party
Unfortunately, at the moment
it was running down the table
From Miss Pillsbury’s double chin.
Swooosh! Went old lady Judith
As she skated across the marble
Like an Olympic figure skater
Only to crash into Donna’s perfectly organized
stainless steel kitchenware.
Donna ran out screaming and crying
Nobody’s seen her since.
And as for Miss Pillsbury,
I’d be surprised if she noticed any of it
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC
Fable XIV, Livre IV.
« L'excellente caricature ! »
Disait un jeune coq en riant aux éclats :
Un chapon, malgré l'aventure
Qui l'oblige au moins *** de tous les célibats,
Vouloir être chef de famille !
De poussins quelle bande autour de lui fourmille !
S'il était sincère aujourd'hui,
Il conviendrait, le pauvre hère,
Qu'entouré des enfants d'autrui,
Il croit quelquefois être père. »
« - D'accord, dit le Manceau, mais quelquefois aussi,
Conviens-en, l'ami, tu crois l'être ? »
« - Compère, autour de nous je ne vois, Dieu merci,
Qu'enfants auxquels j'ai donné l'être. »
« - Poussé par le plaisir bien plus que par l'amour,
Lovelace de basse-cour,
À demi, je le sais, tu leur donnas le jour.
Mais quel soin les a fait éclore ?
Sous ton aile, en naissant, vinrent-ils se ranger ?
Dans le besoin, dans le danger,
Es-tu le protecteur que leur faiblesse implore !
Entre eux et toi jamais fut-il rien de commun ?
Pas un ne te connaît, tu n'en connais pas un.
Séparons-nous ; et puis, observe
Vers qui les conduira l'instinct reconnaissant.
Tu leur donnas la vie... une fois ; et moi, cent ;
Chaque jour je la leur conserve.
Les doux soins dont tu te défends,
C'est la paternité. Prodigue tes caresses :
Tu peux avoir eu des maîtresses,
Mais tu n'as jamais eu d'enfants. »
350
Go to hell you daisy-eyed Rue21 priestesses
Clamoring for significance in ***** dressing rooms
Ashy skinned in clumsy selfies, splayed out like convenience stores
There's dust on your shelves and all your candy is stale.
Go to bed you pajama-pantsed prima donnas
bleached blonde and child-weary, swiping plastic for apple juice
Can't you see I have to go to work?
Pick your ******* cigarettes already!
Go to church you ******* hypocrites
You incessant fat barking chihuahuas
If Karen at the office is so insufferable,
why don't you just leave?
Go **** yourselves you snide social statisticians
prancing around prize racehorses
You'll be glue on somebody /else's/ eyelashes when you're done.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Ô ciel ! je vous revois, madame,
De tous les amours de mon âme
Vous le plus tendre et le premier.
Vous souvient-il de notre histoire ?
Moi, j'en ai gardé la mémoire :
C'était, je crois, l'été dernier.
Ah ! marquise, quand on y pense,
Ce temps qu'en folie on dépense,
Comme il nous échappe et nous fuit !
Sais-tu bien, ma vieille maîtresse,
Qu'à l'hiver, sans qu'il y paraisse,
J'aurai vingt ans, et toi dix-huit ?
Eh bien ! m'amour, sans flatterie,
Si ma rose est un peu pâlie,
Elle a conservé sa beauté.
Enfant ! jamais tête espagnole
Ne fut si belle, ni si folle.
Te souviens-tu de cet été ?
De nos soirs, de notre querelle ?
Tu me donnas, je me rappelle,
Ton collier d'or pour m'apaiser,
Et pendant trois nuits, que je meure,
Je m'éveillai tous les quarts d'heure,
Pour le voir et pour le baiser.
Et ta duègne, ô duègne damnée !
Et la diabolique journée
Où tu pensas faire mourir,
O ma perle d'Andalousie,
Ton vieux mari de jalousie,
Et ton jeune amant de plaisir !
Ah ! prenez-y garde, marquise,
Cet amour-là, quoi qu'on en dise,
Se retrouvera quelque jour.
Quand un coeur vous a contenue,
Juana, la place est devenue
Trop vaste pour un autre amour.
Mais que dis-je ? ainsi va le monde.
Comment lutterais-je avec l'onde
Dont les flots ne reculent pas ?
Ferme tes yeux, tes bras, ton âme ;
Adieu, ma vie, adieu, madame,
Ainsi va le monde ici-bas.
Le temps emporte sur son aile
Et le printemps et l'hirondelle,
Et la vie et les jours perdus ;
Tout s'en va comme la fumée,
L'espérance et la renommée,
Et moi qui vous ai tant aimée,
Et toi qui ne t'en souviens plus !
307