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CK Baker Jun 2017
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry

split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire

pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail

raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char

thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july

smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem

stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace

quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead

past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack

sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone

cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
False Poets Feb 2018
complexity bias

how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex

poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews

Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%

perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -

give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences

I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied

25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born

there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future

this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden

my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder

my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under

so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority

you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions

resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length

compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Jimmy Bowman Aug 2017
The world is a playground, the rich ring the bell,
the poor queue up and get lost in the smell.
That stench is the lies we're fed to believe.
Depressed, deprived, downtrodden, forgotten, we see
this system is broken, we cannot conceive,
a house where no one has anything in common.
A house that's failed us for so long.
One side shuts us out,
the other cast their morals with doubt.

Hey! Who's this Blair? He could make this our lair.
If we gain power no longer will we cower,
we'll have all the nice things they have over there,
we'll run the playground, sit in the big chair!
And more money, lots and lots of money...
Unlike the people we're supposed to help, how funny.

Things can only get better, it's a d:ream dream.
Play keys today and a scientist tomorrow
Noel at number ten look at our popularity grow!
A real alternative, a party for the working man
pack them up and send them to Iraq while you can!
There's nothing Socialist about a war criminal.
Tony, Tony, Tony how clinical.

Must this injustice persist.

Back in the playground we continue to queue.
Awaiting the bell, looking up at Teresa, wondering...
can we tame a shrew?
A lady turned and muttered to me,
this is no life, I'd go to uni 'cept for the tuition fee,
I work 'til I can't I stop when I die
I've nothing to show, ask yourself why.

There once was a man...

Like in that film when the Jedi appeared
and we all rejoiced and cheered as the leered
because the Jedi ****** off the Tusken Raiders
'cept this aint Tattooine this is earth we've our own Darth Vaders.
Yet I'm sure the Death Star had free health care.
That weren't under threat, that weren't stripped bare.
Workers rights left a little to be desired
but to be fair half of his staff were totally wired.
But this galaxy's not far far away, it's far far too close to home.
And that man I spoke of was purged by his own.
Yet 313,209 voted return of the Jedi.
All those in favour say aye!
To the return of our party, the return of a new hope
the return of an opposition, to the end of this *****.

No to the Blairite,
no to the far right,
and as for austerity?
He sees the severity.
The times are a changin',
the people are raging,
the Tories need caging
and parliament rearranging.

The bell rings out and we start to walk.
We're back to the classroom where no one can talk.
We're spoon fed more lies and then we go home.
Now we have a chance to make government our own.
Written in the wake of the second labour leadership election Jeremy Corbyn won and touches on the state of politics in the uk as well as harping back to the horrible idea of new labour.
The downtrodden have awakened,
They fear only that they awoke too late,
They have fixed a revolutionary date,
The day their oppressor's noose must be slackened.
Nigerians move to the streets in August 5 2019 in days of rage to force a revolutionary change in the way things have been. POWER OF THE PEOPLE.
ash May 7
the path reeked of it,
downtrodden. craving a sweet
death, I turned, and shrieked.
James Study Jul 3
I knew him as a search light
his attraction to the needy was magical
the slow and mentally challenged and disabled
the downtrodden and introverted alike

he was not a physician
nor was he trained in the field of mental health
he had no degree to hang on the wall or show
to sweep mop and dust was his daily position

he was a lifeboat adrift
in a sea of despair loneliness and distress
about his chores he went smiling and nodding all
towards him a wave troubled hands would often lift

his last class of school grade ten
no education training could teach what he knew
there were patients who ignored and never spoke a word
but his smile and nod alone would bring out hi Jim
Jayne E Jun 18
Gloria Vanderbilt died today
princess Diana, was on the news
beautifully dead,
walking the dusty trails
of Angolan land mine fields,
without protection
of any shields.

"I cried the day that Bowie died"
(and the world cried with you)
we shed our tears
our sighs & why's,
when a famous one dies,
but what of the good human
who slips away
without any voices,
without any words,
to say?

The one who gave much more
than they could spare
passes away, shown no care
the loved yet forgotten,
once fine
the downtrodden.

The mother who sang lullabies
dried millions of tears,
hushed thousands of sighs
with warm embraces,
with loving care,
slips into the nothing,
exits an unaffected world.

The lover once lovely
dead in an alley a ditch,
too many hits,
too many scars,
unseen unfelt unmissed(sic)
by hundreds of
passing cars

Beauty rotting
cold blood clotting,
passersby passing by
unaware,
would they even care
that she was broken
long before dead,
by a world callous and cruel
undid her lovely head?

I understand fame,
I understand célèbre,
I understand shame,
I hang my head.

J.C. honey-baby 18/06/2019
I shed tears of ink
For the voiceless.
I am the only link
To the hopeless.

For the poor I scribble
In love and solidarity,
to highlight the struggle
and do an anthem of poverty.

For the poor and marginalized,
I speak power to the validity,
I bring awareness for those victimized
to quench the thirst of brutality.

I can flow like a mighty fountain
In the face of mistreatments.
I crawl valleys and climb a mountain
In times of impediments.

I can leak useful information
In the cause of injustice.
I can write a memo for a demonstration
On behalf of disgruntled masses.

I am the defibrillator of broken hearts
and the hope of the downtrodden.
I can write love poems and draw arts
Just to motivate and embolden.

I have signed many peace treaties,
and declarations of independence.
I have been used to get properties
And I have been used for vengeance.

I am the weapon of choice for intellectuals
and the shield of protection against violence.
I am the stamp of instant rebuttals
and the glitch of terrestrial intelligence.


#IvanBrookspoetry ©  #Bassapoet
8-22-2019
The pen is everything..
Bryce Feb 13
At the ending of the world
there is a great unraveling
that celestial bow, wound into heartsong
and maestrate the caring music of things--
with these passions of the mind,
God seeking to unravel himself in the ever-fleeing
moment of philosophy, a Persephonic instance
in the archetype of love, psychotic and misnamed,
strait-jacketed in sin and given nothing but sweet
momentary decay

all the powerful souls connect sexually with the cosmos--
payed off, bastardized with a cigarette between their whispered lips
we hold no wealth but the ever-shifting dollar of life.

Fat Jack, fondly Catholic with angel smiles-- holds a rock of God in his hand, rocking softly
in god's busted gut-belly
spread like butter amongst the stars, asking all the same questions of Nirvana--
The last rumble of a skin-tight drumskin wrapped within a screaming symphonic twang of remnant souls--
Walking the notochord of corporeal form
the fantastic drone of rotorcraft, taunting the angelic lads and their brigadier God, singing psalms of limerence
Charlie Parker, musical sadness
Jack-man gladness
Don't forget them in the moment of monastic incantations

High-risen pyramidicals
Euclidian pitter-patter against the gusts and rains
in familiar, repetitive shapes the droplets of ichor
elucidate the frowns of downtown humanity
the locked door at the edge of the room, the air evacuated in fear,
seeking safety in the favorite belfry of an ancient wailing abbey
the dusty oil-towns of century ago
Imbibes the modern-day Maricopa plain
folk digging for dino-rock and black gold, selling dreams to downtrodden lost boys
the mistakes of RV park families

Farmland road
in Louisiana brew
the atmosphere, keeping personal thoughts trapped
a high-pressure zone
the ever-wandering
churning winds of eventual hurricane
the sequence that tickles Fibonacci's fancies and
calls us to dream--
a great Babel of God's consistent scattering heart.

in this great combustible chamber, loud obnoxious gaseous veils
in a low sigh our precipitate souls
smog on the failed shackles of stale blood
dripping this oil on the lips
holding friendly smiles
hiding sickening grins
callous, angry, the honey-chalice sought be not by man or God
alike;

Charlie Parker, playing the world's instrumentation
a track to follow
faded as the ancient road roaming
Rome's wet snail trail
blinking and shimmering into existence
a dewlit morning
the conglomerate rock is a cradle for human discomfort
admitted and hidden
to be a better hold than the hands of the earth
in these cornmeal roads,
digging out sugars from her *****
and sipping on the liquor of life in classic fermentation

to hold the road in your hands, the world on your lips
to tell the catacombs of love you would be her hostess,
seeking answers in the bones of ancient souls and refining
in deep sighs,
loving the things we cannot be.
Here i am again, stuck in conglomerates made of forgotten and downtrodden emotions, that live to be repeatedly crippled by the loud, heavy rain of cities captured by aluminium, filled with lost figures that stray further from reasons to find reason. The celebrations eventually settle, and the seasonal effects grow deeper, the professional buildings in the large, intrusive cities will beg for attention, as i quiver in my cabin on my hill of introversion, remote and entangled in the webs of my mind, as it reminisces about a quiet winter that fears its own bite, and of a storm that slows the world down, and interrupts its noise, for we are helpless to the outside forces we fail to predict.

I will listen to entire eternities of songs until my very being dissolves into a cluster of unembellished sounds, then will dream chapters, and forget them for many days, and live with my frustration until they reappear in more dreams, though now they live in separation, but later will form constellations that will once again save me from my ordinary fears, and from my rush of hatred, in the form of tactile regrets. Any intervention will be met with glares and slight anger, for their words never come with a perspective that aligns with my rage. However, it will always be followed by soft reflections in the form of perfumed apologies that i always feel come from my need for resolutions, rather than any need for something internally revitalising. Here i am again, stuck in depression, with nothing but a will to create. I am an optimistic *******, lost in self-doubt.
Olivia Oct 2018
Dearest,

       You wrote me a letter once and the last line said

       "I choose you."

       The words were musical to me, but they felt more like they were
       meant for you. I think that is what made them special, that they
       were the words you needed to hear whispered in your ear and so
       your heart opened and whispered them into mine, because just
       maybe I needed them too.
  
       Well I've written some poems for other people before in days
       gone by and I've poured words meant for me into the open hearts
       of other people just to find that their jar was already full, or
       perhaps it wasn't opened in the first place.

       And now I know you're scared because what if their veins hadn't
       been full of predetermined sweet nothings given to them
       unnecessarily by others in this confusingly backwards way? What
       if their jars had been open and accepted my insecurities just to
       sing reassurances into my ear?

       I'll entertain Fate on my doorstep for long enough to tell her
       that I am glad, for if she had allowed this to happen I would
       have been unhappy. Fate crafted the individuals before you
       with a fatal flaw because she knew that I would have
       ultimately been disenchanted, downtrodden, disturbed. And so
       with a gleam in her eye she led me to you.

       And perhaps you'll theorize that this, then, was no choice. Fate
       did it for me, yes? My response is as follows:

       I chose you long before Fate threw her hat into the ring. Or
       perhaps she had thrown it into the ring and blew the wind just
       so on that first summer day when I saw your face, red-cheeked
       and blue eyed, brown-haired and loud-laughing. Even if she
       had, she still let me choose. For Fate only modifies the
       environment, but the heart is a complex, wild thing that is not
       to be tampered with. So when a million fireworks rattled my
       ribcage the second I saw you, Fate smiled. Her plan had
       worked. I did not decide that I would feel a small earthquake
       inside of my body every time I laid eyes on you. But my heart
       chose you. Unashamedly. Instantly.

       Perhaps it once chose the others, too. But upon seeing that they
       were not for me, it paused. It took a while, but it moved on.  
       Then there was you. It was afraid at first, but Fate took it by the
       hand and showed me that your jar was not empty. And then
       you showed me that it contained everything I needed to hear
       within it.  So I did not move on. I chose you. I choose you, still.
       Forever. Until your jar is full and Fate tells me that it is time to
       close the curtains, draw the shutters, lock the front doors and,
       someday, leave the house.

       But something tells me that I will begin to send postcards to my
       former address. And perhaps I'll stumble upon the threshold,
       years later, and find a jar.

       And I'll choose you.
i’m not sure how i'll ever be able to look at you
and not think about how i’ve felt for so long.
all the sleepless nights and gasps for air.
all the tear stained pillows and sweatshirts.
all the downtrodden heads and clenched fists.
all the scars and bruises, inside and out.
all the tears that have traveled the world
and fell into the grout of too many tiles.
so many bathroom floors, hallways, and chairs
are forever soaked in my sadness.
i don’t want to be sad anymore.

i see you and i just want to talk to you,
i’m not sure as just friends or something more.
“i’m supposed to be your friend.”
i always failed at that.
“you never asked for me to feel this way.”
moving on is easier said than done.
“i think you hate me.”
i gave you every reason to.
“but this is my chance to talk.”
maybe i shouldn’t.
“i want to make things better.”
i only ever made things worse.
“**** it.”

we exchange a few, simple words
and then we retreat to silence,
just like we always do.
but i’m just happy we get to talk at all.
“i miss you.”
but the silence makes me ponder my feelings.
“what am i doing to myself?”
this isn’t good for me.
“i’m supposed to stay away.”
but i missed you like hell.
“i shouldn’t be here.”
i promised i would keep my distance.
“i’m supposed to find a balance.”
this is the most unsteady we’ve ever been.
“i just want to talk again.”
i need to let you go.
“you’re better off without me.”
yet i still try for selfish amends.
“all i ever do is hurt you.”
it's something that will never change.
“can we please just try again?”
we’ve fallen apart so many times.
“god, what does this say about me?”
i’m still stuck.
“why am i still ******* stuck?”
it’s been a quiet three months.
“that’s not enough time.”
but why can’t it be?
“what do i even see in you?”

there it is again,
the pointless anger.
“i hate you at times.”
but it's never more than i love you.
“and is that supposed to mean something?”
it does.
“don’t make excuses to stay stuck.”
is that what i’ve been doing?
“please stop thinking about it.”
i try but i never can.
“what’s the point?”
there is none.
“we’ll just fall apart again.”
i’ll just get hurt again.
“i can’t handle that.”
it hurts too much.
“hold it together.”
i’m trying.
“look away.”
okay.
“stop this.”
i’m sorry.
“let go.”
it hurts.
“move on, please.”
i’m trying but it’s slow.
“that’s how it’s gotta be.”
i can’t change the pace of this.
“and that’s okay.”
one day i’ll be over you.
“how do you feel about it all today?”
i’m not sure.
“still conflicted?”
yes.
“one day you’ll know.”
one day i’ll be okay.
“hold out for then.”

- i think i’m moving forward

// k.q.h.
December 8, 2019
Nnaemeka Mokeme Dec 2018
Let this season,
this yuletide season,
be the one
of joy shared.
The one that
brings peace to
that restless soul,
succor and solace
to comfort the
confused ones and
bring reconciliation
to the alienated.
Give a piece
of yourself to others,
like God gave
his only begotten
Son to you
and the world
whose natal day
is the reason
for this season.
Let it be
the one that
truly reflects the
heart of God
in man.
Let us see
others as God
see them.
This is the
time to start,
extend your hand,
your heart and
your resources,
respond to their
silent call for help,
hear their cry.
See the pain
behind their smile.
Be compassionate.
Your little bit
support and supply
of something in
some small way
is everything.
Let that child
smile again,
reassure that widow.
Your gifts may
not change or
stop the pain
but it will
surely go a
long way to
ameliorate and bear
on their situation,
and that would
have been enough.
Let us remember
the motherless,
the sick and
the critically ill,
the blind and
the crippled,
the orphans and
the lonely ones,
the elderly and
the forgotten,
the less privilege,
the downtrodden,
that neighbor who
who seem so
distressed.
Partner with me
henceforth to lift
them up.
Let us really
mean it when
we say to someone,
Merry Christmas!!!
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
SJG Sep 26
Sharing business class with the Yuppies and the Sunnis.
At 34,000 feet, the ice in my Pepsi melts
And I almost feel like somebody's ideal.

In 1984, I wrote a song and it stopped the war.

Punk song 1990, everybody's gonna get together,
Work out what's going on and make change happen and stuff.

There's a limit to what humans can do.

Self-publishing in the interim. Writing to protect the fauna.
Waiting for my poems to reach the doomsdayer on your street corner,
And for the word of love to fly out.

God's in the sky.  Jesus is with the fishes.
The devil has the big leather chair,
Where he does as he wishes,
And we're stuck on Earth for now.

Punk song 1990, we've got to do something,
Let's make a zine!

Oh here it comes
Oh here it comes
The big one waiting on you

Oh here it comes
Oh here it comes
The **** humans do

Punk song 1990, no bot, cyborg, psy op algorithm
Is ever gonna get me down.

Punk song 1990, it's very useful,
Perhaps the real Gulf War was the one in our hearts all along?

Doing yoga with my co-worker's girlfriend,
She tells me that love is all she needs.

We have many conversations
About the space the world is in,
And how the surrounding realm does everything but die.

It's time to wake up. It's time to rise up.
It's time to bite our chasing tails.

Punk song 1990, it's so amazing,
The grace of the downtrodden
And the glow of the jungle blazing,
And the previous century of contemporary art
Hung along some oligarch's bathroom.

The world is ****. The world is iconic.
The world has been a grave for us all.

It's time to stand up. What's that?
A Molotov? I was laying beats.

Oh here it comes
Oh here it comes
Another rotten tooth

Oh here it comes
Oh here it comes
The best person you ever knew

Punk song 1990, show power what it's missing.
Show them suits how good we are at kissing,
All the way down here.
Jayne E Aug 17
Alms outstretched
palms upwards open
a stop in the minds traffic
for the downtrodden
lives lived in the graphic
for the broken
needs forgotten
squashed unheard or unspoken
the hustle bustle of city life
clip clop of Clergerie heels
striding past others in strife
too busy to regard how another feels
jostle juggle of business days
oblivious to the penury rife
busy days in play our outlays
forgetful battles mindful
minefields and mindfields
filled by self possessions
amid lost expressions
of unfilled needs
of those on their knees
curled up at home warm
toasty warm by the fire
dissolving thoughts melting
for those out in cold streets dire
stretched out like a pusycat
well fed limbs intact relaxed
the lines grow longer outside
as shelters max capacity taxed
winters shivers chilled to bones
our lives moving forward on track
bitter cold bites the ache honed
for others homes are on their back
its easy to become complacent soft
choose not to cast down our glances
but keeping our coiffed heads aloft
fate may see you taking your chances
stripped of your luxurious lifes jewels
consider others as you'd want to be
perhaps should be good life rules
how would I like it if he she was me

© J.C. honey-tiger 16/08/2019.
homelessness, complacency, humanity
John Bartholomew Sep 2018
To be called a name is not a nice thing at all
Labelled, branded, be called derogatory by a person who's views are usually quite candid
It plays on the mind for these answers you can't find and can leave a man almost lost
You fought, you battled, laughed off the daily crap and got back in the saddle
But these words have left you thinking and now slightly rattled
I've worked, took the flack, done some things wrong and gotten the sack
It's a part of life, the everyday strife, knowing where to put your foot next
And then it's read online, a social media site, your name downtrodden in text
Not all know it's meaning, but words can harm feelings, towards a person you've always admired
Life has it's negatives, for sometimes they cannot miss, a soul who used to inspire
So maybe that was it, a dig in midst,
were they drunk whilst typing this abuse and to cause a small personality bruise
It'll fade, a forgotten quip, but nobody likes to be seen as a man just out to use.

Named

JJB
There are two types of humans in this world: those who function so they can get something and those who function so they can give something - Sarah Noffke
Hira malik Jan 5
She opened the prayer rug
During one of those ragged nights
Where everything was in order
And universe was breathing at normal pace!

The quickeness of her pulse rate
Soon after the depth of night uptake
She hurringly closed her swollen eyes
And her heart was not in her hands anymore!!

This stigma of bewilderness, heapness of bundle of grieves
Its not so easy, to handle all these
When u are so downtrodden and weary oh deep
Wish those hands you could see, and every night darkness dnt freak!
ogdiddynash Jul 13
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
<>

one.
he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

two.
platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,
June

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

three.
a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?

drink

four.
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

five.
which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
what!
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

six.
the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,
everyone.

Hatred,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

seven.
the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

eight.
since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
supper
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like
brunch

by the way,
do have the time?

nine.
Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

ten.
loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

eleven.
I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...
entrapment,
maybe?

twelve.
dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

thirteen.
there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

fourteen.
******.
the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
or
trust but verify

fifteen.
my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

sixteen.
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

seventeen.
asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,
alright

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

ateteen.
some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

ah,
never mind,
you know how this ends.

humbug.

nineteen.
man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
Cardi-b-Cleopatra,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

twentea.
coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
teeth,
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me
egotistically.

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
names!”


twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
or
“each according to his own stupidity.”

twentyfur.
we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas
anally


twentyfiver.
ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
how,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
so
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

twentysick.
The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]
/Ba2

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

twenteaateth.
people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

twentytentygoldniners.
“alliteration”
a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.


for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”


hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
<>
the end for now
Traveler Dec 2
Okay all ready!
I feel you all
Suffocating me insane
I'm being drained
My energy flows
Downward
To the lowest of lows
Where lies the pain
That the miserable
Refuse to let go

Empathically
I am cursed
Tethered
To your emotional
Burst
I feel the babies
Crying in the night
My heart spring
Into thoughtless flight
The unrest of the downtrodden
Engulf my weary life

If I could only feel
Without a care
Turn away
And say a prayer
Someone else
I'd surely be
But that's just not
My destiny
...................................
P.S.
So please stop thinking so loud!
Traveler Tim
Anya Sep 2018
Last year
was the worst

loosing half our team
to a discrimination scandal

how could they do that?
how could that say that about those people?

how could they be those people?
how could they get expelled?

how could they sabotage our team?
By doing such STUPID things?

We lost
No surprise there

A losing streak
till the end of the season

Even losing the title of champion
held several years in a row

...

This year
new freshman

faces shining
as ours had been years past

showing us weary downtrodden sophmores
the reason we played in the first place

not the winning
not even the people on the team

...

But the sport
our sport

we just defeated our long time rivals this year
and things are looking good

— The End —