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Miss Saitwal Jul 2018
That workaholic lady who's always on call,
keeping up with the market fall.
That newly married lady with chunky red bangles,
returning to her father's big castles.

That person who's scared to get lapse,
so stays active on the google maps.
That person who swings like a kid at the back door,
Or the one who perform calisthenics on an empty floor.

That next door girl with a red lipstick,
flicking her shinny hair & gossiping with her clique,

That dreamer gazing outside the window,
That overworked soul dozing on his elbow.

That 21st century kid,
listening to Eminem & playing video games.
Or That 90’s kid,
listening to Jenga Boys & playing outdoor games.

That banker with a big fat stomach,
filled with his beautiful wife’s love.
That lady who eats like a thief,
in her big fat bag hiding a beef.

That old man who can’t stand Bombay's winding turns.
That granny spotting & criticing  every fashion trends.
That man who has Raju Rastogi’s concerns,
thinking & chanting for earns & returns.

Those kids who believe their job is to fill the voids in a battlefield,
in the still crowd surpassing like electrons into a magnetic field.

That lady sitting under cold seat like a glacial,
than standing with 7kgs in a crowded central,
& tryna stay sane listening to George Michael.

That geek who switchs from Linkedin to Arjun Reddy,
when the masses flee into the scenery.
That trader crunching numbers so rapidly,
when the stock prices go down hourly.

That person on the last seat,
diagressing from work & gazing around,
soaking in her pashmina, with a career newfound.
AE Wilson May 2014
The pitter-patter
(pitter-patter)
of the rain against my window
attempted to lull me to sleep,
but sleep
(pitter-patter)
pitter-pattered away.
Nature's mournful tears
waltzed down my window
and collected in pools of sorrow,
and every thought
in the back of my mind
was pulled forth for
reflection,
knocking me off the edge
of unconsciousness and into
the restless abyss that is
insomnia.
I tried counting sheep,
but they were all
nestled together -
in a bundle of
wool and dreams -
taunting me in their
slumber,
teasing me in
dormancy.
So I laid there
and thought,
and spoke to myself,
and dreamed
of a restful night.
Derick Van Dusen Nov 2010
Sandman find me, are you looking?
Sandman look for me, are you finding?
Slumber ceases while delirium increases.
Setting in to take its hold, Sandman left me cold.

  Wheres the dream when night is come and Sandman has forgot.
Forgot to grant to me this slumber, where dreams come of you.
Your the reason that Im not sleeping, wheres my Sandman now?
Now for her your job complete, please Sandman, grant me sleep.

  Here sit I the time is nigh for Sandman to come again.
Again I say where has Sandman gone I need to dream.
Dream again of fairest face but Sandman took its place.
Place on me mine misery of slumber turning out my light.

  What now to do that sleep eludes even crafty me?
Drag Sandman from foot of bed and shoot him in the head.
Now hes gone, his spells been lifted, so now I fall to sleep.
Dozing of the slumber, the sleep for which I keep.
Rob Rutledge Jan 2016
She gazed out long and far,
Past half closed curtains  
And dozing, docile cars.
Witness to a world double glazed
Dampened by a passing rain.
Sound drowned still by fragile,
Stained glass pane.

Skies lay grey, like every other day,
Shrubs shrug and trees sadly sway.
She feels for the trees,
(And to an extent the shrub)
They're not so different from you or I.
We all plant roots, grow, love?

Thoughts disturbed by a startled dove,
Flew the coup, done, had enough,
Rose as Icarus toward the sun.
Basked in light of new found freedom.

Never heard the hunters gun.
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket

the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra

rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes

rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself

the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip

no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited

my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself

and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood

the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest

and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.

my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others

it exists for no one else,
not even myself

and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head

my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers

but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck

for i exist for no one else,
only myself
inspired by the song Jo Jo's Jacket by Stephen Malkmus
jad Jul 2013
I wrote this poem with oil, vinegar, and fine foods.
My pen did not.

I drew this picture with eyelashes, mustaches, and tears.
My paintbrush did not.

I thought this thought with lip balm, pine trees, and mosquitoes.
My brain did not.

I do not dream with REM but with caterpillars and manure.

Oh, Jack Kerouac, take me to bed and ease my itching.

Listen to that bluegrass play...
Fall asleep...
Iris Woodruff Feb 2017
Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along
And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.
Elizabeth Milnes Jan 2012
Eyes drip beneath my brain
roll about in glassy shoes
and run before the twelfth stroke.

Hands twitch.
Pen drops.
Curtain falls.

Night is pregnant with the day’s unwritten words
that linger in dreams,
aborted by morning.
Kewayne Wadley Mar 2018
Sometimes when it's late.
I turn over and want to call you.
I never do.
Believing that it's best I let you rest.
In reality I need to hear your voice so I too
Can nod off into a decent sleep.
Otherwise I am tossing and turning thinking of you.
It doesn't have to stop there.
This late night call.
Ignoring the middle of the day.
Longing to hear you melt.
Even if you can't talk.
To tell you that I've found a place that I want to stay.
And that I hope you have too.
To wish you a good night.
The best kind of therapy.
A call that leads to spreading the night in your arms.
Finding the sun at night.
To tell you I love you before dozing off.
Miss Masque Apr 2010
Can't sleep
These dizzy thoughts
spinning ceaslessly
relentless
in a cup

Half empty,
Half full?

Who knows,
But in the end
the mad hatter will
still wish you had
never been born--
A very Merry Unbirthday to you
to me?

Indeed

Round and Round
they go
mixing colors, textures
emotions, thought
into this smear of humanity

A stain on the background of my mind
as it clicks and whirs and calculates
the options, the weighted possibilities
the electrical impulses zipping past
the smear of confused, muttled anguish

through it, around it,
but the shock cannot
seperate the colors
the textures, the emotions,
the thoughts

The colors melt into grey
various shades of unvarying
reluctant gestures

As the cheshire cat
smiles and laughs like
the cookie crisp mascot
cukoo for coooookie crisp
I hear its laughter

Chuckling madly
at the mad hatter and myself
the mad hatter sipping
out of the cup of grey
as he sings about my unborn nature

Unborn into the world of reality
of sensibility, of responsibility

WAKE UP

I snap back
I look around
and do not recognize
anything at all
Written: December 12, 2009
L Smida Jan 2012
One quiet night, I sit at my computer watching the curser blink on the screen as I am pondering upon what to write about. All is silent as my mind is running free, but the silence is broken by an instant message. The message is from an anonymous writer. The words that were sent to me say "Meet me at the park in 10 minutes."  Nervous chills crawl up my spine.  I respond with the words "Whom am I speaking with?" but the anonymous writer had signed off before I got a response.  Millions of questions race through my mind, I make my decision whether to go or not. Something in the back of my mind was telling me I should go and see who this anonymous writer is.
So, I throw on a dark hoodie and put the hood up.  I look in the mirror and I say to myself "Here goes nothing."  I slip out the window and head for the park. Its dark and creepy walking alone on this wet and windy road but I'm not going to turn around quite yet. Even though this isn't the safest area to be walking around this late at night, my mind was focused on what was going to happen. The park is only a few blocks away. I see it in the distance under the street light. I approach closer and decide to sit on the swings and wait. Silence filled the cold air and after waiting five minutes, which seemed more like an hour, because my curiosity was driving my feelings wild. I actively scan for anybody who may be walking near by, but I could see nothing.
Suddenly a sound struck through the air and I felt my phone in my pocket light up. I pull it out to see who in the world is texting me at this hour. The number is unknown and the words read, "I see you."  I look around nervously but see only darkness beyond the street light. So I reply, "Who is this?" As I hit the send button, my ears open up to see if I can hear any ring tones in the silent air around me. There’s nothing to be heard besides for my phone receiving another text that reads "Don’t be scared." So I think for a few seconds with my mind full of many different thoughts. Should I be scared? Should I be worried? What’s going to happen to me? Should I not be scared? All these questions bolt through my wondrous mind. I couldn't make myself get up off the swing; I sit here with my nerves all in knots. I see a figure stand up in the far distance across the street and it’s making its way over to me. I can’t tell who it is. All I can see is a silhouette of a human walking over to where I sit. The figure now stands before me and I stand up so we can be face to face. The anonymous writer is pulling its hood down, my eyes open real wide and my nerves are crawling around inside of me like ants on a piece of dropped unwanted candy. The truth is about to be revealed. The light coming from the street light shines on the writers face to show the ****** features. My jaw just about drops to the floor, as a major shock jolts through every inch of my body. The anonymous writer just so happens to be a girl, a pretty girl as a matter of fact. We look each other in the eyes for a moment with many different thoughts flowing through our minds trying to tell what each other is thinking.
The look in her eyes calms my nerves. Then to break the silence, I ask her if she would like to swing on the swings with me. She replied with the sweetest of voices "Sure." and that word danced around in my head over and over again till we started a conversation. I wipe the rain water off the seat of her swing with my sleeve so she could sit down comfortably.
She said "I knew you would show up!"
"You really gave me a scare." I said in a hushed tone.
She said "I told you not to be scared."
"I know, but it was all just so nerve racking. It was hard for me to focus. This isn't too safe of an area."
"True.  Are you okay now?" she asked.
"Yea, I’m fine now" and I gave her a smile.
She giggled "That’s good. I wanted to meet you but I wasn’t sure how, and I wanted it to be memorable."
I laughed and said "Well this is memorable alright."
"Sure is." she said.
My hands are beginning to sweat as our conversation continues. She stops our conversation and takes me by the hand and leads me to the street. Holding hands, she tells me that she wants to go for a walk. While we walk in silence, with each step, I am getting more and more paranoid about my hands. I glance down at her to see if I could tell what she was thinking about.
Then she looks up at me with her big pretty blue eyes and giggles gently when she says "Your hands are sweaty." My heart just about stops and I swallow deeply. Then she giggles some more and says "Its ok, I like holding your sweaty hand." and she grips my hand even tighter and cuddles up closer to me as we walk. We continued walking a few more blocks and I asked her "Where do you want to go?"
She replied "Anywhere."
I thought for a second and said "..Piggy back ride?"
She smiled the biggest smile and hopped on my back. I carried her to my secret spot where I lay and look up at the stars.  I set her down so she could get a better look at the place.  She told me that this place is beautiful and I mumbled a few words under my breath.
"What?" she asked curiously.
I said "You said this place is beautiful, then I said just like you." and with that said, she dove into my arms and we both fell to the ground. She cuddles up next to me and we laid there to gaze up at the stars for quite a long time. I look over at her and her head lay close upon my shoulder.  Her eyes are closed and I whisper to see if she is awake "Hey, are you asleep?" but there was no answer.  She continues to lie there so peacefully.  I lay my head back down and stare up at the black night sky.  Just as I was dozing off, I felt her sit up and pull her phone out of her pocket. The bright screen lights up her face and she answered it "hello?" I sat up and listened to what she was saying. She hung up and said disappointedly "That was my sister. She said that my parents are home and they are looking for me. So I have to go."
"Okay. Well, can I at least walk you home?" I asked
She said "Sure, but we have to be sneaky." She looks at me for an answer. I look at her and I put my finger over my lips and whisper "Not a sound." She smiled at me and we started walking. Once we reached her driveway, we hid behind the bushes looking through the window to see if her parents were sleeping yet. No sign of them anywhere.
Her eyes are looking at me and she whispers "Can I tell you a secret?" I nod my head and she asks "Are you sure?" I nod my head once more. She leans in and touches her soft lips to mine. As gentle as it was, it was mighty powerful. I could have sworn that time had stopped for that moment when our lips collided.
I look deep into her eyes and say "Your secrets safe with me." and she smiles, gets up, and goes inside. I sit here on the ground behind the bush just thinking about all that had just happened. All at once this one major subject came crashing into my mind. I forgot to ask her what her name was! I couldn’t leave without knowing her name. I pulled out my phone to text her, but it was dead. Then I notice a light that had just turned on, on the second floor of her house. So I grab a tiny stone and throw it at the window. I’m still hiding in the bushes just in case it isn’t her room. I wait to see if anyone comes to open the window, and she did. I jump out and she looks down at me and says "What are you still doing here?"
I look up at her and say "I don’t know your name?"
She says, "I dont know your name either."
"My name is jeff."
She laughs and says "Goodnight" and closes her window.
Confused with what just happened, I look at the ground and kick the stones in disappointment. I start walking away. I look back at her window to see if she’s going to come back but no luck. I head home and climb in the window that I had climbed out of earlier. I put my phone on charge. Then I take off my hoodie and cuddle up in bed. As thoughts fill my mind, I slowly drift off to sleep. A few hours later, I was awoken by my phone vibrating on the desk beside me. I rub my eyes and reach over to see who was texting me. It was that girl! The text read "Let’s meet again tomorrow." I reply "Ok. What time?" she said "Afternoon."  I type back a smiley face and fall back asleep.
As morning arrives, the sun peeks through my window and wakes me from my slumber. I check my phone and there’s a text message waiting to be read. It says "Meet me at the breath taking place where we star-gazed last night." I look at the clock to check the time. Its 11:11, I make a wish about how I want this day to be the best day of my life and I want nothing to go wrong. I jump up out of bed and trip over the phone cord, and I also hit my head off the ground to give me a huge head ache. I say to myself "Well, I better start getting ready if I want to get there by noon." I can’t find my hoodie, I can’t get my hair the way I want it to go, my dog chewed my favorite pair of shoes, and there’s nothing to eat. I’m beginning to think that my wish was left unnoticed. I’m not going to let these little mistakes get in my way. I put on my other pair of shoes and hurried out the door. When I get to the place where she told me to meet her, she’s sitting down in the grass facing the opposite direction of which I am coming. I sneak up behind her, put my hands around her eyes and ask "Guess who?"
She grabbed my hands and guessed "Jeff."
"How did you know?"
She replied "Your sweaty hands gave it away."
I laugh and ask her "What do you want to do?"
She answered "Swim!"
I point toward the lake. She nods her head and says "Let’s go!" We reach the shore line and I take off my hoodie and my shirt. She says "Wait, I have to put my phone somewhere so it doesn't get wet!" She takes my clothes, my phone and her phone and heads up the hill a little bit and sets everything down. I walk to the edge of the dock and look out across the lake. I turn around to see where she went and I see her running full speed in my direction. She screams and tackles me into the water. As we come up for air she puts her arms around my neck and slips me a gentle kiss.
"What was that for?" I ask.
"I like you." she replies nicely.  
We goof around and have a lot of fun. We swim toward shore and then realize there’s nothing to dry off with. We lie in the grass to soak up the sun, as we both are lying very still and quiet.
I ask her "What’s your name?"
She opens her eyes but doesnt look at me.  she looks up at the sky and says "When the time is right, I’ll tell you my name."
So then after she said that, I lay my head back down and to let the sun dry us both off. I stood up and gave her my hand. She took a hold of it and I helped her up. I let her wear my hoodie because it was getting quite cold outside and clouds were starting to form. As we walk along the road, I felt a few rain drops. We both start to sing and dance. Puddles started to accumulate in the holes of the road. We jump in all the puddles while we dance. Getting rather tired from all the action, I take a seat on the curb of the road and I watch her gracefully dance around like an angel. She walks over to me and gives me her hand. I grab her hand and she pulls me up. She puts my hands around her waste and holds my head. Our lips meet as the rain falls down upon us.
Our lips let go and she ventures off again to splash in the puddles. She left me standing there speechless. She comes dancing back and asks "What’s the matter?"
I say "Nothing."
"Well, there has to be something wrong if you have that lost look on your face."
"I'm just wondering where you came from. You came out of no where and completely changed my life."
"Is that bad?"
"No, not at all. Don't be silly. There is nothing bad about you at all. It's almost as if you were perfect."
"Awe. Thank you." she said
"You're welcome."
Soaking wet we continue on our journey. A car drives past and splashes water up in the air. I hold onto her to protect her from the muddy drops of water. It didn't really do much because we are already drenched with water but I felt like it was the most polite thing to do at the moment. The car pulls over to the side of the road and stops. The window rolls down and it’s her father. He orders her to get in the car. She gives me a sad look and awkwardly waves goodbye. I watch the car drive away and I realize that I am in a wet t-shirt and I'm pretty cold. She looks back at me through the rear window of her father’s car.  I wave gently to show that I saw her looking. I head on home and I hear my pocket ring. I pull out my phone and read the text from her "I’m sorry."
I answer "It's okay."
But I don’t get any response from her. I get home and get on the computer. An instant message pops up on the screen. It says "My dad took my phone."
I type "Awe, why?" and then hit the enter key.
"Cause I don't listen to him and his rules. I won’t be able to stay on long because my dad is going to disconnect the internet. So say anything you have to say right now before I have to get off."
I think real fast and say "I love you."
Then she signs off. I’m left here unknown of her thoughts. As night falls, I get the idea to go to her house. It’s still raining a little bit so I put on a hoodie and head out the door. I get to her house and I look for a tiny stone to toss at her window. I grab one and throw it. It hits the window and makes a quite ping sound.  She must have heard it because she opens her window and looks down at me. She mouths the words "I’m sorry."  I put my finger over my lips "Shhh.."  She leaves the window and I try to see what she’s doing. She throws a rope out and climbs down. I stand below her because the rope isn’t quite long enough. I tell her that I would catch her if she happens to fall. She lets go and falls into my arms. She grabs my hand and we run away up the street. Both of us gasping for air, we have to stop to regain strength. We sit in the wet grass and I put my arm around her "Is it the right time to tell me your name yet?"
She sits in silence just starring at the ground.
I look at her and say "I got this necklace and to make it special, I wanted to engrave your name in it."  I dig into my pocket and pull out the necklace to show her. "See, my name is here and I want your name to go there" the necklace reads "Jeff ♥'s ...."

I'm sitting here inspecting the necklace and I begin to hear weeping.

"Why are you crying?" I ask calmly, but no answer.

I ask again once more "Are you okay?"  I started to panic but then I realized that panicking will only make things worse.  So, I scoot real close to her and I let her rest her head on my shoulder.  

After a few moments, I whisper "Shhh. Don't cry. Pease, tell me what's bothering you."  Then I whip away the tears that fall from her eyes.

She finally replies "Okay, but you're going to think that I'm crazy."

"No. I would never."

She takes a big deep breath and lets it out real slow then says "I can see the future."

"Well, did you have a vision?" I ask.

She nods her head.

"Just now?"

"No, a while ago."

"How long ago?"

"While we were looking up at the stars the first night."

"Was it not a good vision?"

She shakes her head side to side.

"What was it about?"

She points her finger towards me.

I swallow hard and ask "How accurate are these visions that you have?"

"90%"

I become very nervous and shaky "Well, what's going to happen to me?"

She tries to hide her face from me but I won’t let her. Then I realize that I am handling the situation all wrong.  I let go of all my fear and settle down in a very calm manor. I can feel water leak from my eyes and run down my face.  When I try to hide them, more tend to roll down. I can't control my tears and that’s when I said "I don't know what you saw in your vision but now that you've told me, you've only raised my curiosity to know.  You don't have to tell me because what ever happens, happens. Nothing can change. But if you tell me then maybe there is something we can do to try and dodge the bullet."

After I let the word bullet come out of my mouth, she started to cry even more.  So, that sent me a little hint but I still wasn't exactly sure what was going on.

Then there was a sudden interruption.  It sounded far away but it was the sound of bad brakes on a car.  As soon as we both heard it, she put her head up real quick and said "It's them."

"Who?
Don Bouchard Dec 2011
Halfway between Malta and Saco,
Highway 2 stops a minute
To look back...

Beside the road
A little shrine waits
The traveler:
A stone, naturally shaped
To form a sleeping buffalo,
But etched with lines to emphasize
The dozing buff's back and sides
And drowsing head.

Nearby, a 1920s entrepreneur
Saw money to be made...
Set up a happenstance hotel
Beside the hot and sulf'rus spring,
And "Sleeping Buffalo" was born
To "heal" and to amuse
Odd tourists in their wandering.

Not much has changed...
The old buff sleeps,
But now inside a little pen
To keep the tourist vandals
Safely from his way.

The old resort is open still...
Same rusty pipes and yellowed walls
And rusty water
Warm enough to stain
Unlucky bathing suits.
(The smell's enough to force
The bather to the bath as medicine....)

On my way to other places
I have stopped along the road
To meditate beside the old stone bull...

I understand, a little,
Now that I am growing old,
Tobacco offerings left
Beside the sleeping stone.
Though not a Pagan,
I can feel the distant Ways
Before our Western ways
Made tourists of us all.
A little place to stop on your northern Montana travels....
"Don't drink the water."http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/10443
Noname Oct 2013
Marry me.
One day.
Keep me .
Captive.
No one else.
Can abduct me like you.
You embrace my faults.
You love my corks.
What is it like?
Too be loved this much?
When your inside
Can you feel it?
The longing for everything
All of you
Forever?
Are you scared?
I am.......
But its the type of horror that keeps you at the edge of your seat.
When your heart keeps beating at a rapid pace
And your palms stay moist
No matter how many times you wipe them
But you dont care because you'd rather have swetty palms
Than no one to hold at all
God its the fire that burns
behind your eyelids
Scorching hot
Just one look
Its the effortless
conversations that last until dusk
Until you both are slowly dozing off only too dream about  eachother
So scary
That one moment
Your worried all this stuf just a bunch of *******
But then someone comes and changes everything
You don't care about those meaningless things that  once seemed so important to you
They seem so tiny and insegnificant
Your the only thing I want to care about anymore...
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.

Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.

I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.

Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?

Not there.

I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
Natasha Aug 2013
Sage & sweet grass

Hand made quilt

Steeped Chai

Dozing sighs

Cool breeze

Life at ease
My life at the moment. Revelling in the pure bliss of simple moments such as this
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
whimsical union of intents
in this square, like stray dogs
looking for each other's owner
weaving machiavellian plans
(retrospectively already outdated,
though methodically reiterated)
nibbling on stale juicy bones
oozing bittersweet belonging,
undermining stable systems
of comfortable relentless solitude,
dozing off licking each other's noses
in the same ripe misty heaven
that's today's mock-up of a home.
Odysseus struggles needs to prove to himself world he is talented painter determined to achieve recognition goes from art dealer to art dealer seeking support one dealer says Schwartzpilgrim stop changing settle on 1 style you can be known for what you’re doing now is good stick with it call me in 6 months with 300 drawings just like these another dealer says Odys you must learn great art is a **** beneath bed sheets another dealer says Modigliani knew how to paint flesh paint like Modigliani you need to learn more about painting Schwartzpilgrim you’re too young inexperienced another dealer says thank you for your interest in our gallery we’re not taking on any new painters at this time Odysseus knows there are people so much more talented better looking than him he feels inadequate intimidated

thinks to himself sister Penny is right female wish list is curse Bayli haunts she alone always be my ideal until i met Reiko Lee now Reiko Lee Furshe holds me captive i long for her voice eyes shoulders wiry delicateness crazy outrageous humor fiery ****** appetite i need to tear apart wish list leave myself open need to learn to seek inner beauty let anatomy fall where it will need to cultivate new standards it’s difficult to see with different eyes i am so biased how do i do this?

Odysseus muses with Reiko’s ghost 6 months since separation lights candles burns incense opens bottle of red wine pours glass for her and himself sips watches her glass while he makes toasts speaks elaborately of her beauty charm cites reasons why each of them does not need the other why couldn’t you have been the one? what is it about me you didn’t like? what did i do wrong? pours another glass begins talking louder ending in rage why aren’t you here? why? what went so terribly wrong? i love you where are you? how come you’re not here with me tonight? looks at her glass sees she has not even taken sip feels slightly drunk fearful he has sunk too deep  gets up staggers to bed sniffs blanket for traces of her tonight is their anniversary his only excuse

telephone rings sometime in late july hi it’s me Reiko how’ve you been Odys? he questions Reiko Lee? uh yes Odys it’s meee your stray puppy Reiko’s voice sounds playful tender Odys are you there? what’s up? let me come over **** and ******* please he speaks into receiver Reiko Lee is dead hangs up wonders if he has done right thing paces room writes a woman like that you tell yourself you do not need  ignore her deny her let her pass because if you admit how much you want her you become fugitive in chains running from dogs men with guns a woman like that is all you need a woman like that is motive seed chance of a lifetime a woman like that takes chances at twice your speed a woman like that keeps you guessing hoping waiting a woman like that leaves you destitute you cannot have her because she possesses you a woman like that is a wanted woman

decides to move finds new place blocks away apartment on lill street changes telephone number in his heart he knows nothing more thrilling beautiful than joyous girl yet he attracts women who seek abuse because they see themselves in him because he lets them try to mend his abused mind because he misuses them so well reaching finding joyous girl looms impossible breakup feeds venting bitter fires

the most dangerous woman eludes meall other women are too attainable chinese green tea gestapo limousine it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand that is the line darling dangling darjeeling your lips bleeding your ***** on fire imagine i am running sprinting in relay race just up ahead i’m about to pass baton this is life expectancy of poet indonesian cigarettes made of clove leaves i held your wrists pinned your fragile body to floor strummed you like guitar while other men looked on i knew one of them would take you next

miranda comes out on verandah with lemonade on hot summer day hair blows free in breeze leans back against beam softly hums inside time bomb ticks somewhere fly caught in room knocking itself against window ricocheting off corners  buzzing crisscross ceiling floor miranda sips just enough so lips are wet eyelids flutter like butterfly wings ******* swell in heat of midday sun she calls to us with hand stirs more sugar in lemonade late afternoon when fly is caught entangled in spider’s web buzzing is muffled ice has melted lemonade watery we are dozing in hammocks rocking chairs miranda is changing dress perfuming thighs crafting character in mirror screen door slams she looks up recognizing it is only wind sun is sinking orange ball spider crawls fixing aim grabs thread swings in for **** we are passed out in grass at dusk lights around verandah beam on miranda appears wearing low-neck dress with one strap down breath heavy with anise invites us inside giggling shyly as we follow timeless newsreel vision men hard at work war room spins as fly ***** desperately spider opens legs miranda lies arched on bed eyes weaving

he gets drunk loudly sings she must be some kind of witch flying in the wind she must be some kind of ***** to dig this grave i’m in he rhymes it was just another **** stunt forgive me for speaking so blunt she was just being a lady no need to get crazy it was just another **** stunt he scribbles she gets ****** hair styled eyebrows plucked nails done walks out new woman miss fox Mrs. G. Fox madame de faux meeting the girls for lunch wearing her pearls writing her name in swirls talking up a storm pack of women is worse than pack of hungry wolves wolves stop at carrion women carve combs out of bones

Cal is driving Odysseus sits in passenger seat heading to pit & pendulum for cocktails it is raining down hard Odysseus looks out beyond sweeping windshield wipers sees red cowboy boots the ones they found together at flea market there she is Reiko Lee Furshe arisen from wasteland Odysseus tells Cal to stop car turns to see her she is running across street his hand reaches for car door handle what’s happening? Cal demands are you there? i can’t stop cars behind me! this is crazy Odys what’s going on? i’m not stopping! Odysseus stares through rear window frozen watching her disappear behind red brick wall in pouring rain

ghost girl it’s difficult to write in comatose passage apart i am in theater of mirrors with empty seat beside me black hole inside me itinerary of fears i’m seeing dancer but haunted by you look in your eyes smell on your fingers clonking up stairs of your wooden clog shoes feelings we dared plans we knew might never come true la laahh la lay la lay dee la lady of shady lagoon weeping willow pisces moon like India ink you’ve left indelible stain i fumble in dark of empress’s tomb like necrophiliac i grip onto memory stroke ashes of you lantern licorice amethyst bone you are gliding in your canoe cutting through mist swirling whirlpools that untangle themselves behind you dancing nearer to flame la shady lady does pirouettes in rain
Nigel Morgan Aug 2012
I wake and the light of this fine day edges round the curtain.
The birds have chorused and my left foot lies cold outside the sheets.
Standing in my nightgown I draw the curtains and look out at my garden.

Let me pad downstairs, open the front door and walk brief steps
to the arbour of ferns and shells. From a cane chair
I shall view my private corner with its tiny pool and privet hedge:

whilst there is still a little dew; whilst the cobwebs still glisten;
whilst there is no wind, just a grumble of the surf at Porth Neigwl,
the sound my father makes dozing over his paper.

Miniature, enclosed, protected I will place my thoughts
in this dolls’ house garden, amongst the dank, dark shadows
of its many rooms, its parterred spaces.

You don’t walk in this garden; you take a step . . .
and you are elsewhere. Take three steps and you are quite lost.

I hear the kitchen door bang in the manor house,
Meriel is taking breakfast to my sisters.
I think I shall stay here a moment longer.
Plas yn Rhiw is an ancient manor house in North Wales. It is situated on the Lyn Peninsula and overlooks the vast bay of Hell's Mouth. The Keating sisters restored the house and Honora created its beautiful Arts & Crafts garden. The poet R.S.Thomas and architect Clough William Ellis were friends and frequent visitors.
Pong Panugao Mar 2012
When the sun is up
my spirit drop
like a floating leaf
from an oak tree's rack

With my eyes turning
I begin to laugh
In an indescribable high
i dream on your lap

Like a marathon,
With a thousand lap
crawling, and crawling
there is no way to stop

I see my prof's face
grinning, holding a laugh
A punch on the face
I think is enough

The rooster's concert
is my body's clock
curse this test
I must take a nap

Burning the midnight oil
With my spirit engulf
I wish this is over
A student's demise
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
GRANDFATHER CLOCK

"When granda died
he turned into a clock!"

I was 7 or so, so this seemed
an acceptable fact.

"Oh we still kept him in the corner
wound him up every night."

I glanced at the nothing in the corner.
There was only a slab of sunlight dozing.

"Oh we had to pawn him
a long time ago!"

I gasped: "Noooo!"

"Oh he had to go
he had only one hand

and his pendulum
was broken."

Sam the dog barks
asks if I am coming out to play.

I of course am
coming out to play.

Auntie Nellie scolds
Uncle Michael.

"For God's sake Mikey
will ya ****** well stop!"

Mikey sticks his tongue in cheek
a characteristic tic.

"Can't ya see the poor child is
ejeet enough to believe ya!"

Whenever later I chance to meet
a clock that could be my granda

I touch its face tenderly
stroke the mottled glass

"Ahhh Granda!" I smile
giving him a great big hug.

"TickTock!" says granda
"**** ****!"
My da's da died before I was born so I never knew him...only shards of stories...fragments of who he might have been. I used to walk around the farm imagining him doing the exact same back in the day of say 1922.  When I was as small as stupid and as impressionable as hell my uncle would answer a normal question about my granda with a tall tale such as this. He'd tell me the most surreal things with a straight poker face and I love him so much I believed anything and everything he'd make up. If my father gave me his love of poetry...it was Uncle Mikey who made me one with all his glorious making up! Nellie used to scold him about this but it didn't stop him as the words coming out of his mouth grew into an enchanted entangled forest. He was the treasure trove of my childhood and I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Rangzeb Hussain Mar 2010
Long ago in shadows when the world was in magic robed,
Thus begins this tragic tale from times old,
A Mother and a bright girl did have a cottage near a hill,
On the edge of a creeping forest did they live.

Poor they were yet happy too with songs at dawn,
Nor did their stomachs in hunger churn or yawn,
Life was hard but they got by with chickens hatching hatching,
Eyes in the night always watching watching.

The Mother did always caution her delightful daughter,
“Freia, don’t be a lamb to the slaughter,
Wrap your apple blossom face from the dead eyes of dogs,
Beware the men who haunt the forest fog.”

The bright days were dreamed away in peace and solitude,
No neighbours did intrude,
Time slipped away over the misty mountains and innocent lambs,
The years ran on, so silently they ran.

One day in late autumn when Freia had maidenhood reached,
She was asked to gather wood for heat,
The days were getting shorter and the spiked nights were colder,
Shadows scratched by their door.

“Give me my red scarf quick for I want to be a girl good!
For you I will get sticks of tinder wood!”
But before she let go her dancing daughter dear
The Mother did speak of fear.

“Freia, hush and listen! Return quickly for I am in fear soaking,
Watch out for the wet croaking Water-Goblin
Who reigns and dines beneath the river and hides in woodbine,
Take heed, Lady Night upon the sky shows her signs.”

“Never fear, dear Mother wise of mine,” said Freia,
“Blind Mistress Night, ha!
She will never ever catch or lay her black claws upon me,
Just wait and see! Back I will be.”

Freia skipped and slipped into the forest loud with sound,
She was collecting wood from the ground
When an idea came darting and burrowed into her curious mind,
“There’s no Water-Goblin! It’s a tale to scare and blind.”

And to prove her Mother wrong about tales tall and long
She went to the riverbank to sing a song,
The place was dark and no bird sang in the gloomy twilight,
Bright bones upon the bank caught her sight.

A frosty wind licked her and goose-pimples did appear,
Her spine chilled and shivered,
She tried to brush off the terror in which she was crippled,
Upon the river her eyes spied a ripple.

Something was swimming and straight to her heading!
Her legs grew heavy and she stopped humming,
She stayed rooted as up her legs crawled spidery lice,
She stood like a statue carved out of ice.

Bubbles were breaking above the tar-like water ring,
The gap closing between her and the thing,
“O, why did I to this dead river come running and singing?
How I wish I was at home skipping!”

It was as if some magic older than time kept her frozen,
Freia had thus been chosen,
The gap between her and the creature was fast closing,
If only she was at home safely dozing!

She tried to shout but only dry silence puffed out,
Her eyes bulged, she was clouded in doubt,
Tears fell upon her cheeks but she still could not scream,
Cruel, O how wrong everything now seemed!

Something dark, something bleeding green greed
Crept from the water with fluid speed,
The creature from the river wrapped a long strong arm
And held Freia’s gentle palms.

“Mine!” it gurgled through gnashing sharp teeth.
“Please, no!” spoke Freia in fever’s heat.
“Bride you will be!” the scaly creature hugged and hissed,
With jagged lips he did upon Freia plant a kiss.

The Water-Goblin, for indeed it was he,
Dragged away Freia by the knee,
Into the cold and dank river he waded,
O, how his touch she hated!

“I’ll drown!” Freia screamed, “To the shore take me!”
“Please, no!” she tried to sense make him see,
“I’m sure to slip and sink and in the water drown and weep!”
“Will not,” spoke he, “Magic bubble I shall for you weave!”

He spun his murky magic and just as he had promised and hissed,
A large air bubble circled Freia’s body and hips,
He lowered her ever deeper into his Netherworld Kingdom,
Up above the sun into the horizon did drown.

The green-eyed Water-Goblin a wedding banquet did hold,
It was a hideous party truth be told,
The guests he had invited made Freia’s skin crawl,
Demons of all kinds smiled and prowled.

The poor girl dizzily danced with the greedy groom,
Her speech slurred and darkness loomed,
Her pulse quickened and her breath came in bursts short,
Her husband’s nails did pinch and hurt.

A year and a day passed away like a carnivorous nightmare
And Freia birthed a baby golden haired,
“Pretty child,” grunted the Water-Goblin, “Is it a boy?”
“No, it’s a girl,” spoke Freia with joy.

Freia enjoyed the happiness by and by tick,
But soon she became homesick,
She wished to see her Mother and to her show the baby,
In that watery Kingdom she was but a trophy.

“Please let me visit my mother?” she kept pleading.
“Never!” he kept repeating.
“Please?” Freia was all honey, clever and charming.
“Never ever!” he was no more laughing.

And so it went on, and on, each and every day,
The Water-Goblin did for an end pray,
“Wife go then,” he one day gave in and readily flipped,
“Back you must come!” he spat through rotted lips.  

“Go now,” he gestured with claws ******
And at the child in the crib he pointed,
“The baby tender and sweet will with me stay,
Come back or else she pays.”

Freia begged, “To my dear Mother I want to baby display.”
“Hark and hear!” he kicked the cot of clay,
“Listen to my dread law. The child here plays.
Return to me by dark of this day.”

He took her to the surface and released her from the spell
Which kept her prisoner in the river red,
She went away yet still she heard a warning burning in her ears,
“Be back before dark or else they be tears!”

When to the old cottage she arrived she wiped her tears,
Her Mother was sitting in the rocking chair,
In the very air floated cobwebs, dust and impending doom,
The room was cloaked in layers of grainy gloom.

Freia rushed to her Mother feeling sad and weak,
It had been a year since they last did speak,
Mother and daughter warmly hugged and held each other fast,
“O, my doll, you return at last from the past!”

Freia did to her Mother tell her tale from beginning to end,
She was broken and needed to mend,
To her Mother she told about her beautiful baby,
Outside, the light was fast fading.

“I must now go back to my darling child before dark
Or else my dread lord will bark
And wreck vengeance most sharp upon my precious pearl,
O, how I miss my darling girl!”

“But don’t you see?” began the wise Mother true,
“The Water-Goblin has no magic over you.
It is said that whosoever returns to dry land can the spell break
If they keep the Water-Goblin at bay till daybreak.”

“Will the vile Water-Goblin free me and my child sweet?
And will he shift this curse? O, do speak!”
“Yes! You and the baby will be safe,” the Mother explained,
“The Water-Goblin will crack and be in pain.”

“Now we wait for the night of shadows long,” said the Mother poor
As she bolted the door,
“Go and bar the kitchen windows, I begin to feel sick,
Lock also the house on this side, be quick!”

No sooner had they barred the door of the cottage old
When the wind howled down the valley cold,
Night shrouded the land and black things moved outside,
They heard the rain pelting the hillside.

The storm with titanic volcanic fury spoke,
Everything fled even hope,
The cottage door with demonic force did vibrate,
Something was tearing the cottage.

“Has he come for me?” Freia shook in her Mother’s arms,
“Has my Master come to inflict harm?”
“No!” shouted her Mother over the thunderclaps,
“It’s the storm perhaps.”

Scratching was heard and they began to fearfully pray,
The panel above the doorway shattered,
Sharp shards of glass everywhere cascaded and scattered,
“Come back!” the thing outside banged and battered.

“It’s the wind. Only the wind, darling dear,” the Mother cleared
Her frightened daughter’s eyes full of fear,
The noise and the angry threats of the unseen creature
Drove darts of icy terror into their features.

“When will this nightmare end?” asked Freia with concern.
Replied the Mother, “Dawn is about to be born.
This Water-Goblin has to go back to his Kingdom before sunrise
Or else he will lose his life and prize.”

Crash! Something broke, splinters of wood in the air flew,
Cracked claws clawed across morning dew,
A hairy paw with nails long and sharp shot through the opening
Above the door and for the lock began searching.

A heartrending howl of frustration then was heard,
Without warning the probing fist did disappear
And there was an unnatural silence in the morning land,
The Hour of the dead Wolf was at hand.

Bang! Something outside the door had horribly burst,
Something had been flung with frightful force
But the cottage door was strong and held firm and fast
The Mother dryly spoke, “The terror has passed.”

“Has it?” said Freia as she with caution went to unhook the lock,
The handle was cold and her heart still in shock,
Her brow and hands wet with the nightmare’s perspiration,
She paused before the door in desperation.

Something lay on the ground before the door all blood and bone,
The sight would bring tears even to a stone,
Freia saw what the Water-Goblin had used to batter the door with,
O, how she wished to stitch her eyelids!

For there lay the lifeless body of her baby on the earth,
This was the baby to whom she had given birth,
Only a small finger remained of the golden curled girl,
The Water-Goblin’s curse had done the worst.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Samber Saenz Oct 2012
You never really know someone until you are laying in a bed with them around 2 in the morning lingering from a night of busy adventure.
Not just a regular night of adventure but one that has exhausted you and drained all of the energy you stored from the week.
A night that took you to new places in a city you thought you knew so well and forced you to revel in the beauty it holds.
A night that creates memories that stick to your soul and your skin more than anything.
As you ride home in the backseat and steal glances in the rear view you love the way the wind wraps your hair around you and the wind smells sweet.
Once you have dropped off everyone else and you move to the front seat you really start getting to know someone.
It's midnight and you are dozing off in the passengers seat hoping this person is noticing the moonlight on your skin.
You feel their presence wrap around you and all thoughts of logic are thrown out the window as you drive down the highway.
It's 1 am now and you are laying in bed wondering how you got to the point of skin wrapped around you and a scent taking over your memories.
The conversation is light because you feel the need to whisper as the moonlight pours into a room of heavy hearts.
Nothing has happened that wasn't anything more than a kiss but the idea is heavy in the air with the cool weather blowing in through an open window.
Eyes hang low and voices start to soften and hang with every sleepy word that falls from a mouth.
This is the point where you get to know someone.
The things they whisper about as their mind tries to escape to sleep but they push through.
How you have a beautiful family.
How I love living in the country.
How you enjoy math.
How I hate all numbers.
How you like to workout.
How I love cake.
How you belief in religion.
How I believe in everything.
How we would love to be part of the stars.
How we hate oxymorons.
It is the simplicity of a tired mind that brings about the most deep and beautiful ideas. They way your voice is deeper and mine is quieter.
I got to know you under the cloak of night and I got to keep you there for a while.
Holly Salvatore Jul 2013
When  my mom was dying
We put a bed in the living room
Fresh from the hospital
In front of the piano
Behind the rocking chair

We still called it the "living room"
I didn't mention the cruel irony in that
And the living people
Who knew my mother
All came and sat around her

And we weren't allowed to touch her
Cause the morphine lost its memory
And every bit of her was falling down
Dozing in a straw house
When the weather man called for hurricanes
She was right there
But miles away from rescue efforts
And hand-holding daughters

Marilyn Monroe went the same way
In bed, I mean
Facedown
Her pill supply run out
And I imagine her room was a beautiful mess
Full of roses and tokens from insincere men

An icon deserves better than that
A pin up with no one
But ex-lovers and sheets to hold her
And a pillow stained with last lipstick kisses
All those little white beads of forgetfulness
Crawling on the floor
And happy birthday Mr. President

Billy woke up bawling the other night
In bed with a girl
Who was not my sister
And he called and told her he loved her still
She hugged my dog and cried into her fur
She finished the roll
Of toilet paper blowing her nose

There were three of us in bed that night
And two somewhere else
Continents, nations, states apart
The air in my room was like asphalt
And allergies weighing us down
Lulu barked at our crestfallen hearts

Under the supermoon
I turned into a twentysomethingwolf
Keen senses acute defenses
And all I could smell on my sheets
Was the kitchen I work in
I wanted to be human
Taste the fear and perfection
Of being a ******
In bed with a boy who is not family
A teenager whispering under sheets again

I stayed at home alone
Soothing, sighing, and howling sweet nothings
To my lonely bed
Telling mom and Marilyn Monroe
The fever dreams in my lone wolf head
Praying "please God, send us someone"
"Please God, let love burn us quick and strong"
"Please God, don't draw the blues out. We all buckle."
friends or frenemies (feminist safety instruction card)

a coastal flight, boredom has me riffle through the various
offerings in the seat pocket, and on the safety instruction card
come across this...
<•>

she’s blunt, direct, proffers me an either/or choice,
game on either way, pick door A or B, up to me,
she’s no lady, but a hipster shooter using semi-automatics,
three lines of verse, rat-a-tat-tat, your guts spilling,
hoho you’re dead or kicked in the *****, at the minimum

if only she knew what she was up against

I got words for which there ain't no antidote,
can whip her into a lovers frenzy with cooing metaphors,
slap her with stingers so that she’ll retreat hasty to another site

friends or frenemies, how juvenile, how sweet, how absolutely
childish girl, no interest, play in my arena, I have studied with
the masters and lionesses and offer you no terms but this:

be my lover

extend your reach, speak slow and soft, open and willing,
my sonnets demand close attention, slowing and holding,
building links into chains that make boundaries into a single
tie that binds, not for now and not for later but for the only measure that poets alone command: forever

concede and give up that conceit that tough is a defense,
lose everything for rewards you have yet to witness, conceive,
in my circle is in my circle where the intuitive rules and gasps of shocking come so frequent, they are normal breathing

be my lover

knowing that we will never meet never see the inside of
the furnace that can be dreamed-created with tonguing verbs,
adjectives that dance intertwining pas de deux,
oh my femme fatale, my agent provocateur,
let us learn together how,  to teach each other
come,
will be the only action word ever required

come
come write me
come together
come close my eyes
come open them wider
come free me to be a one two

anger is false brevity - loving is the languid forever languishing flames of golden burning orange caramel, word chips of
liquidity that verses, penned passioned calculations,
see how takes many stalks needy to  birth bound into a
single sheaf, count the wips of smoky wispy slivers,
combine and separate, the calculus of recombinant,
offering a unique poem with a momentary invitation,
an equation of equality and there is no diverse different


<•>

the first class steward sh/wakes the dozing body
with an apology;
“landing soon, would you like some breakfast before we land?”

the sleepy soul replies,
come to me with water,
just water...for my dream
J Klein Oct 2012
I am fond of

Couches

of all things.

I remember

New Years Eve,

alone,

dozing on the couch

troubled

impatient for midnight.

I also remember

one night,

together

Only I was

dozing on the couch.

In a haze, I awoke

and there you were.

At times I realize,

such a loss.
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
There's
a
rhythm inside me that I want  craft fire to
But I never can keep up with the ticking clock

There's

a
wall that obstructs my view I want to see higher yet
What if I climb until I find out I don't like what's at the top?

One day I'll step out of line and ignore the warden who drags me back
I'll climb the tree next to the wall and dance along the top
But for now each day pulls me in a struggle unyielding
It would be a dance if my mind could process all that keeps proceeding

If I could pause it for a beat perhaps I could find my feet
But the game gets faster while I just get more confused.

I suppose I'll get used to it.  Will it always be this way?
and does it feel the same somehow to everybody else?
I want to dance perfectly
impeccably,
beautifully
in a way that's new and full of life and my own very soul

but head down I keep dozing to miss out on the pain and I shut my eyes
Squint over the wall's holes.
Thank you sincerely for reading.

Oh, and I think I'll mention that the idiosyncrasies in rhythm and rhyming scheme were intentional.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
    Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
      Dear soul, for all is well."

  A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
    I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
      Suddenly scaled the light.

  Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
    The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
      In her high palace there.

  And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
    "Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
      Sleeps on his luminous ring."

  To which my soul made answer readily:
    "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
      So royal-rich and wide."

* * * *

  Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
    In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
      A flood of fountain-foam.

  And round the cool green courts there ran a row
    Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
      Of spouted fountain-floods.

  And round the roofs a gilded gallery
    That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
      Dipt down to sea and sands.

  From those four jets four currents in one swell
    Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
      Lit up a torrent-bow.

  And high on every peak a statue seem'd
    To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
      From out a golden cup.

  So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
    My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
      And that sweet incense rise?"

  For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
    And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
      Burnt like a fringe of fire.

  Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
    Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
      And tipt with frost-like spires.

* * *

  Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
    That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
      Well-pleased, from room to room.

  Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
    All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
      And change of my still soul.

  For some were hung with arras green and blue,
    Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
      His wreathed bugle-horn.

  One seem'd all dark and red--a tract of sand,
    And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
      Lit with a low large moon.

  One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
    You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
      Beneath the windy wall.

  And one, a full-fed river winding slow
    By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
      With shadow-streaks of rain.

  And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
    In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
      And hoary to the wind.

  And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
    Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
      And highest, snow and fire.

  And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd
    On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
      A haunt of ancient Peace.

  Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
    As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
      Not less than truth design'd.

* * *

  Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
    In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
      Sat smiling, babe in arm.

  Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
    Near gilded *****-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
      An angel look'd at her.

  Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
    A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
      That said, We wait for thee.

  Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
    In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
      And watch'd by weeping queens.

  Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
    To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
      Of wisdom and of law.

  Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
    And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
      A summer fann'd with spice.

  Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
    From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
      The mild bull's golden horn.

  Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
    Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
      Above the pillar'd town.

  Nor these alone; but every legend fair
    Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
      Not less than life, design'd.

* * *

  Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
    Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
      The royal dais round.

  For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
    Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
      And somewhat grimly smiled.

  And there the Ionian father of the rest;
    A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
      From cheek and throat and chin.

  Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
    Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
      With interchange of gift.

  Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
    With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
      So wrought, they will not fail.

  The people here, a beast of burden slow,
    Toil'd onward, *****'d with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
      The heads and crowns of kings;

  Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
    All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
      And trusted any cure.

  But over these she trod: and those great bells
    Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
      To sing her songs alone.

  And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame
    Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large brow'd Verulam,
      The first of those who know.

  And all those names, that in their motion were
    Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
      In diverse raiment strange:

  Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
    Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
      Rivers of melodies.

  No nightingale delighteth to prolong
    Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
      Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

  Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
    Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
      Lord of the senses five;

  Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
    And let the world have peace or wars,
'T is one to me." She--when young night divine
      Crown'd dying day with stars,

  Making sweet close of his delicious toils--
    Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
      In hollow'd moons of gems,

  To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
    "I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
      Be flatter'd to the height.

  "O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
    O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
      My Gods, with whom I dwell!

  "O God-like isolation which art mine,
    I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
      That range on yonder plain.

  "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
    They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
      And drives them to the deep."

  Then of the moral instinct would she prate
    And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full accomplish'd Fate;
      And at the last she said:

  "I take possession of man's mind and deed.
    I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
      But contemplating all."

* * * *

  Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
    Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
      And intellectual throne.

  And so she throve and prosper'd; so three years
    She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
      Struck thro' with pangs of hell.

  Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
    God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
      Plagued her with sore despair.

  When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight
    The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite
      The kingdom of her thought.

  Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
    Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
      Laughter at her self-scorn.

  "What! is not this my place of strength," she said,
    "My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
      Since my first memory?"

  But in dark corners of her palace stood
    Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
      And horrible nightmares,

  And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
    And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
      That stood against the wall.

  A spot of dull stagnation, without light
    Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
      Making for one sure goal.

  A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,
    Left on the shore, that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
      Their moon-led waters white.

  A star that with the choral starry dance
    Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
      Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

  Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.
    "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:
      One deep, deep silence all!"

  She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,
    Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
      Lost to her place and name;

  And death and life she hated equally,
    And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
      No comfort anywhere;

  Remaining utterly confused with fears,
    And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
      And all alone in crime:

  Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
    With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
      Of human footsteps fall.

  As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
    In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
      Moan of an unknown sea;

  And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound
    Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found
      A new land, but I die."

  She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.
    There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
      And save me lest I die?"

  So when four years were wholly finished,
    She threw her royal robes away.
"Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
      "Where I may mourn and pray.

  "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
    So lightly, beautifully built:
Perchance I may return with othe
Lana Aug 2013
Bathed in the shade of
a rubbery rhododendron,
I sway imperceptibly,
Lulled by nature's rhythms,
A silent, sleepy visitor
splayed on a ropey nest,
Serenaded by an aerial orchestra,
Chirps and trills
and throaty warbles
spiral downward,
Atomized in the languid breeze
like a Roman candle,
A staccato riff,
Jack-hammered into a dying birch,
Urges me back from the edge,
Where dream and dreamer part,
A gauzy memory of a melody lost,
Performed for the oblivious,
and a dozing, grateful
audience of one.
A Mareship Sep 2013
Polka dots

Little beads

Rain drops

Cloudy seeds

Pastel pink

Lipstick red

Take too many

Wind up dead

…….

Pills for mania, laughter – blue,
An inappropriate colour,
But what can ya do?

Pills for thyroid, goitre, shakes,
Bottle green like the bottom of lakes,

Pills for pain, black –  red  - pink,
Pills that can’t be mixed with drink,

Pills for anxiety, phobias, fears,
Fleshy coloured,
Like children’s ears,

Pills for dreaming, dozing, sleep,
Pure white
Like counted sheep.
An easy lazy length of limb,
  Dark eyes and features from the south,
A short-legged meditative pipe
  Set in a supercilious mouth:
Ink and a pen and papers laid
  Down on a table for the night,
Beside a semi-dozing man
  Who wakes to go to bed by light.

A pair of brothers brotherly,
  Unlike and yet how much the same
In heart and high-toned intellect,
  In face and bearing, hope and aim:
Friends of the selfsame treasured friends
  And of one home the dear delight,
Beloved of many a loving heart
  And cherished both in mine, good night.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swiftewd greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo',

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nurs'd with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confin'd,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance ev'ry night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd,
On pippins' russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,
Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he lov'd to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his **** around.

His frisking wa at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching show'rs,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And ev'ry night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade
He finds his long, last home,
And waits inn snug concealment laid,
'Till gentler **** shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Curt A Rivard Sr Apr 2014
In the beginning of the college class semester we all were asked to read and inter operate:) a poem and at the end of the semester we were asked to re-inter operate:) it and see how all of our thoughts and feelings were changed after taking a class on Death and Dying. The poem is called “The Angel of Death is Always with me” by Morton Marcus. My thoughts did not change and I took over the class with my interpretation because everyone else said it is something like a reaper knocking at your door ready to take you away.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH IS ALWAYS WITH ME

The Angel of Death is always with me
the hard wild flowers of his teeth,
his body like cigar smoke
swaying through a small town jail.

He is the wind that scrapes through our months,
the train wheels grinding over our syllables.
He is the footstep continually pacing through our
chests,
the small wound in the soul,
the meteor puncturing the atmosphere.
And sometimes he is merely a quiet between the start
of an act
and its completion,
a silence so loud
it shakes you like a tree.

It is only then you look up from the wars,
from the kisses,
from the signing of business agreements;
It is only then you observe the dimensions
housed in the air of each day,
each moment;
only then you hear the old caressing the cold rims of
their sleep,
hear the middle-aged women in love with their pillows
weeping into the gray expanse of each dawn,
where young men, dozing in alleys,
envision their loneliness to be a beautiful girl
and do not know they are part of a young girl's dream,
as she does not know that she is a dream in the sleep
of middle-aged women and old men,
and that all are contained in a gray wind
that scrapes through our months.

But soon we forget that the dead sleep in buried
cities,
that our hearts contain them in ripe vaults.
We forget that beautiful women dry into parchment
and ball players collapse into ash;
that geography wrinkles and smoothes
like the expressions on a face,
and that not even children
can pick the white fruit from the night sky.

And how could we laugh while looking at the face
that falls apart like wet tobacco?
How could we wake each morning
to hear the muffled gong beating inside us,
our mouths full of shadows,
our rooms filled with a black dust?

Still,
it is humiliating to be born a bottle:
to be filled with air, emptied, filled again;
to be filled with water, emptied, filled again;
and, finally, to be filled with earth.

And yet I am glad that The Angel of Death is always
with me:
his footsteps quicken my own,
his silence makes me speak,
his wind freshens the weather of my day.
And it is because of him
I no longer think
that with each beat
my heart
is a planet drowning from within
but an ocean filling for the first time.

And This is What I Told the Class….

Adolf ****** and the **** SS come to mind after reading the clue riddled poem, “The Angel of Death is Always with me”. Hiding between the lines I find there are many reference points to the holocaust and feelings of how it might have felt from a prisoner’s point of view.

If my assumptions are valid with this interpretation as far as the relationship of “death to Life” is concerned, one would think that after witnessing all the atrocities that one saw in those concentration camps, one would almost welcome death as soon as possible as a way to escape from their living nightmare and be welcomed back into being a part of the earth so they no longer have to whisper softly, “We are the dead” and pray that they become a victim of an accident of birth.

I normally don’t comment on other people’s works in poetry for the simple fact that I try to jump into their shoes and try to understand just what it is the message they are diligently trying to convey to the reader, and in the doing of so, I feel that I might misunderstand just what it is they are trying to tell the world and in the doing of so I would then not be able to make the ranks of a poet with originality.
(SirCARSr. 4-7-14)
KE Filtar Sep 2011
The peaceful shepherd
dozing against warm
wood of a pasture
fence.

Where sheep live like kings
in a peasant's square
protected and fed
and led.

The shepherd's kin
cries weakly - but why
are you not in the
world, living?

A crinoline reply
floats above the sweetgrass.
Where would I
be without them?
religious, shepherd, sheep, devotion
Monica Rose Aug 2010
Dappled sunlight filters in
Late afternoon meanders by
Absorbing my thoughts,
They filter through
And I am dozing,
Warm and cozy
In my bed of grass
And time just passes,
Never rushing once to fly.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.
i sat down and began to doze
i started snoring through my nose
i was breathing in and out
then my nose began to shout
i just sounded like a pig
so i gave myself a dig
then it stopped the noise had gone
so in my doze i carried on
it came back again once more
this time louder than before
it woke me up i couldnt doze
so from my sleep i arose.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
(A class for correctional officers
at the local community college)

Thirty-six-thousand a year to begin
No education or experience required
The recruiting posters are pretty, though:
Handsome young people uniformed in grey

But the poor sergeant can’t control his class
His students have their cell ‘phones and their ‘tudes -
“Tell Momma to pick me up like I said!” –
Slouched in their seats or wandering the halls

While dozing over her own telescreen
A fat corporal yawns by the soda machine
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Valsa George Aug 2016
Dozing on a hammock
Strung between two towering palms
With the sky above-
color washed in turquoise blue
and the waters below
reflecting that heavenly hue,
you came to me
sailing in a dream
like the strains of a symphony
causing endless vibrations
in my solitary heart

you showed up
all too sudden
like a rainbow on my vacant sky
after a cloud burst of cloistered grief
to blaze it with iridescent shades

Your smile
embalmed my bruised spirit
with the coolness of a  summer drizzle
falling, like manna
over starved Israelites
in their arduous odyssey
through blistering sands

Your passionate breath,
spewed on my face
bore the scent of opening buds
in the mazy tangle of wild creepers
growing dense in nearby woods.

Your amorous whispers
fell in my ears
with the sweetness of the melody
from Krishna’s flute
with Radha near ,love sick
her lips curled in an immaculate smile.

Your soft footsteps
like the jingle of a court dancer
echoed in the silence of my soul
with a hundred evocations

As the jingles
came nearer in synchronizing rhythm
I held out my arms
to clasp you in tight embrace
and reel you in frenzied jig

But you vanished,
vanished,
with the swiftness
of bubbles rising and breaking
in a beer glass,
leaving me to my desolate zone

The sky overhead had changed
into another shade

Still I lay in mid air,
with my eyes sealed tight
to re-live that dream
once again!
*According to Hindu Scriptures, Radha and Krishna were so devoted to each other that their romance remains a love legend of all times. Radha would fly into a state of ecstasy with the songs flowing through Krishna's flute….. Krishna is represented as a God with a flute in his hand and a peacock feather adorning his curly hair
She Said No

I asked her out about a week ago (she said no)
I asked her out about a week ago (she said no)
I asked her out about a week ago (she said no)
I asked her out about a week ago (she said no)

She said na na na na no

I asked again the other day or so (she said no)
I asked again the other day or so (she said no)
I asked again the other day or so (she said no)
I asked again the other day or so (she said no)

She said na na na na no

Well I saw her yesterday
She was walking holding hands
She was kissing on a girl
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na

2. Sheets

Air out your ***** laundry
Yeah you think I'm scary
So are you
Tell everyone I hit you
Tell em that I miss you
Thats not true

You scare yourself
Everyday (X4)

So turn another table
Start another chapter
I'm still through
You thought that I'd be asking
Rather than reacting
Look at you

You scare yourself
Everyday (X4)

3. Tongue and Cheek

Fell on your face
Lift up your eyes

Come and sink your teeth into revenge
Sell your soul for fame until the end

Waste all your life
Fill all your time

Come and sink your teeth into revenge
Sell your soul for fame until the end

Come and sink your teeth into revenge
Sell your soul for fame until the end

4. Opposite Day

Can I say
I don't like today
I want more
I want more
Its okay
I'll lie today
Cuz I'm off
Cuz I'm off

Can you make the most of it
Offer and explain
Pushing almost all of it
All into a name

Will you say
You don't like today
You want more
You want more

Can you make the most of it
Offer and explain
Pushing almost all of it
All into a name

Oh oh woah
Oh oh oh
Oh oh woah
oh oh woah woah

Can you make the most of it
Offer and explain
Pushing almost all of it
All into a name

5. Spit

Can you ask yourself
If there's no one else

Its up to me to tell you off
Push you around and **** you off
I know you think you're cool with
Hundred dollar shirts

Its up to me to tell you off
Push you around and **** you off
I know you think you're cool with
Hundred dollar shirts

You're so fake
You're so **** fake

6. *****

You run around with everybody and then lay down
Then kick and scream stay up at night looking at the ground
I don't know why I don't know how when you're not around
Figure it out and then I'll show you how I will

Fight it down
Fight it down
Fight it down and I'll write it down (X2)

You think you know me but you don't even have a clue
Try to control me but I'm way too **** fast for you
Try to keep up cuz I'm not gonna wait for you
Come on and listen to me play the guitar like

Fight it down
Fight it down
Fight it down and I'll write it down (X2)

7. Sin

This is a sin
And they will win
Fall into place
You think you're in
A living den
Fall into place

Woah Woah **
Woah Woah Woah (X4)

You wear your skin
The next of kin
Fall into place
You burned it in
Your ****** shin
Fall into place

Woah Woah **
Woah Woah Woah (X4)

Yeah Yeah Yeah
Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah

Yeah
Yeah
Yeah

8. Drive

Turn it on its time to go
Wait it out we wont be late

Try to keep yourself awake
While solid lines are passing by
The same old song will play again
Dozing off and waking up to
Frantic thoughts a brand new rush
Adrenalin is not the cure (X2)

I challenge you to stay awake
You have been driving for a day

I think its time you stop
Stretch legs and arms don't drop

Try to keep yourself awake
While solid lines are passing by
The same old song will play again
Dozing off and waking up to
Frantic thoughts a brand new rush
Adrenalin is not the cure (X2)

I challenge you to stay awake
You have been driving for a day

9. Shade of blue

Shade my room
But don't
Ever paint my eyes
Dark consumes
Never
Say my name again

Color me
Color me
Color me inside your skin

Blue tattoo
Can't you
Save your precious breath
Ask yourself
How would
You react instead

Color me
Color me
Color me inside your skin (X2)

10. Trails

You'll hold my hand but you wont let me into your heart
Folding me down
Ask me how I am and I'll say that I am okay
Folding me down

Don't know how late
It is

Felt your warmth woke and saw you smile in your sleep
Folding me down
Think that the sun is up but all that I see here is you
Folding me down

Don't know how late
It is

I'll be more brave
Open my eyes
Don't know how late
It is
It is
So great
So great
Don't know how late
It is
This is the lyrics to my upcoming album to be released on my birthday 3/8/18

— The End —