"draft" poems
The
warm whipped cream
dripped from her succulent lips
thick liquids drips
smooth tastebuds sips
big long strokes
deep penetrating licks
sensational vibes capsize our hips
riding each other's waves like two crossing ships
mesmerized as our two worlds collide
and coincide like nature designed us
to co-exist we a twist
two organisms sharing a gift
shifting from the present to the moment
relishing in the sensations before they cease to exist
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
[I accidentally deleted this, so now I'm reposting it]
This is not an attack, it is expression.
*This apparently isn't a very popular subject,
but then again, when has popularity changed anyone's mind..*
--
**** the 'Selective Service System'; the SSS.
It's neo-conscription.
FDR made us a deal we couldn't refuse
which included a stipulation
that about half of us still cannot refuse:
Selective Service
also known as
Peacetime Draft
But only for males. Only the males.
Not the females, though. Oh, no, not the females;
We need the Females
to bake the next batch of mindless soldiers/housewives/neoslaves.
We need the women to uphold the status-quo.
We need our women
to remain passive, docile, and beautiful ******* doormats
for our glorious and infallible western society.
We need our women
to be complaint, subservient, sex-starved, archaic-gender-role embodiments.
I see it as overtly 'cherry-picking' as well as misogyny both ways;
sexist, selfish, and prejudiced on both sides:
'Feminists' (read: Feminazis) claim to plea for true gender equality, but here is my plea:
If such is true, where then are their demands for mandatory selective service?
Why do they feel above reproach when it comes to the unsavory sides of society?
Why do they turn a blind eye to the ******* Draft if they ***** up such a storm about equality?
Why is it not a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine as well as up to 5 years in prison
for a female to not sign their life away to the military from when they turn 18 until at least 25?
How is that 'gender equality'?
Huh?
They, too, are cherry-picking.
-
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
I, a woman of letters, have been waiting for you, a man of numbers. I’ve been fantasizing of the day when you would deliver at the porch of my heart your algebraic equation. The x’s and y’s merged systematically with all the symbols, forming an indelibly inked pattern that would finally make sense. I have been waiting and hoping and praying, but all I’ve got so far are your invalid equations, the confusion, the uncertainties, the unsolvable mathematical sentence that I want so desperately unscrambled. How can you not, in your genius, find the right equation, even as I now try to draft a coherent verse?
for j.e.
013115
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
So in this Month your Heart begins to press
For Good October promises your Due
Thinking of Delight and Travel Costs less,
And finally meeting her through and through
Her arm must have healed, given Time's duty
No more must such Fortress wall you apart
Her, Blessed Pronoun who cheers you truly
On her own Springboard she performs her Part
As you guide Witness to her own Unique Craft,
That Guideline which does greatly Inspire
Now look! Her Swan whips the Air; And the Draft
Begs humbly deep its legs to retire.
Your Hug was her Reward; Then the Flannel
Covers your Cheers on the Upper Panel.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
"you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?
When do I get better?
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.
A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.
A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.
A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.
But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
like the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
I converse with
The voices in my head
They talk slowly
So their guidance isn't misread
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.
*And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.*
© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
Millennials at Work and War
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-bloody movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
In as much as I tamed the Infidel
Baptism pokes her Holistic White Tongue
Such that if you try to flip the Role-Model
For which Hypocrisy had said and done
You do not know me. If Duty must care
And stand accused tackling my Man to like
Your Mass does not shrink me; And if you dare
Take a Pied Contest and taste the First Strike
Yet in fairness your Swan-Form does exist
As billed by Tom's Twin circled in craft
Now may I come in? Or should I resist
And Boot my *** on the Beach by the Draft?
Those Stripes were hostile from a Few Years Past
Enjoy Iberia Minor; Healing can last.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I can't write...
I have a stash of twenty drafts, bearing a couple of lines each
I can't crack...
Every draft seem to have developed a shell I can't breach
I can't gather...
My thoughts so I could nurture these drafts to fruition
I can't think...
The clatter in my head meant only to deafen
I can't fathom...
What went right from what had gone completely awry
I can't find...
Much needed sanity to let soar and fly
I can't cry...
The tears I've beckoned for so very badly
I can't scream...
Only muffled gurgles of notions drowned at sea
I can't see...
The bigger picture...that consumed us both
I can't hear...
Except for the dreaded voice of reason that I loathe
I can't piece...
Together one decent little write
***I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...***I'm losing this fight
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
This fits nicely into the story of my life
A nice chapter leading up to the ******
The ****** that wasn't as long and steady as it should have been
A ****** that took a vertical drop to an unresolved conclusion
This fits nicely into the story of my life
It took up a few pages
But I'll have to wait for the publication of the sequal
to find out what happens next
This rough draft of Part II is a bad sketch
There is grammer errors and mispellingz
My punctuation. Is off as, well as my punctuality
But the sequal will be released in time
As the author of my story,
I'm not sure any words will start with the letter you.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
I opened a football stadium called life
And put goals on both sides
Take the draft and be ready for the ride
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Tsunamis start at Sea
As wind from a butterfly's wings
The draft drifts gently into water
building, building, building
slowly as it grows
onward out forever
an epic journey
that goes untold
until one day -
It explodes
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
I don't apologize for my blackness and your fear seems like this beautiful melanin enriched skin is a blessing and a curse. police offers using our young men's as target practice ripping our rich black roots from the ground and scathing them them all over the cold blood stained concrete streets that my people paved.they just want us to dance sing and play ball to entertain them. they don't want us to succeed and move on to bigger and better things so sinister grins creep upon their faces as they watch us slaughter eachother in the streets. they watch us struggle to get out of poverty they say we're all on welfare and ain't **** but how can we move up in the world and get out of poverty when this system wasn't built to benefit us? we are more than the stereotypes. we are doctors lawyers entrepreneurs nurses designers filmmakers activist.we are intelligent intellectual beings with knowledge that surpasses all understanding. they don't want us to open our mouths and speak our truth...they want us to shut up and chuck and jive and kiss their pasty white ***** to the bone they want us to ignore the blatant racism and discrimination we face everyday and be content that we aren't enduring as much pain as the ones before us have. but we will not shut up. we do experience racism. we do experience discrimination. and our people are dying everyday from it.how dare you utter the words respect yourself and well respect your from the same mouth that slandered my ppl and taught us to hate ourselves with? we were taught to love everything that was white and hate everything that was black and love blonde long straight hair and blue eyes and hate our chocolate skin and ***** hair but these ***** roots are deep...no matter how much you try and destroy them they are deep and run through us all. so my brothers and sisters... be proud of your roots take care of your roots embrace your roots love everything about yourself from that ***** *** hair that breaks all the teeth of your comb to your chocolate skin that glows in the sunlight and those strong minds and powerful voices because black is beautiful, black is powerful black is brilliant, black matters.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
They told me the only thing that could cure heartache was war, and since the war wouldn't take me I figure the only thing to do now is take up a life of crime. Gabriel Garcia Marquez says in Love in the Time of Cholera that the only cure for heartache is to find other hearts to break. Five years have passed and I still remember without fail the flint of a lighter, the squint of an eye, and the bell of your dress. I dream a dream each night, sweet variation of the story of you. It comes down to a letter sometimes, I go to the window well with a notebook and a pencil and I draft a sonnet, sometimes a verse, any form of an expression to idle the time it takes for me to find you. I know stars that haven't lived as long. The way I cupped my hands over your ears, the way rapture lived and loved, you kissing me in the shade of the palm trees up their on Notre Damen Ave. I know the curve of the Earth wrapped in the shades of the skin on your body. I live every day for the chance that I will meet you again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
The Will-of-Strength, firm and subtle at Peak
Sought to follow his Elder and charge his Day
With Weight-Lifts and Fork-Bells conquer Relief
Took a Sling from his Semi; Shot the Green Elf
Who flew around the House and tampered his Rage
To learn such Programmes like Responses and Growth
But Confident as he was to draft his Age
Shot the Green Elf again; His Candles grew Old
The Candles! Left there on a Muddy-Cream-Cake
Waiting to be puffed by a Cold, Moral Bite
Till the Drogbas arrived and brought their own Bake
Then the Party resumed; Screams sparked in Delight.
And the Green Elf, sleeping, spoke in the End:
"Manhood be your Goal; First make me your Friend."
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.
The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.
Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.
Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his,
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft carries smoke and cedar.
distant wildfires.
Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement,
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.
Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.
Somewhere past Brockway Summit
a ridgeline blooms orange.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
I sat along this opened window,
wishing to escape your empty home.
Yet, you will never archive my peace,
You're clogging up my bones.
Sadly in your breath stung darkness,
I knew this house was my prison,
when this home stayed dark as night,
after the sun had risen.
You ignored my pleas for leaving,
and left a window open.
I'll escape as I've pled before,
if only I could focus.
Yet you knew what I could do,
as you stared into my past.
You closed the window with a smirk,
and said you felt a draft-
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Seventeen men standing on a shaft
Of grey sunlight
Seventeen men waiting for a draft
Of black and white
Seventeen men all proud and blind
For the victory
Seventeen men all loony in their mind
Oh contradictory
Seventeen men fervent on a march
To their slow doom
Seventeen men die, drop, and parch
Not enough room
Seventeen men are abandoned prostrate
On the battlefield
Seventeen men become slaves to their state
All their hearts are sealed
Seventeen men praised above the ground
Lie breathlessly beneath
Seventeen men glorified by the pound
Their graves, their souls bequeath
Seventeen men were in love with an idea and went to war
Seventeen men died for a border and fought for a *****
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
I crushed it, and it regrew anyways.
The hypothesis, was more romantic,
than tossing and yearning all night
over losing teeth in a giraffe fight.
Your hypothesis, was more romantically
worded, than a thesis on how birds die on impact
when colliding with a glass windowpane,
retrieving teeth lost during a giraffe brawl.
Worded, like the thesis about how birds die during impact,
each line of the letter dripped with invisible ink,
like colliding with a glass window. Pain
is only fleeting, if the end comes close behind.
Every line in each letter, drawn with invisible ink,
doesn't sound in the pronunciation, which
is only fleeting, if the end line draws closed behind.
So close your characters behind you, and don't let the draft in.
Does it not sound in the pronoun, the annulment of which
leaves every thing indefinite, and incomplete.
So clothe your characters before you, so they don't let in a draft,
and catch a cold from ****** or being indistinct.
What leaves everything indefinitely incomplete
other than the ability of the mind to hypothesize,
and catch a cold in the **** state of being extinct?
The inability to reconcile your metaphorical heart and instinct.
The others, they, have the ability to hypothesize,
about what makes us toss and yearn at night.
I forgave your inability to reconcile. My heart: pure instinct.
So you crushed it, and still it grew anyways.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC