"drawling" poems
I have no right to be jealous,
Of you and that perfect woman.
She is definitely yours,
And you are hers of course.
I have no right to be jealous,
If you brushed your fingers through her hair.
You look at her divinely in the eyes,
And mine are misty for my heart cries.
I have no right to be jealous,
If you kiss her ever so softly.
You whisper her words of caress,
I'm locking my soul in self-made fortress.
I have no right to be jealous,
When you speak her name gently.
Drawling each syllable with care,
I wish to have that girl's name to be fair.
I have no right to be jealous,
When you give her the whole universe.
You offer her the most simple "I love you",
I yearn to reply freely "me too".
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
~ one more for patty m. ~
slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)
makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”
recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses
birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls
of poetic humans
10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets
Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
John gives large views about the last few dances.
And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,
A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --
Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.
1.7k
What year is it in Mississippi?
Sometimes it’s hard to tell,
You’d think in the 21st century,
We’d be able to tell time well.
Talking slow and taking it slow is okay
At least for most of the time
But there’s a big difference in drawling what you say,
And never reaching your prime
What year is it in Mississippi?
I don’t think it has its own zone.
Surely it’s impossible for the entire state
To have their watches on loan.
What year is it in Mississippi?
They seem so hopelessly behind,
Most other states quickly recognize
That her flag is hatred-lined.
What year is it in Mississippi?
Sorry, but I have to ask,
First in everything bad, and last in anything good,
To even tie with another state seems an impossible task.
Because when you act like you’re still in the past,
You’re going to keep being last.
And passed.
And bashed.
And masked.
And trashed.
No one thinks it’s hopeless yet
Or that the whole state is obscene,
I just hate to break it to Mississippi
That it is 2015.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
vertigo hallway
I make my
way down
tilt-a-whirl dark
hallways
eyes of persons
in paintings
following
my trek
through the dark.
and I hear it--
I've gone
in search
of its source
as it
sounds in the blackness of
dead time
and I see
no mouth making
any noise
as I spiral through ennui
I reach a threshold
disoriented & lost, now,
I die with the dark
and yet,
I still hear them
through the snaps
and crackles
and drafts
of a quiet nightly home
clearer than a bell,
I hear
whispers
from the dark
I'm telling you -
almost like a
shadow
leaning up-close
to my ear
faintly drawling,
in some unutterable
alien muffled tongue
maddened by noise
I continue
Determined to
source this phenomena
I always end in the same
room
and as a
metal gate
rolls shut behind
I finally realize.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought form a cocoon.
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
You spoke for hours,
Drawling on as I sat across from you.
I stared blankly at my shoelaces,
And I could hear the weightless words.
I rubbed my tired eyes --
The same eyes you never knew weren't blue.
In the black fog I saw your true actions,
Speaking louder than your weightless words.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
I have been drawling alot these past weeks.
I couldn't ever get that look in your eyes in my pictures,
but tonight, at ten forty four...
I did,
it wasn't the perfect you,
but,
I did it,
I drew for two hours,
and I got it.
Art,
you saved me.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
Perhaps there's a force
Behind these poetic flows
A gathering of life times
All of our personal
Hell's in toll...
Images
Cave-wall drawling
Books we've may have written
All our experiences
All our misgivings...
Here and now
Trapped within!
The subconscious mind
Warps and bends
To be a Poet
A calling within!!!
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
I dreamed a dream far behind where things where different and love was blind .I dreamed of flowers blooming in autumn , i dreamed of things that where out of sight , i held my pen in my hand and held my tears from dropping ,i started writing what my dreams hided . Oh lord, a deep sorrow in my heart a sorrow that would break the unbroken heart. My ego stopped my drawling eyes, my shaky hands stopped me from writing. I layed down on ground ,looked up the sky searching for a star hoping that one day i will fulfill my dream and lay down by your side. And at last till this day i am still dreaming to reach this star that will freeze my fire from melting again.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
We watch movies and repeatedly listen to songs
Drawling on and on about the perfect, most passionate love.
Soulmates;
But if I loved the way I want,
The way they do in the movies,
Boom box outside your window,
Traveling across the world at the drop of a hat,
Grabbing your hand and dragging you out at night and early morning to watch stars and sunrises,
The grand gestures.
People would look at me like I was crazy.
It would get old;
To have someone who's eyes have glassed over with a rose colored shade.
You wouldn't live me.
You wouldn't experience me.
No.
You'd rather sit on your *** and watch me, portayed in bits and pieces,
On your TV screen.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 12:06 PM UTC
you and me
we barter like kings
and haggle away
deplorable things
wage wars, set siege
whatever it brings
and care not until
our epitaph sings
you sit swaddled in morality
wide-eyed with ideology
and conversational felonies
beneath a narcissist cowl
I sit asunder thunder rolling
let my thoughts get lost while strolling
meanwhile you are stalling, drawling
your self-inflicted toothless scowl
you and me
we barter like kings
we wear our wealth
in copper rings
until tomorrow's
daylight stings
the whites of our eyes;
the stumps of our wings.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
All within.
Shout your spells from the river: Spirit drawling; stand beside your sinner, or let him choke.
Let her first ask if her soul will wither.
It's okay if you hate me for this
Pull emeralds and ivory from my wrist
Now turn your cheek and make believe I don't exist.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
I look at my broken purple-tipped fingers, holding a cigarette drawling with ash
cupped around the ghost of a brown beer bottle, the smell permeates my fingers
painted purple with polish named with "no more film"
No more film. Huh. That's not a question.
I click the shutter, but nothing's there to capture the permanence. To project onto.
Nothing will be lacquered with a gloss
a painting of time with a smooth finish.
There might be a flash, but still nothing.
I might have disposables, they're costly to purchase, costly to develop. Same-o. Same-o.
They cost around ten dollars to develop, that's cheap, but expensive, in large quantities.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
And then I realized-
I am not suffering.
The I is not constant.
The sick father, that is
Constant. The drawling
Pain of humanity, that
Is constant. Those of us,
The Bukowski's, are merely
Those conscious of the
Continuous and everlasting
Stream of human
Suffering.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
I see the flower growing
no water just blood flowing
My brothers all distracted
no brains to counteract with..
The violence is appalling
reminders of the drawling
Are constantly broadcasted
incased in shiny plastic..
Beautiful and shiesty
the flower nurtured so
By every evil soul
delivering the blows..
If clarity is water..
most are dehydrated
If wisdom was a homie
most are very unaquanted..
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
The ocean, consume me.
I hear your call to me like a mother cow to her calf,
A low drawling echo that grows with the hour.
Or the calf to its mother,
you call me home
to suckle on my breast where in it my heart beats.
Drum, drum.
Be still the drums.
Laying deep in dark abyss.
The drums, the drums.
I smell the salty air
It haunts my passage, staining my dress
with crusted, crystallised foam.
Will this heart ne'er be clean?
To be filthied by shame, now unworthy to him
by the sea and what it has done to me.
I wait for you.
You growing pains, you. You wisdom teeth pushing through.
The dust settles in my candle light.
The little white flecks fall together like prancing dandelion seeds
as fragile as children who have been wasted in your hands like white gold,
thrown away.
What they could have been had they fallen to my hands.
Rosey and blue-eyed with marjoram soft hair.
So I wait, breath now freezing with the in and out
steadying as the tide rises.
It calls me to consume me.
Dare I step to it? Submerse my feet within the waves.
One more hour, one more day - tick, tock, tick, tock.
But what if this hour he comes my way?
Descending from heaven, knocking at my gate.
The crash of the ocean against my hull.
Wait, wait, for my life and forever, I will wait.
The ocean, consume me.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.
If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.
If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.
If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two tweakers, a rat, and a Jellicle cat
Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an Old Man of Connecticut,
Who possessed an innate sense of etiquette;
He'd lay down the fork to the left of the spork,
That mannerly man of Connecticut.
There was an Old Man from Earth's center,
Who left it and couldn't reënter;
He crawled out a hole like a man who's a mole,
And lost his way back to the center.
There was an Old Person of Skye,
Who spent his days wondering, "Why?"
When they asked, "What's the word?" he replied, "Haven't heard,"
That discouraged Old Person of Skye.
There was an Old Man of Seattle,
Who had an attraction to cattle;
Considering bovine anatomy _so_ fine,
He prodded the cows of Seattle.
There once was from Thessaloniki
A man who was geeky and greeky;
An avid fanatic of things democratic,
He voted in Thessaloniki.
There was an Old Person of Perth,
Who buried his gold in the Earth
And then plum forgot whereat was the spot,
That forgetful Old Person of Perth.
There was a Young Man of the South,
Who mouthwashed with whiskey his mouth;
He spoke with a drawl, saying yes'm and y'all,
That drawling Young Man of the South.
There was a Young Person of Boston,
Who wandered around and got lost in
The Chinatown section with a raging ********
That poked out an eyeball in Boston.
There was an Old Person named Lear,
Who surely was scroobious and queer;
He sat rather fat, and Old Foss was his cat,
And he couldn't abide ginger beer.
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
i think i should let you know
that you wouldn't just make an ugly girl
you'd make an ugly anything
because your mind
is ugly
and that every time i hear your voice
your drawling,
depressing,
slur
i want to throw my brain
out a window
into a vat of lava
i know this is all so sudden
but you **** me off
an' ****
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy?
~~~
heart and head soundlessly conversing,
as the body southernly traversing,
along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude,
quiescent, his manners and attitude,
sure where he is physical destined,
unsure where he is living bound
this time,
his designated place,
a blue leatherette stoop,
identifiable as Seat 23C
three seats, rowed across,
four letters, aisle down,
the crossword question;
what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" -
must be that word,
poet
why is it
that at 38,000 feet
above the sea,
the words come steady easy?
almost as if, they grow excited
by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres,
from whence they fell,
to a planet where mundanity revels
nothing to say,
plenty to feel,
like I said,
the head and the heart confer,
a baby born poem emerges
bawling and crawling,
lolling and drawling,
southern style
poem does not state a particular,
direction unknown,
disposed to the philosophical,
it forms, then reforms,
stymied but satisfied ironical,
posing while reposing,
the newborn's query repitiously millennial,
why?
the answer too,
an airborne pollen perennial,
just because
march 8, 2016
somewhere between
nyc & Fla.
11:20 pm
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
today i cut off some of my hair with a pink razor
and now i keep finding half-inch strands
all in my shirt
and on my wrists
and even once on this page
and ever since i've been
waiting
for that new freeing
feeling
the one you're supposed
to get
when you're listening to soft
music
and you're not sure what your
hair will look like
when it dries
and that sun ––
that sun is peeling through the
leaves just to meet your gaze
then blind you.
i've been waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.
yet all i feel is this
silly complacence and a
slight mourning for all the
time i've wasted.
and through these former pages
i can see the indentions
of the pressure
my hands have pressed
into these former pages
and i wonder what it was
that caused me to apply
so much force
to a 5cent yellow mechanical
pencil
that can do no more than
breathe sentience into my
thoughts,
my drawling thoughts,
and remind me that i've been
wearing gym shorts and a
grey t-shirt with the logo of
a bar i've never even been
to before
for about three days now.
i guess
i'm expecting the wrong things
to fill me up.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
There's a radio on
Blending into the drone of the car.
Outside, it is silent.
Silent trees, silent night.
Inside, there is weight.
All around, may as well be outer space.
Dark, there's stars. I'm an astronaut
Gazing through the thick paned glass.
Inside, where there's weight, I feel completely
Filled.
And so separate from what's out there.
Not just the stars, the trees, the noise,
But the people, the laughs, the bounce.
Tomorrow, I'll be buoyant again.
Eyes wide,
Limbs nimble,
A-glow.
Tonight, though, I am heavy
Heavy in my hips and head and heart and ribs
Every breath wraps me in an embrace of air
I feel my stomach hug back.
My eyelids steal kisses
My legs melt.
Inside (of me) there's weight
Soft, sweet, lulling, drawling
Weight.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
I'm withdrawing from Coke
And you
My heart has knives stabbing through it from every possible angle somewhat resembling multiple isosceles triangles
My body shakes at 26 degrees Fahrenheit
My stomach has a feeling like cockroaches and worms are crawling around, playing tennis in my intestines.
I think that sleep deprivation is what has caused me to dream about you while I'm awake
I vomited up blue emotions along with green bile because I haven't eaten in three days
I'm SORRY I blacked out and opened my wrist to a gaping cut
I guess that all the blood was meant to full force me back to reality
The Reality that your gone
I promise I want to live but it's hard when all it has been doing is raining inside my brain
I bite my finger nails and spit out anxiety
I need help before I shrink down into what you made me feel
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
It
is
done
then to dine on steak, drink sassafras? or
to go but wanting not to leave
and
to pass the baton on
it
is
done
though I've not gone
this is just the practice run
the unloaded gun lays on the
ironing board
the television blaring
daring me to do it now,
but there's a programme I must see
on the BBC or ITV or one of several channels in-between
a feature that I should have seen but never did.
The bleak in me or the weak in me
I'm never sure which one
tells me not to switch the TV on
and to do the deed and go into the self destruct,
get ****** I say,
not too often,
but as often as I need.
and so to lighten up I
read a copy of Punch,
a magazine,
I have a hunch I've read this one before
nevertheless it closes the door on depression
and lets a little light creep in.
Sin do tell when you ring the bell
and holler out unclean
so I can wash the feet of virgins
feed street urchins and
touch the robe.
the drawling days
nature
and her funny ways,
I have to laugh at times
and at those times
it's not so bad.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC