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"droppings" poems
He has taken rake and shovel in hand, Taking advantage of the light, Rare in these climes this time of year, Still welcomed, though rendered severe By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon, The type which, sauntering through a window pane (Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle Or some ancient, gilded frame Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day, Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion) May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by (And in the shade, the air is filled With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence) But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells From the trees bowing to December's inevitability, The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October (Those having been collected and consigned To the normal corner of the back lot) But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart, Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed. One could contend that such activity is unnecessary, The mere vanity of all endeavor, As the snow will come soon, and steady as well, Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time, But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce, Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more, To be revealed to those Who shall receive the teasing ministrations Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
0
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
wk-kortas
November In The Sun
He has taken rake and shovel in hand, Taking advantage of the light, Rare in these climes this time of year, Still welcomed, though rendered severe By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon, The type which, sauntering through a window pane (Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle Or some ancient, gilded frame Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day, Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion) May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by (And in the shade, the air is filled With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence) But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells From the trees bowing to December's inevitability, The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October (Those having been collected and consigned To the normal corner of the back lot) But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart, Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed. One could contend that such activity is unnecessary, The mere vanity of all endeavor, As the snow will come soon, and steady as well, Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time, But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce, Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more, To be revealed to those Who shall receive the teasing ministrations Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
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32
In a museum, or forgotten barn, A small red twelve inch two wheeler Hangs on invisible wires, Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust. But Tannehill rode it once, Like something in a dream. He was too long-framed for it. He controlled it, rounded the corner, Pedalling hard down the sidewalk, Across the street from our new house. I gawked from the front yard: He was a boy with his bike, Like *The ****** on T.V. It was the first I learned to ride, And the falls were magnificient, On grass or asphalt. Girls' bikes were easy, One size fits all. Then I learned to pedal Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'. Push the pedals, Shift the midrift, and be gone. Always from somewhere To somewhere else, Far from the soft front lawn.
0
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
francie-lynch
The Little Red Bike
In a museum, or forgotten barn, A small red twelve inch two wheeler Hangs on invisible wires, Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust. But Tannehill rode it once, Like something in a dream. He was too long-framed for it. He controlled it, rounded the corner, Pedalling hard down the sidewalk, Across the street from our new house. I gawked from the front yard: He was a boy with his bike, Like *The ****** on T.V. It was the first I learned to ride, And the falls were magnificient, On grass or asphalt. Girls' bikes were easy, One size fits all. Then I learned to pedal Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'. Push the pedals, Shift the midrift, and be gone. Always from somewhere To somewhere else, Far from the soft front lawn.
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25
There was once a small, dying flower Her beauty was dim Thoughts trapped her from deep below The roots that held her down made it hard to grow She lived a life of solitude No other flowers blossomed beside her Her sweet aroma nobody smelt In the lonely landscape in which she dwelt But then there came a day when something happened The piercing blue sky changed into oyster silver And as the flower proceeded to slowly die in pain The miracle came. Rain. The rain fell from the sky like liquid jewels Each drop nourished the flower Although the rain didn’t realize at first It had helped the flower overcome the worst Through the air the rain and flower shared silent whispers The rain understood the flower’s dying condition The flower was relieved that someone else knew Of the deep trauma that everyday grew For many weeks the rain showered on To help the flower continue to be strong But the rain didn’t know of the flower’s underground roots The rain wanted to know but the flower kept them as emotional loots One day another accompanied the rain A being called sunshine, a beaming white light Though slight droppings of rain spluttered down from the sky The flower was inevitably starting to die The flower didn’t want the rain to know How dependent she was of her nurturing The flower stood while its immunity could run As the rain started to fade into the sun The flower should be glad that the rain started to calm For the rain carried pain and distress from far above So the flower carried the trauma and rejection Into the roots where she was bullied by her reflection The sun was kindhearted, pure and bright It shone optimism and grace to all in its range It was actually a key to the flower’s survival But neglect and jealously made her the rival The flower started to push the rain away She didn’t want to hold the rain back from serenity So the rain dripped off the darkening petals As the flower wishes, the rain cools and settles The rain disappeared in the light of the sun Creating a spectrum of colours bleeding across the sky The flower sighed in relief of the petrichor As the flower died, and became no more.
0
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Maisiebelle
The Flower, The Rain and The Sun
There was once a small, dying flower Her beauty was dim Thoughts trapped her from deep below The roots that held her down made it hard to grow She lived a life of solitude No other flowers blossomed beside her Her sweet aroma nobody smelt In the lonely landscape in which she dwelt But then there came a day when something happened The piercing blue sky changed into oyster silver And as the flower proceeded to slowly die in pain The miracle came. Rain. The rain fell from the sky like liquid jewels Each drop nourished the flower Although the rain didn’t realize at first It had helped the flower overcome the worst Through the air the rain and flower shared silent whispers The rain understood the flower’s dying condition The flower was relieved that someone else knew Of the deep trauma that everyday grew For many weeks the rain showered on To help the flower continue to be strong But the rain didn’t know of the flower’s underground roots The rain wanted to know but the flower kept them as emotional loots One day another accompanied the rain A being called sunshine, a beaming white light Though slight droppings of rain spluttered down from the sky The flower was inevitably starting to die The flower didn’t want the rain to know How dependent she was of her nurturing The flower stood while its immunity could run As the rain started to fade into the sun The flower should be glad that the rain started to calm For the rain carried pain and distress from far above So the flower carried the trauma and rejection Into the roots where she was bullied by her reflection The sun was kindhearted, pure and bright It shone optimism and grace to all in its range It was actually a key to the flower’s survival But neglect and jealously made her the rival The flower started to push the rain away She didn’t want to hold the rain back from serenity So the rain dripped off the darkening petals As the flower wishes, the rain cools and settles The rain disappeared in the light of the sun Creating a spectrum of colours bleeding across the sky The flower sighed in relief of the petrichor As the flower died, and became no more.
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48
There's a black cat walking flat, his back feet dipped in marshmallow droppings. His tail flicks like a reed in the swamp, and he can't help but run through legs swiftly hopping on furniture daintily belly all soft and white. Silent is he, catching the almost-full moon in his bright whiskers. Padded paws, a black tail snaking twitching as he squeezes to rest in tight spaces wide eyes as green as a kiwi fruit with the seeds cut out. He bats his toy freely, ears up then hears a rustle at the screen door and sits transfixed but only for a moment.
0
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
sienna-luna
Black Cat
There's a black cat walking flat, his back feet dipped in marshmallow droppings. His tail flicks like a reed in the swamp, and he can't help but run through legs swiftly hopping on furniture daintily belly all soft and white. Silent is he, catching the almost-full moon in his bright whiskers. Padded paws, a black tail snaking twitching as he squeezes to rest in tight spaces wide eyes as green as a kiwi fruit with the seeds cut out. He bats his toy freely, ears up then hears a rustle at the screen door and sits transfixed but only for a moment.
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32
OLD HOUSE They retain precious memories, intimate feelings of inhabitants passing through its sagging doors. Romantic are seekers of forgotten times memories encased in hard wood floors; as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a history while we; when inclined listen. We don't go very often, to abandon houses, perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween. Are we passed enjoying extremes into this another world, musty energy a curious child. That was the yesterday which now waits behind musty, dusty, derelict halls. I stand I stand at paint chipped banister, a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet, children playing before they sleep. The broken coat tree on the floor. From the third floor murmuring, a wind storm jars loose fears, of time once lost to dreams. Echos billow from each room, curtains hanging yellowed by a sun where dancing light through holes in damask lace. Mice gremlin's artful droppings, tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor. Broken shards from window panes, confetti after New Years day. Branches scratched etched paths, tracks like graffiti on sill its unread words, a glif eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past. Jagged memories protrude from every corner mixing with new, enriching our fantasies bringing us closer renewed; these musty memories long forgotten. Like waves rushing back; flooding a mind like broken dikes they crash into our world, Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading. Silent footsteps outside a door, we hear laughter from bedroom walls; a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent conversation coming our way. Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or Othello; all masters in the past. A Grandfather clock stands silent, keeping time, lost its tick yet still striking, it stands tall, upon a clueless floor. Knowledge lost to a past in a house so worn, births, deaths, wars, wrapped forgotten, encased by neglect, I visited a house besotted, neglected waiting to be remodeled into another century moving it to present times. Ajerry Archival Jan 5, 2011
0
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
jerry-desbrow
Memories of an Old Houses
OLD HOUSE They retain precious memories, intimate feelings of inhabitants passing through its sagging doors. Romantic are seekers of forgotten times memories encased in hard wood floors; as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a history while we; when inclined listen. We don't go very often, to abandon houses, perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween. Are we passed enjoying extremes into this another world, musty energy a curious child. That was the yesterday which now waits behind musty, dusty, derelict halls. I stand I stand at paint chipped banister, a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet, children playing before they sleep. The broken coat tree on the floor. From the third floor murmuring, a wind storm jars loose fears, of time once lost to dreams. Echos billow from each room, curtains hanging yellowed by a sun where dancing light through holes in damask lace. Mice gremlin's artful droppings, tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor. Broken shards from window panes, confetti after New Years day. Branches scratched etched paths, tracks like graffiti on sill its unread words, a glif eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past. Jagged memories protrude from every corner mixing with new, enriching our fantasies bringing us closer renewed; these musty memories long forgotten. Like waves rushing back; flooding a mind like broken dikes they crash into our world, Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading. Silent footsteps outside a door, we hear laughter from bedroom walls; a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent conversation coming our way. Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or Othello; all masters in the past. A Grandfather clock stands silent, keeping time, lost its tick yet still striking, it stands tall, upon a clueless floor. Knowledge lost to a past in a house so worn, births, deaths, wars, wrapped forgotten, encased by neglect, I visited a house besotted, neglected waiting to be remodeled into another century moving it to present times. Ajerry Archival Jan 5, 2011
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65
Little ****** blighter unsightful Strut on the pavement cement Droppings like rain Feathers rough and unclean Yuck they coo They never seem new Yet we know that they Die too.
0
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
poeticlotusmachine
Pigeon
Little ****** blighter unsightful Strut on the pavement cement Droppings like rain Feathers rough and unclean Yuck they coo They never seem new Yet we know that they Die too.
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8
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces, excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter, ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, **** "cleaning up ferret excrement": mid 16th century: from French excrément or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;                              act of defecating; a contemptible or worthless person; something worthless; garbage; nonsense; "this book is **** unpleasant experiences or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year" things or stuff, especially personal belongings;           "he left all his **** in my apartment"                              events or circumstances; _"some crazy **** went down last night"_ any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good **** good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: ***** past tense: ******* past participle: ******* past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat; past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ******** expel feces from the body, soiling one's clothes as a result; expelling feces accidentally; very frightened. tease or try to deceive someone or thing. "I **** you not"                    exclamation                    exclamation: ****         [exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance] Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’   of Germanic origin; related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb]; _The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;             *********** from Greek κόπρος, kópros—excrement    & φιλία, philía— liking, fondness, also called scatophilia or ****        [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces], is the paraphilia involving   ****** arousal & pleasure                        from specific feces; meanly,                 his mother said,   _u can drink my *** but don't eat my **** then she **** & *** & the boy drank but when he put the warm **** to his mouth, she slapped it out of his hand & yelled, I told u not to eat my **** & the boy began to cry & feeling bad his mother turned to let him lick the bowl &    rim the moist wet hole between        her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade & chocolate chips,     sometimes it was more like sweet sherbet; but she never hit him again & he's been eating her **** ever since; now, his wife lets him drink her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
0
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
johnny-noiπ
nolite, manducare, matris, stercore
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces, excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter, ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, **** "cleaning up ferret excrement": mid 16th century: from French excrément or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;                              act of defecating; a contemptible or worthless person; something worthless; garbage; nonsense; "this book is **** unpleasant experiences or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year" things or stuff, especially personal belongings;           "he left all his **** in my apartment"                              events or circumstances; _"some crazy **** went down last night"_ any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good **** good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: ***** past tense: ******* past participle: ******* past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat; past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ******** expel feces from the body, soiling one's clothes as a result; expelling feces accidentally; very frightened. tease or try to deceive someone or thing. "I **** you not"                    exclamation                    exclamation: ****         [exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance] Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’   of Germanic origin; related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb]; _The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;             *********** from Greek κόπρος, kópros—excrement    & φιλία, philía— liking, fondness, also called scatophilia or ****        [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces], is the paraphilia involving   ****** arousal & pleasure                        from specific feces; meanly,                 his mother said,   _u can drink my *** but don't eat my **** then she **** & *** & the boy drank but when he put the warm **** to his mouth, she slapped it out of his hand & yelled, I told u not to eat my **** & the boy began to cry & feeling bad his mother turned to let him lick the bowl &    rim the moist wet hole between        her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade & chocolate chips,     sometimes it was more like sweet sherbet; but she never hit him again & he's been eating her **** ever since; now, his wife lets him drink her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
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53
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
0
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
johnny-noiπ
the new korean ******* poetry
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
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32
I  live on the mountain Below the silver mist In the valley, full of magic Where the sun has rarely kissed I am called a smudger I live on what's left behind I have been here near forever I'm the last one of my kind Below the mountain major Lives a dragon, fierce and bold Sleeping now, and dreaming Of it's hoard of stolen gold Eleventy years plus twenty I have been here on this earth Cleaning up the dragons droppings It's how I justify my worth The dragon's ruled this mountain For a thousand thousand years The silver river that flows through it Is full of snow melt and of tears Once a generation Someone comes from down below Gets the villagers all riled Says "The dragon has to go" They go and fight the dragon Try to take his hoard of gold And that is why, it's me the smudger Who knows how the story must be told The fighter leaves the village Full of gusto and incensed Saying "justice for the village" or close to that....condensed The dragon then awakens Flys around and burns the town Leaving nothing left but ashes everything gone or burned down Now, I, your local smudger Cleans up the dead and done It's a profitable existence Since I am the only one The dragon knows there's nothing Much more of value to behold The villagers were poor folk Owning neither jewels or gold I've cleaned up more destruction Caused by villagers who go On up to face the dragon And get killed with just one blow Now, I make candles with their bodies I use their skin and body fat I weave the hair not melted And I make a nice new front hall mat The bones I grind and scatter On the mountain in the trees It helps the ferns all grow strong And keeps the trees free from disease What little money I find I leave half by the dragons den Over time I have left there Money from five thousand men I've swords I sell at auction When I travel, but that's rare There is really nothing for me That's not near the dragons lair It's a relationship existing On destruction and of greed The dragon burns the village And I get the things I need They rebuild and they recover And a generation may pass by When once again some young, strong fighter Wakes the dragon, makes him fly I guess we need each other That's the way it's always been I'm the smudger on the mountain I'm the one who's never seen
0
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
roger-turner
The Smudger and The Dragon
I  live on the mountain Below the silver mist In the valley, full of magic Where the sun has rarely kissed I am called a smudger I live on what's left behind I have been here near forever I'm the last one of my kind Below the mountain major Lives a dragon, fierce and bold Sleeping now, and dreaming Of it's hoard of stolen gold Eleventy years plus twenty I have been here on this earth Cleaning up the dragons droppings It's how I justify my worth The dragon's ruled this mountain For a thousand thousand years The silver river that flows through it Is full of snow melt and of tears Once a generation Someone comes from down below Gets the villagers all riled Says "The dragon has to go" They go and fight the dragon Try to take his hoard of gold And that is why, it's me the smudger Who knows how the story must be told The fighter leaves the village Full of gusto and incensed Saying "justice for the village" or close to that....condensed The dragon then awakens Flys around and burns the town Leaving nothing left but ashes everything gone or burned down Now, I, your local smudger Cleans up the dead and done It's a profitable existence Since I am the only one The dragon knows there's nothing Much more of value to behold The villagers were poor folk Owning neither jewels or gold I've cleaned up more destruction Caused by villagers who go On up to face the dragon And get killed with just one blow Now, I make candles with their bodies I use their skin and body fat I weave the hair not melted And I make a nice new front hall mat The bones I grind and scatter On the mountain in the trees It helps the ferns all grow strong And keeps the trees free from disease What little money I find I leave half by the dragons den Over time I have left there Money from five thousand men I've swords I sell at auction When I travel, but that's rare There is really nothing for me That's not near the dragons lair It's a relationship existing On destruction and of greed The dragon burns the village And I get the things I need They rebuild and they recover And a generation may pass by When once again some young, strong fighter Wakes the dragon, makes him fly I guess we need each other That's the way it's always been I'm the smudger on the mountain I'm the one who's never seen
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76
1 The chards rising. Am I the praying bird? In the gleaming sun my bones are negative, My flesh a cypher walking through the plains As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused, Your pointed face divining oblivion, And no redemption in the rains of my Cliff walk days. 2 I see my shroud pinning on the wires His legs are razored forks spinning my Compass from True North. Your dark brush- Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn, Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger As they slice. 3 Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething Bone, spades my hand without a flight. Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar, Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks On extended wings.
0
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
ormond
Raven Caws
1 The chards rising. Am I the praying bird? In the gleaming sun my bones are negative, My flesh a cypher walking through the plains As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused, Your pointed face divining oblivion, And no redemption in the rains of my Cliff walk days. 2 I see my shroud pinning on the wires His legs are razored forks spinning my Compass from True North. Your dark brush- Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn, Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger As they slice. 3 Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething Bone, spades my hand without a flight. Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar, Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks On extended wings.
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27
A is for anthill which I have in my drive B is for buzzing from a hidden bee hive C is for cockroach that run all round the house D is for droppings, that have been left by a mouse E is for egg sack that hangs in my trees F is for flying which the bugs do with ease G is is for gophers which inhabit my yard H is for hillocks with which my yard is marred I is for insects which are all I can see J is for june bugs, they're as big as my knee K is for killing which I try to do L is for lugworms that are shaped like a ***** M is for Mickey and his mousey like friends N is for never...this infestation won't end O is for Oscar, my scared orange cat P is for well...pee...and he's good at that Q is for quinine which I leave out to treat R is for rodents, which I want Oscar to eat S is for slugs which are killing my grass T is for totalled, just give me a match and some gas U is for underwriter who has insured my place V is for vermin, that now own all my space W is for water with which I started a flood X is for poison, which will thin out their blood Y is for Yertle, a turtle by suess Z is me sleeping...to bugs and vermin on the loose
0
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
roger-turner
Bugs and Vermin on the loose
A is for anthill which I have in my drive B is for buzzing from a hidden bee hive C is for cockroach that run all round the house D is for droppings, that have been left by a mouse E is for egg sack that hangs in my trees F is for flying which the bugs do with ease G is is for gophers which inhabit my yard H is for hillocks with which my yard is marred I is for insects which are all I can see J is for june bugs, they're as big as my knee K is for killing which I try to do L is for lugworms that are shaped like a ***** M is for Mickey and his mousey like friends N is for never...this infestation won't end O is for Oscar, my scared orange cat P is for well...pee...and he's good at that Q is for quinine which I leave out to treat R is for rodents, which I want Oscar to eat S is for slugs which are killing my grass T is for totalled, just give me a match and some gas U is for underwriter who has insured my place V is for vermin, that now own all my space W is for water with which I started a flood X is for poison, which will thin out their blood Y is for Yertle, a turtle by suess Z is me sleeping...to bugs and vermin on the loose
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26
My mom once told me that freckles were angel kisses Because around age seven other kids would ask me why I had dots on my face As I grew older I soon realized that freckles were not actually angel kisses I found out the cause of my freckles was from the lack of melanin I had in my skin Every time I went under the sun, the rays would dot my face with brown pigmented circles I used to absolutely hate my freckles They covered my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my arms and legs I hated when people would compliment me on them because I didn't want that to be the only thing they noticed After a long time of hating these brown specks scattered throughout my entire body I finally looked at myself a little closer in the mirror I noticed how they made my face pop and my arms look like a masterpiece For the first time in my life I didn't see my freckles as an ugly connect-the-dots page I saw my freckles as artwork Unique paint droppings made by the sunlight I no longer cared about the people who thought they made me look ugly Because I started to think what if they're just jealous Jealous that they have too much melanin so all they do is tan Jealous that they cannot have this piece of artwork painted on their skin Jealous that I have angel kisses and they don't My mom still tells me to this day that my freckles are angel kisses And I believe her.
0
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
peace-seeker
Angel Kisses
My mom once told me that freckles were angel kisses Because around age seven other kids would ask me why I had dots on my face As I grew older I soon realized that freckles were not actually angel kisses I found out the cause of my freckles was from the lack of melanin I had in my skin Every time I went under the sun, the rays would dot my face with brown pigmented circles I used to absolutely hate my freckles They covered my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my arms and legs I hated when people would compliment me on them because I didn't want that to be the only thing they noticed After a long time of hating these brown specks scattered throughout my entire body I finally looked at myself a little closer in the mirror I noticed how they made my face pop and my arms look like a masterpiece For the first time in my life I didn't see my freckles as an ugly connect-the-dots page I saw my freckles as artwork Unique paint droppings made by the sunlight I no longer cared about the people who thought they made me look ugly Because I started to think what if they're just jealous Jealous that they have too much melanin so all they do is tan Jealous that they cannot have this piece of artwork painted on their skin Jealous that I have angel kisses and they don't My mom still tells me to this day that my freckles are angel kisses And I believe her.
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21
The Lung. The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests. As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces.. The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces. Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world that is most unearthly to there reason. Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp. The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row. Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night. A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young. Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
0
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
joseph-burley
THE LUNG
The Lung. The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests. As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces.. The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces. Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world that is most unearthly to there reason. Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp. The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row. Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night. A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young. Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
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11
"io sol uno." -Dante, Purgatorio There I was, the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture, bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high --a heavenly fixture, illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in kaleidoscopes of colours, baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones they smothered, where I, in all my self-serving recreation, posed proudly in a costume of my own creation, an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black, the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back, as movie cameras panned and zoomed, paparazzi photographers capturing me and freezing me, in all my wicked, medieval glory, floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas, *"I'm the shining star! --Look at me, look at me!"* -the super-special star I always knew I'd be, a painted parody, a harlequin of displaced passions for all to laugh at and see, before slipping silently into the ornate basilica, dim and dark as night, thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked a votive candle's light, not really sure or caring where my life would lead, just as long as the Azure Queen shed Her Grace on me,      me,              me, ...until I fell and fell to the mockery of a home I made in Hell, hard and forever and fast, the only fool left alone in my solo cast, adrift with no direction, ****** and lost, me and my frivolous theatre, squandered an an extravagant cost. _____________ "io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone." This poem is a true-life story. __________ See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy: http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
0
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
d-conors
Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy: 2000 a.d.
"io sol uno." -Dante, Purgatorio There I was, the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture, bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high --a heavenly fixture, illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in kaleidoscopes of colours, baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones they smothered, where I, in all my self-serving recreation, posed proudly in a costume of my own creation, an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black, the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back, as movie cameras panned and zoomed, paparazzi photographers capturing me and freezing me, in all my wicked, medieval glory, floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas, *"I'm the shining star! --Look at me, look at me!"* -the super-special star I always knew I'd be, a painted parody, a harlequin of displaced passions for all to laugh at and see, before slipping silently into the ornate basilica, dim and dark as night, thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked a votive candle's light, not really sure or caring where my life would lead, just as long as the Azure Queen shed Her Grace on me,      me,              me, ...until I fell and fell to the mockery of a home I made in Hell, hard and forever and fast, the only fool left alone in my solo cast, adrift with no direction, ****** and lost, me and my frivolous theatre, squandered an an extravagant cost. _____________ "io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone." This poem is a true-life story. __________ See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy: http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
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52
Mirror mirror on the wall, my hopes are down but my dreams are tall, what do you see in me when i face the wall. Mirror mirror please tell me all, i need you more than ever before is my heart full or can it handle some more. Mirror mirror what do you see, a boy asking for help that's to strong to bleed, or a boy that's helpless who stands to plied. Mirror mirror cant you see, my reflection isn't glowing is there something wrong with me, peer red seems to cover i am not a devils child. Mirror mirror please come rescue me, God is on my side i been to stupid to see, mistakes after mistakes but still he forgives me. Mirror mirror can the boy be me, if so i give it all to see a new day for me, falling to my knees i start to plied. Mirror mirror red little droppings replace my tears, the devil is crying because i am no longer he's, the pain that i feel in my hands and feet is the pain that he felt when he died for me. Mirror mirror now what do you see, mirror mirror please talk to me, My mirror has broken and fell to my feet, now that i see a glowing man in front of me.
0
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
donovan-ellis
Mirror Boy
Mirror mirror on the wall, my hopes are down but my dreams are tall, what do you see in me when i face the wall. Mirror mirror please tell me all, i need you more than ever before is my heart full or can it handle some more. Mirror mirror what do you see, a boy asking for help that's to strong to bleed, or a boy that's helpless who stands to plied. Mirror mirror cant you see, my reflection isn't glowing is there something wrong with me, peer red seems to cover i am not a devils child. Mirror mirror please come rescue me, God is on my side i been to stupid to see, mistakes after mistakes but still he forgives me. Mirror mirror can the boy be me, if so i give it all to see a new day for me, falling to my knees i start to plied. Mirror mirror red little droppings replace my tears, the devil is crying because i am no longer he's, the pain that i feel in my hands and feet is the pain that he felt when he died for me. Mirror mirror now what do you see, mirror mirror please talk to me, My mirror has broken and fell to my feet, now that i see a glowing man in front of me.
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1
Gram had an old piano It sat in the front room There was a scorch mark on the top Made by a cigar from the past It always sat there silent I never ever saw it played But, I heard of all the parties And the music from gram She told us kids "don't touch it" "Just leave it all alone" So, we left it like she told us We did as we were told Even though we'd heard the stories Of the music and the parties And the fun that used to be We watched as Gram would sit Close her eyes, and fade out To the parties and the music And the good times of the past She'd leave us to our own devices Of which one, was not the piano She told us it had been there Since about nineteen sixty four And to me, that's a long time Especially for a piano to not be played It had to be out of tune by now But, we'd neve know She'd tell us of the parties How the neighbors would drop by How the music would be lively Then, she'd fade off once again Back to the parties and the past There were mice living in the piano At least if not now, there once were You could see droppings in the corner And the scratches by the pedals But, we never saw the mice I guess they knew the piano was out of bounds too As we got older and time passed by We wouldn't go to Grams place as much And she never moved the piano We would still hear the stories Either on the phone or during the visits Both were more infrequent as we all aged We knew she'd fade off Sometimes during our chats on the phone Sometimes during our visits Back to the past To the parties and the music Gram passed last year While she was sitting in her chair She went to the past And stayed there while I was making tea I ended up with the piano I can't play, not that I ever would None of the other could either But, I was the oldest Now, every so often, I'll fade out Back to the stories of the parties That I never went to And I think about the music That I never heard But, I remember how she said it was How it must have sounded The fun they had The fun she was reliving Grams piano sits in my house now In the hall never played It sits with its memories Announcing what we all had missed It sits, silent, and it's me who shares the tales To all who will listen when they visit I got Grams piano and I didn't get the mice
0
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 5:38 PM UTC
roger-turner
grams piano
Gram had an old piano It sat in the front room There was a scorch mark on the top Made by a cigar from the past It always sat there silent I never ever saw it played But, I heard of all the parties And the music from gram She told us kids "don't touch it" "Just leave it all alone" So, we left it like she told us We did as we were told Even though we'd heard the stories Of the music and the parties And the fun that used to be We watched as Gram would sit Close her eyes, and fade out To the parties and the music And the good times of the past She'd leave us to our own devices Of which one, was not the piano She told us it had been there Since about nineteen sixty four And to me, that's a long time Especially for a piano to not be played It had to be out of tune by now But, we'd neve know She'd tell us of the parties How the neighbors would drop by How the music would be lively Then, she'd fade off once again Back to the parties and the past There were mice living in the piano At least if not now, there once were You could see droppings in the corner And the scratches by the pedals But, we never saw the mice I guess they knew the piano was out of bounds too As we got older and time passed by We wouldn't go to Grams place as much And she never moved the piano We would still hear the stories Either on the phone or during the visits Both were more infrequent as we all aged We knew she'd fade off Sometimes during our chats on the phone Sometimes during our visits Back to the past To the parties and the music Gram passed last year While she was sitting in her chair She went to the past And stayed there while I was making tea I ended up with the piano I can't play, not that I ever would None of the other could either But, I was the oldest Now, every so often, I'll fade out Back to the stories of the parties That I never went to And I think about the music That I never heard But, I remember how she said it was How it must have sounded The fun they had The fun she was reliving Grams piano sits in my house now In the hall never played It sits with its memories Announcing what we all had missed It sits, silent, and it's me who shares the tales To all who will listen when they visit I got Grams piano and I didn't get the mice
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73
The cactus ate the moon; a cosmic starflower; a cyanide razorblade. You ate your way through the mouse droppings in the cereal bowl and look at me through lens-less everythings. The sun took the moon to his midnight hideaway and she was absent that night. Beneath the artificial breeze blowing noisily, raucous; birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do. I never gave you hope; I never gave you nothing; I never gave you what you deserved. Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust wonderlust you're keeping yourself company tonight. Ha! playing with yourself again, I see. Picking your nose and rubbing your toes in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches. Friendly, never ceasing. Repeating repeating repeating lines repeating repeating repeating signs repeating repeating relocating lies Nice to just let go no reality no gravity. But I'm not defying, no nor scrying, oh but lying, go. She gave me her hand and expected me to restitch the fibres as if I were ever so good a tailor. Surgeon. Nevermind.
0
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
heather-butler
nevermind.
The cactus ate the moon; a cosmic starflower; a cyanide razorblade. You ate your way through the mouse droppings in the cereal bowl and look at me through lens-less everythings. The sun took the moon to his midnight hideaway and she was absent that night. Beneath the artificial breeze blowing noisily, raucous; birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do. I never gave you hope; I never gave you nothing; I never gave you what you deserved. Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust wonderlust you're keeping yourself company tonight. Ha! playing with yourself again, I see. Picking your nose and rubbing your toes in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches. Friendly, never ceasing. Repeating repeating repeating lines repeating repeating repeating signs repeating repeating relocating lies Nice to just let go no reality no gravity. But I'm not defying, no nor scrying, oh but lying, go. She gave me her hand and expected me to restitch the fibres as if I were ever so good a tailor. Surgeon. Nevermind.
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36
Life got too hard, and he just gave up he tipped his ***** bottle swirled into his cup. No ice please I hate 34 degrees hurts my teeth they start to chatter then I start shaking my knees. This bars my Christmas my birthday, my new years, no ones here its my bar at my house I sleep in my sleeping bag full of beer cotton mouth. The mice even left. Without that molecule I couldn’t snore a wink the sheep in my dreams are drunk they stumble fences and pant bleats They guilt me to sleep not calm soothe or meek they taunt me of loss of love and a family that cant speak The roaches are gone they stopped playing cards I watched them wall glide and asked them to stay in my floor Then the roache left too. It seems cant do much drunk klutz falling over tables maybe my liver loves me maybe that’s stable. I go shopping for droppings for things that I need if I loved myself a bit maybe I'd do speed. End it quicker. The cirrhosis is my friend he gives me gifts cramps in the morning and blood in my **** I think if my liver were the garbage man. He'd bring me good news but I think liver got mad, downed the last of the ***** My liver left too. Now I'm a maggot bag stinking up the place...No one knows. Who knows.
0
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Lendonpartain
Of Mice, Cirrhosis, Roaches, Oh Ya....And a Drunk.
Life got too hard, and he just gave up he tipped his ***** bottle swirled into his cup. No ice please I hate 34 degrees hurts my teeth they start to chatter then I start shaking my knees. This bars my Christmas my birthday, my new years, no ones here its my bar at my house I sleep in my sleeping bag full of beer cotton mouth. The mice even left. Without that molecule I couldn’t snore a wink the sheep in my dreams are drunk they stumble fences and pant bleats They guilt me to sleep not calm soothe or meek they taunt me of loss of love and a family that cant speak The roaches are gone they stopped playing cards I watched them wall glide and asked them to stay in my floor Then the roache left too. It seems cant do much drunk klutz falling over tables maybe my liver loves me maybe that’s stable. I go shopping for droppings for things that I need if I loved myself a bit maybe I'd do speed. End it quicker. The cirrhosis is my friend he gives me gifts cramps in the morning and blood in my **** I think if my liver were the garbage man. He'd bring me good news but I think liver got mad, downed the last of the ***** My liver left too. Now I'm a maggot bag stinking up the place...No one knows. Who knows.
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47
The view from the cliffs were so exquisite, As the oceans would crash upon  them. I would Climb up the wet slippery rocks, In my little Easter dress. Taking in the view, the sounds and the scents. Looking around at all the beautiful mansion foundations'. Laughing and running. Trying to avoid all the geese droppings And God **** was my mind full of innocents Not knowing that these moments could ever fade It was the most beautiful place I would visited. And I Wish  I knew that then.
0
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
kayla-r-vaitkunas
Manchester By The Sea
The view from the cliffs were so exquisite, As the oceans would crash upon  them. I would Climb up the wet slippery rocks, In my little Easter dress. Taking in the view, the sounds and the scents. Looking around at all the beautiful mansion foundations'. Laughing and running. Trying to avoid all the geese droppings And God **** was my mind full of innocents Not knowing that these moments could ever fade It was the most beautiful place I would visited. And I Wish  I knew that then.
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15
#Have you ever been madly in love? The old man broke my reverie. On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings he was peering at me through his silver grey beard looking oddly out of place in that college squire park where only the dreamers at the prime of youth would sit between classes to exchange love notes and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in. Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated, and then as if growing impatient by my silence mumbled, pausing between words, like they stung him like thorns *it extracts a price been paying all my life living with a void no other woman could fill a commitment that breeds only pain yet makes me insanely boastful of being madly in love.* It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up. How many, I wondered, would still hold hands when the classes are over.
0
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
pradip-chattopadhyay
Madly in Love
#Have you ever been madly in love? The old man broke my reverie. On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings he was peering at me through his silver grey beard looking oddly out of place in that college squire park where only the dreamers at the prime of youth would sit between classes to exchange love notes and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in. Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated, and then as if growing impatient by my silence mumbled, pausing between words, like they stung him like thorns *it extracts a price been paying all my life living with a void no other woman could fill a commitment that breeds only pain yet makes me insanely boastful of being madly in love.* It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up. How many, I wondered, would still hold hands when the classes are over.
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20
Ole Hunchback Got a right Royal burial; That smiling villain's bones Bleached black-blonde In underground parking. Exhumed and parlayed For over two years; Confirmed to be he Who caused a Queen To cry vats of tears For the Tower boys. Poor Anne dropped her hankie. His horse-drawn caisson Is a subterfuge, A distraction to veil Civil dissatisfaction. He finally got his horse, And we get the droppings. And I see Cromwell Standing beside Churhill And Charles ouside Westminster. Perhaps Manson Will be busted In Poet's Corner.
0
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Ole Hunchback
Ole Hunchback Got a right Royal burial; That smiling villain's bones Bleached black-blonde In underground parking. Exhumed and parlayed For over two years; Confirmed to be he Who caused a Queen To cry vats of tears For the Tower boys. Poor Anne dropped her hankie. His horse-drawn caisson Is a subterfuge, A distraction to veil Civil dissatisfaction. He finally got his horse, And we get the droppings. And I see Cromwell Standing beside Churhill And Charles ouside Westminster. Perhaps Manson Will be busted In Poet's Corner.
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25
I run into a forest with fudge and green frosting trees. In there I find squirrels made of cheesecake grey sesame. The acorns are made of candy hard root beer. Twigs made of cinnamon to my feet adhere. The ground has bunches of lime gummy grass. I saw a rabbit of white chocolate run past. The foot prints were of cocoa divine. This forest is filled with deserts that seem mighty fine. I come to a river filled blue raspberry jelly. That will surely adhere to my belly. What am I to do with all these treats? Is it time to run or do I have time to stop and eat? I see birds made of cookies and cream. Is this a terrifying nightmare or a beautiful dream? The snow falls powdered sugar flutters. Whoops, stepped in droppings made of peanut butter. Maybe from a chocolatey brown bear. Just as tame as that white chocolate hare. I guess I am getting out of here. All the sugary stuff that will adhere. Hopefully I do not attract those. They are red hot fire ants near a cream filled rose. Though I finally leave. What just happened I could not believe.
0
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
TheRed11
The Desert Forest
I run into a forest with fudge and green frosting trees. In there I find squirrels made of cheesecake grey sesame. The acorns are made of candy hard root beer. Twigs made of cinnamon to my feet adhere. The ground has bunches of lime gummy grass. I saw a rabbit of white chocolate run past. The foot prints were of cocoa divine. This forest is filled with deserts that seem mighty fine. I come to a river filled blue raspberry jelly. That will surely adhere to my belly. What am I to do with all these treats? Is it time to run or do I have time to stop and eat? I see birds made of cookies and cream. Is this a terrifying nightmare or a beautiful dream? The snow falls powdered sugar flutters. Whoops, stepped in droppings made of peanut butter. Maybe from a chocolatey brown bear. Just as tame as that white chocolate hare. I guess I am getting out of here. All the sugary stuff that will adhere. Hopefully I do not attract those. They are red hot fire ants near a cream filled rose. Though I finally leave. What just happened I could not believe.
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24
yeah, read an old poem again and remember sitting across a dark sticky table, pitcher of beer to wash down the fear of losing control. the guys told jokes - called them "brain droppings", like intellectual pigeon **** puked on the window -  but i was fighting not to get lost in the patterns of condensed water pooling from sides of the pitcher, laughing on cue because it seemed the right thing to do. i counted bright flashes, blue, a neon sign - froggy's bar open - for clarity, my fingers still melting into pencils at fine edges of the discussion. i carried a notebook to write in but nobody noticed. i thought i was a poet. green sat there, slack jaw acid jockey, dead eyed silent fish out of water. educated somewhere. not here. it was hot. i think he'd had too much magic mushroom or that black sticky stuff we smoked in the bathroom that made me choke like a dying newborn, or maybe the pale colored microdot collage on paper rolls we all shared at a concert hall earlier. the humidity. cool, man - i quietly pined for some brown-skinned chick away at college, home again but still not calling, so i wanted to forget my own name and split in some dime bag fog when the sugar slipped out over my lips; i spit, he didn't, i drank. green was hungry, brain-fucked, out of time, dreaming about some key lime trees in florida, ogres in fairmount's forests, the dealers from new york who wanted to **** us, then gut  laughed at something funny he saw in his sneakers. we hefted him by armpits to the stairs and left him there; it was too hot to walk all the way up to the flat's front door. green **** himself;  we left. green, by any other name, got lost like smooth longhairs on motorbikes, that girl, the pretend hit men from uptown, none of whom ever cared who i was, because i wasn't really anywhere.  but i didn't realize green could fly. it was a secret he'd left on the pavement outside. i'd wished i could fly like green. but he died. i'm still here, bluffing i'm living.
0
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
robert-zanfad
Sitting with Green
yeah, read an old poem again and remember sitting across a dark sticky table, pitcher of beer to wash down the fear of losing control. the guys told jokes - called them "brain droppings", like intellectual pigeon **** puked on the window -  but i was fighting not to get lost in the patterns of condensed water pooling from sides of the pitcher, laughing on cue because it seemed the right thing to do. i counted bright flashes, blue, a neon sign - froggy's bar open - for clarity, my fingers still melting into pencils at fine edges of the discussion. i carried a notebook to write in but nobody noticed. i thought i was a poet. green sat there, slack jaw acid jockey, dead eyed silent fish out of water. educated somewhere. not here. it was hot. i think he'd had too much magic mushroom or that black sticky stuff we smoked in the bathroom that made me choke like a dying newborn, or maybe the pale colored microdot collage on paper rolls we all shared at a concert hall earlier. the humidity. cool, man - i quietly pined for some brown-skinned chick away at college, home again but still not calling, so i wanted to forget my own name and split in some dime bag fog when the sugar slipped out over my lips; i spit, he didn't, i drank. green was hungry, brain-fucked, out of time, dreaming about some key lime trees in florida, ogres in fairmount's forests, the dealers from new york who wanted to **** us, then gut  laughed at something funny he saw in his sneakers. we hefted him by armpits to the stairs and left him there; it was too hot to walk all the way up to the flat's front door. green **** himself;  we left. green, by any other name, got lost like smooth longhairs on motorbikes, that girl, the pretend hit men from uptown, none of whom ever cared who i was, because i wasn't really anywhere.  but i didn't realize green could fly. it was a secret he'd left on the pavement outside. i'd wished i could fly like green. but he died. i'm still here, bluffing i'm living.
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3
Today, This tree was the very picture Of a pair of birds Who had a fight after mating. You will never understand The eagerness of this tree In making every morning a new one Or daily showing me a new movie, However I try to describe it One day Leaves, that cry “don’t go” “don’t leave” To the wind That passes by Another day Of shooing cats feasting in the shade, On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal, After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch, Another day The tear-filled eyes Of its own branch That cries And supplicates the sun To heal its wound Another day Of its own sister branches Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs That have become prostitutes; On which strange people sit casually. One day The Bihari Who is scared stiff of his lord, And who runs every time a wind blows To sweep away the dried leaves Which the wind has killed, Having made violent love to them. On yet another day, The fruits that laugh their heads off Along with the little blossoms that laughed once | At the silver-blue sky On still another day The tap root That suddenly burst into tears Gazing at the dusk That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs On yet another day, The aged middle-portion of the tree That unveiled the hitherto unexposed Moss-green nursling And prayed that it be named Another day before this, Had made me sad By asking “Are you wont to see the other tree-friends Throughout the countryside ?” Had made me heartsore By asking me “Would you forget me?” Once, have asked Whether I would point out The mother-bird Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit I have made myself broken-hearted | wondering Where or how mother was. At the moment When the mind gets shaken up And becomes even more fragile, In the memory of Some trees That have helped some lives thrive, Have given shade, Given oxygen, Crucified, O tree, I am hugging you, Giving you A frozen, but still very passionate kiss With the Alloyed numbness of death and life : A tree-kiss
0
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
kuzhur
Tree kiss
Today, This tree was the very picture Of a pair of birds Who had a fight after mating. You will never understand The eagerness of this tree In making every morning a new one Or daily showing me a new movie, However I try to describe it One day Leaves, that cry “don’t go” “don’t leave” To the wind That passes by Another day Of shooing cats feasting in the shade, On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal, After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch, Another day The tear-filled eyes Of its own branch That cries And supplicates the sun To heal its wound Another day Of its own sister branches Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs That have become prostitutes; On which strange people sit casually. One day The Bihari Who is scared stiff of his lord, And who runs every time a wind blows To sweep away the dried leaves Which the wind has killed, Having made violent love to them. On yet another day, The fruits that laugh their heads off Along with the little blossoms that laughed once | At the silver-blue sky On still another day The tap root That suddenly burst into tears Gazing at the dusk That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs On yet another day, The aged middle-portion of the tree That unveiled the hitherto unexposed Moss-green nursling And prayed that it be named Another day before this, Had made me sad By asking “Are you wont to see the other tree-friends Throughout the countryside ?” Had made me heartsore By asking me “Would you forget me?” Once, have asked Whether I would point out The mother-bird Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit I have made myself broken-hearted | wondering Where or how mother was. At the moment When the mind gets shaken up And becomes even more fragile, In the memory of Some trees That have helped some lives thrive, Have given shade, Given oxygen, Crucified, O tree, I am hugging you, Giving you A frozen, but still very passionate kiss With the Alloyed numbness of death and life : A tree-kiss
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81
a rodent's demise didn't see him 'till the end only his droppings nasty little black feces hiding out in my office the glue traps were set and baited with green pellets a matter of time a nocturnal S.O.B. no one heard his night time screams I have no regrets and PETA would not be proud but it's not my fault oh the germs...the germs, germs, germs just can't deal with mouse ****
0
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
del-maximo
Droppings
a rodent's demise didn't see him 'till the end only his droppings nasty little black feces hiding out in my office the glue traps were set and baited with green pellets a matter of time a nocturnal S.O.B. no one heard his night time screams I have no regrets and PETA would not be proud but it's not my fault oh the germs...the germs, germs, germs just can't deal with mouse ****
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15