"editorial" poems
Always____**
Days
Months
Up to our loved ones
necks
Getting callbacks
and lookbacks
Will I be
most likely rejected?
Until dusk to Dawn
The full moon turned
What will be expected?
Shoved mouth to mouth
brewed into the
Starbucks
With any luck
It's hard to make
a buck $
The Dawn Lightning
Striking again wetter
Ridiculous remarks
and kicks
in the pants
He shoved
me into a romance
But we never
ended up where
I wanted to go
France
The editorial the
Mediterranean
Slim chance rainbow diet
The villas of the exotic
flowers riot
Vacationer in vineyards
Grassy bear
Mr. Griswald
Vacation despair
Party pushovers
The sour cherries OOh!
La Wee Vacation,
The push and shove
What's up
Doc_____*
The jilted Jump always
a stump
What-what
about the
President
Trump
Shoved me right
into
this poem
sonnet
Documents of
Vacations places
of memories
The Jack ***
Surrounded by
screwdriver
Or meeting the
screwballs_______
Or goofballs
Sesame Street parade
Big bird feast
His face climbed
Mount Everest
Dry mouth lips
((Frenchie Vermouth))
He's the
right fielder
The field Mr. Costner
on her left dreams
The toast all shoved
around the town
chauffeur
Don't shove me
inside
your world
vacation
Big problems not
like ordering
the best pizza
in Brooklyn
Memorial day
shoved into a soiree'
Unbelievable traffic
American Major
problem leagues
Upscale love signs
and graphics
To resolve this
Vacation big shots
The London
Hotshots
Society
At the worst time,
I had to do
Political speech
Don't shove
me or leave me
If you're not
going to please me
And not your
payroll to
tease me
He's next on the move
pushed to be shoved
I rose
I suppose
He shoved me
He gazed upon me
Like another ticket
to his vacation
He dazed with
his eyes
not to be loved
But all yummy
To take a bite
Apple strudel
pie
But dark ends
of petal
flowered bright
The last word
struggling to
feel shot
My payroll got me a raise
My own vacation
to myself big praise
to love me
Not to be pushed to
love someone
A vacation is to be
with someone that
treats you
on a pedestal
Don't shove me this
is my portal
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
There’s something about you that
makes me want to write
bad poetry
and half-assed short stories.
Something about you that
makes me want to take all my
unspoken words and turn them
into something beautiful,
something worthwhile.
You make me want to be an artist
like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath;
you make me want to create.
Maybe it’s that blue wave
that crashes down like
an incoming tide on the beach—
your eyes
when you look at me in
a certain way, in
a certain light.
Or maybe it’s
the way that you say
my name and then say all
those horrible things that make
me want to rip something
open.
Those words that rip me open.
You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my
head like lyrics to a bad pop song;
I can’t erase them and the
only way I can think of to cope with it
is to write them down like a schoolgirl
with a well worn diary.
I think I might as well have hypergraphia.
I am an unprofessional
medical doctor with
a pen, paper, and
Word Document
suffering from a form of
verbal ***** because I
can’t possibly think of a way to
speak my mind.
I think I would make a very good mute.
I wish I lacked a voice box
because then I wouldn’t have to
be the one that has to
say all the right, comforting things
at the all the right times
and all the right places.
Sometimes it feels as if I’m
being eaten from the inside out
by some sort of paratrophic organism
that sits atop my frontal lobe and
dictates my life and fluctuates my
anxiety and I can’t even think about
some things anymore because of this
nervous clench I get in my gut when
I let my thoughts get too jumbled.
But you—you make me want to write
the most heartfelt and sappy sentences
and you make me want to
be more than just ordinary.
You make me want to be extraordinary.
I guess that what I’m writing is
an apology in the shape of
a few stanzas and a few metaphors.
And this is an “I forgive you” for that night
that we spent outside your house
arguing over the stupidest of things,
so stupid that I can hardly
remember a single word I said to you.
Nothing gratifying is ever
painless to obtain
and I want to be a fighter like
Hercules or Alexander the Great.
I want to be extraordinary with you.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
Euphrosyne: You can just stay here
And if I give you the white strips
You can just lay down
And use the white strips
And by the time they release you
Your teeth will look so good
I mean no offense but
You’d be using you’re time wisely.
They will look so
Much better.
Here, I have two boxes.
Aglaea: I think there’s yoga too
You can really firm up doing that
I really think you should stay and
Take the yoga
I’m serious.
You can also journal
And do color therapy
I know you know your colors
Obviously!
So you should think about
Sharing what you know
With the less
Fortunate
It shows
Gratitude
And I know that you’re Grateful.
Thalia: While you’re here we’ll get you all
New stuff
I know this guy
And he can do it
He’ll redo your whole place
And I bet it could be an editorial
And you need flowers.
We’ve got to get that sorted
Why don’t you do a vision board?
There are
Magazines here right?
You can use them. Well some of them.
Vogue maybe? They do have Vogue right?
And when you’re out we’ll
Deal with the hair and stuff like that.
In the meantime
Find out if there’s a manicurist in here.
You feet are busted.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
I keep fondling dreams as I
flip through FOX, CNN and MSNBC networks.
An electric lady land fantasy
of revolutions where over and over and
under and through inconsistent gibberish of
conservative conversationalists’ and
liberal libel is taken for truth.
My heart is pumping out toxic fiber optic
editorial journalistic pollution like kidneys
secrete the habit of alcohol and
cigarette poisons.
Our dependence on government help is
broken glass shards ruining the
veins of society
while Limbaugh, and spring chicken heads with a
View are enslaving our voices and
limiting the truth of our choices using
eminent domain for our minds as they spit out
their opinions through television and radio
frequencies into our brain waves as truth.
How some American hearts stay warm with
nightly news schisms, burning intolerance,
unreal realism, religious sincerity posed
and limp **** ****** commercials
is amazing. But still a paradox hoax.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 3:15 AM UTC
1.
The light that agitates the equator
bounds across your southern frontier,
and being higher in the wage scale
enables trips there to be easier
than the odysseys of those passing
away in the opposite direction.
Where once bandaged soles went
now many machines tie the stitches
between the divides where once again
bandaged souls will traverse.
2.
Our footprint will be larger than life
and beat the earth to an abstract plain.
Where once many names were needed,
our editorial, read as obituary, will need few.
It’s a recursive gesture to prune in order to grow
but who’s hand truly closes the symphony?
Here I find legumes, tubers, a display of sage
and a cold comfort in my palm.
The perfect chicane of the fern’s stem,
tributaries unfurled, reflects in the plastic bucket.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
I envy her.
I'd write that
she changes lovers
as often as her clothes,
but I've seen her
hold on to clothes
much longer.
I envy her.
She knows love
straight out of
a Vogue editorial.
The kind where models
wear only jeans
and ****** each other
with their polished,
photoshopped beauty
and ****** eyes.
Then you see
the same models
somewhere else,
seducing some other model,
and wonder
how their brains
can keep up
the oxytocin
demand.
I envy her.
My lover and I,
we're full of holes,
like my father's
light blue Levi's
from the eighties.
I don't envy her.
We're full of holes,
my love and I,
but full of patches
because a good pair of jeans
are worth mending
when they fit you
like a glove.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
Drastic words taken from a manic world,
Have you heard that what they print is labelled on you.
Its over now,
As the sun begins to rise,
Tomorrows world,
Always forgets the man that dies.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they don't care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
Celebrity taker,
Paparazzi will follow you everywhere,
So you want to be in the paper?
Fame and fortune has its price that will tear.
Sold out now,
This world exclusive news,
Read all about it now,
Aliens land on chrismas eve!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there,
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
They deserve it now,
All of those printed lies,
War of words,
From the media moguls!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Its all a bit of a joke laugh the press so swindled in you.
Tabloid Mess!
O'Reily@08072015
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
I would write with letters bold
and stylish flare to break the mold.
Italics letters, I would like.
To make them seems a fright.
The very size of any font:
big or small is what I want.
Style settings won't transfer
Boring text makes me grrrrr!
Editorial control,
That is what I want to know!
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
I'm often amazed about those that offended.
And it can be a debate about anything that ticks it off.
Read an article about a gay getting bully.
And the defense team comes alive.
But many of them have offended someone.
Least at one time.
Read a editorial from a Republican.
And watch the Democrats come back with theirs.
Call someone gay.
And watch those that straight get heated.
While we know if you comfortable in your skin.
Words could never win.
You not weak.
If you are smart not to get on their level.
Because many speaking are in groups during the leveling.
Once separated.
Just watch them chicken out.
Blaming one another for the rumors going about.
We , who offends?
Truly know we can't handle it back.
So, we stick with those offenders.
We know will forever have our back.
Once their names hits the press.
Watch the way the offenders tries to turn it around.
That they didn't mean any harm to anyone.
And they doing this mostly,
Because it turned out to be their daughter.
Or their son.
The offender.
Seeking a defense team.
All because many realize they was really mean.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Continuation without meaning, meaning
Lacking merit, chains whose warders have
Long since deserted
Fallen prey to common gestures
There is no editorial for these thoughts
Of sound mind and sight body we
Press on
Some say it is the chlorophyll that keeps leaves
Green
I know it to be hope
I know, should hope grow tires and fail
To recognize her surroundings, leaves
Will drain to brown with
Worry
I challenge you, try to understand
Walk in the depressions left by the others
Feel their breath fueling your thoughts but
Keep them your own, always and
Forever your own, even as
Forever deflates and sags inward, a
Shadow of its former self
Reason, everything's about reason but to what
Ends, for what purpose and why?
A reason
Will not bring people together
A reason
Cannot solve a problem
A reason, a stupid ******* reason
Can't do much of anything at all
What is it for? What
Do we seek to justify somehow with this
Talk of talking we need
Three-dimensional speaking we need
Spheres of understanding not this
Circle we ride in silence without so much as a
Remark about the unchanging landscape
Fallacies will be present in all walks of life, hell
In every stone witnessed in all walks of life,
Hell,
Everywhere
And to dwell on them is to play the fool to
Succumb to defeat to rise above all we
Know and realize there is nothing else but
Cascading color waterfalls and this nub of
a pencil
Nothing crucial, no time for time when
It all is so vibrant, yet reflections adore
Our world because we invite them even
As we recognize the harm done, still welcome
Views built on the backs of the long dead and
Idealistic initial impressions of a
Flower before the wind steals it from the
Tangles of your hair and gifts pedals to
The breeze
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 4:16 AM UTC
You are like my
favourite advisory column
among all of my
favourite magazines.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
while it is understood...
and probably
goes without saying
that everyone
as the saying goes
is a critic
most self appointed reviewers
fail to realize that
Poetry exists in the mind
belonging to the thinking subject... rather than
to the object of thought
Poetry is personal... placing emphasis on one's own moods
and attitudes... funky or otherwise...
you love it...
or you hate it...
you read it...
or you do not read it...
it does nothing to you.. or
hits a sweet spot
ignites or dampens a fire
permeates the soul
takes root... and
stays with you
for such a time as it is needed
to brighten your day...
luxuriate in solitude...
commemorate a love... or
accentuate a hate
Poetry
is abstract... illusory... instinctive... relative
to where one is at the time...
and therefore
not open to
editorial examination...
or critique
...I'm just sayin
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Apr 28
Hi all !
Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy, incoherent and gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the editorial literary-elite. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit MA degrees.
P.S: send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!
Love,
Rita Dove’s Bookshelf*
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
they sighed
The 5 o'clock mass of late winter apathy
Borne ceaseless to and from and back again
To Salt Lakes to frozen sky to unfeeling supermarket self checkout lane
To the dawn that brought life and the dusk that killed again
From sea to shining sea to burning bush
and a grand halo for all the art majors,
scathing editorial for the industry people
On the freeway passed out stone black sinners under veil of Southern sky
And narcotics agents circling up and down the block
Cancer dependent martyrs all,
The Saint, the Wolf, and his ****** Lover
Trash can fires turn to frozen hellscape
To Babylon out West past the Rockies and North of the Gulf
Mother of ghosts slaving away at an impotent family supper
And she let a single tear fall and whispered,
"This one will bring me luck,
It may not be much now, but just wait
There's gonna be a ********* riot when the Wolf comes home"
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
How much Editing ?
goes into the Audio, Video of a mans life,
Before the world would notice an oddity of human nature?
Would it be that of a tiny tadpole of an amount?
A jolly giant of a fudging that would cause for a rubbing of the eyes and a gaping of their mouth?
Would it, could it, oh dear me, should it be a thought considered before a judgement rendered or cast on a poor fellow to be a job or a lot?
Humm, me thinks it might be , no, was?, no it was not a lot of job that they sent to the door step of men they knew not...
Ahh, a relief, yes , such a relief that these things have never been the case, nor the glory to fit a portion nor word in this slot, to make his meaning more to the appetite of the plot, who's plot you ask?
Oh dear shake-spears Macbeth and some final rest in the those leaves of grass and our silly *** as Whitman was so insistent, who or what else plot might be thought for such a play to be sought?
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
You sketched me out with grey designs,
leaving room for changes.
You edited my story lines
by deleting all our pages.
You painted me with watercolors,
leaving an ever-changing hue.
Yet in the end what should’ve been
a familiar face, was one you barely knew.
All your teardrops on the paper
left marks between erased lines.
So it became so clear, my dear,
how much you had changed your mind.
Erasing, changing, rearranging
until you were done and pleased.
Then you stepped back to find that you
made me a disaster-piece.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 2:04 PM UTC
old men settle
like the last ashes
of a strongly worded editorial
in a newspaper -
burnt,
crumbling,
but carrying reminders
of words once powerful.
old men huddle
in centres
that have long since lost
their magnetism.
centres that once drew
the most powerful thoughts -
now host
shuffling cards,
shuffling gaits,
shuffling shoulders.
old men whisper
wars can be won
and fortunes can be lost
with all that they have to tell you
if only you
listen
observe
absorb.
old men gather like continents
much like the mass of land
holds everything above it -
rooted
stable
sure
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
the higher standard
~
the excuse jar emptied,
plenty of time,
still flush with inside insights
but end all, stillborn, flushed
poems entitled,
but not embodied,
the cards dealt,
but each hand folded,
the stack of chips
slowly diminished,
many small ventures
for no gain
a verse, a stanza
but no bonanza,
the mirror of mine own
editorial critical gaze enhanced,
judges the work unpurposed,
nothing passes muster
not a one invited to the
high school last dance
even this lamentation
by way of explanation,
itself defective,
but yet slogging on,
progresses - perhaps
paper and pen
long since discarded,
yet mental imagery of myself,
surrounded by mountains
of crumpled drafts
rising up to fill the
surrounding empty floor spaces,
feels so real, I am, ha ha,
floored and flummoxed
somewhere unbeknownst how,
received a crucifixion transfusion,
the mind's blood now tainted
by this holier barrier,
subsequently diagnosed as
an official human ailment -
the higher standard
the faucet of words
fills the sink,
disordered, spouted molecules,
despite the clarity of water,
reformation needy for a reformatting
nothing suffices,
the quench unmet,
this purifying filter imposition -
the higher standard
reduces my scribbling scriptures,
to ashen dust, scattered
among the gigabytes
in a rented cloud
supposedly available for resurrection,
when the Messiah of Satisfactory
arises from the place,
where all messiahs await,
for further testing,
all caught, but none released
even this mea culpa to myself,
unsatisfactory, barely avoiding,
the usual suspects of inadequacy
and almost discarded,
nearly failing the language barrier,
the last test,
is it worthy of disseminating?
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Glossary of generics, favourer of all merit, ****** to detach detained editorial.
Some come in softly, hard heads take big splats. Lukewarmness salts thy unfruitful earth, where newborn births are stars to their own mania's, Cranium's go connected! Stretched parsels to broken fibula's!
Moralist preachers teach to the misbehaved, can you account for the thousandth day you've encountered?
For the slaves you've made out of your own bloodline, you've lost much of your own commandments you lowly persuationer!!
Old partied savourer!!!
Dissatisfaction finalizes all authories where glory is none, cheatings no more fun? Haha for you can clap your solid hands to gentled tears, for missing years are operetic in cower and palate!!!!!
Wake yourself to thine nail, strike one time with a mallet for all reasonings gone, gone, gone . when its you that has lost,
When its thy world who hath won!!!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Manic [depressive...] Pixie [dust?] Dream [nightmare!] Girl [person.]
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
i love how the reaping of modern reward
leaves octavius in peace from
the hysterics of historians, known as augustus,
apathetic, because the scold of such
breadcrumbs know as rewards, are just that,
breadcrumbs, foodstuff additives for rats
that were ignoble enough to jump the ship,
they were, ignoble to guise themselves
in thinking the usage of language
was idiotic enough for them to use it
when using it sparingly, on a spare as ol' cockney
had it. i watched ******* so many ways of speaking
in order that all ways of speaking were sung,
to sing is to have respect for all measures of the tongue,
it does not mean to favour one, it means to accept all,
it does mean intention to state a status quo
but mean a status qua: it does not intend
the state of things going to the same posit of where they
are, but arable i statement asking for the state as being
worth keeping.
why then imagine so much but speak so little?
why then speak so much but imagine so little?
politics vice versus got in the way?
shadowy patron of despotism swerved a legion
of demonic shadows to sway you?
was it a carcass that decided to rekindle life
with puppets for a dynamism of the silken
trade with stringed threads that swayed you
to be kept noble of memory with the next kinship
as entitled prior to me, prior to father,
prior to my father's father?
held sway it did with the nightmare relating,
but you didn't: a nought's worth of a sarcasm
in the night made more uncles for satiation
of hybrids of insemination than it did
relating cousin's mother (1) with cousin's
father (2) to conclude the family tree reserved
an inheritance of king solomon's mines for someone.
then i hid my eyes into lazed lids of blink missing,
and that was that... horror was more welcome
than comedy with all genre choices freely apparent.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 10:21 AM UTC