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Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
A perfect day (in the city)

First off, it is Saturday morning!
I wake up too early,
Slip into a heated reverie,
five poems to achieve,
along with five healthy sneezes,
expelling the week's dusty remains.

She checks in on me,
to see if I am adequately watered
in my poetry riding place,
in truth, to see if I am overcooked,
still alive, still in my creative place.

A real frittata from her new frittata pan,
is the breakfast plan,
that pan,
gives her so much pleasure(?),
I will be eating them
for the rest of my weekend
life.

Tho confess I must,
The sun-dried tomatoes and
smokey mozzarella, my fav,
were pretty tasty,
maybe I am being too hasty?

She to Dracula dvr'd,
me to nap sweet,
a rest to finally complete,
for once.

we meet up again around noon,
preparatory work, i.e., getting dressed,
off to see Little Miss Sunshine,
now Off-Broadway, at
Eighth and Forty Third.

Yes it was charming and delightful,
dear Wallace Shawn,^
and there were no ****** histrionic
rutting cats in it,
not one at all.
(I know, I know,
I am embarrassingly, lowbrow)


Walked home,
so she could exercise her pet
man.
On the way,
bought us new earphones,
cause I go through a pair a day,
given that I write poetry
in a someday,
watery grave.

Up Eighth Avenue,
at my request,
a reality show,
the meandering tourists
and the grunge to
circumnavigate,

Across 57th Street,
west to east,
surrounded by the city's teemings,
people flash mobbing,
giving NYC,
its special heartbeat.

Up Madison to window shop,
it seems in this part of town
of fancy shops,
I am to France and Italy teleported,
they don't speak
no English anymore,
though told, they still accept
American
Express
and US dollars

Home by late afternoon,
she, a promise to keep,
lamb chops,
honeyed Brussels sprouts,
a sweet potato
and a very very good Pinot Noir
purchased when,
I was very very goodly broke,
and contrapuntal insanity was a
partial cure.

Romantic lighting, yeah yeah,
a date-dinner, she gets,
in return, I ecstasize semi-silently
(actually quite loudly, with every bite)
in a carnivorous man-haze.

A grand bargain.

In bed early,
a Hercule Poirot to drink on tv.
I see fifteen minutes,
so I can wake up
to record
in the dead of night,
in plain, yet
triumphant poetry,
her final words.

“A perfect day”
^ see the poem Wallace Shawn

Ironically, written on the day Lou Reed passed way, who sang one of her fav songs,
Perfect Day
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
As a bisexual, I fear
Few will want you to be proud.
They will bend your ear
Saying things to you out loud
That would be better left
Totally, embarrassingly unsaid
Instead of rattling around
Inside the cathedral of your head.

Too many try to make it
Seem like a kind of venal crime
To want to make love with
Someone of your own kind
And maybe with the same
Gender with which you were born.
To some it is very biblical
And subjects you to public scorn.

Finding someone ****
With the same plumbing as you
It not only delightful
It can be a dream come true.
It feels correctly natural
And works like the other way
Even though people scorn
And use words like ‘***’ and ‘gay’
Or ‘******’ and even taco
Whatever that might end up meaning.
The important thing to me
Bisexuality is so powerfully appealing.

So, those who dislike me
And feel so righteously zealous
That bisexuality is wrong
Are very possibly just jealous.
Or maybe just uptight
Living by someone’s else’s rules;
Not what they’ve learned
And therefore are bigoted fools.
Mitchell May 2011
She yelled from the bottom of the stairs

"What the **** are you DOING!?"

My neighbor, Mr. Monroe with the mustache, ring on every finger and a parrot that talked, pressed his face to the glass to look down at her.

"What the **** are YOU looking at?"

Mr. Monroe quickly went back to his day time soap operas and corn flakes. He never left the house because he believed their was going to be a grand earthquake where everyone that was outside getting food, shopping or at the beach, would die. He told me he believed that his house was a fortress and that God or mother nature or what have you could never touch him if he just stayed holed up in his room with his corn flakes and bath robes and old Sunday newspapers.

"HEY GUY, LET'S GO!"

I gingerly stepped out of my place. I stared up at the sky which was blue spattered with white clouds that were inching slowly toward the ocean. It was a beautiful day.

"******* FINALLY. What were you DOING?"

"Just getting myself a little more ready then usual."

"WHY?"

"I'm nervous or something."

We were headed to a dinner with my parents. I was going to introduce them to Alice and wanted to make sure all my pampering was in order, my mother could always tell if I forgot to comb my hair or use deodorant, my father didn't care. I walked cooly and lightly down the stairs.

"Well you smell like a laundry mat people have been drinking and ******* in."

"Thank you baby."

I kissed her on the cheek, waved up to Mr. Monroe who had gently re-placed his face upon his living room window, and headed to my car.

---

"So what you are you gonna' say to them about me?"

"I'll tell them we have a lot of *** and like movies."

"Really?"

"I don't know. Why not?"

"Seems strange."

"Were strange."

"What if we get married and they say that at our wedding and its awkward and my parents get mad."

"I'm not thinking that far off."

"Well you ******* SHOULD!"

Alice opened the window and stared out at the ocean which passed by with blinking blue reflective lights, beach combers and sand dune cops. There were many surfers wading in the light blue water waiting for the NEXT BIG ONE. I thought it was funny how they could sit out there for so long, not doing anything, and call it some kind of religion. I liked the idea of doing nothing and it saving you, I wanted to join but I was afraid of sharks.

"Do you want to get married to me?"

"No."

"I wouldn't either."

We drove down the highway but hit a big block of heavy traffic. We were gonna be late.

---

By an instinct I acquired either by fate, magic or the hand of the GOOD LORD, I ordered a hamburger with curly fries. The waiter was a young kid fresh out of college with a messy head of hair and a slight limp stuck on his right leg, he said it came from a biking accident but the kid looked like a scrapper.

My mother was alone on the other side of the table while Alice intensely examined the menu. There were clouds in her eye not of insecurity but of determination for my mother to accept her and pull no punches, when she wanted something she got it, like me.

"To start I am so sorry about your father not being here. He didn't come home last night and I haven't heard from him all morning so I suspect he forgot and slept at the office to get an early start on this Friday morning."

"It's fine Mrs. Kindle. I just feel so BAD for you."

"No worries. It is sweet of you to say though."

"Very sweet Alice. Yeah, I'm sorry Mom. Dad's an *** like that sometimes."

"Yes he is."

The water was warm when the waiter brought it. I hadn't looked at the menu but everyone was ready to order. I was thinking about my father all holed up in his on-site construction office, sweating over blue print over blue print, re-examining every last comma, every last note until it was "perfect". He had tried to get me into the business but I always hated a path that had already been trampled and organized upon, I didn't see the point.

"So how did you guys meet?"

"We actually met at one of Joe and Abe's parties."

We actually had met at a hot bar with loud music and cheap drinks with the wind ripping men and women to pieces outside and the bar man said we looked like we would make a good couple but we had never even looked or talked to each other but because this one little bartender in this one little hot tiny bar gave us the idea that maybe, just maybe, we would be good for each other I bought Alice a drink and then, thinking it would be funny and how she hates cliches, she bought me a drink and we got very drunk within the dark heated bar with the people swinging back and forth with the loud quick hipster electronica madness that spun all around us invisible in the smoke and the liquor and the cigarette smoke and there, in that dark steamy bar, we talked and talked and talked until I got a little drunker then her and she took me home, which we laughed about in the morning after we had drank a couple glasses of wine and tried to have *** but were both to drunk to talk or have *** or even kiss for that matter, we fell asleep on top of each other's faces and both of our necks were twisted and hurting in the morning.

"We call it "Our Spontaneous Romance".

"Very funny."

"Alice, do you know what you want yet?"

Alice, keeping her eyes down on the menu not looking up for a second.

"Not quite."

My mother shifted in her seat, she was getting anxious because she wanted to eat and she was worried about my dad. He'd been "busy" with many "things" that he "didn't like to talk about" or was "too tired to talk about" and it made my mom shift and silently sigh after every conversation either about the subject or related too.

"I'm going to have the soup and the sandwich"

"Turkey sandwich and salad for me."

"Healthy."

"Have to be."

"One sec..."

"OK."

"No rush."

"Mashed potatoes and gravy and ribs, that's what I want."

"Very nice..."

"Very nice."

"Thank you."

Alice was nervous. She ate mass amounts of food when she was either nervous or in tight confined places where she needed to converse but had absolutely nothing to say, the large order was her scapegoat and she would later blame it on *******, anxiety and depression, half of which was probably my fault. Alice didn't want to meet the parents, she thought it pointless, a waste of time and pushing towards something that may not even actually happen. She believed being invisible in a phenomenal world was the only way to go through life and in some respects, I agreed with her but also, I knew deep down, she was a little crazy, as was I.

---

"Thank you for meeting Alice and I for lunch Mom."

"Not a worry at all, I'm sorry about your father."

"I'll talk to him later."

"It was very very nice meeting you, very nice."

Alice and my mother shook hands cooly and suspiciously underneath the 3 o'clock sun. They hadn't talked much at lunch and I honestly didn't know how it went at all, they spoke about their food and that was it. Perhaps they neither hated or liked each other, maybe they were simply indifferent towards each other's presence and what they meant to me at all. They smiled, Alice waved as did I as my mom drove away down the hot black top. Alice, still waving said.

"Horrible, that was just horrible."

"I thought it went right as it went, neither here nor there."

"We didn't talk about anything but the food."

"Maybe that's all there was to talk about, some people meet and have absolutely nothing to say to each other, happens more then you think."

"Sounds right must be right."

"Let's go."

We both walked to my car which was boiling hot inside, the kind of hot when you enter when one wishes they couldn't breathe. We quickly opened the window turning on the radio listening to an old blues station for a second. I but the gears in reverse and slowly backed out of the restaurant parking lot as Alice neatly put on her dark sunglasses and rubbed sun tan lotion on her face, leaving a small patch on the tip of her nose. I paused the car before entering onto the main road.

"Let's get married Alice."

"I was about to say the same thing."

I pulled onto the main road home, nearly getting in an accident with a road biker who shook their fist violently toward my gleaming fender. I lightly smiled, embarrassingly laughed to myself, merging on. We were off.
Feel Mar 2013
I've seen you in striped white,
I've seen you in black wrap-around tops,
I've seen you in stilettos,
I've seen you in Fitflops.

I've seen you in the bluest of days,
I've seen you in the rainiest of nights,
I've seen you in the face of the sun,
I've seen you in the wind-full of kites.

I've seen you in the trajectory of life,
I've seen you stare at me with care,
I've seen you in the droplets of water,
I've seen you in every castle in the air.

I've seen you dreaming,
I've seen you back in reality,
I've seen you physically Earthy,
I've seen you  emotionally Mars-y,

I've seen you sad and jubilant,
I've seen you troubled, but kept a smile,
I've seen you doubled - in poker,
I've seen you gone crazily wild.

I've seen you in green-blinking nails,
I've seen you return my stutters,
I've seen you stand tall - confident,
I've seen you slouch - don't matter.

I've seen you looking into empty spaces,
I've seen you looking into a tasty plate,
I've seen you doubt yourself,
I've seen you believing in fate.

I've seen you in the bakery,
I've seen you in a factory,
I've seen you in your beauty,
I've seen you in your most ball-sy.

I've seen you in the bus,
I've seen you read,
I've seen you pick up a microphone,
I've seen you speaking with speed.

I've seen you with a newspaper,
I've seen you with an iPad,
I've seen you with a t-shirt,
I've seen you stylishly clad.

I've seen you work hard,
I've seen you studied irresponsibly,
I've seen you proud,
I've seen you flicker embarrassingly.

I've seen you here,
I've seen you there,
I've seen you near,
I've seen you everywhere.

I've seen enough,
I've seen you in extremes,
I've seen you thorough,
I've seen you in teams.

I've seen you verily,
I've seen you truly,
I've seen so much inspiration,
I've seen you guilty.

I've seen "I've seen" 58 times,
I've seen you more than that few.
But I would've seen nothing more,
If I've seen none of you.
K Balachandran Mar 2017
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.

They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.

Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!

Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.

One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.

Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.

Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.

In some moment one won't  expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
the electronic dispenser is out of order yet the automated voice keeps repeating it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem…



i hint to Mom maybe the nightly sleeping pills might contribute to her forgetfulness she replies what? i didn’t hear what you said i repeat maybe the nightly sleeping pills might add to your forgetfulness she answers what? i can’t hear you i say Mom you’ve been using sleeping pills since i was little maybe they’re a source of your fogginess she snaps what? what are you saying i can’t hear you



Tucson 2001 in the heat of disagreement Mom accuses i am the cause for her need to rely on sleeping pills do you understand what that means Mom you’ve been taking sleeping pills as far back as i can remember miltown seconal nebutal placidal ambient (when i was young i took some from your medicine cabinet then sold them to friends) was it always because of me your off-beat weird troubled kid or were there other reasons thank you Mom for all you have given me i am grateful appreciative truth is none of us trust each other these defenses we’ve created will someday turn on us



2010 it is difficult to write about Mom so many conflicted feelings our struggles contentious exchanges expectations criticisms blame all the money she and Dad poured into me hoping i would turn out successfully employed married with children instead her difficult child chose painting writing punk rock yoga Mom will be 90 in October she caught viral pneumonia last month concerned for her i flew to Chicago to see her my beautiful glamorous Mom who lives high up in tall high-rise doorman deskman elegantly decorated 3 bedroom apartment along lakefront my little Mom who’s once lovely figure shrunk in size morphed in shape with arthritic painfully twisted fingers hair color light ash skin spotted with dark purple brown splotches estate dwindled to crumbs my clever shrewd Mom still so talented socially telephone constantly ringing lunch dinner engagements accompanied by frantic loony sister both dressed to the nines shopping returning hairdresser appointments manicures yet memory rapidly disintegrating my poor sweet Mom who now needs my loving protection it is time for me to step up to the plate shield her from caregivers poised to pilfer my vulnerable Mom leaves her wallet in cab loses her glasses forgets events 2 hours ago furious at pharmacy for neglecting to include her sleeping pills i know i cannot change her whirlwind 24/7 world of gossip scandal denial it is i who will need to change sacrifice my simple sparse existence quiet desperation scrambling for pay gardening gazing up at the moon stars adapt to her dizzy drama driven life style in order to look after her



i’ve written about this before a defining moment that haunts me Bayli and i are staying at Toby Martin’s spacious loft near corner of Bleeker and Broadway 1973 Toby offers me job building stretchers canvases for Warhol he tells me lots of nyc women will model for me if i want to keep drawing vaginas he advises me to drop out of art school like he did assures me i will become famous it is October Sunday i am wearing white turtleneck wheat colored corduroy Levis jeans taupe suede clogs Bayle is dressed almost exactly as me except powder blue clingy top we are just art students Toby takes us up to Rauschenberg’s loft on Lafayette Street Rauschenberg is in the Bahamas the kitchen is all industrial size stainless steel coffee stained glass Chemex drip coffeemaker on stove  upstairs on roof many currently trendy painters edgy artists a sculptor who uses dynamite to blow up quarries in Vermont they scrutinize Bayli and Odysseus with voracious glares the men eye Bayli several women send flirtatious looks at Odysseus he feels fright protection for Bayli it is all too much too complex too threatening and in that moment he drops the ball creeped out fearful he takes her hand and they flee back to Hartford Art School but maybe he was wrong possibly Bayli could have handled those depths heights perhaps she would have blossomed i’ve thought about that moment many times torturing myself with my cowardice insecurity adoration for Bayli our love remaining pure never corrupted



a boy/man makes love with a girl/woman once twice in bed then falls blissfully asleep wakes up makes love all night in secluded room in sheltered house on quiet street in sleepy New England town in the morning with Velvet Underground turned up real loud they dance wild then make more love



perhaps my fears insecurities shyness are about a diminutive ***** or concave ***** at center of chest or all my weird physical psychological inhibitions idiosyncrasies not wanting the world to ever find out know a secret between Bayli and me possibly Bayli never noticed but probably she realized my desire longing to be recognized acclaimed yet remain unrecognizable live in quiet privacy i don’t know sometimes i wonder if Bayli loved me like i love her if there was only one twinkling star in her sky like there is in mine Mom says it’s wrong to limit my skies to one star she says Bayli separated from me and married someone else she asks has Bayli ever made an attempt to contact you since her 2nd marriage i answer you don’t understand Bayli is entirely devoted she would never look up or away from her man Mom says open your eyes there are lots of special stars meant just for you in the sky



at some point it becomes obvious the latest is instantly embarrassingly obsolete why would anyone want the latest



let them come these winds of change blowing sands garbage leaves twisting branches bending trees up the coast down the hole displacing erasing everything oceans rising currents colliding mountains crumbling fiery red skies there was a time once but that time is gone there was a girl once but that girl is gone a street a house  a room  a bed once but that street house room bed are gone hunter buried under hill sailor lost at sea he who steps courageous mindful compassionate will pass beyond the terror
Brent Kincaid Jun 2016
I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.

I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.

But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.

What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust
      system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for
      what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.

Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome
      of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer
      chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been
      longing for.

Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn
      or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the
      opposing team scored.

What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's
      schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food,
      local jobs. Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel,
      less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change
      and global warming will be within man's adaptive capacity.
      On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a
      job for every grackle, crow.

The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children
      although my children are not so poisoned. They're bald.
      Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
      Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a
      conservationist, philanthropist, on the river, whose
      husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a
      second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't
      that great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
--I'm gonna **** that *****.

Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in
      Secaucus One Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's)
      body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could
      not be considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better
      than that. Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower
      mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does. Crows
      clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also
      involving communicating birds, in what is initially an
      embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized
      moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into
      your eyes. Suddenly you realize you should have taken
      him seriously, been paying attention.

In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for
      money, save farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole
      wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it
      will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more *******." I mean really . . .
      I was moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane
      dying and I guess ******* can be music to someone's
      melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather
      bird than ****. No more *******, no more worry, no more
      war.

Which is why I'm gonna **** that ***** is so funny, such a
      life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her
      husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to
      know.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
EDB Mar 2014
Waking up the morning after,
I can only recall the excessive laughter.
The great vibes shared in one moment in time,
It was all so beautiful, the highest of highs.
(****)
My glance embarrassingly detects
the frightful fact the mirror reflects.
A bathroom tagged with the night's mistakes,
Rorschach like markings of drinks and rare steaks.
Always said "Yes", lacking all inhibition.
I wish last night I lived its definition.
So I readjust my head and all of the fixtures,
and pray to god no one took any pictures.
Got Guanxi May 2015
One year on....

My Nana has unfortunately passed away after a valiant fight against cancer. In this passing we have lost a lovely woman who meant the world to our whole family. Me and my cousins affectionally called her 'straight Nana' as when we were younger we were lucky to also still have our great gran around who we called 'curly Nana' this was based on the fact that Nana Pauline has Straight hair and her mother had curly hair. In all my years I've have never heard even a choice word said against her spirit or character which is truly a rare commodity in this day and age.



She lived a full life and had three amazing daughters and a step son who she raised as her own. Thirteen grandchildren one being myself and five great grandkids. Thankfully we recently all got together and she was able to see her whole family together for the first time. I could see how happy it made her that day to see the legacy she had created and more importantly that we all were in a good place before she left us for the final time.



'May the wind always be on your back and the sun always upon your face and may the winds of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars '



My mother was very young when she had me so the support that my Nan gave her as I grew up was vital. Without her me and my mum would of struggled but we always had a safetynet of support that we could rely on that was invaluable to us both. I know this notion is appreciated by my aunties and cousins too. We all share our own individual special memories as well as collective moments too that we will never forget. I would appreciate it so much if anybody has any memories stories that they wish to share as I know they will help us all as a family as we cope with this difficult time.




Cara: ". I once mistakingly rang there (labour club) instead of nanas house looking for mum, nana answered anyway, and passed me on to mum! Good job I got the wrong number! 



Her husband John is a great man who was with my Nana for her last 20 years. He is a part of our family and I hope he knows that we will always be here for him and I look I will look forward to his Sunday Dinners in future and having a beer in the back garden in tribute to our usual routine. I know I'm not alone when I say we are always here for you and we love you
and respect you so much. If you ever need anything please do not forget that.


She had a a gift for poetry that was exposed when she made her way to Facebook. I would always giggle at the little dittys she would loving, yet embarrassingly post to our Facebook walls with affection, nailing little pockets of the personalities of the protagonists each time she wrote them. Reading back some of these small potent poems know I smile as a proud Grandson and I'm happy we will all each have our own little prose to refer to in the future. 




From Moat Road, to Winterslow Avenue, Clover  Croft and finally your home in Widnes - I'll always remember each place fondly for reasons as they represents different periods of my life as I've grown up. My blue bear and parties, your back garden at Moat Road. Snowballs and magic tricks, teddy football at Winterslow Avenue. Clovere Croft was a place of refuge in my teenage years, your naughty rabbits and old school cooked dinners and misbehaving Malig. The dog who you took in and never left your side. The Labour club, where you worked hard and played hard! The beautiful garden you have created that will grow and remind us of your colourful nature as the flowers grow and bloom each year. I know John will tender them with care and think of you with a smile as he listens to smooth FM and remembers all the great times that you both spent together there. 



'if winter comes can spring be far behind?'



As a woman she was truly beautiful, a short stunning blonde. Her three daughters each different in ways but each a  reflection of there mother in their own unique ways.  Looking at them now they are all testament to her gorgeous genes and gentle, kind nature.



Nana was the most amazing crossword completer I have ever met. I was consistently surprised by her ability to finish these crosswords as she watched daytime TV and it was one of the small funny things that made me really proud of her. She filled in the gaps that was synomomus to her life.

Each of her daughters have fought through hard times and she provided a back bone of support that helped them reach the stability and happiness in their lives today. I know she said to me personally how she had comes to terms with her fate and that she was especially happy my Aunty Julie has found happiness with a good man like her sisters. I feel this represented the final piece to the puzzle for her and as usual she was able to complete this before she left. She took great solace in this fact - and so she should. It made me feel a small element of contentness when she told me this during one of our last conversations together.



To all my cousins now is the time to step up and being there for your mums. I have no doubt you will be.  I am proud of you all and you all have a special place in my thoughts. You all have great qualities and potential and it's been a pleasure to watch you all grow up into fine young men and ladies, even mothers.  Please never hesitate to contact me if you need to talk or share your thoughts. I know we will remain strong as a unit and we will get through this tough time together as a family!


In closing I want to thank my Nana just for simply being her. I will hold you in a special place in my heart forever and you will never be forgotten. Each Christmas I will toast you with a Jack Daniels (Nan would always buy the guys a JD related present every year) I will never taste that whiskey again without a passing thought for you as it passes my lips. I know I will not be the only one with this sentiment.

Even as a close family - I still hope this brings us all together and that we use this experience to better ourselves in our own personal ways. Fight hard to reach your potential and stay true to your essence and the person you desire or have chosen to be. It's these times that expose what really matters to you - embrace those thoughts and do not lose them in grief or forget them in time.

I am so proud of you.
Goodby Nana. I love you.
Your Grandson,
Nathan x
this was difficult to revisit but it's important to remember those you love most and don't take a fleeting moment for granted.
Frozen
instant
packaged
mass-produced,
my love life and meals
are embarrassingly similar.
Except, every once and awhile,
I dine out! In the spirit of the fifties!
when men were men, and cars were fast
before easy instructions, and lonely, lonely, beeps.
Thomas R Parsons May 2012
Allow me today to sit and talk, while sipping on my cherry Kool-Aid – which by the way, tastes just fine to wash down my prescribed addiction,

I sit and relax today, I so rarely do – well, in truth, I have sat in boredom for months while life, people and chaos have come and gone, only to all visit again over and over and over…

I have focused so much on what is ideal that I know nothing about what actually is.

I have listened to sirens beneath my window, the ambulances, the fire trucks, searing into my brain a desire to be able to ignore them as they pass all while holding good thoughts for those who the sirens attend to,

My dog and I sit, he by me, me by him – along with the cat, sitting day in and day out – wondering.

Wondering – what if I wasn’t sick?

What if I had been a writer like I wanted to be?

What if I had learned to play the violin?

What if I hadn’t been molested as a child?

I write these words because there is no one.  No one with whom I can converse.  My dog – in his antsy fervor – has yet to utter a single word in contribution to my many attempts at conversation.

I don’t know where things changed.  I hear that people don’t like to be around people who are depressed.   I don’t want to be around me much either.  

Suicide, though an answer, I don’t have much courage for.  My mother always said suicide was a sin and you’ll go “straight to Hell” for doing it, then followed that up with “don’t even think such things!”  Rest In Peace mom but I think of it every day – but it’s a good thing I never learned to have courage in life.

The ice in my Kool-Aid is melting. Perhaps it’s a metaphor – a representation of what is happening in my life.
The bright red of life is watered down, becoming pink if the Kool-Aid to ice ratio is just right.

My heart is broken – again.  I continue to believe that somehow the one that I love will love me wholly without the need for sordid little rifts in the back seats of cars that sit far off in a parking lot, not under the lights – maybe under a tree that hangs over the last spot in the corner.

And where am I when this happens?  Home.  With the dog and the cat.  Cooking dinner, I imagine.  Knowing and oblivious.  Intuitive and in denial.

You used to love me so.  On our hours long bike rides through St. Petersburg – never venturing to Tampa because I didn’t want to ride on the Gandy bridge.  We sat time and time again at Mirror Lake contemplating our future together.  Happiness ensued and you were beautiful.  It felt as though our souls fused each and every time. And then I began to wonder.

Wondering – will I always be enough?

Will our lives be happy together?

Nine years into our relationship, will you still see me the same way?

I have changed – through no fault of my own – a series of strokes can change a person.  They can leave you blind on more than a physical level – but that too.  I didn’t mean to be different.  I didn’t choose to be cross-eyed and wounded.  I wanted to be more for you.  I, for some reason, need you to believe in me, for me to be better.  Are you still here?

Somehow, though, I knew that I would not always be enough for you.  It came as no real surprise when it was confirmed the other day.  The question is: what do I do now? (Oh, and… are you in love?)

I have no self-esteem.  I have no one around me to help pull me from the clutches of happiness turned sad.  Social media and a telephone are no replacement for a hug or a hushed conversation in a coffee shop – where I embarrassingly admit the emotionally crippling downward spiral of what I have allowed for myself to endure – the shame.

I deserved to be loved too.  I deserved more than cherry Kool-Aid, a prescription addiction and time spent wondering who you’re with.

Mom, are you sure you were right? Just wondering.
Not so much an intention of poetry, per se, but a series of thoughts that desperately needed written.
Jackie Mead Jan 2018
The Frog and The Bee and the Mouse with the House lived together in peace and harmony on the River Louse.

One day the Mouse with the house did declare it was time that he moved out of there.

The Frog and The Bee did not agree and set about convincing the Mouse with the House that he needed to stay on the River Louse.

They sent out invitations to all around to attend tea at half past three.

The tea party was in honour of the Mouse with the house to be held on the banks of the River Louse and hosted by his dear friends The Frog and The Bee.

One by one each creature replied and the guest list rose quickly to Twenty Five.

The Frog and The Bee decided the tea would be civil indeed and The Frog made some scones and The Bee made some honey.

At half past one The Frog and The Bee set up some tables to lay out the tea.

At half past two the tables were laid with the scones from The Frog and The honey The Bee had made.

The scene did look grand, pots of tea and saucers of milk all laid on a tablecloth made of silk.

At half past three the guests started to arrive.
The first of the guests to arrive were The Elf with one ear and The Fly with one eye. The Mouse was delighted to see his friends, the ones who helped get Horse around the river bend.

Next came the Horse and his Master of course to thank the Mouse with the House on the River Louse for his friendship and help on the day that the Horse could not get around the river bend and the Mouse with the House, The Elf with one ear, The Fly with one eye, The Frog and The Bee all pulled together and worked merrily to assist the Horse round the river course.

One by one others did attend, there was a duck who lost his cluck but the Mouse with the House helped him every day until he could at last say "cluck cluck"

Next came a ****** who had forgotten how to weave but the Mouse with the House lay out the sticks until the Beavers memory began to tick and the ****** remembered how to weave.

Then came a beautiful Butterfly with bright red wings.  She told the Frog and The Bee that one day the Mouse had found her crying and sighing her wings had faded and she did not look grand a thing of beauty.  The Mouse ran back to his House and in his shed found a can that had Paint in Red on the side.  He took a brush and painted her wings and now the Butterfly all shiny and bright flapped her wings with all her might.

Last but not least the Mayor arrived with his glorious wife by his side.

Mayor and Mayoress Swan did agree that the Mouse with the House should not leave his friends of  The River Louse and they would indeed miss him dearly if he relocated his house.

The Mouse smiled embarrassingly and said "I am sorry he did declare, there's been a mix up, when I said" I must get out of there" it was only to the shops I intended to go but The Frog and The Bee moved too fast or I moved to slow"

The Frog and The Bee and all the guests were all delighted with the news and brought in some music supplied by "Five in a Pen" which of course were all mother Hens and they danced all night until the Moon went in and the Sun came out.

Then the Frog and The Bee said to their friend the Mouse "let's do this again next year, and Mouse can bake cake for the tea, our friends can attend and we'll dance all night to Five in a Pen and we'll eat scones and honey and cake too and we'll do this in honour of all our friends and those who live and work on the River bend"

THE END
I wrote this at 2am this morning when I couldn't sleep.
If you've read my other poems The Mouse with a House on the River Louise and The Frog and The Bee, these characters will be familiar to you and the poem will make sense.
I hope you enjoy.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Diana Jan 2019
I love the way
You love dancing in the rain
Freely twirling with your arms outstretched
And head tilted towards the sky
Attempting to catch the rain
Within your mouth
Leaving all of your inhibitions  
On the floor
Where the rain carried them

I love the way
You allow loose strands of hair
Wildly fall around your face
As you have a mountain of hair
Atop your beautiful head

I love the way
You always ponder questions
And desire to know more
Than what's been told
Or what meets the eye

I love the way
You separate yourself from
Every
Other
Girl
I have met
Without intentionally doing so

I love the way
You laugh embarrassingly loud
At all of my jokes
Terrible or not

I love the way
You chew your thumb
When you're in deep thought
Or the way you twist your lips
To the side when you're confused

I love the way
You hype everyone around you
Making them feel as special
As you are to them

I love the way
You never strive to be the world's
Depiction of "perfect"
But your own version of it

I love the way
You're passionate about
Well
About anything really

I love the way
You write notes to yourself
All over your left hand
With a blue pen
Which eventually gets smudged
And smeared all over your right arm
And chin

I love the way
Your fingers get abnormally cold
And I always have a pair of gloves
With me

I love the way
You treat everyone with love
Regardless of what others have said
Or of their known history

I love the way
You smile with your entire being
So much so
That your eyes disappear
And I always have to zoom
On the picture
To see if you accidentally blinked
While you punch my arm

But
The only thing I don't really love
About you
Is the way you love him
This poem was oddly inspired by John Mayer's cover of the song "Free Fallin'."
You know, my love, that the worlds we have each created for ourselves
are galaxies apart.
Our language games are mutually untranslatable.

We never had a chance, my love. Even I know that.

We would never have been able to achieve an understanding of each other
deep enough
to overcome our fear of the unknown, (and utterly unknowable),
that we symbolize for each other.

The logical, brutally rational part of me knows that we could never have made each other happy.

So why must I, though you have been gone now for quite some time,
keep my mind on you all the time?

Why do I still feel this way, thinking about you every day?
And I don’t even know you.

I write this not to try to change anything.

I have lived long enough not to hold out for what cannot be.

Despite my unwanted, embarrassingly unrealistic romantic dreams from Hell,
well, not exactly Hell,
say, from the dark cave out of which fly the blind bats of activated archetypes,
inevitably,
we still would have had to face eternity, or the lack thereof, alone.

You are still looking forward to an eternal life with God and, I realize now that, ridiculously,
I still can’t stop dreaming of an earthly paradise with you.

Nasty business, my love, that we are each in love with an illusion.

What if we lived in a world in which our longed for illusions
were not just desperate self-delusion but pointed at some kind of Truth?

Do you think that would make us happy?

Isn’t it pretty to think so, my love? Isn’t it pretty to think so?
username Dec 2014
we should have
said it right there
that night we danced
to the sounds of our
pitiful attempt of some
song snorting through our
noses. people were looking
then & it was embarrassingly
good, like our own reality show
with no hidden scripts or planned
settings but now people are looking
but not at the perfect-imperfent
memory of what they should have
done or will do but at the silent moments
we share, five months old & i'm still
having a one-sided conversation with
your headstone
Liz Sep 2016
My heart is embarassing.
It bleeds and cries
And loves too strongly
For it's own good.

It loves as if
It has never been broken,
As if it has forgotten
The countless times
It's been left bruised
And bloodied,
Half alive.

It loves so unconditionally
That I've let myself
Be tossed to the wind
And returned to the ground
At the whims of mere memories.

It loves so pathetically
That I do all I can
To make sure my love
Does not come spilling
Out of my mouth
For onlookers to see.

I keep my passions
And my aches away from the world
So that I don't overwhelm
Everyone else
With the love that overwhelms me.

I can't just say how I feel
I can't just open my gates
Because as much as you would like to believe
That everything inside me is beautiful,
It's as ugly as anything could ever be.

I can't just let you know
How pathetically
Embarrassingly
Ridiculously
In love with you I am.

What if you don't feel the same?
That's a stupid question
I'm sorry
I know no one could ever love me
With the sadness I love them
Sometimes it's not when you're perfect
That you feel like yourself, it's true;
It's when you're embarrassingly imperfect
That you know that you're definitely you.
Tea Aug 2013
Her loud voice echos inside my head
Tears pool spilling off my bed
And her hams can, and laughter fled
As life goes on, shes still dead
Just a rewind video I replay
Before sad sleepy eyes go to bed
Weeping, sleeping,dreaming seeming
Try to find the right words to describe
She was the only one I could find
To stay up and create, art, color, life
A garden to a picture drawn in crown
She was the only one around
Who found what I found
Art is the heart of family
Love and life
She found me, in the darkest nights
She helped me understand
The human struggle, to experience
Complexity, she was her inevitably
Embarrassingly, intoxication in both
***** and personality, fatality being
She never took care, her loud voice
Tinny in her last moments here
Her brave soul
Trembling in fear
Grandma don’t be scared
I'm here
Just like you were
Im here for better or for worse
Her heart beat beat beating
Tell its run its ran its course  
and when its done ill run some more
Grandma my heart beats for you
that's for sure
Passing a property I felt compelled to the gate
something had drawn me to stop!
An irresistible urge to go inside the property
having to bang on the red door.
Waiting unable to move from the spot
on that nice day I was cold not hot!

I tried to move how I wanted to run
but my body wouldn't move!
The screams were trapped in my throat
why was I frozen here?
Shuffling noises from within approached
as my space was encroached!

I could now hardly breath as the door opened
a wrinkled old woman stared.
With deep black sunken eyes that glared
the pierced your soul!
As my body was drawn into the room
nearby was a witches broom!

Then it turned into a grim putrid hovel
as other witches appeared!
I lost consciousness at that very moment
waking up on a lino floor.
A middle aged lady staring down at me
as I looked up embarrassingly!

Helping me to a comfortable armchair
she told me I was not the first.
Who had been drawn to her front door
on this spot once it was said.
An evil witches coven had been found
but was burnt to the ground!

Seven witches were caught and put on trial
by the frightened villagers!
And here where the place now stands
they were burnt at the stake!
Saying they cursed the villagers evermore
descendants would knock the door!

As they alone would detect the witches call
realising I was caught here.
My mum gave me a locket I had to wear
said never take it off.
Unless I was compelled into a dwelling
and this story a lady telling!

Only then should I open the hinged locket
that contained the ashes!
Of the seven that died throw them it's face
then run and not look back!
I did as I was told running until I was tired
so long as now I'm retired!

It was a big story in that town I use to live
a mystery fire had caused.
The destruction of the historical cottage
it was never solved.
But I gather there was no more trouble
a locket was found in the rubble!

The Foureyed Poet.
Drawn to an old house I soon found out why and had to run for my life! The Foureyed Poet.
lucidwaking Dec 2022
The poetry is embarrassingly bad
Despite having so much new inspiration.
The big feelings feel so small
When trying to express them with words.
I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I don't think,
I don't speak,
I don't make a sound
Other than a rustle of the sheets when turning.

I've become a simpleton -
An emotionless vegetable.
Even when the tears come at night
They mean nothing.
My limbic system
Is broken, I think.
Helen Aug 2014
for Sally A Bayan

Once upon a time, a lovely young woman met a young man beside a pond. They both stood feeding the ducks absently, not really looking at each other. The young woman, in her eagerness to feel what she was feeding, stretched out her fingers to stroke the feathers of the nearest duck but it was further away than what she anticipated, and she fell into the pond. The young man reacted by casually removing his shoes and socks, rolling his pants legs and gingerly stepping his way into the pond to hold out his fingertips to grasp flaying hands and bring the young woman back to the grassy edge. Embarrassingly, she sputtered her thanks and asked if there was anything she could do for him, *anything
she said....
He asked if she could clean his pond stained clothes, she replied...
No, but if you don't mind the stains, they now match mine.
He looked away and muttered a goodbye.
The man on the other side of the pond watching her but couldn't get to her in time, whispered...
I would have thrown myself head first under you just so you remained without a stain, alas, I was too far away.
As he rounded the pond, and stood next to her, she repeated the same mistake and fell head first into the water, wanting to feel the softness of the duck but, this time, she added no new stains to her dress because two strong arms grabbed her as she fell a breath whispered in her ear...
*
Don't stain your pretty dress again trying to find softness, it's holding you, right here...
I wrote this for you right now Sally... what I'm trying to say is what I have, you can have, there is someone watching, waiting for you
Sameer Chhetri Sep 2013
i saw a teacher smoking
and thought of mischievous things to say
he looked at me embarrassingly
so i just walked away
Anais Vionet Mar 2023
Lisa and I went to a reception, yesterday evening, for students who’d landed summer fellowships at a particular hospital in Boston. (Yeah us!) It wasn’t formal, so I wore a crimson cropped sweater, a beige circle skirt (with pockets!) and beige Sarto soft-leather ballet flats.

I’ve disparate feelings in these situations. I was excited - this was a goal I needed to achieve - that next notch - and my mom might even smile.

At the same time, I felt like an imposter. ‘If these people knew the trouble I’m having with physics this year,’ I thought, and ‘I know my sister could do this - and my brother - but can I?’

I try not to let my nervousness show, because the stories you tell yourself can hold you back.

The reception was small, there were only four students, their mentors and a few hospital and Yale people. As we signed in, we got name tags and tote bags with the hospital logo containing fellowship info. There were picture posters of the hospital all around and an intro video looping on a large screen TV. They took some snaps.

Several tables along one wall had coffee, sodas, water bottles and finger snacks - which I guess you’d call canapes - and melon ***** of all colors. The centerpiece though, was a big silver, smoked salmon with a lemon stuck in its mouth and a wreath of parsley about its neck - all on a bed of lettuce, surrounded by various crackers and French bread rolls.

I was working my way along the tables, because there were honeydew melon-***** and they’re a personal weakness. Honeydews aren’t in season now, so I was full-on, honeydew foraging. I’m sure I looked like a starving homeless girl who’d somehow gotten in and was trying to eat for the week.

A slim, attractive, black lady in a very stylish dark-gray beaded jacket & sheath dress, had stopped as if transfixed, staring solemnly at the salmon. As I drew next to her, my plate half full of honeydew *****, she said, “It’s a fitting memorial.” That hit me as so funny - I laughed embarrassingly - spitting half a melon ball under the table. She started laughing too - we were like two sillies at church. Her sad face, the way she’d said it - you had to be there.

After a few minutes, the hospital administrator gave a little general welcome, ending it with, “Now it’s time to meet your mentors.” The fish lady turned out to be my mentor. She was still standing next to me - she turned, offered her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Rebecca.”

Her voice made those simple words seem warm and inviting. She looks to be in her early fifties (but I’m a bad judge of age), her short black hair was peppered with gray and white like she had just come in from the snow. We became instant old friends, cracking each other up.

Dr. Rebecca’s (again, I’m not doxing anyone) specialty is neurological surgery. She’s a Baltimore girl - born and raised - who attended Johns Hopkins from bachelors through medical school. Of course, I mentioned that both my siblings went to Johns at some point - Brice being a sophomore in med school there now.

Besides four years of medical school, Rebecca completed seven years of neurological surgery residency (yummy). “A doctor never really finishes school,” she said, “things constantly change and there are new specialties to master,” but I knew this from my parents.

“The plan is for you to shadow me this summer,” she confirmed, “and gain some clinical experience.” I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Yes mam.” We talked for about thirty minutes and, as we parted, she gifted me a copy of ‘Skandalaki’s Surgical Anatomy.’

“If you want to be a surgeon, you’ll need to know anatomy better than God.” She’d said. “So start now. I made some notes for you in the index - we’re going to lean into this,” she finished, tapping the book, and giving me a wink.

I was walking on air as Lisa and I made our way back to the residence.
It’s going to be the BEST summer.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Disparate: something made up of different and incompatible elements
NEWS UPDATE:  I ❤️ NY
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
We were in the cafeteria, having just sat down with our trays. The place, which looks like a modern, medium sized ski lodge, was almost empty. I’m registering more and more faces these days. Most are transient acquaintances from the dorm or classes. There were nods. My little group was my roommate, Leong, myself and a girl named Lucy from our chemistry class. Lucy can solve a chemical equation faster than either of us - she calls herself an idiot savant.

Lucy’s one of those overwrought girls who don’t believe food is necessary for survival and who stare anxiously at blueberries. Lucy’s tray has a spoon, a napkin and one small, plain yogurt on it. I got salmon, a bit of Pad Thai, a slice of pizza and some desert. You could feed a family of four from my tray. I always sit with my back to windows - it’s a glare avoidance thing.

Right after my first bite I saw Jordie. The world narrowed to Jordie. He was emerging from the serving area and seemed to enter the room like an actor coming center stage. He was dressed for soccer, complete with knee-high socks, shoes with cleats that clacked like a tap-dancer and little shorts - it was 39°f outside.

“Jordie,” Leong said, in a whisper that held the enthusiasm a cop would use to declare “GUN!”
I couldn’t register an answer, I was transfixed. Then Leong did something I’ll never forget - she raised her arm in a peremptory wave, signaling Jordie over to our table.

I turned to her in stark horror, but just as my lips started to form the words “***,” he was upon us. “Morning!” He says, as he slides in directly across from me and begins organizing his lunch. I look down at my plate, concentrating on my noodles like a bomb disposal tech, defusing a nuclear suitcase bomb.

“Beautiful day.” he says, looking out on the bright, crisp morning in back of us. Leong starts a conversation with him about soccer. It’s clear that she’s been talking to him but I’m not really listening. I’m watching him. Watching him fixedly, surreptitiously in my peripheral vision. Watching him eat, talk and breathe - he breathes just like a regular person only better.

Then Leong and Lucy start moving, gathering everything up to leave. I realize I haven’t actually eaten anything much - a bite of Pad Thai maybe. I stand as well, looking down, wrapping my slice of pizza in two napkins and stuffing it, an apple, a blonde-cinnamon-roll, an orange and three chocolate walnut cookies into my bookbag.

Jordie looks up from his tray. I have such a crush on this guy. It’s heady and embarrassing. His gaze makes me feel like I have awkward, grasshopper limbs. He smiles unreservedly and it hits, like a force multiplier, I’m sure I flushed crimson. I’m surprised how strongly I can respond to his just looking and smiling at me.

As we leave the cafeteria, walking towards the residence, I turn on Leong, “What was THAT?!” I ask, beginning to work myself up into something.

“I’ve been friendly with him - we have English class” Leong patiently explains, “I wanted you to meet him and get a chance to talk,” and after a moment of silence she adds, “and you never said anything!”

I shivered - the wind was freezing - only an idiot would play soccer out in this cold.

I don’t care if my crush is embarrassingly obvious to my friends. It’s pleasantly, invisible to others - I think.

I want to relish the pining - the lusting - it’s delicious. There are times you don’t want to talk to the guy - you just want to keep crushing.

You don’t want to learn things about the man - the red flags - and you always learn EVERYTHING, like what their major is or that they’re a man’s man.

In the learning, they slip from that lofty echelon of dream-lovers - you lose the hot, playlist feeling - the cheesy, corny, giddy, love SICK.

Maybe that’s where love’s real thrill is - in our imaginations. So give me the mystery - for now.
*Slang: someone’s “major” = a person’s kink

BLT word of the day challenge:
peremptory: means insisting on immediate attention
echelon: a level in a select group of individuals
Against all common sense,
you still give me butterflies;
I want to tell you without pretense
how my heart for you sighs.
.
My fingers hover over the phone,
indecisive, nervous, cringing;
Since you left I'm so alone,
a kingdom without a king.
.
Words, my usual weapons of choice,
fail me when it comes to you.
I fear you'll forget my voice,
our nights; move on to someone new.
.
It's hard. It's frustrating,
this near-constant low;
Missing you, contemplating,
screaming into a pillow.
.
And memories, little ones,
just flashes of that high,
Bittersweet firefly-suns
of the days you were nigh.
.
These crumbs of text,
an occasional voice note,
Starving till the next,
Hungering for what you wrote.
.
I need you, I love you so
embarrassingly much,
Your smile, your eyes of doe,
the fire of your touch.
.
And yet it gets caught in my throat,
the selfish begging for your return;
so I just pray, in silence,
as I continue to burn.
.
01.08.2024.
(for G.)
cheryl love Nov 2015
There was a smell of Devon violets in the air
And the Pig noticed that there was a gentle breeze.
The Duck seemed to have combed his one lock of hair
And he was preparing to drop to his knees.

He fiddled with his apron trying to ****** it off
He was a funny shade of pale pink and blue.
He started his sentence with a little cough
“My friend, you know how I have feelings for you”.

“Yes, get on with it, what do you want to say”.
Nothing could have prepared the pig for the next bit
“My friend, you are my world, my Doris Day
More precious to me than the chair in which you sit.

“Do you want to go out for a drive?
You should have said earlier on.
Now it is late, it is nearly half past five
Very soon the day will be gone.

The Duck spluttered for him to be quiet
He had now a serious wrinkled beak
He regretted now going on a diet
But alas, he started to speak.

“My friend I have something to ask you, would you
Be so bold as to marry me.”
“What! Screamed the Pig. The subject is taboo”
And suggested that he was barking up the wrong tree.

The Duck went violet and embarrassingly stiff
“I didn’t mean to offend, forget it” and ran top speed.
He wanted to jump off a cliff
But knew he might just bleed.

So he hid for three weeks until his face went pink
He went a bit thin, but survived the humiliation
Hiding gave him time to think
Which only led to frustration?

He had to think of a plan
A rapid plan at that or he was in trouble
I will tell the pig I have become a different man
And that I look like the Duck, a duck double.

Then I will reappear as if nothing is out of place
He will be confused, I will be in the clear
He will say I remember that face
And I will have nothing to fear.
lucy anne Feb 2013
when you're alone, you don't have to defend your motives
when you're alone, you don't have to have five good reasons
or three
or even one

every action has a consequence
maybe every action has an antecedent
sometimes i just don't want to investigate.

it's as if
everyone else lives to.

sometimes
i'm just difficult.
i'm just emotional, i'm just irrational, i'm just impulsive.

but if i was predictable, who would bother predicting?

it's embarrassingly easy to confuse people.
Those lips: The lips that turned that smile into gold-
So I persist.
As I leaned in, so did you.
So fun and new and oh!
Oh my,
Those lips.
The feeling went from my head and trickled down my spine;
Oh ****,
Those lips.
I didn’t know how but *******, my heart felt so fresh,
Because of those lips.
Your smile got so wide and I couldn’t help but blush,
God I get so nervous- those lips!
As I got up, you took my hand in yours,
Oh my gosh,
Those hands.
The hands that have touched previous entities:
Landscapes, buildings, cars, firewood, corkscrews…
…muses.
But those girls had such taste-
Who could resist that touch from those hands!
When you slowly brushed your hand against mine,
Embarrassingly, I hesitated.
Suddenly,
I found myself gradually stroking your head;
Stroking your chin, your nose, your hands,
Your heart.
Was this wrong? Is it selfish to give into a desire?
My fire, my flame, my love.  It grew.
I was me and you were you; how beautiful.
It was all perfect, it all felt infinite,

But it wasn't.

We set ourselves up.
Right?
Or were we the ones set up?
A ploy, a “ha ha”, or rather a *******.
I don’t get it.
I just want those hands,
I just want those lips; that smile.
Wait, those eyes!
Soft, warm;
Secretive.
Those eyes wouldn’t tell me anything,
They were so hard to read.
Was this just me? Can he see what I see?
Shades so deep and alluring,
I get lost in those eyes.
They have stories to tell, and I wanna know more.
Don’t take away those eyes.
But alas, we must part,
Maybe for a little while, maybe for good.
I had fun, and I hope you did too.
But oh,
I love you.
Don’t you see, I get you and you get me.
Maybe it’s just me who sees.
Goodbye my darling dearest,
Au revoir my sugarpie,
Until we meet again.
Your scent lingered on my shirt,
I slowly pulled away.
What am I doing?
Is this wrong?
I should have told you from the start,
You should have known my love,
But it wasn’t right;
I’m sorry.
Now you give me kisses, and I give them back;
For your lips are far too gentle to hesitate.
Your wit, your jokes, your laugh.
Stroking your hair and hearing that laugh.
Your dreams,
My dreams.
My world in those hands.
Sam Conrad Nov 2013
I still remember.

(Sweet girl, for your own good, don't read this, please...)

You may not remember, but I still remember.
I remember it all like it's happening again,
I can see the same pictures,
The same views,
The views from all those times,
When I hurt you.

You may not remember,
When we went to see the Akron Youth Orchestras,
At our High School on March 23,
When the Youth Philharmonic played selections from Les Miserables,
When you were singing along to beautifully,
When I was embarrassingly rude.

You may not remember,
But I remember the time I called you in the Spring,
When it was 45 degrees and pouring rain,
When I got mad about something that didn't even matter,
That I made you so upset you ran away from home,
Then suffered horribly in that rain.

You may not remember,
But I remember just after, when the rain dried up some, the next Sunday,
When it was still 45 degrees outside but not pouring rain,
When you and I went for a walk in the cold to go explore,
When we got a little too excited up on that hill, I think you know what hill,
When my fingers noticed the scabs on your arm, how you kept your sleeve pulled down.

You may not remember,
When we came back home, when I saw for sure, when we were on the famous sink-hole couch,
Oh, the look on your face, my heart sunk through the floor, because I knew what I'd done,
That you'd cried awake at night when you lied about being okay, just to make me happy,
You had cut yourself as punishment, when only I deserved punishment.
I still see the look on your face, wrapped in my arms, to my left, I still feel you shaking...

You may not remember,
That evening, how we talked for 4 hours,
How we just held each other, when we both felt so horrible,
When I was dying for hurting you, when you were dying from the pain,
How we both cried together, how I made you promise to never again,
Made you promise to never cut again, if I'd hurt you or left you, because I knew was a monster
(who would hurt you again)...
I still hear your sobbing when you and I were in each others arms in the kitchen...

I remember many more things,
They haunt me more than memories,
Because memories are the recalling of an event,
Recalling of how bad or good it was and nothing more,
But I'm cursed to recall everything as if they are photographs in an album, CDs on a shelf,
I see it all, I hear it all, I feel it all, and I have no goals except to tell you I'm sorry over and over and over...
Hannah Marr Nov 2018
Armed with vocal thoughts,
"I" speaks to "You;"
"I" being myself, a rebel-revolutionary,
and "You" being a like-minded individual.
This is a call to arms, my brethren of the pen,
a call to non-violent, passive-aggressive action.
As poets, as shapers of culture,
as heathen warriors of ink and paper,
we are, by unwritten definition, radicals.
We are master isolationists, visionaries,
unwitting weavers of the immense tapestry of time.
Each word, each thought, each image that is
translated from mind to word and deed,
is an instance of your exemplary credentials
in the world of genuine thoughtfulness
and uncomfortably candid philosophy.
"I," as a symbol of myself,
encourages "You," a like-minded individual,
to pick up your threads of thought and
tie comforting commonality into knots
of free thought and controversial honesty
that takes effort to unravel and understand.
"I," a wildfire, challenges "You," standing trees,
to wield your casually intense influence
towards the betterment of our scattered communities.
Draw on historical records,
on embarrassingly personal experience,
on relatable and unrelatable tails
of second-hand hearsay.
Draw on the words of our predecessors,
the ones who waxed lyrical
and the ones who rambled on a tangent.
Draw on the empathetic, mental-link
between "I" and "You" and "Everybody Else."
Take the whole of creation in your hands,
twist and mold it into a new shape,
then plant it in the ground to grow anew.
The words of "I" and the words of "You"
are a seismic catalyst.
All we have to do is trust,
trust in the thought of "You" and
trust in the thought of "I,"
and the poetry in the pages of your notebooks
will take their first, living breath.

h.f.m.
Roberta Frosty Apr 2018
Purge mode! Purge mode!
Everything must go!

I haven’t worn these pants in at least twelve months.
Purge!

This was my go to cute top in ‘07, but it shrunk.
Purge!

These shoes are embarrassingly loud, they go “THWUMP, THWUMP, THWUMP.”
Purge!

Once, in this dress, someone mistakenly thought I was knocked up.
Purge!

Cool expensive hat from Anthropologie I’ve worn not a once?
Oh wait, maybe keep that one.
Nah, just kidding, PUUUUUUUURGE!
It's been years since I actually missed her
And its a surprise because I thought I was done dreaming of her forever
Not only did she break my heart
But I grew to hate the things we both shared, like a broken handle on a cart.
At one point during these 7 years I became delusional
Creating a fake relationship for her and I, utterly insane, no?
I wanted her and I to be a thing once upon a time
I considered myself to be a nickel and her a dime
Embarrassingly enough to say, but even before we became friends I had set my sights on becoming her man
Unfortunately, I was too hasty in my confession resulting in my unused plan.
I tried to not let it bother me and I was able to move on eventually
Until of course I found out she was interested in my best friend, not surprisingly.
He was pretty popular unlike me
I, however, wanted to be useful to her so I listened to her "gush" over him because that's what a friendzoned 'nice guy' does ,right?
His feelings don't matter so there's no point putting up a fight.
If she's actually interested in you she'll make those feelings known.
I couldn't understand that back then, but I can now since I've grown.
It's been 7 years since she released me from her life.
I became so jaded and bitter from all that strife.
The nickel that wanted to be with a dime
Can't believe I dreamt about her after all this time.
I had a dream about Giovanna last night. I decided to include more in this poem about the friendship I had with her at the time so maybe someone would understand why I get so triggered thinking about her.
Third Mate Third Jul 2014
fifty years young and she asks no one
directly,
how will she compete?

she is tail and blonde and thin and all that
='s
pretty,

but,

single and
pretty at fifty,
slender, athletic,
currently unemployed
knowledgeable sports fan,
courtesy of her dad and no brothers

is not good enough

none of it, cuts it
when, in summertime
she only sees
youths coupling and rosy
older men with
young babies rosy
every place,
every restaurant
we take her

(the 19 year old tan,
embarrassingly,
almost bare
dumber and meaner than dumb
hostesses,
all look up,
inspect our arrival,
yes, in need of seating,,
we are three
and stupid youthful smiles,
yes, three, smirking, I get it...)

she slips it
out loud,
@ our "dinner for three,"
loud and yet inaudible
because we all want it to be
invisible unheard

a private thought,
part gasp,
part cri du couer,
wail plain and female plaintive,
can't compete, can't compete

cannot respond with a fatherly
there, there,
for that would be ridiculous,
even insulting

she wandered in and out of
purposeless, prepared for failure
relationships, and now
it is a look-back, lost,
Thirty Years War

find her a friend!
reply, they are,
sad and married,
besides you know,
I travel alone
in the
company of women,
and so by now,
they have stopped asking

it hangs there,
a hanging atmospheric decoration,
till enough seconds pass
and it is restaurant-noise
clinked away,
time erased,
never was said

I kick myself under the tangible table,
so no one else has to,
reminding me that you cannot be
poet~healer to everyone,
always,
try as you might

— The End —