"evenly" poems
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
-October 17, 2230
White marble and the vitalizing smell of chemicals.
Our light and evenly coloured avenue, straight and decisive, reaches the distant horizon.
And all without trying.
The clear autumn sky, sterile and wonderful is well fitting our day of celebration, is it not!
In front, rows upon rows of men glowing with pride and dressed as myself, (why do I waste paper on the axiomatic….) move swiftly and evenly along to the beat, oh so evenly...
And arms move out and up on every beat.
For our jubilee has come, and a hundred years have passed since the necessary (and by them voluntary!) extermination of citizengroup 3.
Oh, whoever might read this joyous note of mine, what a day to be!
-O402
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
We are evenly matched
Or so I thought
So I let down my guard
Thinking I'm alright.
But I placed my bishop
Diagonal three spaces
Perfect position to
put you in check
Realizing that
I've made a mistake
You move your knight
Two spaces forward,
one to the right
Halting my advances
Leaving only my queen
To defend the pride of her king
I defend from your every move
Until you capture her.
Leaving my king exposed
And defenseless
You marvel at it but
Are quick to place her
with the others you have
Captured and controlled
My king scurries
Space by space
Anxious to avoid
The inevitable capture
I am exhausted
Avoidance of you
is utterly impossible
So I give in
I tip over my king
in total surrender
How quick you are
to ****** it into your hands
You revel in your victory
Clinging to my king
My last piece
My last hope
But how quick you are
to discard it
How quickly you let it
tumble down onto the pile
But I forgot..
To you
This is just a game of chess
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.
~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
This poem is a toast to our love, to pure love.
Let peace, purity & contentment prevail
everywhere evenly dispelling hatred.
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's writing poems,
Whether it's riding horses,
Whether it's reading books,
Or it's roaming nooks...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's blooming flowers,
Whether it's raining droplets,
Whether it's crooning lullabies,
Or it's draining tensions...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
*She got star dust sprinkled evenly
Within the shorelines of her ravishing eyes
And stardust, pristine naïve look benignly
Creasing her soft supple aristocratic face no need to accessorize
Her posture upright and poised
Elegance, charm and grace effortlessly effused
By her, emotional hazards posed
By a presence so spell-binding, one will be amused
At the hypnotic effect experienced by
All and sundry
Though she turns a blind eye
A scathingly sultry
look suddenly evident on her sweet face turned sour
She undoubtedly is a toxic flower.*
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
I sink, my feet slowly becoming part of the earth softened under the heat of my body and a shy sun rolling evenly on horizon. Lazy sun slowly extends his arms stiff from winter reluctance and expanding them into a hug. I see green meadows, still poor with colors, pale spring messengers and Harlequin's face in the glass reflection. Eyes full of ice slowly melting, just as piles of snow hidden in the spring shadows. I sink deeper into the trap of needs. My hands have become bare spring branches and wait for your smile to bloom touches. Delicate greenish flowers and young leaves will slowly wake up your eyes from the winter gloom, gentle kisses will tickle your throat and nostrils. My hands are empowered, illusive fingers gliding over your breast. I feel the beauty of the Snowdrop and already lured with memories of Violets. You open slowly like a red Tulip. Tulips are too simple for you. I see beauty of Cyclamen bathed in dew of hidden alley and I think only of sweet kisses you give. As I dive in you the Earth is not just a lump of mud in the universe and the water is not just a matter which makes it blue. While tears running down your cheeks you say they have decided themselves to come and not knowing why. Then, I stand little before you. The boy filled with dreams. Then I stand bigger than the Earth before you as you are more than water.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
*"Once upon a time there was"
"no"
"No"
"NO"
"Many moons ago"
"There was a dreamer"
Who wished with all her heart,
To find the gold at the rainbows end,
She would look for clouds
Bursting
Up
High,
Her mother smiled.
"Are you still searching for that rainbows end"
"Pamela your dreams are the clouds"
*"Mummy a *** of gold I will find"*
"For if you latch on to one"
"You will find yourself upon the other side""
Then one morning awoke to find a rainbow
Moving over her lawn,
Blouse,
Trousers,
Shoes
On too, she had packed a case
Encase this time did come true,
She slid down the banister
"Whoooooosh"
Through the front door,
Just as it was fading
Hands did grab hold,
She was surrounded by colours
Red,
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
All were pure and bright, then with a
"Thump"
On her bottom she did land, surrounded
By beauty, plants the colours of the rainbow
"Blue leaves"
"Grass was orange"
Sky was all shades of the rainbow too,
A *** seen, gold did gleam,
Mouth wide open,
A violent fly flew in then out,
"Gross"
And she then quickly shut her mouth,
She was over the moon, the rainbow too,
She picked it up,
Lighter than she thought??
She picked one up
Put it too her mouth,
And bit,
It was squiggly in her mouth
"Gross"
Twice in two minutes,
She was
Sullen,
Grumpy,
Tears
Did cascade from little eyes,
They came out
Colours of the rainbow
Which lightened her mood,
She wiped her tears looked once, twice
Then hands upon the rainbow,
And whoosh, she landed with a
"Thump"
On next doors cow,
"MMmmmoooooo"
Went the cow,
"AAaahhhhhhh"
Went Pamela,
She ran with a
Scare
And
Fright,
As in the distance still hearing the angry
"MMMmmoooooooooooo"
She ran to her house, opened the door,
"MUM"
"MUM"
"MUM"
With a fright her mum ran out,
"Pamela"
"My baby are you all right"
"I found the rainbow"
**"I found the ***
"I found a land of colour,"
"But the treasure wasn't right"
All said with in one breathe,
Now breath my angel,
As mother did take a coin
Opened it carefully and with the tip
Of here finger tasted it,
"MMmmmm"
So creamy, so light,
As she took her in the kitchen,
And the toaster minutes later
POPPED out,
Spreading it evenly, and eaten was
The toast crust and all,
"Mummy may I try one"
Pamela said
"Magic words my honey bear"
"Please may I try one"
And with that the toast again
POPPED out,
"MMmmmmmmm"
"My gosh mummy this tastes divine"
"You found a golden treasure that's for sure"
As they had toast each morning,
Opening a coin spreading it evenly,
"It was a taste to behold"
The treasure at the end of the rainbow,
Wasn't money, but I was something better
A taste that put a smile on faces
Every morning at breakfast time.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
You talk about eggshells
I hear the crunch as I get closer to you
Thought it was glass breaking but it was too soft beneath my shoe
I can't stay out of your perimeter forever
When the diameter grows bigger and bigger
Pushing me farther away
I can still see soft silhouette
Your skin is so frail
Pale white made of the eggshells at your feet
You reach down time and again
When you're pierced by words
Cutting off oxygen
Penetrated by the carbon dioxide truth
You're not young anymore
Age is ageless numerals
You're not old
How many birds flew away from this pile of youth?
Each one once packaged like a gift
Leaving behind stacks of birth to sift through
You gathered them
Scattered them evenly around you
Put your appearance and self worth into them and
Waited for the crushing blow
Marching toward you from all sides
Your insecurities will swallow you and
The stomping will leave you angry and hollow
We are all hippy chickens
Making wishbones out of peace signs
Hoping for unity
Not realizing it's meant to be broken
A lopsided libra unbalanced
The powers that be
Expect you to follow obediently
Stand in line
You can't take just give
'Short people ain't got no reason to live'
Newman must have know
How difficult it is to create new men
One by one we attempt
To tip the scale in our favor
But the bigger Man
Can push it down with a finger
Like a toppling Pisa tower
A slow motion fall to the ground
A single direction agenda
The momentum gained
With each inch leaning
So stop clowning around
Sweep up your eggshells and
Go buy a dozen more grade A's and
Break them all at once
We don't have much time
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;
divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.
Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,
to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.
One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for
these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself
And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow the
evenly laid out, sorrow yellow street lamps
and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,
where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems
to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they
wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived
in a previous life.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
556
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly—and true—
But let a Splinter swerve—
’Twere easier for You—
To put a Current back—
When Floods have slit the Hills—
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves—
And trodden out the Mills—
2.5k
Love At First Sight
It was love at first sight,
darkness has become light.
Eyes glanced across the room,
my heart started to go boom.
Walked over and bought her a drink,
neither one of us could even blink.
We talked til the bar closed,
our feeling were evenly exposed.
We dated a week or two,
the we made love,
the whole night through.
The friction between us caused sparks,
we did it in cars, we did it in parks.
One magical night on the beach,
we were stuck together like a leech.
She moved in shortly after,
so much love, so much laughter.
Got on my knee and proposed,
she said yes, as I supposed.
After a year we got hitched,
her touch always makes me twitch.
We decided to start a family,
always exploring each others anatomy.
Finally our first child was born,
handed out cigars and tooted my horn.
We live a wonderful life,
I have the greatest wife
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Ole to the beautiful flower hidden underneath
a shadow- a beautiful flower in bloom, alongside
a naked truth. Sensual images, picturing gentle
moves to drive love so pure and never felt;
its eyes a flower garden of unspoiled- felt so heavenly.
Permit me to kiss you evenly by heaven’s sweet entry;
flowing in sync; we’ll rest in a lily field of complete
serenity.
_And she replied to him:_
Our first meeting of first feelings- never felt before,
as I waited in the shadows; longing for the needs
within us, for one another. Aroused in my inner core
to touch and explore love in treasured completeness
and wholeness. Share your life with me and within me;
darling fall into my arms, and allow me to feel my inner
spirit for you within- burning endlessly from my soul’s
aflame.
__Shall we burn together.__
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 3:27 PM UTC
Entropy will **** you,
Brutally, and without consent.
You think you're special?
You're the universe's *****
Not only that,
You're one of the universe's billions of *******
And on the day of judgement,
The universe will gather all its little *******
And **** them, in one spectacular ****
Of light and energy,
Order and disorder.
A grand bukakke,
Flooding space and time in a tidal wave of cosmic ****
But as you're floating around,
Your energy distributing evenly,
You get the last laugh.
You have tempted and tickled the universe,
Toward an unachievable goal.
The ****** that can never be reached:
The state of perfect entropy.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
There is a ****
With the most gorgeous of toes
Of this fact I am not sure if she knows
Evenly balanced with different hues .
But to me this is not news
For they are the best of toes
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I was sexually abused when I was a child,
the only light at the end of that tunnel,
is that it wasn’t done,
by a family member,
but it was done,
and I don’t even remember,
as much as Christine Blasey Ford does,
nor have I ever had to testify,
all I remember was the taste of that ****
and how it taste like buried secrets,
the way they ferment and rot,
when lodged in the gut and not allowed to surface,
see we’ve all been abused,
and not a single one of us deserved it,
so now we serve this life sentence of guilty regret-ness,
which in turn as positioned me in service,
oh America The Beautiful,
when did we become so broken,
everyone’s got a story,
of either being abused or abusing,
watched the Judge Kavanaugh hearing,
watched Dr. Christine struggle to retell her tale,
under the glaring lights of the TV cameras,
under the glaring stare of a bunch of older white males,
I mean let’s put it into perspective,
here is a lady who’s held this secret for years,
and then in an instant she was broadcast worldwide,
for the whole world to hear,
her life will never be the same,
she’s admitted her most private moments to the public,
and all because to the highest court in the country,
this demon from her past is about to be appointed,
and I don’t know what my point is,
maybe I don’t have one,
like a lonely kid,
who’s only role model is a fictional superhero,
because he doesn’t have an honorable father,
a lonely kid,
who’s only friend is his pet dog,
that he takes faithfully with him,
we he goes on walks just to get lost,
doesn’t have a destination,
still he feels like he’s in a rush,
can’t focus his attention and is always impatient,
and don’t know where to go and only wants to find the love,
and when he tries to speak up to tell someone what’s up,
he’s just dismissed as ignorant and told to hush,
and what does it mean when a ****** predator,
has the title of Judge,
how can someone that acts so immorally,
be put in a position to weigh the scales of justice evenly,
maybe there’s no right and wrong anyways,
maybe nothing is for certain and there are no guarantees,
maybe,
maybe not,
but I do know one thing for certain,
wherever I go the trauma from my past is brought,
because I was sexually abused when I was a child,
and the only light at the end of that tunnel,
is that it wasn’t done,
by a family member…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Fruit pizza
I’m eight years old
Running around the house with a cape tied around my neck
Ingredients:
Sugar cookie dough
Strawberry cream cheese frosting
Sliced fruit of choice
My teddy bear’s name is Kate, after baby Kate from Arthur
We had to stop watching that show because my sister started acting like D.W
I told Kate everything because she was the best at keeping secrets
I didn’t realise she couldn’t talk back to me
Preheat oven to 350
Eat cookie dough because no matter what mom says, it’s not really going to **** you
Spread cookie dough evenly on a pizza pan
As the youngest of seven loud siblings of various ages, I had to learn at a young age how to be heard
I can yell with the best of them, but you would never know given my quiet tendencies today
I still haven’t completely grown up yet
In my mind, I’m still that little girl who read picture books and made up games like hurricane and the tripping machine
Let cookie cool
Wash fruit and slice it neatly
In my mind, I am still the little girl who did things because she wanted to and therefore got put in time out a lot
Spread strawberry cream cheese frosting on cookie
In my mind, I am still protected by the shelter of my parents
In my mind, Kate can still talk
Place fruit in a circular pattern on the frosted cookie
Cut into even pieces
I’m eight years old
Fruit pizza.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Oh such lonesome lives in the west
When the sunshine stings bleary eyes
and telephones receive no calls
How does one survive in the city
When the angular buildings suppress creativity
and free-thought is despicable
See the man, laying in bed for days at a time
With ASMR videos playing on a smartphone propped against a pillow
and his arm draped over that pillow, imagining a body
Bob Ross love affair, the television drones
Each night spent alone, praying for passion, or acceptance, or anything
and joyous noise when paintbrushes glide evenly
A collective of poets, posing as one man
Fraudulent minds, each with distinctive style
and all with crooked broken teeth
Trumpets in the jukebox, cat-calls in the world
Outside the window children are playing
and he cries, for the years are growing weary
She peels skin from her fingernails, mindless on morning commutes
He stares from bus stops, train stations and runways
and never blinking, never blinking, never blinking
The intrinsic value of repetition falling short of artistry
Given that metal machines are perpetual
and when the crow lands on fences in the morning dew,
there is no more life in Ironville, not for me, not for you
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
A 14 year old tender,
Came with a situation
He can’t decide his gender
Social keys challenging perception.
A prof. got suspended from his job
Coz he can’t love a woman in the ****
His feelings for affection were just like us
But for men, that he can’t discuss.
A girl of 25 don’t want to marry
Coz she love her girlfriend back in bury
She know it’s impossible to do this
As the law prevent love between two fairies
Now the question arises
If love has no boundaries
Why our brains are in cages?
As metals are casted in a foundry
God has made us in different pages.
We all pray equally
As do lesbians and gays
We all love equally
As do Bisexuals and Transgender
We all make friends evenly
As any girl or a boy
So why we can’t love legally?
Think and make others think
We all are humans, catch the link.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
Sabungan Cockfight
Sa pula! For the red!
Sa puti! For the white!
Anopaman dumating However they come
piliin ang magiting choose the valiant
tumaya sa tindig gamble on their carriage
pagpaboran and consider
bawat katunggali. each competitor.
Sumiping sa dilim Make love with the dark
at sumigaw and cry
Kristo! Kristo! Christ! Christ!
Panoorin ang laban Watch closely the battle
sarsuelang mapanganib this dangerous sarsuela
kawatang sumasanib a thief takes over
sa aking piling inside.
Sa bawat kong hiyaw, Every shriek
ang kada tuka, laslas each peck, a slash
nagmula sa dahas of ruthlessness and
lumilipana ang daing cries all around
dumadaginding ang bagsik echo ferociousness
bawat laban pilit. of this stilted struggle
Kristo! Kristo! Christ! Christ!
sigaw ng sabungero screamed the sabungero
at ako'y tumigil. I stop.
Sa pagpanaw When all is gone
manalo win
matalo lose
walang pareho tumingin no one sees evenly
sa aking balahibong my feathers
pula at puti of red and white
sa alabok on the surface dust
kumalat they lay
lumipad they fly
lumahong taimtim. and vanish without a thought.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
the lion pack traveling side
by side, though not evenly;
colliding shoulder to shoulder
territorial and instinctual.
trying to tame the manes
beneath logo-baring headgear,
hoping to hide soulful eyes
behind dark shades of plastic.
clothing loose to make up
for skin too tight, laughter
bouncing off cement and
rubber sneaker soles.
that musky scent of male
mingling with each individual
mixture of hopes and dreams
hits me in full force, leaving me
at a standstill long after the last
of you has passed me by.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
How blest the land that counts among
Her sons so many good and wise,
To execute great feats of tongue
When troubles rise.
Behold them mounting every stump,
By speech our liberty to guard.
Observe their courage--see them jump,
And come down hard!
"Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud,
"And learn from me what you must do
To turn aside the thunder cloud,
The earthquake too.
"Beware the wiles of yonder quack
Who stuffs the ears of all that pass.
I--I alone can show that black
Is white as grass."
They shout through all the day and break
The silence of the night as well.
They'd make--I wish they'd go and make--
Of Heaven a Hell.
A advocates free silver, B
Free trade and C free banking laws.
Free board, clothes, lodging would from me
Win wamr applause.
Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see
The single tax on land would fall
On all alike." More evenly
No tax at all.
"With paper money," bellows E,
"We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt--
And richest of the lot will be
The chap without.
As many "cures" as addle-wits
Who know not what the ailment is!
Meanwhile the patient foams and spits
Like a gin fizz.
Alas, poor Body Politic,
Your fate is all too clearly read:
To be not altogether quick,
Nor very dead.
You take your exercise in squirms,
Your rest in fainting fits between.
'Tis plain that your disorder's worms--
Worms fat and lean.
Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell
Within your maw and muscle's scope.
Their quarrels make your life a Hell,
Your death a hope.
God send you find not such an end
To ills however sharp and huge!
God send you convalesce! God send
You vermifuge.
2.1k
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC