"famously" poems
The Frog was doing his thing
Hopping,
Croaking,
Splashing,
In to any water that he could see,
He happened upon
This Jigsaw of black and white
Morning sir, he croaked
The Cow looked down,
"MOOOOO"
Pardon I didn't quite get that,
"MOOOOVE"
Your on the tastiest grass
Below your webbed feet,
"Sorry sir,"
Didn't wish to stomp on your
Lunch with my feet,
So he hoped along, as Frogs do
Then turned around,
Hopped his best, speed built up
Leaping with all his might,
Over the Cow,
Then gracefully on to his feet,
"Cow turned"
Whhhat are you doing little thing,
As the Frog
Replied, I was seeing if I could
Jump over you
Why?
Would you do such a thing,
Well mum told me
A Cow jumped over the moon,
Yes we do
Replied Cow
Famously Are we for doing this,
Feat never seen.
"Frog replied"
Riibit, well I just jumped over you
So now I an the best jumper it seems,
Confused,
*Thinking,
Laughing,
Out loud with a MMOOooo
You aren't a better jumper than me,
We will see little Frog said
With that he did a
Bounce,
Hop,
Jumped,
Over the Cow once again it seemed,
Now it is your turn
As Cow looked on nervously
So he hooved his feet
1,
2,
3,
With that he tried
"FAILED"
Lost his balance,
And in to another's Cow pat
His face did meet.
Now the cow was not only
Black
&
White
But now he was
Covered,
&
Smelled,
Like poo, embarrassed
Was he
The Frog did laugh
Ribit, Ribit, Ribit,
Loud and clear,
Cow looked at frog,
Now Cow do you see,
Never believe what you hear,
Until you see it with your own eyes,
This is what my mother read to me,
And with that, Frog bounced off happily.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
Nikola Tesla
respected physicist
Thomas Edison’s
dubious nemesis.
Electricity
was his toil
was famous for
his Tesla Coil.
Radical dreamer
of free power
J.P. Morgan
made things sour.
Lovingly
nature’s servant
proposer of
alternating current.
Humble inventor
that transformed homes
famously stated
he loved all tomes.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
I won't be the weak one,
Although when I think and speak
I may tweak some I'm just
Searching for reasons
To justify the swell.
I will ride the undertow
Sunken beneath bass lines
And blunt tails
Intending to take it slow.
But I get a little excited sometimes, you know.
So when this undertow undoubtedly
Washes me ashore
I'll be the imaginary statue
Erected in my honor
Proudly saluting every fleeting
Emotion that sailed
Straight through my harbor.
You see,
Harboring hatred is a trait
I forfeited
To make way for the minuscule moments and glimpses
Of human existence penetrating
Layers of jade and years
Of conditioning and I am successfully
Transitioning into persistently
Acknowledging the raindrops
As they hit the pavement and pop.
You see some people feel the rain
While others just get wet,
A wise Rastafarian
Once famously said.
And I think on it all
Far too frequently for a quiet mind
But I've never had one of those
Not even after rolling papers
Intertwine and smoke fills my eyes,
Because I am accustomed
To a constant consciousness
And I'd much rather this
Than nothingness
And thus I sit, contemplating
Consequence
Aspiring to avoid the guilt of
Seasons past,
For I am past the point of
Punishment and pain ghosts and
I have plenty of pangs from all
The echoes
In my brain and in these
Rattled apartment's stains
It's not all in vain
Life grows these varicose
Veins
Colored-in, crawling across the
Window panes
Of the chamber where my soul remained
Through the bridge until the end of
The refrain.
I am in reign.
I rock the crown.
I roll the dice when
I am down
I try to think twice
Before I frown
I contemplate the value
Of the men that I allow
To lay me down
Now,
I am grown and I am proud
Because I am humble
And I'm not loud
Any longer,
I listen
To the subtle sounds of
Human respiration.
I am the incarnation
Of ancient incantations that
Shake down the walls which
Separate us all
All the way to the ground.
True power is found
Where unity resounds.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
i.
the inventor of ear muffs
slipping from his mother
to duck beneath the belly
of a carousel horse
his mother with her cotton candy
and his
pressed to her cheeks
calling
as he covers his ears
his name
ii.
the inventor
of the time machine
unbeknownst
to many
or
to all
save his best friend
the inventor
of real time
a murderous fellow
famously
early
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
*When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,*
because of poetry.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
It's a take-your-top-off
Kind of day
And I'm getting naked
In the backyard
Merle Haggard rambling
Feverishly in my mind
I'm letting the sun
Get a little frisky
Kiss me anywhere it wishes
And the lilacs whisper
Fragrance
There's a new cadence
of Grasshopper sounds
I'm gonna change things
I'm gonna be that girl
That everybody falls in love with
Everybody knows her name
Dark-skinned
All muscle
All smiles
Living life outside
Kissing all the boys
And making them cry
Living life famously
Shamelessly
Physically
With a closet full of jorts and cut-off tees
I'm gonna be that girl
Because
It's a take-your-top-off
Kind of day
And I'm already naked
I'm a wild mustang
I've got nothing
To lose but my shirt
and my inhibitions
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
Kaitlyn Bristowe and Shawn Booth open up about breaking the rules and their plans for a (really big) family. Subscribe now for all the details plus exclusive photos, only in PEOPLE!
Get ready to toast to Mr. and Mrs. Booth!
Kaitlyn Bristowe and Shawn Booth, who got engaged on The Bachelorette's season finale, are ready to walk down the aisle … just as soon as they take a little breather.
"We just want to enjoy the moment right now," Booth, 29, tells PEOPLE exclusively. "It's been so crazy. We just want to hang out as a normal couple, do a little traveling and then sit down and start making some plans."
Adds his bride-to-be: "We can't wait. We don't need to plan it right now, but we can't wait."
And the famously laid-back former dance instructor, 30, says she's already got a couple visions for her big day in mind.
"I always picture myself having a destination wedding because I'm so low-maintenance," Bristowe says. "I don't want to pick out flowers or colors, I just want to be like, 'yes, no, yes, no' ."
Jokes Booth: "I always pictured a wedding in Vegas at a little chapel!"
As far as expanding their family down the road? It might happen sooner rather than later, if you ask Bristowe.
"I have such baby fever," she admits. "I want four [kids]. Shawn wants five. And I hope to God I have all boys."
"One girl," Booth chimes in. "One girl that looks like her mom!"
For much more from Kaitlyn and Shawn, including exclusive photos, pick up the new issue of PEOPLE, on stands Friday
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
Loneliness
As it exists for me it creates a daily frown,
It restricted my world, happiness flown.
Like the autumn leaves fallen, wind blown,
My joys absconded to parts unknown.
To the world, I am famously full grown,
But lonely insecurity is my cruel crown.
Seeking to soothe the bruises all alone,
Drying my teary eyes as my soul does groan.
Hoping that the plans I have recently sown,
Will heal the unseen wounds of being alone.
©Perveiz Ali
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
Free Writing
How curious to be told
to write freely,
to ‘do’ free writing,
and then be given a subject!
That’s unfreeing my freedom.
Thank you, but
I don’t want to think
about this time last year.
As September was
September is,
brim-full of wondrous light
now flowing ‘cross this table
as I write – as freely as I can.
Nobody is going to tell me
to write freely and then
give me a subject, tell me
to write for two minutes
then give me five.
The Memorial Hall
There was a continuity of safeness
in these grounds that frame
this unfortunate building.
Memorable and unforgettable,
the ‘Mem’ Hall was a travesty
by Clough William Ellis.
All balustrades and pineapples,
his signature touch, chosen
it’s said (this architect that is)
because he designed the Bath Club pool
whose famous cup this swimming school
inevitably won year upon year.
Walking with Alice
Grey day this Sunday
And a morning walk
Through the estate
To the edge of fields,
You here to collect
The season’s fruits,
Not to eat,
But for the dyer’s vat.
And I, just to crunch
My boot on stubble
And cross the wide acres
Ready for the plough.
For Jeanette
Her last day in Amsterdam
and a brief break from the Powerbook;
she was playing the flâneur.
In the late afternoon
she came across this painting
in a window, in a gallery
at Van Ostadestraat 294.
She was transfixed.
The painting demanded her attention
and her time. After an hour
(and it was by then nearly dark)
she returned to her hotel
and cancelled her flight home.
For the next three days
she went back to the painting
in a window, in a gallery
in Van Ostadestraat 294.
She had begun to learn to look,
not glance, but look, to stand still
for an hour or more - and look.
She was rewarded by a world of detail
no glance could have brought forth.
She was transfixed.
She was transformed.
Red Point
Leaving the fishing station
to the cows on the beach
through each kissing gate
we passed, we kissed.
The steep road ahead
with the horse and the boy
hid our cabin home.
The sea channel,
the red sand,
the distant rain
glanced us by.
To my children
You’re out there
Living famously
All the way down
And back again.
I do think of you
As birthdays pass
And Christmas letters
Demand attention.
You’re out there
To represent my way
Of baking bread,
Sailing the boat,
Walking too fast,
Winning at Go.
Whether in Qatar,
Kansas City or Deptford
You’re me in disguise.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
Chance Operations are methods of generating poetry independent of the author’s will. A chance operation can be almost anything from throwing darts and rolling dice, to the ancient Chinese divination method, I-Ching, and even sophisticated computer programs. Most poems created by chance operations use some original text as their source, be it the newspaper, an encyclopedia, or a famous work of literature. The purpose of such a practice is to play against the poet’s intentions and ego, while creating unusual syntax and images. The resulting poems allow the reader to take part in producing meaning from the work.
The roots of using chance operations to generate poetry are generally traced to the Dada movement in Western Europe in the early and mid-twentieth-century, involving writers such as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, and Paul Éluard. The Dadaists were deeply interested in the subconscious, and they believed that the mind would create associations and meaning from any text, including those generated through random selections. In one section of Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto on Feeble & Bitter Love," he offers the following instructions to make a Dadaist poem, here translated from the original French by Barbara Wright:
“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the ****** herd.”
The use of chance operations in contemporary poetry has been used most famously by the international avant-garde group Fluxus, poet Jackson Mac Low, and the poet and composer John Cage. A good example of a poem that was written using chance operations is Jackson Mac Low’s “Stein 100: A Feather Likeness of the Justice Chair," which also includes Mac Low’s explanation of the methods he used to compose the poem.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Just try and hit me with
a car
a fist
or anything worse than
well
I have not been hit recently
Despite skateboarding through traffic
Maybe my tall white anger
is enough to stop
geology itself for one slow moment
Or satan is on my side
Or someone is watching me recklessly
Take on an inertial framer of the references
to all 3 azxisy
I cannot be stopped
from pretending
to be in a private universe
Publicly I may require some protection from
Hitting famously the one thing I have been trying to avoid
Selling Out
well
honesty & arrogances
I have been BOUGHT IN...
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
I like looking at your face.
The colors appear
to me like a
soft glow.
Even the shadows
and the darkness
under your eyes.
Darker than
your cheeks.
Your lovingly flushed cheeks,
complimenting the shades of your eyes and lips.
Your lips. Your perfect, perfect lips.
I looked at your face and told you
"Perfect"
and you said,
"Nothing
is Perfect."
And I told you I didn't create that idea intentionally
That the word just
comes to me
again and again.
I didn’t ask but it just keeps popping in,
saying 'hello' to my mind and telling me
that "Perfect" is correct.
Every time I
look at you "like that"
––the way I do when you ask what I'm thinking––
I marvel at your complexion,
the assemblage, construction,
melding,
artistry of you.
Here. Here is what I am thinking:
I think of an artist––
Someone who sketches.
Someone who draws.
Not with charcoal. Something more fine.
Dark pencil, maybe. Or a quick, sharp pen.
Richly dark
Purposeful and Exact.
Because your lips are drawn
with perfect, simple, sharp symmetry
as if your artist knew
what was wanted
what was needed
and drew. Then left
because there was nothing more to add.
No,
if he left he must've come back
to look at you some more
like I do.
The quick strokes,
the genius behind his hand.
The brilliance of a movement of ink on canvas of skin.
Your lips are complete in their famously simple,
touch-and-look-how-kissable,
delighted,
red, red lips.
Your lips and cheeks go well together.
And your green-yellow-maybe-brown-too
eyes
With your naturally dark black eyelashes.
Straight.
The same artist who drew your lips
outlined your face. The lines are the
same. The style has forethought.
The skill used was confident and assured,
your artist. I can praise your artist
and do. Amazement
and I see how you study me
as I watch.
You can see me taking you in and I
like how we can just look at each other.
I like just to look.
Sometimes, yes,
I think other things...
but often, so often,
it is this.
I
contentedly study,
observe to understand
and embrace your being…
The more I look
and the more we feel
each other,
the closer I think I am
to reaching your soul.
Your base-level.
Soul.
... People should be more hesitant
in using that word.
It is used
too lightly,
too readily,
too frequently.
I doubt people
know a soul
as often as they think
they do.
Intimacy
is different.
A soul
is different.
But that's what I'm interested in.
I've gotten glimpses.
I am comfortable
around you.
We have a lot of fun together, don't we?
Huh?
But I like
that we can just be, too.
So.
That’s something I think.
There.
And I wish I could draw for you or paint or cut but writing is my medium, my form.
So I describe for you
how I can.
What I can
in words.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
America. Known famously as the melting ***
It's suddenly become more important than ever if you're white or not.
We've spent years creating a society that tries to be color blind.
Now, no matter where you look, talks about the color of your skin are all you will find.
Everyone, besides Native Americans, is an immigrant here.
The color of anyone's skin is no longer so clear.
How do we separate all the different races?
I see many different races when I look into people's faces.
Because I am a Republican, I have been accused of White Privilege.
I choose to measure people based on their actions and knowledge.
The hilarious thing is I'm being judged and I am not all white.
Turns out, that doesn't matter as long as I belong to the party on the right.
I supported, contributed to, and voted for Trump.
That makes me worse in the eyes of the left than a ***** with a ****
I'm a minority in more ways than one.
But the amount of ***** that they give is none.
I have a job, no welfare or Medicaid here.
But, for people coming into this country illegally, their fate is clear.
A free ride, where Americans like me, are left to take it in the rear.
Tax increases, unaffordable healthcare, no more free speech due to fear.
Everything you say that doesn't align with their agenda will be erased.
Just like they'll cancel you if their values and ideas are not embraced.
I am a woman and my heritage draws from many different places.
French, Honduran, Puerto Rican, English, German, and Italian; just to name a few.
We are all a mixture of many different backgrounds and races, even you.
Yet, I'm accused of White Privilege, based on politics alone.
So what if I work hard, pay my own bills, and own my home.
I believe All Lives Matter, not just the black ones.
Because no one is all black or all white, not our daughters or sons.
We'll never be united and strong until we realize this obvious fact.
America has been weakened in the eyes of the world based on the "victim act".
Slavey is a thing of the past and we should leave it where it lies.
Any society that tries to erase or forget its history eventually dies.
Republican or Democrat, we're all Americans here.
So, I won't be silenced out of fear.
A member of the working middle class.
I'll say what I want, keep my gun, and the left can kiss my ***
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 1:47 AM UTC
Forget Portland and Austin and Santa Cruz.
Those famously strange places,
where the tourists gawk at local weirdos.
Here is not there.
Here is the place of advice such as:
“When life gives you meatballs put a wig on a dog.”
—True story.
Here is the place where:
“With all good things in life you just have to wipe the bird **** off.”
The place where steel and marble Confederate ghosts,
watch the wealthy renovate their westward homes along a cobblestone road.
Where paintings are propped to rot up in alleys,
and buzzing twenty-somethings on their way back from a show,
shake it and tilt it and carry it home.
—Gilded frame and all.
This is the place of painted concrete where walls are canvases,
and red bricks pop out of the ground,
the tree roots poking through to trip you.
Here’s where the People’s Beer comes from Milwaukee,
but we replaced the R in ribbon with here,
and sell it by the caseload when it rains and when it’s Tuesday.
Where young people go to find themselves getting lost becoming someone else,
remixing history to not admit naivety,
before they’ve been sandpapered through experience.
—To a core.
This is an ink-stained but not splattered place.
Where lines are careful, permanent and abundant,
and on Fridays can cost 13 bucks.
Here is the place where people roam like that restaurant rabbit:
listless and nomadic and stuck.
Where there’s a wild streak in its heart that follows the tracks,
and cuts the city in half.
This is the place that Carvers itself out into cultures,
and you can be from the Bottom,
or proud to be a Rat.
Here is where you night-drive over the bridge,
see the skyline and feel restlessly content.
Here is home.
—For now.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
I know you're moving on
To bigger and better places,
To new beginnings and new people
With new minds and new faces.
Dr. Seuss famously once said,
"Oh the places you will go",
And oh that I do know.
It's a big, frightening, scary,
Beautiful, wondrous, exciting world out there
With all its bright sights and lights
And sounds resounding in the air.
Definitely be wary but
No need to be overly worried.
We've all got to make the jump
At some time or at some certain point,
And every one of us has to make it
Each in our own individual way.
So don't be afraid
That you could be doing it wrong,
It's not worth the worry because
Really
Life Isn't That Long.
Get on board and go with the flow,
Or pick your direction and go
And see where the beating of your drum takes you.
The beauty in the journey is that you never truly know
Where those winds and whims will blow you.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
He’s like a ham actor
Who has only one goal
To see himself in
The starring role.
Talent doesn’t matter
As long as he is zealous.
If he bombs it’s because
Everyone else is jealous.
He goes flap, flap his yap
But be careful, it’s a trap.
He loves to holler up a storm.
But has no talent to perform.
He thinks he is a superstar
Just waiting to be crowned.
Others say behind his back
He’s nothing but a clown.
All he needs is a big red nose
And he’s working hard on that.
He thinks he’s the big ****
But really, he’s just a pratt.
He goes moan, moan and groan
But leave him totally alone
And while he swears he is fine
He will fail to remember his lines.
All the world is a stage, it’s true
So politics is like theater, too.
And this poor clown with big feet
Tries to deliver his speeches sweet
But his lies trip him in the last scene.
He ends up looking false and mean.
He lies and lies his lullabies
And tries to act so famously wise.
But he only fools the less than bright.
The rest know he’s just not right.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
May the truth of all things be told,
I will shape you into my mold
String you along by a thread,
Then make you feel heavier than lead
Lift me way up high,
I need to feel worthy of the sky
You think I am just what you need,
But that is just part of my greed
You will just be another name,
But late one night I will feel the blame
Wash over me like a storm,
But that has just become the norm
"What a witch", you tell your friend,
And I know I need to mend
But yes is always easier than no,
I famously go with the flow
I stare at my golden reflection,
Typically pray for affection
I'm never nice to the ones who fit me right,
Always he who stands under a rose colored light.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
she was nineteen.
I was five years younger.
she had a strange craving,
of lust and blunder.
I would skip class,
to kiss *** so she may service,
a nervous ******
In this spacious place of a stair case,
her moans of satisfaction echoed through the steps,
and filled the cracks in the wall.
windows were practically the walls.
she famously said,
"lets give 'em a show"
how did I know she was such a creep?
a golden haired beauty that smelled like the perfume department at Macy's.
her lips stained with lipstick.
lips.
I would kiss.
bite.
lick.
Interruption.
her automotive me, slowed to an abrupt stop,
only to be silenced by an uninvited guest,
abruptly opening the door downstairs,
and luckily kept,
the rhythm in his step as downward he trekked.
"lay on the floor" she told me.
"yes master" I say.
that was the day that I will always remember.
that was the day I met abby.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
Mumbling, mumbling, intoxication
Ripping your lovely white dress on the front door step
You wonder how long you can keep this up.
Mumbling, mumbling into obliteration.
Closer to the each other, screaming mad.
Seventy watchful eyes on you,
Hopeful, hopeful, incantations.
Lustful brown teared eyes
Fixed on green snake eyes,
Quivering lips touching secretly in the quiet coat room
Famously ending in abrupt awkwardness.
You raised your glass in high spirits
Pushing, pulling into temptation
Still mumbling, intoxication
Wishing for more than incantations,
Mumbling, mumbling into obliteration
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
The house felt so quiet with only the hum from the fan
Cooling my only contact with the outside world
Only I could hear the pattering from the spiders run
From their frenzied night time feast
My spine felt a shiver
The glow had faded from the fire and my palms sweated
At the thought of my insanity
Yet here I must write
Write
To keep the demons at my door
Write
To stop them crawling into me
Write
To stop the feel as they whisper into my silence
I close my mouth and scream
So here I write soliloquies
Here I write my soul
It's here I write my madness
The writing on the wall
A poet writes of nothingness
No meaning
Break the rule
The madness from the shadows speak
All quiet breaks
Poor the soul
The golden hour wakes me, I'd fallen yet again
All bottles have been broken
Empty for the drain
I wallow in my pity,the gallon drum awaits
Drinking for my future
Drinking for my wake
A poet so I be
Famously broken
Fabulous me
The house felt so peaceful as my normality returned
The writing left in front of me all ready for the burn
I seek another moments grace
Please madness come
Return
My writing comes that different here
An era that I spurn
Now poets will remember this in writing that they feel
A time for loosing all inside
A craving feeds the feel
It's hard to speak when no one knows how crazy that you are
It's poets talk we really crave
The
Writing on the wall
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC