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Nikita Tshawe Jan 24
Let me sing you my favorite song
Let me recite you my favorite poem
You can have the best part of me
Let me give you my all

Let me paint you in my favorite colors
Let me cook you my favorite dish
You're my favorite person
You're my favorite feeling

Let me tell you my favorite story
Let me fix you my favorite drink
Let me read you my favorite book
You're my favorite boy

You're my favorite feeling
Let me wear my favorite clothes
Let's drive to my favorite place
Let me sing you my favorite melody

Let me write you my favorite poem
Let me be your favorite girl
You're my favorite face
You're my favorite kiss

I miss you when you're out of town
You're my favorite to be around
Your voice is my favorite
You are my favorite dream
storm siren Jul 2016
My favorite color is green.

It has been since I first discovered how lively the shade could be.

My favorite character of all time in anything ever is Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist.

His determination and short-lived angry outbursts will always mean something to me.

My favorite animal character is Simba from the Lion King, or Kovu from the second one.

My favorite book is a tie between To **** a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Dracula by Bram Stoker.

My favorite poet is T.S. Eliot, my favorite poem by him is The Hollow Men.

My favorite poem is by Charles Bukowski. It's called Bluebird.

Bukowski speaks to me because he's a sarcastic **** that's seen way too much, and everything he writes is practically satire on how human behavior is selfish but beautiful.

My favorite work of Edgar Allen Poe's is the Black Cat.

I despise all works of Robert Frost's besides "Nothing Gold Can Stay", mainly because I disagree with him. Sometimes gold can stay.

Peculiar and Juxtaposition are my favorite words.

I'm excellent at certain subjects (science, Literature) and horrible at others (math, history). I love science because I'm illogical and creative but vividly clear at all points in time. I am horrible at history because I get angry that so many people were hurt.

My favorite war in American history to learn about was the Civil War, because there are so many things we are unsure of. I have a three thousand page encyclopedia on it at my foster parents house.

My favorite tea is green jasmine tea with two and half teaspoonfuls of sugar for every eight ounces.

I count yellow cars, and then have vivid flashbacks to things I don't want to remember.

I have tiny routines that root from obsessive compulsive behaviors that come with being Bipolar. I have manic depressive disorder, to be specific.

When I hold hands with someone, my wrist needs to be behind theirs. I like feeling small and safe, and I'm childish when I feel safe.

I hate being called small or being treated like a child. I have a height complex, because I am small. I also have a hero complex. I want to protect people.

My favorite food right now is probably the katsu chicken one of my best friends made one night when I hadn't eaten for over forty eight hours.

I only eat instant ramen if I can make it spicy, but only the chicken one because the shrimp one always makes me sick.

Apple cider is my favorite winter drink.

My favorite writing platform is a chalkboard or pavement.

My favorite writing utensil are either chalk markers or chalk itself.

I count down the minutes until good things happen.

I take a kind of relaxation after the headache after I cry too hard passes. The relief is beautiful.

I laugh a lot, yell a lot, and cry a lot.

When I feel too strong an emotion, positive or negative, I yell. I don't always have the best control of my volume, seeing as I'm usually very quiet.

I try to manage money and time but I'm horrible at both.

I cry when I'm happy and sad and angry because I feel too much too often.

I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Name a thing, I bet I can make it bad.

"If" is my least favorite word.

I don't generally say things unless I am 100% certain, because I can never be 100% in anything else.

I have PTSD.

My favorite coping skill is writing, baking, or holding a stuffed animal. Pillows don't count.

I used to carry dolls wherever I went because I was of the mindset "***** what everyone else thinks, I need to feel safe."

I don't always feel secure, but safe is a start.

I've learned I am a better person
Than I've thought.

So I think of my favorite things,
And think "If these are the parts of me
That make up who I am,
Then I cannot be so bad."
Well.
scully Jul 2016
share your favorite things with the temporary people in your life
staple your favorite songs to the foreheads of people you've known for two weeks
dance around in artificial lightning and touch them for as long as you can
take pictures with disposable cameras, pin them to cork-boards and write down their dates
scrawl their names in sharpie ink on your wall, ignore when your mother gets mad at you for it
watch your favorite movies with them
kiss them during your favorite part
write down the taste
write down what you hear
fill notebooks with their sentences
take their hand and lead them to your favorite places
count the blades of grass under you
record the rocks
the tree leaves
the sand
the hardwood floor
read them your favorite books
tell them your theories
match them to main characters and laugh when they try to imitate their dialect
read them your poetry
whisper your favorite words in their ear
pass them notes with your favorite lyrics
give them tastes of your favorite ice cream flavor
promise yourself not to forget their disgusted face
at your favorite weird food
smear the color yellow into their palms
because it has always been your favorite
trace the lines that crack the paint
give them your favorite sweatshirt
let them make it their home
smell them on you the next time you wear it
let them enter your world and include them in your list of favorites
and
then

when they break your heart,
you will be forced to conform to the sadness you feel
you will have to turn off the radio when that song comes on and you see their smile in the melody
you will have to pay for a new camera
burn pictures and blame the smoke for your teary eyes
stock up on white-out and erase those dates
when they pass the next year you will stay inside all day and your hands will shake
you will have to paint a new color on your wall just to quit staring at their name while you try to fall asleep
you will paint three, four, five coats atop their handwriting and
at night you will still be able to see it
you will have to go to the movies and categorize new favorite scenes
when that movie plays on sunday morning you will taste them and it will taste like cold coffee and
eventually you will be strong enough to change the channel
you will tear pages out,
buy new notebooks
drive by your favorite places and don't stop
you will have to read new pages
find new characters
its okay if you catch yourself running over the spine of the book you woke them up to read at four AM
buy a dictionary and find new favorite words
make up new favorite words and drop them into casual conversation
eat new icecream,
try more weird foods at restaurants you can't pronounce
look at colors more closely and determine a new favorite
buy new clothes
ones that smell like mass production and the local mall
you will leave the world you gave to them
and you will create a new world
with new favorites
with new songs, words, memories, places, books, movies, foods
with new pieces of you
and you will let someone new enter that world
they will tear chips of paint off of your wall
and ask you what your favorite color is
its okay to hesitate
say blue.
yeah youll be alright
Well, you're my favorite one, my favorite person to look into, my favorite person to think when i can't sleep,my favorite name to see appear on my phone. My favorite person to spend the day with. You're my favorite place to visite when my mind searches for peace. You're my favorite to talk with.
You? You're my very very favorite person obviously You're my happiness and my sadness sometimes mostly my happiness. You're my favorite distraction. You're everything good.
You're my favorite everything.
-d.***
Bunhead17 Dec 2015
Name: Falen Acon
Residence: San Diego California
Age: 15 (almost 16)
Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn)
School: Don't worry about it!
Grade: 10th (Sophomore)
Class Of: 2018
Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy
Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers
Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry
Favorite Food: Pizza
Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda
Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor)
Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio
Career Path: Professional Dancer
Lucky Day: Saturday
Lucky Number: 3
Favorite Number: 7
Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young
Goals:  Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World
Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik
Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber,  RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW)
Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW)
Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers
Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs
Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers
Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne
Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :)
Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\
Heres some fun facts about me. Enjoy!
Lost May 2016
because the touch of your skin is forever my favorite sensation,
your eyes are my favorite shade of lonely,
the beat of your heart is my favorite base line,
my favorite melody is the one your vocal cords carry.
I miss you,
because your warmth is my favorite temperature,
your face is my favorite sculpture,
the way you walk is my favorite dance,
my favorite flavor is the taste of your kiss.
I miss you,
because your smile is my favorite drug,
your laughter is my favorite song,
the color of you hair is my favorite shade of mysterious,
my favorite scent is yours.
I miss you,
because your love is the only one that was true,
your intentions were the only one's that were pure,
the way you looked at me could not be faked,
my heart was yours,
and yours was mine.

Until next time,
*the one who love you more than anything
Kewayne Wadley Jan 2019
At times I can be very indecisive.
One minute I can know exactly what I am doing.
Or know exactly what I want.
Then the next have no idea.
Especially having
All of my favorite things presented to me at once.
I admit.
It gets troublesome.
One decision seeming to be better than the next.
Venturing from one height to the next.
Each of my favorite things jumbled into one
big idea that seems to good to be true.
Eventually I make a decision
If by some chance I am dreaming don't pinch me.
Let me enjoy all of my favorite things in complete chaos.
While I pause for moments longer.
Taking in the sight of all my favorite things.
Stare back at me in contemplation.
While any and everything sounds good.
Long as I am with you everything gets that much better.
Knowing that all of my favorite things consist of you
"You are my escape from trouble,"*
you said.
And I am honored.
It's a different feeling
knowing that I am a safe harbor
and a refuge.
It is nice to be needed.

But I want to be more
than just an escape:
I want to be wanted.
To know that I am not
just your safe house,
but your favorite place.

I want to be the one you run to
when you need space to breathe.
Sure.
I want to be your breath of fresh air.
But I also want to be
the one you want to go to
just because*.

I want to be your favorite coffee shop
where you go
to start and complete your day.
I want to be your favorite coffee shop
where you go to when you're happy,
bored and tired,
and when you want to be inspired.
I want to be your favorite coffee shop
where you go to write
and where you just wanna pour out
everything that is in your heart.
I want to be your favorite coffee shop
where you go to
just because it is your favorite coffee shop.

I want to be your favorite art gallery
where you go to
when you want to see beauty.
And even though you've been there thrice
you'll still go back
because you know you'll find
the beauty you wanted to see.

I want to be that playground near your house
or your favorite park
where you go to, to just unwind
and clear your mind.
I want to be a place where
you know you can be you
and just relax.

I want to be the bookstore you go to
when you need new ideas
I want to be
where you go to
when you want to discover new wonders.

I want to be your quiet place
where you can seek
and ask
and think.

I want to be your refuge
I want to keep you safe
I want to be your home
I want to be your favorite place.
Written May 18, 2015
for You. :)
s Oct 2015
my favorite part is the dew while yours is the sunrise
days left for us, only few, isnt forever but still nice

my favorite part is the night while yours is the sun
if loving you isnt right, i dont care bcs its still amazing

my favorite part is the leaf while yours is the flower
i never want to leave you but it so hart to get us together

my favorite part is when winter, while yours is when summer
would you warm my heart even it already frozen?

my favorite part is the sea while yours is the mountain
ill never set you free but im afraid you wont come back again

my favorite part is blue sky while yours is the white cloud
when you say goodbye my hearts screaming loud

my favorite part is the moon while yours is the dark sky
please come back soon before i say goodbye

my favorite part is the dust while yours is the solid ground
i gave you all my trust but you just left me a wound
tbh this is not my poetry, it's someone else's that i used to know. he's pretty good at writing poetry. I love his poetry, I hope you guys do.
Alexander Daniel Apr 2017
You're so beautiful and you don't even know it that's my favorite part
Your laugh is so cute and innocent that's my favorite part
Your smile makes me melt and that's my favorite part
Your wall you put up falls apart when I'm around that's my favorite part
Your will to be honest about your insecurities that's favorite part
Your will to talk about anything that bothers you that's my favorite part
Your eyes make me lose track of time that's my favorite part
You feeling like you can be yourself around me is my favorite part
I could keep going on and on but I just wanted to make your day.
Keandra Woods Nov 2015
I just want to feel you like the sand feels the ocean.. I want to be the hydration lathering  your skin. I want to be your exhale every time you breathe in.. I want to be your friend.. I want to be the one you call when your world starts coming to an end.. When you're stuck in the shallow waters I want to be the one guiding you through the deep end. My hand to you I will lend.. I want to be your yield sign.. Your "slow down lets just feel" sign. Your "let's fake it till it becomes real" sign. Your "I need you like junkies need to steal" sign... When you flip your pillow over, I want to be the cool side. After long and stressful days, I want to be your good vibe.. When you look into my eyes I want to be your "everything is going to be alright" .. I want to be your favorite poem to recite. Your favorite fruit to bite. Your favorite tear to cry. Or like your favorite bike ride.. I want to be your favorite memory. Your favorite piece of history.. I want to be your favorite picture in every gallery. Your favorite song to sing. When you're sad and need an easy fix to make you smile, I want you to think of me. I want to be your favorite pages to read. I want to be your last missing puzzle piece. I want to be your fresh fries from Mickey D's. Assuming you like Mickey D's. You see. I just want to matter to you. I just want to climb this ladder with you. I want to build with you. Everything inside of me that was ever empty I want to fill with you... And you'll be my favorite part of me. And if you ever walk away you'll be taking my heart from me.. You'll be my favorite hard cd. Better than the digital copy if you ask me. You'll even be the rhythm to my heartbeat. If you take a stethoscope and place it to my chest I swear you'll hear your name on repeat. You'll be my Sunday sunrise. My grandmas homemade pies that I don't even know if I ever tried but if I'm wrong you'll be my right. My lullaby putting me to sleep at night. My glasses forever improving my sight, without you I might as well be blind. And when I look at my "ever after", you'll be my "happily". That is only if you want to be. I'm not forcing you, just know you got this hold on me and if you say no, I'll probably still be holding on while you let go of me. Because you have this terrible control over me. You'll still be my heartbeat, probably just beating a new song. One I don't care to sing along you see. You'll probably still be what's right when everything is wrong. You'll even still be my comfort place when I don't feel like I belong. I can't help it. When we were together I felt this warmth, and I know you felt it. Because you melted... So yeah you'll always have a hold on me, as I will you. Because our hearts will always be left with the fingerprints of the one who held it....
Bee Jul 2018
she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave

she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together

when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world

soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies

and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash

and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow


x.
CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l
I have a lot of them pretty clothes;
Short,long or medium skirts.
Shabby,decent or just mere blouses.
Short,long or medium dresses.
But none can compare to my favorite little black dress.

Its neither too short,nor too long.
And I cannot even classify it to be medium.
Its entire length is knitted in black
As it has stitched in white,
A belt that covers the waist.
Its not a very big belt though,
Too little actually.
But I love my favorite little black dress.

It is not because I can wear it to any occasion that I love it;
I can wear it to dinner,
And yet be comfortable enough to select even my favorite musozya to be my meal.
I can dance for the whole night when in it.
I can meet even the scariest of inlaws in it,
And shake the hands of the most respectable people while having its belt clenching my waist.
My favorite little black dress.
I just love it

And it is not because I got my first kiss in it.
Nor is it because I had just taken it off,
When my lover devoured my flesh and took my innocence with him that night.
Leaving my decency to cling only to my skin,
As if it is on my favorite little black dress.

I kicked a ball in it,
As the boys whaled 'goale! Goale! Goale'
Thinking that since I had a dress for a garment,
Then the goal,I would surely miss.
And yet I didn't.
In my favorite little black dress.

That night when I danced with him,
I wore it.
I could tell my father too,
Appreciated how lovely it made me look on this day,
As he led me to the dance floor,
And yet;
I wasn't even the bride.
My favorite little black dress.
Justin Griego Jun 2010
Today
I woke up and stretched
My favorite thing
Then I went for a walk
My next favorite thing
Then I ate some food
My other favorite thing
Then I took a nap
More of my favorite thing
Then we went to the park
My most exciting favorite thing
Then I peed on a tree
My best favorite thing
Then I played fetch
My super favorite thing
Then we went home
My coolest favorite thing
Then I ate dinner
My yummiest favorite thing

Then I went to bed....
and dreamed of tomorrow....
and all of my things....

*More of the yummiest, coolest, and other super exciting, best favorite things!
Another Insomniac Poem
Charles Sturies Jun 2017
Sandt Amaro and Karl Spooner on the old Brooklyn Dodgers.

My 2 all-time favorite players of my favorite team the Yankees are
an putfielder acquired in a transaction Vernon Webb
and the Rookie of the Year for, I believe, 1957
an outfielder first baseman Norm Cisbern.

My 2 favorite all-time Illinois basketball players were sixth men Ed Perez and Joseph Bertrand.

My 2 favorite all-time Detroit Lions are Bobby Cayne and Pork Walker with Ces Bingaman a nice third.

My favorite all-time Cleveland Browns are Otto Graham and Frank Gatsby.

My all-time 2 favorite Chicago Bulls are Michael Jordan and Dave Corzine.

Mordern-day-wise, I like Parig of the LA Dodgers, Steven Aren who last I saw was with the Washington Nationals, and in modern Illini football I loved Monty Wilson. He hit so hard and the sound of a prize recruit who never got in on a game. D'Angelo McGary and I liked the sound of the name. Duane Brantley who was a large for the time offensive lineman out of Chicago wo dropped out before he had a chance to play.

This is just scratching the surface, I guess, since I'm not into the star system per se.
Charles Sturies
xx Nov 2015
I was asked about
my favorite love song;
I talked about your voice,
your laugh, and the other
sounds that you make.

I was asked about
my favorite scent;
I talked about our bed
and how the stain on our sheets
brings the smell of our love.

I was asked about
my favorite book;
I talked about our story
and how it is beautifully
inked on sheets of cream paper.

I was asked about
my favorite color;
I talked about the golden threads
of thousand sunsets as the sun never
stopped setting in your eyes.

I was asked about
my favorite place;
I talked about the warmth
of your arms and the beating
of your heart while we're miles
away from dreaming.

I was asked about
my favorite view;
I talked about your smile
and the silly faces that you make
that always make my day.

I was asked about
my favorite among them all;
I talked about you being my drug
and the flaws and the handsome side
of you, how perfect you are to me,
and how you are my favorite.
Matthew P Beron Apr 2014
My favorite room is damp and dimly lit
Smells of mildew with cobwebs in corners
Puddles on floor, plaster falls from above
It is full of monsters
My favorite room is filled with maniacal laughter
It reeks of repressed anger and bottled rage
Yelps and screams bounce from wall to wall
It is full of monsters
My favorite room is a fortress
A tangle of bricks and mortar
The windows are boarded up
It is full of monsters
My favorite room is uncomfortable
Inviting only the uninvited
Pictures hang precariously
It is full of monsters
Sitting in my favorite room means wallowing in shame
being racked with guilt
it's a place I abuse myself
a place I'm familiar with
My favorite room is all mine
It is full of monsters
My favorite room will always be there
with a chair built for me
restraints if needed
My favorite room was made for me
and it is full of monsters
Tyler Loeslein Nov 2012
My favorite TV shows

Are the ones that I wake up early,

Or instead, stay up late,

Denying my body the sleep it craves,

Just to catch the next episode.

In reality It doesn’t need to be the next episode.

I’ll greet the dawn

Or be companion to late night hours

Happy with Saturday morning cartoons I’ve already seen

And Adult swim anime reruns.
My favorite TV shows,
Are the ones so classic
That Netflix doesn’t even offer them.
The shows that I would spend days, weeks,
And in comparison to my life,
Months watching, never bored with them.
My favorites are the shows
On channels like Boomerang and G4.
The channels no one really knows of
Or I guess remembers knowing.
My favorite TV shows,
Like my favorite books,
Inspired adventures of my imagination
Where I became the characters
Reenacting every episode myself.
My mom always called me an actress,
My grandma told me I was destined for the stage.
My life was a soap opera one day,
And a nail biting thriller the next.
All because of my favorite TV shows.
Brandi R Lowry Mar 2015
Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.
For Ty & Des ❤️
Star BG Jan 2018
My favorite color is RED.
It gives me a chance to let passions rise.

MY favorite color is ORANGE
It adds to my joy and creativity
letting me be serine.

My favorite color is YELLOW.
letting me shine inside love
and compassion.

My favorite color is GREEN.
It aligns me with balance
and stability for peace.

My favorite color is BLUE.
helping me shine light on sadness
and expand consciousness.

My favorite color is purple.
It aligns me with heart to have wisdom
and dance.

My favorite color is INDIGO.
reminding me of my soul mate,
who I love very much.

My favorite color is VIOLET.
It reminds meI am full of magic
with power.

I’m a walking RAINBOW,
divine and blessed
as I walk below sky.
Inspired byMel K Thanks
Holly Feb 2015
Your favorite hug,
Your favorite mall  date,
Your favorite night,
Your favorite cuddle,
Your favorite kiss,
Your favorite Girlfriend.
(:
Amy Perry Jan 2014
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?

My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.

My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.

I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.

My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.

A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.

My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.

I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.

That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
My first poem in my brand new posh Journal. Here's to new beginnings!
Kewayne Wadley Jan 2019
You know I can still hear your voice when I read your messages.
You don't have to express it with a "ha" or "lol"
Alot of the times I read & re-read your messages.
& automatically I get to laughing & smiling when I hear it.
My favorite song.
It's been a while since I've heard it.
Finally finding my favorite song
After thinking about it so long.
All the memories that come rushing at once,
A sense of taste.
A sense of smell.
Remembering the words to all my favorite parts.
After all it's my favorite song.
This beautiful voice a reminder that warmth is but a thought away.
This happy feel good feeling that only I understand.
Finding myself dancing, nodding to the rhythm of your voice.
Out of all the streaming and downloading services in the world.
I could access it anytime or anywhere.
But
It doesn't give the same authenticity as hearing it in person.
I could access it anytime or anywhere.
Put my headphones in and tune out the entire world.
All with a user name and password.
But these files are only copies of my favorite song.
My favorite song played over and over whenever I talk to you.
Whenever I think of you.
My favorite song played over and over when I hear the sound of your voice.
Reading your messages
Shreya Inks Feb 2015
All your thoughts keep on playing
in my mind on loop all day long,
I shuffle them and again it starts
from you, like a favorite song.

There is no stop or pause either
donno how it keeps playin' on and on,
Oh I wish I could jump to next
but I love it like a favorite song.

Even when I set it on mute
it echoes in my head so strong,
I get completely lost in it
and sing it like a favorite song.

I know when it'll not in my mind
then also it'll b in my playlist at one,
I'll curl back to loneliness
and play it like a favorite song.

I may forget its lyrics but never its music
I'll play it when something will be wrong,
It'll magically heal me to the core
just like a favorite song.

Yeah.. like a favorite song, ♪
Hmm.. like a favorite song. ♫

© Shreya ♥
AJ Champoli Jun 2014
Bare feet on the tile floor
no cares anymore
your favorite band blasting out of your speakers
I  only wish I could be her's

Be her favorite jokster
favorite nerd
favorite musician
favorite guy who talks to her
favorite guy
favorite mishap
favorite mean person she knows
favorite anything.

You are great
nope better
awesome
no perfect
no.
By the time the photons from your face connect to my eyes
and turn into the images I know as you
I've already convinced myself in and out of saying anything possibly wishily washily maybe possibly sort of kind of that can give you the wrong impression of me

I love looking at space
I know you do too
we are stargazers
looking out there because we don't like what we see down here
When I see stars I see you
A constant bright light shining through the blackened veil that is smothering me with fear at night
You are the perfectly imperfect stars to me
I just hope someday you'll see one of those stars as me.
Maxine Nov 2016
My favorite sound is the beating of your heart. My favorite sight is the ocean within your eyes. My favorite feeling is the slightest touch from the tips of your fingers. My favorite word is my name uttered from your lips.

Even though it hurt me so much to the point that I was completely obliterated, my favorite heartbreak is when your love ran out and you decided I wasn't enough for you. You're still my favorite person and perhaps you will always be one of my favorites but in time; another's heartbeat will become my lullaby, another's sky set on fire will become my perfect view and another's kiss will become my safe haven.

But I will never forget the way you said my name. You said it with so much affection but with pain on the side. Your eyes always lit up as my name rolled off your tongue but then it dimmed whenever you saw the euphoric look on my face. It was as if you always knew that you would love me so much but then hurt me in the end.
―m
wordvango Feb 2016
a favorite song , that would be like choosing a favorite
child . Or a favorite cloud, or blade of grass, or puppy.
My favorite ice cream , one day is chocolate, the next
strawberry, the next plain vanilla.
My favorite painting depends on my mood.
"The Scream" spoke to me last week when my bills were due.
Van Gogh's "Irises" speaks to my lonely day.
In a protesting mood, sick of the world's atrocities I study
Picasso's "Guernica". My favorite day
was today , at times, then long past or in the future,
depending.  When a woman smiles at me,
no matter if I have loved her , or touched her she is my
favorite, and is my favorite smell and taste and kiss.
My next breath will be the only thing that stays constant.
My ability to change, is my favorite trait.
Victor D López Dec 2018
Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.
Written originally in Spanish and translated into English with minor additions on my mom's passing (October 2018).
Kevin Eli Apr 2016
She loved animals.
Her favorite ice cream was mint chip.
She loved Lord of The Rings and fantasy.
Her favorite shows were Trailer Park Boys and Rick & Morty.

Her favorite city was San Francisco.
Her favorite beach was El Matador.
Driving through the canyons of Malibu at sunset,
Bottles of wine and sushi was her favorite date night for two.

She loved music and concerts:
Sublime, Tool, The **, Reel Big Fish, 311 and all of the 90's alternative.
She could play the piano and the bass,
But was a pro when a pen and sketchbook were in her face.

She never fired a gun, but loved archery and fishing;
Unless we ate, it was only for fun.
She was the best at make up and constantly changed her hair.
She was always worried what others would think,
Although I never cared.
She was wild and beautiful, that's why they stared.

She valued freedom over everything.
She never got a tattoo, although she wanted one.
She loved motorcycles, but never owned one.
She loved taking risks, jumping or falling.
It was why she stumbled while she was here with the living.

She loved me, but we never married.
She didn't want kids, but loved them truly.
She didn't want to be held down, she wanted to be carried...
Her dream was to grow wings... To drift like a fairy.

I rather see her fly free than be locked in this worldly cage with me.
I just wish our fates weren't separated now by me having to age... I  wouldn't be stuck here on Earth with such a long wait to see her face.

Best friends, lovers. I was your boy, you were my girl.
On the beach, or under the covers.
The memories are priceless, forever shared with one another.
I wish we made more before it was over, but it was enough.
I won't cry over this, but it will be tough.

I'm coming soon my love... Not today nor my intention, but I promise to live with meaning and more careless abandon; to let go of what doesn't matter, and remember your favorite things, whether I am down here, or beside you in heaven watching the angels' wings' flutter.
Love you Lace. Rest in Peace.
John F McCullagh Feb 2013
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look so tasty
Chocolate eclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, ******* with string
These are a few of my favorite things

When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
i Oct 2014
loving you
is my favorite
pastime,
your taste
is my favorite
flavor,
your words
are my favorite
rhyme,
your arms
are my favorite
life saver.
eh
ethan gaskill Apr 2018
my new favorite color
inspired from her
my new favorite color
the only way to describe her

she's a painting
of monochromatic beauty
i don't understand how
you don't see what i see
how could anyone not love her?
she captivates me like no other

my new favorite color
inspired from her
my new favorite color
the only way to describe her

she's got brown eyes
but sends me into waves of blue
just the way that i'm
hypnotized when i see you
how could somebody not understand?
all the shades of her romance

my new favorite color
inspired from her
my new favorite color
the only way to describe her
Green Eyed Demon Aug 2014
My favorite part, before the white falls, is the second the frost covers it all

My favorite part, before crimson rises is the second before you feel the sting

My favorite part, before the grey comes, is the second the sky is still blue free of clouds

My favorite part, before you say you love me, is the look of passion that fills your eyes

My favorite part, before I wake, is feeling the rays of yellow fill the room

I like the moments before action happens,
Chrystos Minot Apr 2015
Hailstorms with big winds, trees writhing in breezes
Coyotes howling in moonlight, dogs when they sneezes
Alloys and carved toys, stone gargoyles with wings
These are a few of my favorite things.

Skunk smells carried gently on nocturnal breezes
Sly double entendres and tickley teases
Beautiful salmon colored sunsets that make my jaw drop
Smell of pine 'n cedar in my sauna and wood shop!

Dolphins and doggies and toddlers and mooses
Saunas and cold plunges and honking V-flying gooses
Small mutts and storytellers and Pixar cartoons
Crazy call of the Maine dark of night loons
These are some of my nurturing tunes!

Volcanoes with lava and magma all oozing
Cross country skiing just gliding and cruising
Receiving massages unwinding and unbruising
I love my collections of adhesives and strings
These are a few of my favorite things!

So when the wasps sting
When the bored people whine
Wen I'm feeling dispirited and sad
I just think of a few of my favorite things
And I don't feel…so…bad!
Written July-13-2013
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2013
My breath is lost as I gaze upon the magnitude of the mountains that surround me. I marvel at how beautifully the water reflects the sky, pure white clouds stretched across blankets of soft pinks and blues as the sun sets behind the trees. I see the steadiness of Your hand in the horizon. I see Your love of variety in shells scattered along the shoreline. I see Your flawless detail in the veins of a maple leaf. I see Your creative spark in fireflies glowing subtly against the darkness of an airy August night. I hear You in the winter wind, I feel You in the summer heat. My soul is flooded with joy at the sight of Your creation. I cannot help but lift my hands and praise You.
Q Nov 2015
I can almost imagine how red you get
At some of the things I've said.
The way you fumble for words and
Get flustered, it's adorable, my favorite.

It's the tiny explosions of tingles
That erupt in my spine, legs, and chest
The words you say-- I can't respond--
They're cloying, saccharine, my favorite.

We'd both argue we're better, more apt than.
(You win, this time, whatever, I guess)
Got to have this competition, got to have the race
It's revitalizing, livening, my favorite.

I'd ignore a comedy to hear your laugh
It's contagious, it always brings me with.
I'm a buffoon for a single chuckle
It's addictive, amazing, my favorite.

And it could be silence that wraps around me
And it could be that razor sharp, sassy wit.
It could be questions and answers and information
But it's you foremost, so lovely, my favorite.
i can feel this becoming a series and i have 0.0 problems with that

— The End —