"fifties" poems
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
fifties music
and
Spanish homework
what a combination
time is ticking
and its all quite
an invitation
for my terminal
disease
procrastination
learning is intriguing
but I can hear my friends
calling me
it wont stop ringing !
Saturday afternoons
wanting to go and do
normal teen things
instead I do an overflowing
amount of useless ****
they don't teach me anything
give me a packet for every class
while you play pacman at you desk
wishing you had your adolescence back
sipping nasty black coffee
while we copy each others papers
confusion and boredom
pains us endlessly
will somebody in this god ****
nation stand up for our education
and end my selfish procrastination?!
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Igor was torn between casting
the body of a girl
or young woman,
that was merely sexually attractive -
or whether to employ a procession
of young nubiles as secretaries;
now that Natalia had thrown him over for Ivan,
he needed a girl or young woman
who was sexually mature;
possibly even suitable for marriage;
sexually mature; sexually attractive,
desirable, **** luscious; marriageable;
informally, beddable:
Ivan constantly surrounded himself
w/ a posse of nubile young women,
to forget, that's what Eli needed to do;
mid 17th century: from the Latin nubilis
‘marriageable,’ from nubere,
to cover or veil
oneself for a bridegroom;
from the nubes the ‘puffy cloud-like nips’
of a child bride;
[risqué]
photos of coeds of the
fifties & those of
| _sex-trafficked nubiles_
from last week; |
glamour isn't glamorous;
as GMO skanks get injected
w/ female growth hormones
just in case they
decide to
to be mothers someday
slightly indecent or liable
to shock, especially by being sexually
suggestive; "risqué humor" ribald,
rude, ***** Rabelaisian, ***** ****
earthy, indecent, suggestive,
improper, naughty, locker-room;
****** ***** ****** crude, adult,
coarse, obscene, lewd, ******
blue, raunchy; off-color
"risqué stories": mid 19th century: French,
_past participle of risquer ‘to risk’_
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
A little oasis occupied in a cafe
that approaches capacity.
Three opposite, two adjacent,
a couple at the windows to the right.
Six or seven more around the corner, out of view
Early twenties guy, has a slightly too-small zippered sweater,
with head down and a two-handed hold on his phone
the left relinquishes its grip for a minute to wipe across his face.
Late fifties man in a blue,zipped, baggy, sweat shirt
and early-nineties hair gone grey.
A phone too, but of a more palm-and-fingertip interaction
with pursed lips and an occasional surveying of the room.
A quiet girl at my right leaves and four chatty middle-aged yoga ladies
squeeze onto the table for two.
They obliterate my concentration
and I resort to a cocoon of headphone noise.
Their too-strong perfume forms a veritable blue cloud
and leaks into the taste of my tea.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
***** ***** in denim
They cut your heart when you let them
Those ***** *****
Da da da da der *****
***** *****
Da da da da der *****
Now Karen was a cutie
Had her man and a *****
She kissed her man off
And then he beat her
She found a girlfriend
They went to heaven
Because those ***** ***** in denim
Rip your thing when you let them
Those ***** *****
Da da da da der *****
***** *****
Da da da da der *****
Now Donna was a queenie
She licked her way to the fifties
She found a woman who had a plastic
Way up inside her
It was fantastic
She loved those ***** ***** in denim
They'll turn you on if you can catch one
Those ***** *****
Da da da da der *****
***** *****
Da da da da der *****
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
the drama unfolds
and the young grow old
while the old go with a curse
I myself am grown into my fifties
and the people I’ve known
who called me Little Boy
have been called to dust and urn and to river over the decades;
and the kids I would kneel before to speak with them
now they say: Do I see you with hunched shoulders?
the earthly hours pass
and generations come and go
with little knowing though of their own flow
the drama unfolds
and the young grow old
while the old go
with a last bite of a fried chicken
places have changed
and villages and forests lain bare
and once where I stood admiring angsanas
and mango trees and peacocks
now I admire lilly-pillies
and hold the koala and the kangaroo as mascots;
people I have called mother, father
and uncle and aunty and grandmother
they now have gone, some without even a good-bye
some smiling and some with unintelligible mutterings
and ah, some in unendurable suffering
while I walk now as time unfurls like a flag in the square;
and the witnesses
of uncountable generations
of immeasurable life
those stars and the sun and the moon
keep me quiet company
and the sunlight uses the leaves in the garden
to whisper to me the secrets of things;
and in my leisure
these words I speak to you
and when I’m gone
through these you may speak with me;
and the ones I have told stories to
now re-tell the stories to their young
and time, interrupting its slumber,
lifts its head like a garden in the snake
awhile
sees all is right, all flowing as it would expect,
and looks around and gives me a look too
and goes back to sleep;
ah, the drama unfolds
and the young grow old
while the old go with a wink
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
It begins brusquely in the dark, a hoary noise,
a tune which all the cats in town enjoy.
Yes, they stare at the stage for a sparkle of gold
to come forth from the shadows, the sound will take hold.
Rippling through the room, a devilish groan
rises, spirals high from an aged baritone.
The other musicians join in this depressing affair
and the men in their fifties are still fused to their chairs.
The sulky cello, whining trumpet slither into the mix,
the sadness fills the ears of several dozen beatniks.
Then with no caution comes a madcap flow
of music from the star performer, frantic yet mellow.
And it slows, then picks up, goes on for what feels like a year,
this rugged Jazz, no words but my, **** sincere.
Like something so eccentric that can't be left alone,
everyone captivated by the golden saxophone.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
Frozen
instant
packaged
mass-produced,
my love life and meals
are embarrassingly similar.
Except, every once and awhile,
I dine out! In the spirit of the fifties!
when men were men, and cars were fast
before easy instructions, and lonely, lonely, beeps.
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.
she eyed our cones
yours, lemon
mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.
i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.
a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
a nickel is the larger coin
the size of a ten pence piece.
i know that now.
the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
star-spangled,
like everything here,
the airborne flag
above a wide pavilion
a fanatic wedding cake topper
against the blood-blue sky.
i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.
the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
looking east
looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.
the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
but certainly perfected it:
hot dogs
amusements
ice creams (we’ve covered that)
fridge magnets
baseball caps
i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
a public toilet.
later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
he was radicalized in
the marshes of Vietnam
when they told him to fire
his loaded gun at a
group of school children
a dissident who
marched on Washington
with a Reverend and a King
and read Žižek Zinn and
Chomsky's reflections on direct
action and anarchistic philosophy
a staunch opponent of
police brutality in his
fifties he protested the
****** of Rodney King
he did not go quietly
into the black abyss but
raged against a putrescent
apparatus obsessed with control
he died waiting for the Revolution
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Growing up
in an American house
in the nineteen fifties,
sixties and seventies,
the cheese of choice
was Velveeta,
the processed cheese-type food,
and we cut it
with a cheese slicer,
which was a thing
with a handle
and a wire
and a roller,
and my mother
would make us
grilled cheese sandwiches,
which she called
cheese toastwiches,
and the molten goo
would spill out
unto the plate
as we were eating one,
and this traditional cheese
seemed to start
in the days
of the little red metal pedal car
and end in the days
of being drunk and high
at two in the morning
watching Eddie Constantine movies,
and so the cheese
has changed
and it is now
mozzarella.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC
We called it dump country
Tons and tons of junk
Old bicycles and plenty
Of bottles from the drunks.
The legal dump sites
Had not been arranged.
This was now the city,
Things yet to be arranged.
Four little kids, broke ***
Not much money for toys.
It was the end of the fifties,
Bad times for little boys.
We made our own adventure,
Way before Disneyland.
We left right after breakfast
To us, the whole trip was grand.
We found amazing things
And brought them all home.
I found a gold painted Buddha
Under a kind of glass dome.
Jim found a tricycle there
And cleaned it up real nice.
It was a really good dump site
We went a lot more than twice.
We called it dump country
We had it to ourselves.
Just us four busy bumpkins.
Santa’s ***** little elves.
We found wheels and things
To build our own little cars.
We got cut up a bit sometimes.
I still have one of the scars.
Over in dump country
The one nearest to our place
Sam found a bit of money
One penny with an Indian face.
But what we found there
Added up to a treasure chest.
It sounds silly but they may be
The memories that were best.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
As boys we sat atop a bridge
And saw the trains rush by
Steam flying out of funnel stacks
We watched them pass with a sigh.
The Royal Scot was a favourite
The Flying Scotsman too
But the biggest thrill we ever got
Was when The Mallard raced right through.
Such a beauty she was in livery
All blue and shining and bright
And to children like us in the fifties
She was such an amazing sight.
She was the four four six eight
And she ran on four six two
You couldn’t see her funnel stacks
For speed they were hidden from view.
They’d built her up in Doncaster
Through a wind tunnel she had passed
And when she flew along the tracks
You caught a glimpse and gasped.
Steam trains of course don’t run now
Except on heritage lines
But smelly and ***** as they may have been
They were a glorious sight in their times.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
I've manned the Christmas Kettle
Every year for twenty seasons
I don't tell people why I do it,
But, you know I have my reasons
It's makes me feel so special
Doing something that's just right
I man it from round 5 till 12
And almost every night
It gets cold out there ringing
My bell, for all to hear
I do it for my charity
One I hold so dear
Each year I've been out hustling
Getting more each year than last
I don't know how long I'll keep it up
The time's gone by so fast
I don't do lights at home at all
I do not have a tree
But I'm out there with my kettle
Ringing loud where folks can see
This year it was amazing
I brought in much more than before
I changed where I was ringing
I was not out by a store
The folks at where I donate
couldn't believe how much I got
In fact they got rid of my kettle
And gave me a large ***
It's the most they've ever had brought in
By any volunteer
I know it will be hard to beat
But, I'll try again next year
I'll tell you how I did it
I didn't use a gun or knives
I just rang my bell outside a strip bar
And told the men I'd tell their wives
Seems to work a treat for me
I keep their secret and don't tell
And they pay me off in fifties
I just stand and ring my bell.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.
We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.
I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.
Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.
“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.
Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.
Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be affable.
Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
I once went to Auschwitz, dove in the shoes.
Saw bunch of mannequins in bomb shelters from the fifties.
the house wives listened to blues.
Saw Vietnam Memorial, passed out, ** Chi Min Got hot in d.c.
Cold War cold cuts were all the news, sewing old men toupees in our weaves.
Walked trenches through Germany in mustard gas rainclouds
Saw, **** between Trotsky and Lenin, before he was a mummy.
Listened to George Bush shake Barrack Obama's hand, we are free now.
Caught world war three on the midnight news tele.
In Shambala Destiny, Chocolate covered rose petals,
From the end of the space shuttles kettle.
Boil over tipping point, all your fighting is over.
The air hangs of hung weird folk.
We can hate everyone, but ourselves.
Each moment in history had some one to hate,
Statist tend to do that to opposing encroaching States.
WE get to own the slaves, the cows of neck tie collars,
Oligarchy of patriarchical, man meat, manipulative, demagogic, isolationist, miscreant, pro-government pseudo-capitalist, state CORPORATION dollars.
Join the army old men. You hold a gun like a limp ****
You gotta hold mine to my head, Cause money ain't doin' Viagra's trick.
I jump from a painting of war veteran spiritualism.
I give no glory to people fighting for my freedom.
I hate violence, no one will ever FIGHT for MY freedom.
I am Freedom.
No state can make me that way.
No gun in my hand will change evil men.
My words must be my gun.
No one will hold my weapon.
Evil is evil, you cannot change its face through plastic surgery, Prozac, religion, or painting any other name on true morals.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
A widow in her fifties she was.
Lived in petty hut made out of straws.
Had no relatives dwelt all alone.
Only neighbours were her own.
Loved much her neighbour's child.
Cute little girl, dulcet and mild.
Twas little girl's birthday that day.
Widow was very glad and gay.
Birthday party was held that night.
She waited if someone would invite.
One by one invitees were coming.
With guests house was humming.
Lonely Widow waited in togs bright.
Gazed at house adorned with lights.
Poor woman! her wait had no end.
looking at house hours she spend.
When guests started coming out;
Wait was over and there was no doubt.
She stood and took a breath deep;
And walked towards her bed to sleep.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
Oh, many remember that black maid that cleaned many well off white families houses during the forties, fifties and sixties.
The ones that raised many whites children's during those days.
The ones that listen more about the kids relationships to their parents.
Yes, that faithful black maid.
Who faithfully arrived to work?
And put their child through school.
Things others remember that others chose to forget.
But can't.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Life was an upward battle
Of intense personal frustration,
As we were treated like cattle
With unabashed discrimination.
And those of us who existed
Without rights or respect
We had a stronger hope
Than we had reason to expect.
When some of us reminded
Jesus said love your brother
They made up ***** jokes
Used ugly names of our mothers.
Some invented a phrase to use
That said God Hates *******
They seemed to imply that God
Treated some children like maggots.
Rights were something given
At birth to regular human beings
To other people who were living
But justice we were not seeing
Because justice was not for us
It was for heterosexual whites.
The rest of us had few rights.
True, it was not legal to **** us
But in court things went elsewise.
Police and judges carried on
And covered their acts with lies.
With them bad could be good.
They behaved themselves oddly
Jailing and imprisoning us
Claiming it was all very godly.
And, today, with communication
Such an instantaneous entity
Things have gotten a bit better.
We’re still surrounded by enemy
That quotes a bible they don’t read
And block those any attempt to heal
Wanting instead to make hatred
And legal discrimination real.
Brent Kincaid
4/7/2015
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
In area 51 they selected a large patch of desert
for their nuclear tests!
Fencing off the ground in a desolate spot
where they estimated.
The plutonium would come safely to rest
the experts knew best!
Many explosions were carried out in the fifties
no public knew the truth!
But one crucial fact about the contamination
as it lay in the dirt!
Worms were not bound by their fences
so undermining their defences!
How far would the plutonium have been taken
transporting the lethal load?
Birds to feeding on the worms in the earth
what was their contribution?
Too much secrecy and failed containment
and tax dollars spent!
It will end up destroying a once ****** earth
what now are the experiments worth?
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
From marble and granite to steel and glass,
we were discussing Rhina Espaillat’s On the Avenue in class,
was it 1950s or 1980s NYC and were the fifties
the city’s halcyon days or is it now, the 2020s,
the boroughs teeming with immigrants
from the round earth’s imagined corners,
Hasidim and Muslim, Haitian and Russian, as we
Italians and Irish in an earlier era were. Everything will
be ok or not, the recombinations which make
prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
and each individual an experiment gone well or wrong.
On the avenue God speaks by spewing
toy and clothing stores, breakdancers and ice skaters,
the Brooklyn Navy Yard seen from the Brooklyn Bridge,
the skyline admired when my car broke down on the Triborough Bridge.
The numbers of us overwhelm, there exist powers
overwhelming for the human body and mind.
I don’t mind but I can’t make sense of it.
Gandhi said What you do may not seem important
but it is very important that you do it. By that what is meant?
Linda complained Why does God always have to be a man?
I replied He could be a she but She’s probably really
a Tyrannosaurus rex. I like to be in America!
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 7:21 AM UTC
Sweet Heart passes
Uncle Sky its niece penny I thought you might like to know now that I die
Those wonderful fifties how nifty TV heroes and herons the joy replaced with a sigh
The truth is telling with heavy hearts and moistened eyes we must say good by
As Bob used to sing thanks for the memories yes we derived such pleasurable highs
Forget is not in our vocabulary there swirls to many good times they are not extinguished
Now that the family circle has decidedly grown smaller these golden days are distinguished
Pride and laughter seemed more readily back then innocents made it so now evil leads
We had less then they say well then it causes you to wonder while there are so many needs
Penny your curls so cute a light would go on when you would say uncle Sky
Try if you will but our new found good fortune will never be able this to buy
Grandparents with hair of silver and with their touch golden we mirror them now
For small treasures given to our care and trust lets hold to the past and not bow
They taught us the meaning of honesty and courage and to always have good character
Back then all were well rounded rock solid in them was found not one caricature
As trees in full foliage the shade and power they had cast a long shadow
Today were are the beneficiaries of these full and noble lives now this to others we bestow
Good by Gloria Winters you truly were a precious one.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
coffee appendicitis and baby tragedies
a toxic fixation and his nineteen fifties apathy
his clothes hung loosely over you.
you are sleeping on his bedsheets but your own bed
they smell like him but feel like you **** them)
and you can listen to him smile through the door
but you cannot open it.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC