"fiftieth" poems
I've spent a really miserable month.
I told the wife we'd go out to a nice restaurant
On her fiftieth birthday,
Which naturally led to happy anticipation.
So, the evening before she asked me,
"Where are you going to take me on my birthday, dear?"
And I replied, quick as a flash, *"Up the ********
The silly ***** seemed to have suffered
A major sense of humour failure;
Surely my prezzie would be a sure fire winner,
Certain to restore bonking privileges.
But when she unwrapped it and saw
A giant green ******** to get her in the mood,
She turned quite nasty on me, to put it mildly.
So I slapped her one in the ******* kisser.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
he thought of all the horrid things
he would have liked to have said to his boss
for he was a very nasty piece of work
a fleeting thought and then it was lost
he’d have told him how much he despised him
and that he thought he was well past his prime
but the thought passed as quick he had it
as with all thoughts now he hadn’t the time
he’d have said lots of thing to some others
there were many many words they had used
but the one that had hit him the hardest
was when his boss had used the word ‘accused’
but then he had been stealing the money
he’d spent it on gambling and cars
but he was lousy at picking the winners
and spent a lot too much time in the bars
but he couldn’t face a lifetime in prison
he couldn’t have lived with the shame
so he felt that a fast trip down earthward
was the only way of saving his name
and so he was now on that journey
one he’d never taken before
it’s a once in a lifetime experience
when you jump from the fiftieth floor.
©Joe Wilson – Jumping 2014
‘a bit of fun – for me if not for him!’
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I love when I read poems that rhyme,
They're the only ones worth my time,
It's even better when they're twisted like the mentally ill,
I think that was my fiftieth pill,
Oh those were just what I needed,
And I don't give a **** what anyone thinks because I'm so self conceited,
All you really need to be a writer is a little depressed,
But I don't give a **** I could careless.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
and i’m probably wrong,
but- good.
everyone else gets to be wrong, and be proud of it,
and be supported in their fallacies
shallow girls with their fickle girlfreinds
so eager to agree that “guys ****
hey, newsflash,
if you want to earn the right to be so fragile,
stop treating other people like they’re made of stone,
and these girlfriends who are there for you now,
was it only last week that they were all *******
and didn’t you hate them for all the things they said about you to each other behind your back
(all the same things you say about them behind theirs)
all the girls you would call fat and ugly then turn to me hours later for consolation about insecurities or insult to your own appearance,
all the friends you forced me to get to know,
then forced me to hate,
the warnings you ignored,
only to overreact at the end as if you didn’t know,
and still somehow blame it or take it out on me.
this is for the beanie baby turtle you made me throw out of the window because it was a christmas present to me from your now ex-best friend.
this is for the girl i’ve known since i was a toddler that came to my dad’s fiftieth birthday party with my aunt who used to babysit us both.
she came along because she thought it would be fun to see all the people that she hadn’t for the greater part of ten years.
she came to see me.
she was very beautiful.
i forced myself to ignore her because i knew how you would have reacted.
i will never forgive myself for that.
i’ll probably never see her again.
this is for the class i failed
staying up the night before because “i HAD to call you”
the night before the big test because you were so upset over something that was literally nothing at all
and i told you it was stupid to act like it was a real problem
but i still talked to you well into the early morning as i stumbled around the dark streets
in the cold
because i needed privacy to talk to you and my roommate was in the room.
and so was my calculus book i was trying to read through.
but no- you’re not selfish,
that’s me.
the truth is you need me more than i need you
and the truth is when i first met you, you put on an innocent girl act
but you were just a ****
you and all your friends, the easy, broken girls who didnt get enough love,
from semi-broken homes, who didn’t know what normal or okay were,
and i gave you everything i could.
and you took it all
and then you took it for granted
and then you took me so far in that i never could get back out
i’m tired of being your soft spoken boy
don’t tell me i’m inconsiderate.
don’t tell me i’m not understanding.
don’t tell me you love me when we make up.
you wouldn't know the first thing about it.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
Something funny about airports
My childhood
Teenage independence
Young Adulthood
Two hours
I said goodbye to you
One week from now
I’ll see you again
But airports are funny
My body thinks I’m leaving you
Until next summer
My body’s been conditioned
To believe goodbye means indefinitely
I know you may not get it
And that’s okay
Please don’t think I’m being clingy
When I say “I’ll miss you”
The fiftieth time
It’s just a Proustian moment
juicy mint chewing gum
with crackling eardrums
Sends me back in time
To that funny thing about airports
Where hellos are met with goodbyes
Impatiently, I wait
When the goodbye is met with hello
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC
FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And "Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.
1.7k
this hour brave face come forth
the nervous thunder of heart beating wildly
its grandeur thoughts race to
see all the possible and believe all the improbable
fear is a liar but what beautiful deceptions
lure you along with nothing more than whispered promise
teach you ways to live that chain you to cruel fates
wears the subtle masks of pretty things
for pain is an ugly beast
and fear wishes to ******
this hours brave face
etched on with fine china flatware blade
for the etiquette of tea and biscuit say
you must act with dignified indifference
polite and with manners
even as they cart you off to the rubber room
no madhouse is complete without its
dignified and refined madman of leasuire and class
have some tea old boy and mind the razors
this hours brave face may not leave me mad
but it feels like it could with its time passing so slow
i check the watch and glance at the door
for the fiftieth time in fifty minutes
this hours brave face is mine
and there is only brief span left to live
in this moment
but that moment is lifetimes
and....
she emerges from the door
with a cheesecake smiles and kisses me
everything is fine
i can breath again
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.
westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
An ant on the edge of a glass clings with microscopic acrobatics,
A thematic blood-curdling scream breaks my concentration. A dream’s
Manifestation, a masturbatory second-glance, a fiftieth
Chance exhaled out a window, instead of words. I heard
Every one of yours, believe me.
Let me retrieve my dignity, your amnesia only temporary
And your memory selective, my detective skills more useful
For playing CSI in the mornings. The bruises are telling,
The losers uncertain, the wine stains on the curtain
Permanent, the bloodstains invisible, the headache miserable,
The reasons obvious. Be more devious, and less serious.
The lipstick marks I leave on your blanket make it
Impossible to forsake it, but better to forget it, forget the words --
“That jacket would look better on you with some bullet holes.”
Holy **** let me explain:
I don’t want you feeling pain, don’t want you driving home drunk,
I didn’t want you to get into this funk, can’t keep
Protecting you from the truth, I hoped my honesty
Might help you see a little, even help you sleep.
Keep your assessments quiet till noon, adjust your feelers,
Sniff the air, there, there, little ant, it’ll all be over soon.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
as late as it gets,
this would make the
fifth or fiftieth orbit in the cycle
a closer pattern; you know
i can't help but
keep trackmarks of these things,
the collective foolishnesses
we stock up and hold
ourselves like hostages at the
hand of-
of course:
it ain't your fault,
life like this just
aches a little too much,
a life of ingratiated and
incapitulating desperation always
suited me just fine but,
sugar,
right now,
i need something more to
keep me from
wanting to breathe less,
like i've been doing,
the past however-long
you've taken up residency
inside of me.
in a small town,
i'm too caught up in transit
to ever be able to
light fires, like you could be.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
let her staunter through twigs, broken leaves and buds of cigarettes.
{Nothing will bloom from them.}
Let her know the difference between the innocence of a white dress and white flowers.
Let her realise the uselessness of a lighter with damp, soggy cigarettes.
{You never needed the latter.}
Let her feel the nervousness of a stranger bandaging a wound,
& then the shyness of the fiftieth kiss.
There is a difference.
Let her know she never needed you, but
The big but is that
she loves him
&
he loves her.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
1
And it’s fifty years
since Farmer Joe and Mary married
but Joe forgets;
Joe is always in La La land
*Darl, do you know what day it'll be
come Saturday?*
says Mary, who’s still got all her teeth
No, says Joe
who's still got strong hands and feet
*No, no, no…I don’t know – wait,
what was your question?*
2
It’s our fiftieth, darl
says Mary
*Let’s have a feast, invite the kids
and the neighbors
– and let’s **** a pig*
O, says Farmer Joe
*I don’t know why
the pig’s got to take the blame
for something we did fifty years ago*
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
A fiftieth anniversary party
up in the upper room.
The bride is here dressed in her best-
but,sadly, not the groom.
He rests beneath the
fresh turned earth.
I guess it was his time.
He cannot raise a toast to her
who was his lovely bride.
We did not think it right that she
should spend that day alone.
So we called in all the relatives,
We worked the telephone.
The menu and the courses-
the same as back in 38'
The best man had to send regrets
He wasn't doing great.
At least the maid of honor came.
My nieces sang old songs.
Death may have thought he crashed her party
but he couldn't be more wrong.
Surely Dad was in the room
though dust returns to dust.
We do not live in the past
but those passed still live in us.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
****** isn’t a love song.
It isn’t the warmth of your lover’s lips,
or their hands skimming across your naked skin.
People are not ******
Drugs are not a metaphor for your personal Adonis.
It isn’t beautiful.
It isn’t romantic.
It sure as hell ain’t heaven (but it really ******* feels like it).
Sometimes you imagine them.
Their body pressed against yours. Heated kisses and veins like cracks through marble—
Soft enough to carve with your aching fingertips.
People. Are not. ******
You want someone whose presence can be melted down and injected.
People falter, break, lie, abuse, cheat, steal
and
leave.
Oh, God knows you have (every God you never even knew you prayed to).
You feel too much and then too little.
Not everything is as simple as fixing a rig but everything is as complicated as searching through your skin, trying again and again and AGAIN to find a perfect place to let that melted bliss baptize you for the
first;
fiftieth
hundredth
time.
Love is not a drug.
Addiction is not a religion.
Someone’s absence is not withdrawal.
Death is not poetry.
****** isn’t a ******* love song.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
this all could have been mine
geometric shape wallpaper
and dashes, dots on my sheets
mom making my bed
smoking non-filtereds
and staring in the direction of
old globes and stuffed squirrels
posters of campuses i should i have attended
shirt no pants
no shirts
scribbling something partially worth reading
legs crossed
listening to that song for the fiftieth time
ashing on the floor
waiting by the phone for you and only you
but this isnt home
i didnt grow up here
i slept here
i embraced those who meant something
i giggled till tears
dripped into my oil paints
but even watered down they were made of use
a spring in this bed is
right the **** up my ***
springy is what they call me now
ill scrape those stickers off
a six inch blade till dawn
and i would be no closer
to those days where i cheesed
where you begged for me
where i began to loose myself
where i became less of a person
and more of a character to you all
cartoonish
no
my home is not here
and if you try to get me to own
a single element of it all
ill decry it
i know its not healthy
but i was thinking
that i could make up the difference
in my bedroom
not only with my hands on you
a gentle graze
or light and deserving
application of the pucker
but with my pen to pulp
and a gush to the world
so that a secret might
be known to us all
not just me
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
Love at first sight;
it came to me so clear...
This love of ours,
I do not fear...
With you by my side,
I will never shed an unhappy tear...
Pull me close,
and hold me near...
One day I know,
we will have a marriage so dear...
My dream is to be-
in time, celebrating our fiftieth year...
Cheek to cheek,
as you whisper softly in my ear...
Forever and a day,
is what I long to hear...
2008
COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
*upon being invited to add to a collection here called Brokenness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He he
** **
Ha ha
it has been awhile
that I recv'd an invitation
to add to anything
or join a club,
just like Groucho (Marx)
worth being invited to...
but when yours arrived,
I chuckled and jived,
for this broken biz
be an area of expertise,
about which I gladly can opine,
since most of which I contact,
is inevitably in that state demised,
marriage, children and other trifles
so to the topic at hand, let say but this,
if not eloquently, then perhaps,
gravely, for that is where the
broken pieces oft call home
or cemetarily. a final resting place...
perhaps you were unaware,
there are 449 poems in attendance,
where the word brokenness
doth appear
in this sanctuary of broken children
and adults too,
easy discovered in the memory of
Hello Poetry
but this will not be, I hope, the
four hundred and fiftieth
as I decided to nomenclature this oeuvre
as Brokeness, with but a single N,
since a good N
can be hard to find,
why use two
when one will do?
if a faithful ecrivant thee be,
you won't be shocked that there are
so many Brokenness in this world,
the dictionary doth recognize its multiplicity
as a word legit, accepting as a plurality*
brokennesses!
which is a whole lot of broke
so let us poets to the process repair,
with a tikkun here, a tikkun there,
a tikkun everywhere
so that the healing never ends
and that someday we will delete
all words of humanity in disrepair,
let the broken be the unbroken,
and let's all say amen
and get started...
Ogdiddynash
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
upon twilight she walks,
small jar in hand.
while moon rises in sky,
she prepares her routine.
stars play about
in the moon lit night.
twinkling overhead,
welcoming her presence.
she climbs the ladder
to the twinkling night sky.
her fiftieth day of catching
the beautiful stars.
her eyes twinkled
along with the stars
as they approached her
their glimmer golden.
the stars let her breathe,
filling her life with light
and in her little glass jar
were stars ready to land.
she was the star girl,
the princess of the night.
she caught the stars,
and the stars smiled.
stars in her hair,
in her jar and her soul
brought her to life
every gorgeous night.
but one shadowed night,
the sky had no stars.
on her ladder to space,
the little girl stared.
all the stars - gone!
where could they be?
star girl’s life was slipping,
her breaths shortening.
she was falling down,
falling through the sky,
all the stars were gone,
and her jar was empty.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
A medium of perpetual reflections
that never swing
between the antecedent
occasions that were between now.
For a horizon never setting is rising
before the winding fractions that
perceive the timely momentum
going forth before every step.
The past is a frame of what is expected,
what was learnt as mistakes.
Guiding us to not misstep on those
faults but build bridges forward.
We have so many memories to make,
so many pages not yet written.
But every page is a footstep and were
only half way through our novel
of life's moments.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
on her fiftieth birthday our alleged mother hires a driver to remain parked outside an abandoned warehouse. she promises to pay the driver extra if he sees more than two stray beasts and promises further employment if he consciously brings the uglier of the two or more home to his children. we hear offhandedly these things and others
as if we are hidden inside a very large cake.
the driver is an hour deep into the assignment when he notices a barefoot woman flat on her belly scooting across a puddle of oil near the warehouse entrance. the woman is swallowed by the puddle before the driver can call to her or commit her outfit to memory. he says aloud *she was feral and her ******* had to be, by then, bleeding*. it’s christmas morning when the driver comes to and his wife’s sister has this look like she could **** the red from a childhood firehouse. his kids are crying over invisible toys. invisible because our mother touches the future without looking.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
Chapman, gun in hand
Lennon lies shot and bleeding
My world changed that day
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
If John hadn't died because of drugs, he would've turned forty-nine today.
If John hadn't died, his fiftieth birthday would've been just one year away.
The paramedics had planned to perform CPR but they saw it was something John didn't need.
They quickly learned that performing CPR would've done no good so they did not proceed.
Sadly, John had died and he went to be with the Lord.
His arm was sticking upward, he was as stiff as a board.
I learned about the circumstances of his death from the people who he lived with.
John had done me wrong before he died and the time has come for me to forgive.
I had to threaten him with legal action because he'd been coming in my house and swiping some of my medicine.
I informed him that I'd have him arrested if he came on my property again.
Because of taking drugs, those drugs turned out to be John's noose.
Sadly, he was destined to die because of his many years of drug use.
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC