"fixes" poems
A deep happy comes from love.
It's better than a shallow happy,
Which is fleeting furiously.
A deep happy makes you smile,
And it makes the world peaceful,
This happy breathes life into you.
A deep happy fixes the pain,
That the shallow happy leaves behind.
A deep happy is what life is all about.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
Galaxy gardener sailing a ship,
through endless horizons it makes a trip.
She/he looks into the inky canvas blend,
then scatters some seeds in the spacial rend.
What does await this brave lovely soul,
when we see the universe's gears roll.
Ionizing radiation penetrates through,
while watering can always holds true.
Space turf gingerly shovelled over seeds,
her/his forehead adorned with water beads.
Nitrogenous nutrients now nuzzled into,
the serene slumbering seedlings to be.
Galaxy gardener greets growing greens,
lively lushscious leaves forward leans.
Wormhole worn star systems she/he fixes up,
as does she/he proudly prune her/his wondrous crop.
Many a plant has grown under her/his care,
yet she/he never feasts on the fruits they bear.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
Dear Pickle,
You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.
Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.
Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.
Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.
And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.
That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.
I am sorry, can you bring her back now?
And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.
We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.
I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother screw-ups for you to father.
Love,
Vinegar.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
Where's my Revy?
I want the quick tempered badass, with a broken past and a dimly lit heart who loves me but doesn't want to accept it
Where's my Keiko?
The girl who will stay with me despite my demons, who will fight when she has to, smart enough to excel, and will wait for me to become a man
Where's my Winry?
The sweetheart who goes through thick and thin, the person that doesn't just yell at me when I'm broke but also fixes me like no one else can
Where's my Mikasa?
The one of a kind, warrior who is powered by a thought of me, who can slay my giants, and save me from myself
The real question is ...what do I have to offer?
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
faintly sinister smiles
twitch their way across her acrobat face
and as her rolling and tumbling expressions
make their way through all manner of devious delight
your hearts hungry eye fixes on her
come hither and lets make whoopee nasty girl dress
her favors are optional
and she will tease but never share
the ever present dangling carrot
like a perfume
fills the air with delights but its just air
shes a happiness monger
so its best if you don't displease
its always a bitter mote neath the plastic vibe
might as well be a rocky mountain monument
little miss twisted in a little patchwork dress
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Sorry I'm so selfish
All the time
I just don't like the way
You look at her
As if she's the one who fixes you
As if you don't even need me
Sorry
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
When I close my eyes, the sight of you appears
I learnt to build my thoughts around you
When you look at me and smile now
I wonder how we made it so many years.
A man is one who loves his girl
Treats her with respect and plays with her
Trusts her no matter the world flips sides
Shows her how much he needs her.
Shares every secret every thought with her
Stands by her when she in doubt
Helps her make the right decision
Fixes her mood when it’s out
Cuddles her when she is sad and low
Troubles her to get her attention
Pretends to be angry with her
Just so she showers him with kisses...
Sings to her to show how much he loves her
Helps her cook when guests are home
Jokes he cracks to make her laugh
Never would he even by mistake make her cry
Compliments her for the smallest of things
Remembers her in his busiest of hours
Tells her he loves her before she sleeps
Just to wake up with her kiss on his cheek...
Walks with her holding hands
Gives her hugs and kisses unplanned...
Is naughty with her when she’s happy
Does all this with his heart and mind.
Assures her she is beautiful, pretty and hot
Is dedicated to her like a sage
Messes with her emotions now and then,
But gives her the love she craves. ..
Wonder how many such men were ever made?
God creates for each one a soul mate
Wonder if these thoughts would just remain thoughts
But thank-god I am blessed with the perfect man of this age. :)
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Dear Hot Straight Actresses,
Stop playing perfect lesbian characters on TV that cause me to become wet on lonely Thursday nights.
It’s the equivalent of waving double chocolate fudge cake in front of a menstruating woman who has just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.
To name a few,
Jennifer Beals as Bette Porter on The L Word.
Stop it!
Naya Rivera as the sassy Santana Lopez on Glee.
Stop it!
Angie Harmon as butch goddess Detective Jane Rizzoli on Rizzoli & Isles.
You may be in the closet but you are gay and stop!
And Sara Ramirez and Jessica Capshaw as the married ****** Dr. Cali Torrez and Dr. Arizona Robbins of Grey’s Anatomy.
You…you keep going. You two give me hope.
Hope that someday my insanely high expectations will be met when my hot art collecting, sassy mouthed Doctor with handcuffs in her back pocket jumps from the screen and onto my sweatpants covered lap.
In this crazy assumption that I’ll end up falling out of an apple tree letting gravity push me into the arms of a woman who fixes my broken sense of reality with a amazing great hair and a wedding proposal.
Missing out on the
Hot barista who gives me an extra large when I ask for a small
or the
Budding **** artist who invites me to her galleries only to realize her muse has oddly the same hips as me.
or the
Best friend who is still stuck in the shadows of my closet.
Nope…didn’t see any of those.
I’m too busy watching the **** tube to see what low cut tops they can get away with before they leave the set and back to their husband and 2.5 kids.
All I’m asking is…
…when is it coming out on DVD?
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
4.6k
First you need to learn that they are blocks
compressed meaning and solid like rocks
individual meaning expressed
but combined a new thought is expressed
with a suffix sometimes they merge
and become other classes of words
thus relate becomes rela -tion and added a ship
to relate something becomes rela-tion-ship
the prefixes un-, post-, and de- , be-,for-, and re-
alter words and direction, you see
but the real tricky thing
is keeping track of the strings
of meaning and –fixes, and inflectional endings
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you making all that ********* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay
Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose
Standing target for practice
A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water
Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures
Standing targets for practice
Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription
Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept
We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din
Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—
Thinking it over”
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
I am not pretty
I am not skinny
I am not tall
I do not have a good hair style
I am not smart
I am not funny
I am not cool
I am not the best
I get mad
I get annoyed
I get irritated
I get selfish
I seem unfriendly
I seem bad
I seem like a ****
I seem to be a hater
I am not the best.
But other things I am not are:
I am not selfish
I am not a show off
I am not bad
I am not a ****
I will never leave you
I will never hurt you
I will never judge you
I will never Play with you
I will never Fight you
I will never give up on you
I will always be here
But if you don't appreciate that,
I will take a turn and look for someone else.
I need someone who
does not look at what I am not
I need someone who
looks at what I am.
I need someone who
knows my flaws
I need someone who
fixes them and
I need someone who
Knows who I am and what I am worth.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 6:52 PM UTC
THE MOMENT BEFORE THE MOMENT
( for Linda Rose Parkes )
The sea stands
by my daughter's side
like a huge monster
she has tamed.
"See...sea...my friend?"
she pats and pets it.
Both of them smile
for the camera
as if either
could never die.
This the moment
of the photograph
that fixes them
both in place
held in a forever
of black and white.
The moment
before this moment she
had ****** her hand
into the sea's massive body
and like a surgeon or
a magician
brought forth
a shell.
To her it is
a little miracle.
She plunges her hand in again
conjures up a bikini top.
Blue with white
polka dots.
On her next slight of hand
she creates bladderwrack
with such a casual
nonchalant magic.
"What is..?" she
enquires of me
She falls in love
with its sound.
Will "bladderwrack...bladderwrack...bladderwrack!"
all the way home.
She is my tiny God
making a universe in her own image.
The camera clicks
captures the creator in the act.
Her pet sea gazing at her imploringly
like a Kraken on a leash.
She pats it with a splash.
A wave licks her toes.
The sun shines in glorious
black and white.
Her laughter
my prayer.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
She applied the latest fashion tips to her lips
and put on the newest dress to cover the mess.
I held her as she swayed in front of the mirror.
"I want to get away from here," she cooes in my ear.
It rains ridicule as she tries to be classic cool;
storms that brew from within-
and there's no way of knowing how it'll begin.
She'll say that she's a succubus
but I promise that she's a star and thus
destined to implode but shine beautiful before death.
And I await to be burnt by her deathly breath.
She says that she feels detached,
I read the message that has hatched
from ten eggs thrown from a wrist.
Her lips are mine but all I do is miss.
Her lips aren't mine and all I do is this.
I **** time with new noise and old sights.
She asks if I'll be home tonight
and I wish I could because I'd clearly sway thee,
macabre debutante lover baby.
Her name is Tricia and as I whisper,
her cheeks blush.
"Don't break hearts or mine too much."
I could say the say the same for you, my Josh.
Couldn't we all break broken signs
with the love we reallign?
I tantalize her lullabies with eager hands
and lethargic eyes.
I shoulder her and press her near,
and kiss her from neck to each ear.
She slides hands and traces each crease.
She runs her hands as soft as fleece.
My hands hide in her underwear
and she says,
"How did you remove all of my air?"
She fixes her hands and grabs my base,
I kiss each corner of her face.
Stroking, stoking my desire,
I ask her to lay naked by the fire.
I disrobe and throw each cloth on ground.
Tricia takes off her bra and there is no sound.
Her ******* make me eagersome
and, suddenly, I'm no longer numb .
I tell her that if it doesn't feel right
that we don't have to make love tonight.
She walks and her feet kiss the tile.
She says she wants to stay for a while.
We get lost in blanket and the cloth is soft,
as we move from the fire to a loft.
I tell her that her lips are silk,
her chest plays songs,
and her taste is milk.
Her feet appear behind my head,
and she bites her lip until I feel dead.
I place my hand between her thighs
and listen to each moan and sigh.
I hear her shudder as I break her soil
and I feel my body start to boil,
as I push in and kiss her nose.
She throws back her head
as her mouth can't close.
I wake up and she's next to me.
I kiss her forehead to thank for harmony.
I pick her up and let her bloom in my arms like a flower.
And then I walk her to the shower.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
It's the music, the alcohol
it's my situation won't improve
it's vices
it's smoking bidis
it's coughing from addiction
it's having talent but no outlet
emotion without expression
it's wondering if it's depression
it's insecurity
it's am I happy
it's advice when only I am me
it's drinkin brew
things I thought i knew
downing downers to cheer me up
it's a powdered nose
secrets no one knows
gambling with tomorrow
it's waiting tables
it's sore shoulders
it's scowling behind a smile
it's lifting weights
it's bad first dates
limp from drinking from the bottle
it's my ex lady
it's lusting
it's wanting what's in the past
it's a broken car
it's public transit
it's fearing that I am them
it's lovers cheat
talk is cheap
promises wash off my bed sheets
it's my breaking point
this broken joint
trying to calm my loathing
it's the ecstasy
that only fixes me
for one pill at a time
it's the president
pay the rent
work and school until I'm spent
never sleep
no cash to eat
feed my heart
with dreams I never see
holding on and letting go
walking fast and running slow
out of place
out of patience
job ******* placement
alcohol and strippers ****
dignity and throwing fits
trying not to slit my wrist
when everything comes down to this
moment
and I miss
it's insanity
everything all around me
it's me
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
“Disaster Dan” skids into the Center's
Game Room
War Room
Control Room
Fueled by a red T-shirt
proclaiming “Vince the Pizza Prince”
He flips out his cellular...
“IT ISN'T UP TO ME!"
(Where does he get all those broken remotes?)
...flips open his cell
and shouts commands
“TURN THE POWER ON!"
“YA HEARD ME!" (He is totally in control)
“Fsssss Fssssss Fsssssss
THE PIPES ARE ABOUT TO BLOW!”
Drives his cruiser around the pool table
Pulls alongside
Fixes me point-blank and cockeyed
“GET THESE KIDS OUTA THE BUILDING!
THERE'S A BOMB ABOUT TA GO OFF!”
An eight-year-old spins iz finger round iz ear
and points a giggle
Dan--
the kind of guy whose life peaked
at Mount Saint Helen
Does a warlock for Halloween
Carries a portable showcase of horror
prized possessions in a dishpan
He explains his treasures
“That is NOT
a plastic scorpion!”
Offended by my ignorance
shoves it in my eyes
“THIS IS A PREDATOR ALIEN, STUPID!"
“CALIFORNIA WILL NOT COME BACK!"
Dan sorta likes me
We talk horror flicks
He forbids the serious of me
"CALIFORNIA WILL FALL OFF INTO THE OCEAN!”
he hisses in a spray of spit
Walks way, laughing, delighted!
Shaking iz head
Then back in my face again (for emphasis)
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
(He is dead serious)
"THE GUY THAT CAUSED THAT HURRICANE
WAS PAUL MCCARTNEY!"
His counselor fills in my blank
“Dan likes the Beatles
That's the only thing he likes
that isn't heinous”
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
Glass is cheaper than the stone skin
tattooed on their foreheads. The palace, a splendid fantasy,
half built when the idea will be abandoned.
Freedom is a powerful nuisance! Their only
sin is looking at the world through rose-colored
glasses, make people feel at ease despite distress and disease.
The right wing redneck reactionary republicans continue
religious slaughtering. *This nightmare scenario should
be nixed,* said with a sneer, I hope they’re wearing warm socks.
Still, I couldn’t crack the code. Changed envy to admiration
to cultivate mystery rare as it is rewarding. The weird thing
is the high-end whiskey collecting dust on the on the shelves.
Nothing short of astonishing, like the space farers gazing back
at the home planet. Distant. They fascinate people.
Animate the inanimate environment. Isolation above.
Looking back I am ashamed of the mess we are leaving
our children and grandchildren. How to allocate these limited
resources? The key is to engage. No easy fixes.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's
stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover
He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch
He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone
Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin
Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased
His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies
He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar
Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town
there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
It is the color of love
The calmness of her hand in yours
It is the quietness
Of your empty house
It is the feeling of peace
when you down the pink Moscato
hoping it fixes your problems
Because the heat is gone
And you’re alone
It is the feeling of
Your alarm going off
Never shutting up
Always happening daily
It is a lapse in time
When you think time has stopped
When you wished
Time had stopped
And you wish you could sit there smelling the lavender flowers
And the heat making you feel
Just tired
But time continues and burst of slow
Calm winds hit you peacefully
It is the color of sadness
Because her hand is no longer there
Your bed, empty
Your pillow the endless clouds
The lavender fragment gone
Because you’ve stopped trying to imagine sunsets and how your life would be like with sight
You’ve given in
It is the color of darkness
The color of your life
But don’t fret
Because when your head hits the clouds
Our worlds are the same
For when you close your eyes
And they close theirs
Our worlds are the same
As the sunsets
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC