"flyers" poems
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
flyers are the best
flyers are the best
we are better than the rest
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
I pulled down vicious KKK flyers,
listened to members amplify hate.
Their harmful words only frustrate,
hoping to cease their cruel desires.
Harassment at work occurred
hablas ingles? a lady replied.
I let the racist remark subside,
when I realized I was not heard.
Being bullied at school would soon follow.
A boy shout the Spanish slur at me,
write vile notes for all to see.
Slashed my tires with archery arrows.
I never thought that they would presume,
I was an illegal immigrant.
Their logic absent,
only based on looks they assume.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
God before we compete today,
we come together as a team to pray.
Please watch over us from music start to finish,
it wont take that long just about three minutes.
God, all we really want is some help to succeed,
so here's a little list of the things that we need:
We pray for..
Stunts that are solid and tight.
Arms that remain by our side.
Flyers that are confident.
High "V's" that are never bent.
Cradles that are caught up high.
pointed jumps that truly fly.
Tosses that soar through the air.
Judges that are knowledgeable and fair.
Spacing that is on the money.
ENERGY THATS LIKE THE BUNNY!
Motions that are sharp and snap.
A loud crowd that likes to clap.
Voices that deeply shout.
Thumbs that do not stick out.
No bumps that happen while we're passing.
SMILES THAT ARE EVERLASTING!
Endurance that keeps us strong.
Teamwork that cant go wrong.
But mostly God, we'd like to have
A routine that is injury free.
And if you see it in your heart
A FIRST PLACE TROPHY FOR MY TEAM AND ME!
So God, when your work is done,
And your no longer needed here,
just take this little thought with you
Amen.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
I'm all too used to the touch of your absence. Your mother's wrath in that time can be a death sentence so tragic. But when you come back, Demeter returns to her senses expressing light magic. Life springs through the darkness, and flowers race to see who can reach the farthest. Lovers emerge to nurture their gardens, and soak in sun to thaw out the hearts that hardened. Birds sing songs highlighting your arrival. Trees breathe easy seeing what their last set of leaves died for..
Yet when you retreat, mother again takes away her warmth. The high-flyers no longer soar, and some paths feel too bitter to explore. Bone-chill zones, a frozen reality stream. I can't blame anyone for what's a part of me, as we fall into winter's annual dream.
Queen of the Underworld, I appreciate your harmony. Thank you for teaching me to see the depths of my own duality. Still, I can't help but wonder how existence would be had you not eaten those pomegranate seeds. In the darkness of winter I want to curse Hades for his greedy need to leach on life through trickery. Though to curse him I'd be cursing myself and ive had it with the blasphemy. Besides I too know what it's like to rely on the dead as your only company. I ride ebbs and flows of loss and hope, but I know your presence promotes healing. So again I'll remain as the seasons change, taking layers and peeling. I've found in light and dark we can succeed in setting our bound spirits free. Communicator of both worlds, I want to Thank and honor you, Persephone~
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC
Peppermint creme-filled fingers
dabble nothing;
sleep through alarms and dislocated anger sockets
every morning.
And there are flyers littering my floor
speaking truths I never wanted
and never knew
through band names shock factoring
their ardent prisons.
Attention is a world currency,
just like ***
just like symmetry,
and the plates shift
while my plates sit
in the aluminum sink
in my kitchen.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
A month ago I sat in class
in a New England School for boys
Now, I'm in a bomber group
Adjusting to the noise
I made plans for Harvard
A doctor, I would be
Then my life would turn
In a way I didn't see
The war was on in Europe
We saw in the press
But, 18 days before Christmas
we were pulled into the mess
Future plans were put aside
Our country we'd support
We'd forget all of our future thoughts
We'd join, though not for sport
We signed up down in Boston
Young men flyers, soldiers all
Preparing for a battle
Many would not live till fall
We thought not of our future
Our present, all we had
Many dead by Christmas next
The thought is truly sad
You do not what you want to
But, what needs to be done
You go from boy to man so fast
You've barely walked...now run
Think back on those who made it
Remember who did not
Young men they are forever
They deserve a longer thought
The air is pure and holy
It is scattered with young souls
Boys, now men who went to war
And put aside their goals
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Two people once residied in a flat in London city,
A man who had a drug addiction, things did not seem pretty,
His ***** at eighteen, barely grown who worked the streets at night,
She slept all day while **** guy flushed her veins with coke mixed *****
Now, girl would wonder what life would be like if she were home,
A georgian three up, two down house, with trees and garden gnomes,
She wondered how she got here, reminiscing on times better,
A stupid fight with mum, some awful words, a goodbye letter.
So many times she tried to get away from her **** guy,
But cravings soon kicked in, so she would pierce her veiny thigh,
She saw the flyers on the walls, she knew her mother missed her,
She pleaded with the **** through lips all swollen full of blisters.
Two people now reside inside a house so filled with sorrow,
A mother,racked with sadness for her girl who evil borrowed,
A dad who knows his brother fills his neices veins with drugs,
The money that dad makes from her will never make him snug.
A flat lies empty, desolate, void of two more souls,
A child lies dead from overdose,
Her uncle full of needle holes...
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
Defying the consensus of complacency,
And the enantiomorphic political practicality,
Candidates embrace their vacillating indexicality.
Spouting thrift store self reliance sapientiality,
Telling lores of cultural compatibility.
Hope filled promises of economic suitability,
Aligned with institutional feasibility.
Packaged in over-inclusive catchall empty signifiers
Strewn across all media screens, communal utilitarian plan flyers.
Requesting no need for responsiveness,
For a vote no longer dictates precedence,
In the age of social media endemic presence relevance.
PFL
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
The flyers facing there cross-state rivals Pittsburg Penguins
Backup goalie emery in net starts of good then it turns for the worset
3-0 penguins i am wide eyed and mouth open stunned
then second period flyers score 4 goals
one by the capten, two by a deffense men, and the last by a rookie
Third period flyers get puck with one minute left the pensguins
Pull there goalie and sean couturier shoots it down the ice for
a empty net goalie game over flyers forge a 5-3 victory for the record books and prove they are better then the flyers
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Miles of highway pass me by.
So many beautiful places.
Yet apon nights reflection I cannot even try.
She waits down near that red Georgia clay.
So many names to recall.
But only one brings a tear to my eyes to say.
Jasmine scented dreams hang like spanish moss
in my mind.
My soul does linger apon a southern shore
for the one I could never leave behind.
Ive travled the four corners
From the lights of Vegas to isolation of planes Montana.
I can forget all but my sweet savannah.
People many inviting yet none lure me to stay.
All night dinners frequent flyers.
loving like madmen only to vanish with the day.
We are pirates of land.
Giving all sacrfice the soul.
The tramps of being in demand.
Should I stray to oceans view.
Cocktails by the beach front bar.
Taste of peach mixed with strawberries and bannana.
So sweet to the taste apon painted lips.
But none can ever quench the thirst.
For the sunset of savanna
Nov 19, 2009
Nov 19, 2009 at 10:53 AM UTC
Up to a point
We spend our whole lives searching for superman.
He's hard to find,
But his cape isn't completely invisible.
You can see a tiny bit peeking out from his collar.
He's already been about a kajillion people.
A mom who made you
Macaroni and cheese when you're sick.
A teacher who yelled at the other kids
When they said your glasses were stupid.
The little boy who sat with you at lunch
On your first day at that new school.
The big brother who threatened to beat up
The creepy boy who gave you your first kiss.
That first boyfriend who was there
When your cat died sophomore year.
Superman is almost impossible to find.
But then you hit that point.
Remember when I said
"Up to a point"
Well this is the horrible part.
I mean, it's god awful.
Superman gets really annoying at this part.
It's going to make you want to scream.
Just bare with me on this one.
He puts the cape
On you.
Oh yes.
Now you're superman.
Could anything be worse?
Now there is no one to save the day.
Now you must make your own macaroni and cheese,
Stand up for yourself,
Make your own friends,
Deal with your own relationships,
And handle your own emotions.
I bet your mind is churning now.
You see what I mean.
You've probably hit this point.
Now by this point,
I was furious.
I bet you are too.
You see,
You don't want to be superman.
So this is what you do.
You reject the cape.
But unfortunately for you,
Superman used some super glue.
This is permanent.
Ugh, right?
And now you're going to put all of your time
And all of your energy.
Angrily trying to figure out
Who put this cape on your back.
But you don't really want to know who.
What fun would that be
Just to scream it out
And still be left with the responsibility?
It's good to have a faceless name.
What you really want is to be mad.
I know that my favorite game
Is the blame game.
And I'm willing to bet yours is too.
What we really need to do
Are you ready for the plot twist?
Is realize that we were already Superman!
Remember the time
You did your little sister's make up for her first dance,
Or when you stayed up all night on the phone
Listening to your friend vent about her stress,
Or when you picked up the flyers
That the lady at the restaurant dropped in the street,
Or when you lent that kid two dollars
So that he could buy lunch.
Or when you went home for a visit
Just because your mother missed you.
It's been us all along.
Did you see that coming?
I sure didn't.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Desires and dreams suffocating from the multitude of tightened nooses
Liars yell screams awaiting actions to ebb and let flow my creative juices
Fires up streams sinking ships and their teams burning all of their uses
Flyers and schemes left in the wake with the sinking list of all the excuses
Before you let go, you better recalibrate your aim
Who do you know, if you miss, can take the blame
Confront status quo, hide from your parent's shame
A stunt, try an grow, from a wildfire's blazing flame
Comme si comme sa
The grey area that I breathe
A snow print of a paw
Life's Purpose I must seethe
Lying out somewhere in the far off distance
Dying slow and numb with little resistance
Eyeing thee mortal setting sun's persistence
Vying for a final answer to human's existence
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
You’d never guess
By eavesdropping
To the vapid colloquialisms
Of your neighbors, your co-workers
That 5 open sores fester upon our mother’s face,
5 gyres,
(even the word is disgusting),
of floating plastic,
tangle and strangle the warm wombs of our seas,
stretch out at the horizons like blankets of melanoma.
Livid and neon infection
Drips, seeps, spreads from Fukushima,
Genociding the Pacific—3,000 nautical miles
Devoid of breath or heartbeat,
Save a lonely whale with tumors
Full of hot dog coupons and carpet cleaning flyers.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
I tried to write a poem for the moon.
I searched the earth for
words worth wooing you.
I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases,
and thought I’d said it all.
But I’ve said nothing, because
Earth words won’t work.
I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt.
I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in.
My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere.
My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of
Noise into the wind
hard or far enough to make you near.
So I must DO.
To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves
instead of barking at your light.
I’ll start with exercise,
building thighs and biceps to
climb the skies
between
you and I.
Keeping shoulders wide so if
You light my planet up
I’ll keep you up at night.
Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going,
and where your toughs meet your trues.
I won’t leave it to my luck to have
my love
reach the moon.
I’ll learn how soft and where to land.
I’ll learn how strong you are and when
I need to have plan.
When to take my helmet off
when you need me
to be a man.
So, as moons do, if you get blue
I’ll have found and know and own
the fastest way
to get myself to you.
Next I’ll find out every
stone that broke
your heart,
every rock that smashed your sides
(starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits.
I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work.
they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth.
If the sun
falls behind your time,
I’ll fire that ball of fire,
float around and put up flyers,
and find another star to make you shine.
Now, If I ever prove to be a
man who got the moon
I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles
Of favorite words
From Earth
every time I visit you.
And when I know I’m close
-it’s when my smile beams in your beams-
I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments.
Over time, in walking your valleys,
Napping in and mapping your grooves,
throwing comets at your craters, and
Staring at you
Through the roof;
One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do.
At midnights and sometimes noons
They’ll see me from the Earth
Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes.
Written on your face in shiny piles,
“This Man Is Over The Moon.”
Jul 16, 2021
Jul 16, 2021 at 5:46 AM UTC
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned
The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams
A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom
Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below
The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires
A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze
There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging
Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
“I would do it all over again”
Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
© ... September 15th, 2016
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
since I last
rode a bus,
no, poems aplenty
have poured and dripped
from ink-saturated fingers,
here there and everywhere,
disguised by many a nom de guerre
the bus riding infrequently,
as work no longer demands me,
I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t
carry me the far away distances
they say violence in the city
is random, and just seems worse,
seemingly a newspaper creation,
but I know better, and random violence &
poetry inspiration do not walk or talk
hand in hand, not for the hands that write…
in every crack, lamppost,
festooned
with flyers for concerts years ago,
poems reached out to me, write, right?
I too am papered with memories of long-ago
city travels, picking up scenes & dreams
that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling,
to get home with them retained, untainted,
preserved with the freshness of city smells,
city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling,
the interwoven of disparate desperate humans,
fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves,
each distinct needy for something else,
but for me,
just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry,
remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day
and a poem-rough tumbles from
without
&
within
,
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
Strong hands pulling you away from everything you know
A silent scream that no one can hear
One hand on your mouth
One hand moving down
Your world ripped apart before your eyes
Everything you once knew: gone
Denial, shame
Oh what a lovely game
Hello where'd my childhood go
It's been snatched before my eyes
Everyone's crying
But no one sees me
You can't print flyers asking for it back
It isn't something broadcasted on the news
Something been taken from you, something you should never lose so soon
Your world soon turns inside out
You're not a kid anymore
Your mother and father no longer matter
You've gotten older too fast
Your heart has gone cold
-But what do you expect when your kidnapper steals your home.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
And it's about that time of year
when all the school clubs
print out brand new sign up sheets
and hang up brightly colored flyers
promising "new friends and fun activities."
Model United Nations is meeting in the history wing,
Robotics has a new metal cutting machine,
and three of the singers from the student rock band
graduated last May.
(I hear two of the sophomores
have even started a club for Dr. Who.)
But what I think
my high school really needs
is a club for people
for when they're feeling lonely.
Anyone could show up
anytime—
from preps to prep hockey
to nerds and exchange students,
the artists and scientists,
and even the sad writers.
And we'd get together
as often as we needed to be reminded
that there are way more people than we think
that feel exactly the same as we do.
And maybe someday
a meeting will be called
and we won't even realize it,
because we've stopped calling them meetings
and started to refer to them as friendships.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
finger-paint yourself a picture
on a canvas destined for nothing more
than late-night
one-night
kisses
arrange fabric on a doll
that was store bought
for perfection
owned by jealousy
mocked by
lessers
stain lips
to never speak
gentle words
train lips
to reside
in perfect pouts
school eyes
in fluttering
slitted
hooded
gestures
arrange toes
into smooth, unbroken shapes
to be molded
in a set of high heels
high ballers
high flyers
being higher on the food chain
only makes you
more likely
to be consumed
and if we are anything
we are
consumers
limited
to materialistic consumption
we dress ourselves up like
a sweetshop-confection
topped with gucci
and laced with victoria's secret
lucidity
it's not hard to see
what we're about
if this is a judgement
of clear intentions
we are the clear
winners
our faces are perfect
optical illusions
standing on an assembly line
waiting for someone to take a shine
to the curve of our hips
lips
chest
there is nothing to confess
our cards are laid
only after
we
are
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
For my brother, Martin
I'm going to sling your memory
over my shoulder
back pack you round the world
slide you on to station platforms
alongside the passing panorama of footsteps
that echo on that slice of cold cement
tuck you into airplane lockers
overhead the sleeping flyers
in that metal coffin in the ice cream clouds
nestle you among bus luggage
beneath the picture windows
and the ribbon racing road
I will unpack you in every village
every town and every city
in every land and nation
on every continent and land mass
crossing the oceans and seas
catching every wave and tide
circling the earth on winds and breezes
following sunsets and solar eclipses
and every cycle of the moon
until I find a place of resting
until I find a place of peace
until I find a place of peace
© M.L.Emmett
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
I’m sure it’ll be a great party
even though I’m dressed like a Barbie
it’s all in good fun
I won’t drink more than one
and they probably won’t even card me.
I’m sure the flyers aren’t serious
the cover girls all look delirious
the guys all wear suits
while the women “let loose”
but I can’t justify the criteria.
I’m sure it was one great big joke
the way your fraternal friends spoke
it wasn’t the way
you called me your bae
it’s just that I’ve never been groped.
I’m sure it wasn’t your fault
and it wasn’t really assault
so let’s just forget
the ***** and the sweat
and take it with a grain of salt.
I’m sure there’s nothing to fear
and in nine months to a year
we’ll give in to fate
and when you graduate
we can shack up and share a career.
Now I’m sure I was being naive
turns out your name wasn’t Steve
and all the support
you swore not to retort
leaves me nothing to do but to grieve.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 2:36 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Archery pro and just hit the target of poverty,
And probably,
I'll be out of here before the cops notice I'm vandalizing,
Painting a picture for the up risers,
Better take a seat,
Almost like first class,
Most airlines don't have phobias for flyers,
Keep an open mind,
Your negativities closed,
Your eyes open,
Letting suspense unfold,
And unravel,
And somehow collapse,
I may have had bad experiences,
But human beings are futile at that,
But now let's rewind it back,
I remember you said you'd never be like them,
Would not talk their language,
Or do drugs with them,
Keep following them and you'll end up dead or walking with a limp.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC