"folder" poems
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Money in the pocket of the biggest shareholder
Day by day, we grow older
Love is lost, hearts grow colder
So while you still can, you should hold her
Say what you feel, before you wish you'd told her
Don't stash your dreams away, in that folder
As you care less what they think, you'll get bolder
Listen to those, who need a shoulder
Let her live, don't try to mold her
Don't sell your soul, for something golder
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Out of frustration
I broke my phone screen
who cares?
nobody is going to call me anyway.
Rather your not going to call me anyway
Months have passed
Seasons have changed
And on this day of rememberance
I took every picture of you from my broken phone
and placed it into my picture folder
As I peruse though the memories
and picture yesterday;
My phone screams out a sound i had not heard in quite awhile.
So loud my heart almost stopped and my brain ran wild
Your ringtone, on the very second i click ok to save,
alerted me that you sent a text message today.
a text message...of all things, a text message...
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.
Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.
Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -
Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.
Your voice,
Which I long to hear.
Which I have forgotten -
Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints
Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so
We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into
By a meandering
Mao, or ******
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -
Your voice
Is a whisper,
It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,
You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.
A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.
Hear his dates blur
Into yours -
History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.
I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.
Like mine.
Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -
Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, everyone dreams of a movie life that they never had:>
'do you have a movie idea?' she is asked
my piano's stuck on notes that made a blast
'what is your absolute dream?'
no clue!!! I scream
now with that blood reaches my knees when I lie
and shattered glass stains a cry
but one selfish day
of a one grey warning day
on a Storm
out of Vivaldi's norm
I'll make November's violins
spin the veins under my skin
when an alarm's clock won't erase history
nor dust the ink in black poetry
the purple eye
would know a who and an exact why
when a sudden mother's scream won't defeat
the eclipsed expressions or invisible heart beat
nor the recall of empty lines
things that used to be an impossible of possible defines
when a sun's light won't make a memory in sleep swing
nor the unnotice of a summer autumn winter or spring
wouldn't keep the pen's color on a compass' tip
on an adventure of a lost ship
east kills west north kills south
when the kissed would be a clear mouth
to live for the hope of it all
the said would be spit on a train station's phone call
the fall would reach the death quest
the unknown would be unraveled for the moment in rest
but the dream's missing pieces has nothing to do with the recorder
and that is why I would record ONCE then put the puzzle in a folder
**** the ones who saw
burn the **** machine after created in raw
I did title 'Waste Before You Taste' a long time ago surely
some greed changed my idea of mercy
a question to be answered is jeopardy
when no human shall know of there will be misery
when a heart of glass would be dropped and broken
when the darkest thunder of the dream was golden
once the ought to be a secret would be a wonderland stolen
I warned it would be a selfish day
yet you listened and now the death penalty you pay
-------ravenfeels
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 7:49 AM UTC
Folder: Soul mates
I have nothing
but the look in your eyes
To remind me
and these whisky tears
won't dry like they should
I can't hold you
except in a memory
I can't feel you
Except in my heart
I can't love you
Except with my soul
You're that piece
That's missing
A perfect fit
Only you puttied up
my space with creeps
And still I watch you fumble
Afraid you will fall again
Only not for me
As soon as I empty
This cup the whisky
Tears keep filling up.
They don't evaporate
Like they should.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
What am I?
I am not White.
I am not Black.
I am not Hispanic or Asian or Native American.
I am a Human Being.
What am I?
I am not a Christian.
I am not a Satanist.
I am not Jewish or Muslim, or Hindu.
I am a Human Being.
What am I?
I am not a Racist.
I am not a Sexist.
I am not a ****** or a ***** or a *******
I am a Human Being.
What am I?
I am not a Number.
I am not a Sheep.
I am not a Folder or a Report or a Profile.
I am a Human Being.
What am I?
I am my Mind.
I am my Heart.
I am my Soul.
I Am.
What are You?
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night
Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams
Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet
Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes
Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience
Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline
“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”
affixed to the cubicle wall
Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
Two bits of cardboard stuck onto each other.
Perfectly fitting, but you unmake me sober.
Three double bends with the bone folder.
A figure of a bird, and his broken cage lying in the corner.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
A yellowish time was walking alone
On the Hare Road in the rainy afternoon.
Is it time to discuss with coffee or ice-cream
holding the hand like a band
Touching the sorrows before putting
coins into the evening's folder?
It's time to slice time thinner and thicker
Processing pickles on the dissection table
With likings-hates, joys-sorrows, dreams-realities
before the evening flirts afternoon!
Going ahead or coming back or even standing a while
Which one is the worthless best I don't like to know?
A small seed of wrongful dream germinates mutely
From infinity and going to the end of infinity!
Never have I seen any time walking
Nor have I seen any rainy afternoon at Hare Road!
Poem 17
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
Some part of you is like the moon
softly glowing beside me on my too-small bed,
and the monumental loneliness you wear as a halo
must be a trick of the eye despite keeping me awake,
hunched over a folder of unedited poems at 2:45AM.
I wonder what the moon dreams of when the sun
tucks it into bed at dawn as your eyelids flutter
and your breathing hitches for a moment
before you roll over, face the wall,
parting clouds with a small sigh.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
at the desk, applying for jobs
there is coffee in my cup
and paint in the creases of my fingernails,
on the wall, a whiteboard with new song lyrics
and a list
of things I need to buy,
of course, once I have the money to buy them,
which brings me back to the desk
which an empty bottle of Cabernet Merlot
sits with an empty glass
and notebooks and a mason jar
with cloudy brown-red water
from the bristles of my paintbrushes
my coffee is cold
the french press is in the kitchen
but my flatmate is filming in there
so I’m stuck at my desk
with two sips of cold coffee left,
applying for jobs.
I feel very fragile
right now,
partly because I didn’t go to a job interview
today,
partly because I didn’t go to a job trial,
on friday
though I don’t want to be a waitress
and **** modelling for art classes scares me.
there’s a plant on my windowsill
named Lucy
and she doesn’t have to do anything
and there are two vanilla candles and an incense holder
with lavender incense burning
but **** all the things that
"bring peace"
like small plants, candles, incense, crystals and photographs;
I want a healthy and clean life,
so I have these things
part as a protection
from my own mind
but to be perfectly honest,
I’m at the desk, browsing jobs online,
saving them for later into a bookmark folder entitled
"Wellington Jobs"
instead of actually applying.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
the little pink paper clamp
you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip
which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and
2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing
away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your
personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing
is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away
from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power
and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power.
if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will
lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is
go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it
might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs
it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings.
at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting
at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors
will come back so he can keep paper in a folder.
this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors
were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small
on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching
and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had
to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away
and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the
other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper
down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company
to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to
the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time
trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as
the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor
but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one
and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these
anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor
you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just
as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked
the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only
problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and
our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
cut paper, paper cut
cut file folder, file folder cut
cut tin, tin cut
red lines leak
stains.
thin pain
touches nerves,
sharp as knives,
blotting all
else out,
until you shout OUCH
pressure the wound
to stop the flow
too,
from your mouth
the words heard
a better found
on a boat full of sailors
crabbing or whalers
and as you bob
in out and get your
sea legs under you
you will remember
self-administered first aid too!
©DWE102013
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Earth is our home. Your mind has just been blown.
People, animals, and stones are WAY more important than some stupid phones.
Moans and groans yell forth to continue our whining. Dining with a lover, means more than your ******** Pop the next cork on our bottle and celebrate life.
Happiness, passion, and love is way more powerful than hatred, greed, and strife.
Our plight to survive another day and night. The negative is Death, and the positive is life. Our sight., right, and fight to save the environment and endangered wildlife.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Shoulder your burdens as we all grow older.
Weather gets hotter, and sometimes colder. Some are scared pussycats, while others are lions that grow bolder. Close your folder of selfishness, while oil pipelines spread disaster. Do you care while you waste away, as the ecosystem wastes away faster?
Litter another critter of pollution. Cleaner air is the solution. Care to find YOUR resolution? Spilling out our guts all over an institution.
Garden the seeds of change to fruition. Us, the hoes, should fight the GMOs.
Planting organic crops on fertile soil, as vines of life flourish and grow.
Blow the wind that feeds flames of bitterness, while water sweeps over, you know?
So you don't give a **** about the Earth as your self-pity glows?
Shows how stupid YOU are while the passionate stays afloat.
Fear spreads chaos, while paying it forward spreads the most.
I can go on and on with this poem, but alas, I must slow the flow.
Every day is ******* Earth day. Let's do our part. Here's my toast!
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.
**** it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.
Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.
What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!
Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.
The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.
They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.
There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:46 PM UTC
*sudden-bouquet
delight finds
reduction in
citric-colour*
goal-post abrupt
a million birds in a jaundiced-sky
trees bold-growing up to the edge of the cliff
a flattened mosquito on a screen
folder atop the lemon-ladder
wings all neatly spread and legs flayed
*yellow roses.. in the abbey
given away to orphans
with full-hearts*
forever-journey in honeyed-posey
S T – 01 Oct 2013
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Folder: Heart aesthetics
truth.
my tainted version or yours?
I cant find the reasons that I need to convince you
you cant find the words to make me understand.
I dont want to wallow in your misery, I am happy in my own
feed me more ******** and inspire me to write insipid vicious lines about you
i'll make them dance in pretty lines and force you to confess!
I will ****** you with lies and pull out my version of truth,
and you will hide from me all that you feel,
because you believe my lies are my truth revealed.
what a lovely tango!
our dance of fire and ice;
first passion and ***
cold disintrest next.
dance with me my beautiful liar
dance with the words of my song in your head
push through my curtains and find whats there
your truth or mine it seems we never care
it never mattered as much as our lovers dance
a careless tango brought to life with fierce exchanges
a slap in the face
a caress of redemption
our lies our seductions
our words are our weapons
our music is our emotion
our dance is our truth
our love, our curse.
this is our pain my fierce love,
let's dance our tango
and create our timeless verse
previous version below:
truth. my tainted version or yours?
I cant find the reasons that I need to convince you
you cant find the words to make me understand
I dont want to wallow in your misery I am happy in my own
feed me more ******** and inspire me to write insipid vicious lines about you
i'll make them dance in pretty lines and force you to confess
I will ****** you with lies and pull out my version of truth
and you will hide from me all that you feel,
because you believe my lies are my truth.
what a lovely tango our fire and ice
passion and ***
cold disintrest next
dance with me my beautiful liar
dance with the words of my song in your head
push through my curtains and find whats there
your truth or mine it never mattered
as much as our lovers dance
a careless tango brought to life with fierce exchanges
a slap in the face
a caress of redemption
this is our seduction
our lies
this is our truth
our dance
these are our weapons
our words.
let's dance our tango
and create our timeless verse.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Ol’ Long and Tall sits
uncomfortably in the
seat next to mine.
It is obvious that his
back is bothering him
this morning.
‘Hey, dad…”
This is how it always starts.
Anytime he wants to talk,
he opens with this salvo.
I think it’s like using a turn signal
when changing lanes or something,
and who really knows what lane my boy
is in as he hurtles down his own highway?
It’s not that I don’t know him,
or care what’s on his mind, not
at all.
We’re both thinkers,
Alex and I, it’s just that
he gets a little bit tangled up
now and then, and just goes blank,
but never dull.
I think “Hey, dad…” offers a bit of a reset;
just a moment’s pause for organization,
such as it is in Alex’s case.
“Hey dad…” he starts.
“Did you know…?”
He goes on to tell me
some facts, which I forget
now,
about Hawaii.
Soon, that folder is empty
so he begins telling me tidbits
about the migratory process
of monarch butterflies.
“Where did you learn this stuff?”
I ask.
“At school.”
“On the internet.”
he states.
“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I assure him.
“There’s more to the internet
than You Tube and Minecraft;
and you found it. I’m glad”
“Yup.” he says and grins his squinty grin
at me.
I nod and keep driving,
it is a school day and we’re on
the highway.
No radio this morning,
just talk.
I wait.
5 seconds
10 seconds
15 seconds
“Hey dad…”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
Closing the hurting eyes
Forgetting all the fights and byes
Standing soo close to each other
Mesmerised in that situation heart decided not to bother
Leaning against the wall
With a heartclutch and a great fall
Wrapping each other in their blanket of love
Leaving behind all the other stuff and a months bluff
Engrossed sooo much in each touch
Wanting more and more was a wish such
Grabbing the waist tight with no air to enter
There was a vacuum of their breath in centre
Playing with her entangled hairs that lay on shoulder
All these evocation was sure to be preserved in their hearts folder
Girl placed her arms around his neck without any regret
Which was found to be the best addiction than any smoking cigarette
Slowly and gradually they touched each others lips
Not leaving any chance to skip
Their heart's beating sound was heard amidst their vaccum
They had created their own world with affection and warmth as whirling perfume
Their kiss after kiss grew deep and passionate
Both were stuck to each other just as a magnet
Wet lips, tired eyes and messy hairs
Were the symbol that love was in the air
And there is no such satisfaction anywhere
_Lost
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 1:48 AM UTC
You pretend to zip your lips like
there's even a secret to spill,
as if i couldn't pry open
your mouth like a four
day old rusty paper-
clip
off an
empty
manila
folder
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
One day turns into someday, so
I suppose I should set a goal.
This is not what I want to be, bliss is what I'd like to be.
My opportunity is now while I'm young, but my stress is strung.
Worries hung on the wall, memories of his strong shoulders,
and incomplete homework into a folder.
I want a smile that's natural that will not last only for a little while.
A desire for a mind to admire, not just a heart that doesn't dart into love, but
a soul that is newly cleansed with not an ounce of pretend.
I still dream of you in my sleep and I still crave a love so deep it could compete with the ocean.
I'm currently twirling me into a sick motion.
Abandonment was lent to me, which led to a fiasco
and no, I'm not okay.
Sorrow bled onto my sheets, then it was your turn
for pills to slide down your liver and here I shiver with you gone,
but my hands shook when you came home from work.
For shame.
You scold me with burns.
I've learned to let you know I'm not for show or your doll, and you can't make me fall.
Someday is my one day and on that date will be my fate
with a natural smile that lasts longer than a little while and a cleansed soul. That's my goal.
K.K.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
He is ancient steadfast
I am sure he was here when the world was created
I am sure he will be here when it ends
His gentle face carved with hard lines
He poured forth knowledge in his native Persian tongue
He called me Shohre
I learned it was his sister's name
He looked at me like a granddaughter and treated me just as sweet
“Ghabl az enghalab...”
Before the revolution...
After which would follow painful reminiscing of
The days before the current regime
When wine bubbled out from Shiraz
Men and women danced late into the night
And soft voices wove love songs in street cafes
“Ghabl az enghalab moalem dar daneshgah boodam.”
Before the revolution I was a university professor.
“Yeki az daneshjooyanam Ahmedinejad bood.”
One of my students was Ahmedinejad.
And in English, clear as hate,
“He was a *******
One night I stayed back for extra lessons
We ate cherries from Costco and
Read excerpts from his autobiography
Pages crafted from right to left, vignettes of
His military service in Mashhad
And consequent teaching career
“Ba'ad az enghalab...”
After the revolution...
Was always followed with war stories
Political dissidents lost to Evin prison
Sharia law imposed on moderate minds
Escaping Iran by night with a phony visa
“Ba'ad az enghalab dar ketabkhane bayad kar konam”
After the revolution I had to work in the library.
“Khoastam yad bedahm, pas man o zanam be Amrika raftim.”
I wanted to teach, so my wife and I came to America.
He has not been home since 1981.
On December third of 2009 he walked smugly into the classroom
Setting a tape player happily on a desk.
He opened a folder from right to left
Produced a well-worn cassette
And played Happy Birthday, in Persian, for me.
He smiled at me with hands folded throughout the song
As I’d imagine he had smiled at
All the other special women in his life named Shohre.
He never played Happy Birthday for any of the other students.
Or gave them cherries,
Or went to their weddings,
Or held them while they cried when their grandfather died.
I do not know what he saw in me
But in each other we found family years and miles away from home.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Folder: DEDICATIONS With Love or Otherwise.
when good friends recede,
they try to erase all evidence of the connection.
why?
who knows.
people outgrow eachother all the time.
no hard feelings.
no biggie.
the dragon was slayed
were safe for now.
I guess I'll see you again
the next time we need to band together
in the mean time erase the traces
forgiveness lives only for the betrayal
till then.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC