"fran" poems
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Abbie hailed a yellow top cabbie
Brenda had a sister in-law named Glenda
Cate ran late on her first date
Delly ate seven bowls of lemon jelly
Edwina drove to the town of Catalina
Fran burnt her finger on the very hot frying pan
Gwen had a strong yen to go and see her aunty Jen
Hope bought her husband a towing rope
Isobel fell under the magician's spell
Joann took her mother on a holiday in a caravan
Kylie went to the dentist with her brother Wylie
Lesley liked listening to Elvis Presley
Marcia enjoyed eating a freshly baked focaccia
Nell saw a turtle coming out of his shell
Olga lived at the top end of the river Volga
Primrose had a Pinocchio nose
Queenie knitted a multicolored beanie
Ruth could never tell the whole truth
Stacey loved playing dress ups with her friend Tracey
Tilly behavior was always rather silly
Una bought a house in the suburb of Yagonna
Verity wanted to be a well known celebrity
Winifred never stopped taking about Alfred
Xena was presented with a court subpoena
Yale told her teacher a tall tale
Zealand ventured out into the bushland
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
The Man
There once was a man from Nantucket,
kept all his cash in his lucky bucket.
Has a daughter Fran, who is gay,
ran off with a girl named May.
He followed them to Pawtucket,
the two girls with his lucky bucket.
She said to the man,
thanks for your daughter Fran.
The two girls followed the man to Manhasset,
where he still has his bucket as an asset.
Then May and her lover Fran,
stoke the bucket and off they ran.
The man was in a state of shock,
luckily for him he had a very long ****
No more bucket, no more money,
he walked home with his eyes runny.
Now he has a new career,
he became a Walmart cashier.
Now he is the man from Nantucket,
with a **** so long, he could **** it.
He would always have a grin,
as he cleaned the *** from his chin.
If only his ear was a ****
even he admits, it's one hell of a stunt.
His ear, badly he wants to **** it,
and save all the *** in his new lucky bucket.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Gather people
for a story
so profound,
Not created by me,
But a rare, rare reality,
Where forces so profound converged,
Generations forward
were forever altered.
Where one person's heroics
were another's fatal error
Where a family's love
was smothered
in
the churning waters
of Big Lagoon.
Big Lagoon sits
north of Agate Beach
shining treasures can be found
in the gathering sands
To the west,
The ocean rises and falls
To the east,
The lagoon's placid grassy waters roll.
It was an Indian Summer's warm, warm day,
Everything it promised was delivered.
Two days after Thanksgiving,
I remember it well,
the fog was gone,
the sun was high.
A family dog beach walk
Howard and Mary,
Olivia,
Gregory, every one called him Geddie,
Geddie's girlfriend, Lily.
The family dog, Fran, chasing sticks
in the ocean and in the sand.
Time stopped for
a diamond moment,
sun reflecting off the ocean.
To chase a stick
Fran ran
a ten foot wave
took her under.
Geddie ankle deep edged forward
when within that frozen moment
another giant wave emerged
the cliff that is the sand gave in,
in the merciless embrace
of the terrible wave,
He was pulled under.
Down the beach
Howard ran
plunged into the waters
to save his son,
He only found
Kingdom come.
While Geddie made his way
out of those frozen waters
and could not find his father,
Called by what unknown voice,
He dove back under,
Not to be found
for hours and miles later.
What is the power of love
which would propel each one?
Mary watching this unfold
could not abide their fate
and herself plunged in
for one last attempt
at saving grace.
The ocean says
"Many have fallen in
but few survive."
Mary and Howard
rolled
in and out
in that frozen water's breath.
While Olivia and Lily
frantically
called 911
and struggled on the beach
out of reach.
The power of the ocean
the power of love
had made three
one.
30 minutes later
Fran ran out
looking to play
one more round.
If by the Pacific Ocean
you stand
see urgent footprints
in the sand,
By chance
you hear the plaintive cry
of
"Marco Polo"
voices calling to one another,
It is the ocean singing
their last lullaby.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Dan- Where did you buy your sunglasses at?
Fran- At the Gosford pharmacy, it's the one next to the shop that sells Persian rugs and mats...
Dan- I'll go there tomorrow and buy a pair like yours Fran!
Fran- I think a pair like mine would look terrific on you Dan.
Dan- Are the sunglasses on sale or will I have to pay a fortune?
Fran- The pharmacy is having a sale on sunglasses till the eighteenth of June.
Dan- Thanks Fran!
Fran- You are most welcome Dan...
Dan-I better go and get a bite of lunch at Mike's milk bar.
Fran-Is it okay if I join you, for lunch at the milk bar?
Dan- Sure you can Fran!
Fran- I haven't been out for lunch for some while Dan.
Dan- We'll take a taxi cab there....
Fran- I'll pay for the fare!
Dan- I'll hail the first cab that passes this way!
Fran- There's one parked illegally in the bus parking bay...
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Blinking red plasma
kaleidoscopic frame rate
"RED means insane"
"put a silver in! put two!"
The flashing
King of States
holding a minigun
"is that metal?"
"looks like bullets"
"tilt the wrist, tilt the wrist"
a glass of spiced ice
knocked over
sticky floors
"who cares!"
"where was the proximity?"
"what?"
"of rendevoux"
the liminality of spinning
"shoot him!"
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
One very sunny day,
I went outside to play with friends,
Playing games with no ends,
We ran down roads with bends skipping,
Each one of us tripping,
Falling and a-slipping with joy,
Coming up with a ploy,
To catch that dreadful boy with glee,
Prank him like he did me,
"Lets tie him to a tree," Fran said,
"We'll leave him there in dread!"
How punishing for Fred, how bad,
That would not leave me glad!
"That would make me quite sad," I frowned,
"But we cannot back down!"
Then we all looked around for plans
"Lets tie his shoes to cans!"
"He'll make so much noise, and he'll blush"
Said Verutica Klush.
"We'll do that, we must rush to him,"
That plan is not to grim,
So we sent Mary Kim for shoes,
And Patrishia for glues,
Starting to work in crews as fair,
All got in on the dare,
To join cans he will wear to boots
Hearing many hollers and hoots,
At his door we placed boots with cans,
He wasn't fooled by our plans,
You just must understand one thing
And oh, the dumbness stings
We didn't hide the strings to the cans
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 1:17 PM UTC
“There’s 7 billion, 46 million people on the planet and most of us have the audacity to think we matter” –George Watsky
Dear George,
You were there for everyone else. I cried for them all while my dad begged you in whispers,
and you melted into the crowds of people,
and you dove from the balconies,
and pretended like the world consisted of somebodies.
You left me with cold copies and ignorant earth.
Somehow you made 4am into something selfish.
I was losing lessons I was willing to learn. I had no songs to sing,
while you were serenading the ****
and were packing his bags, and became his love letters for her,
and you made me lose someone I never had.
You wrapped every lesson I ever needed up in an empty inbox.
You painted San Fran diamond sidewalks empty gold,and I needed you!
You were there for the mutilated, and kissed their filthy trigger fingers, and spat on birthday wishes, and you made me desire the life of a passenger.
You were the only one that reminded me how to smile; you drowned out slamming doors…
You didn’t have to make the water thicker or make the bottom seem so far.
You didn’t have to give them boats of Titanic shards!
Your silence made sinking inevitable.
You gave me more with empty hands than I ever would have thought. You taught me that every hero dies,
and that I will always love the traitors,
never love cardboard cutouts, or dream of cardboard castles.
You showed me how it feels grasping at ghosts,
and how much you can doubt,and just how much that hurts.
I hope you never write your idols.
With Love,
The Girl That Will Never Learn
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
Go outside after breakfast
Come back for lunch at noon.
Come inside at suppertime
And even then, it was too soon.
Never permitted to be late
We ate dinner at six each day
Eat every bite on our plate.
About the menu we had no say.
We had baking soda submarines
Popular Mechanics magazines
And that was technology back then.
Decoder rings and roller skate keys
Shooting marbles on our knees
And playing crooks and G-men.
Those days we had three channels
On all black and white televisions.
Just the same thirteen inch boxes;
Nothing like 3D or Panavision.
Loved Uncle Miltie and Lucille Ball
And considered Korla Pandit a waste,
But we must be forgiven because
Back then, no one had much taste.
We could spell Kula, Fran and Ollie,
Said words like “gosh”, and “by golly”
And were anxious to see flying cars.
Many movies were in Technicolor
But you always had to take your brother
And he didn’t recognize the stars.
After school we played sandlot ball
Saturday were TV cartoon shows;
Dancing trees with belly buttons
And a local clown with a red nose.
We joined Cubs and Boy Scouts
Had lemonade stands by the street,
Matchbooks in bicycle stokes
And used bottle cap taps for our feet.
It seemed like days were longer then
And summer was slow to come again.
Those were the days when we had fun.
We built our forts and hooked up swings
Kids did all crazy kinds of things
Before these modern times had begun.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tall buildings
perpendicular to highways,
penthouse balconies
thirty meter diving platforms.
whenever in San Fran,
i pancake my hands together
so i don't do impromptu Physics
eyeballing skyscrapers.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tornado sirens
at two in the morning,
someone fetal position mouthwash drunk
in the bed next to me.
whenever in Birmingham,
i listen to my headphones;
tinnitus a siren wail
long after the flight home.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like bridge collapses;
infrastructure devastation
west of Florida,
killing all granola exports.
whenever in Portland,
i waitlist college signs
and estimate the weight limit
of a commuter bridge.
I want to be a crab cake
because the sunsets here
give me panic attacks.
it used to not,
but enough honey has built up
so bees swarm the bonnet
whenever there's a
blood orange tint.
I want to be a crab cake
because I don't like
the seafood here
or Sushi Pier discussions
of future trajectories
while rain pours on our
trout marinated in
Tahoe Tessie **** water.
I want to be a crab cake
because the mountains
bug me out.
i want flat land
where there are
blood prints on highways,
broken families in Tornado Valley,
and remains of promising bridges.
i want to be a crab cake
because i want the world
to eat me up.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
you know that...
kramer vs. kramer
incident?
the fran...
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PR_fprintf(err, "\t-n <n> Number of bytes before <eof>\n");
PR_fprintf(err, "\t-f Follow the <eof>\n");
PR_fprintf(err, "\t-h This message and nothing else\n");
} /Help/
tail C....
waiter! waiter!
ah...
garçon!
ergo?
françaizes....
willy-nilly:
francis sayz...
or rather... said...
kinda picky, i must admid...
and i "thought"
the english were bad...
minding the huguenots...
oh look who's coming,
a steamroller...
steamroller who?
give it about an hour or
so... we'll get the crêpe in
the end...
it's like...
you really want to ask a question...
but ask it...
in the proliferate dimension?
you know what drunk munchies
looks like?
looks likes so:
oh ****
that croissant didn't do it...
think think think, man! think!
frying pan...
refrigerated butter...
two eggs, one slice of white
bread...
beat the eggs into a scrambled
egg goo...
then dip the slice of white bread
into it... soak it...
then fry it...
attempt to melt some
brie onto it...
add some apricot jam,
or honey into the composition...
**** me...
in synch.! ladies and gentlemen!
we have ourselves....
a ******* orchestra!
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
shake the oldie over
ya see i PARTY all over the town
ya know i party up and down
ya see cranky people are letting out a big frown yeah
it sounds so rad, and get out our fake hip
and throw it at people who ****** us off
partying is right, but being bad is wrong
ya haven’t had a shower, boy do ya pong
ya see as you cook the sunday roast
and mind you it’s the best roast in town
but i don’t wanna boast
the main thing to do here yeah is
shake the oldie over, that’ll be so rad
then we take this pill and say
PARTY ALL NIGHT AND INTO THE DAY
don’t let old fogies tell ya to stop
ya see we party once and we’ll party twice
and then grab a leg of nan’s sunday bird
and eat it and say it’s nice
yeah the party is beginning and the
best thing we do is shake the oldie over
and then play good samaritan and help this old person
acting all innocent oh yeah
and then as we dance in the club, oh yeah
and party to all the great songs the band played
and some songs were hip and others were just great
we got to the gate at half past 8
you see i come every day with my COKE
and say, shake the oldie over and
help her to her feet again
and say to him/her, no discipline please we just want
PARTY PARTY PARTY
shaking her and playing with her
thinking when this oldie dies, she becomes a kid again, circle of life
she’ll do it again in her next life
like joshua patrick or michelle fran or ben
we’ll party once or twice a week each year
we’ll till the end of your life dudes
shake the oldie over, to prepare her for her childhood in next life
that is what i do, come on dude, shake the oldie over
till she finds her youth in next life
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
A fallen catholic I shall admit
Yet I see a strange parallel tonight
A man who is indeed humble
Akin to the shoes of the fisherman
Oponionated in past yet compassionate
None radical yet I expect change
A man who can expel those others hid
Or a puppet upon a golden stage
But an outsider that was chosen quickly
Is the Vatican cleaning house?
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Pints in San Fran pub . . .
Glowing hops, bubbling stars,
Wood stool a trindle.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
one more for five year old Ian
he is the little boy, on an
I-don't-want-to-go road trip,
yet inside happily,
pretense outward poutingly,
yet he is nosed pressed straining onto window,
so hard, it's window marked, stain leaving,
absorbing, being absorbed by the fresh
flowing of air currents of new scenery
little boys of beauty,
of beauty,
what do they know?
life is action figures,
videos and toons,
colors vivid but manufactured,
daddy hanging them upside down,
coloring books less than quaint,
few museums bid then enter...
how do they learn what needs
remembering, celebrating...
differentiating tween mundane profane and profound...
some say there are pleasure chems,
the brain releases when the
San Fran sun contacts all flesh,
when California coast surf
beckons claiming splashing
and attention demanding,
when nature offers up
mountain trails that insist
one of any age climb her offerings,
to make them "ours,"
if ever so briefly,.
to be map marked upon
cerebral tissues and
leave the boy and the vistas
neurally connected perpetually
of these matters, I,
no certainty possess,
though I well recall
my nose in that windowed position,
the clarity of Atlantic Rockaway
fresh salt breezes
entering, being stored inside
my five year old brain cloud,
so it could be true
what all the grandmothers
claim!
but this know with soul surety,
there are few things
more beautiful
than a five year old boy,
inhaling the passing scenery,
redding his cheeks even more rosy...
he, a painting, forever stored,
summonable with a single blink
of my mind's eye,
perhaps this is how
he will indeed learn too...
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Let's run away together
and buy a cramped, one bedroom apartment
in New York or Prague or San Fran or Bristol
wherever you like
(I could never begrudge you anything)
I'd sleep so much better
with you in my arms
(I wouldn't be scared
that you would **** yourself
in the night)
I'd learn to cook
vegitarian
just for you
and
I'd make you tea
when you were sick;
You'd tell me
"You're pretty"
every morning
and mean it
and
You'd read me
Nabokov and Ginsburg and Shakespeare
over breakfast on the weekend.
We'd go to the museum
and discuss
artistic movements
and painting techniques;
We'd go to concerts
and dance (though
neither of us
can)
We'd lie in the grass
under the stars
naming off constellation
basking in each others' proximity.
In short, we would
love each other;
*** each other;
make each other happy.
Let's run away.
let's run away together.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.
He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.
I'll not sit to read his letter.
I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.
He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.
I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our ******* quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.
He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.
If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.
No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.
Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
So, you said "I love you"
but it was all so tongue in cheek
Like, what a silly concept
to feel that way about someone
especially before *******
I suppose that's true,
for you
Too many people out there
have floods of fire and gloom imploding their brains
but replace the voids with Kim Kardashian's perfect ***
So in fear of seeming awkward or strange
tentatively we may love each-other
"I suppose we'll hang out soon, right?"
Totally.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 7:04 PM UTC
far *** ye ben,
ma closest freen.
ah did nae see ye.
files ah forget fit ah maun act aroon ye.
ye aye despised meh ben fran.
an fit cwid ah iver blame ye.
affen ah feel the same aboot ma ain decrepit hert.
ah miss ye like the bairns in the bothy miss the affa fantoosh summer sunshine.
slowly ye gie me back ma smile,
ah anely wish tae thank ye,
sae meet me aat the loch's lowse an lets hum the tunes we danced tae,
as geets wi nae convictions.
Where have you been,
my closest friend.
I did not see you.
Sometimes i forget how i must act around you.
You always despised my stubbornness,
And how could i ever blame you.
I often feel the same about my own decrepit heart.
I miss you like the children in the bothy miss the great summer sunshine.
slowly you give me back my smile,
i only wish to thank you,
so meet me where the loch's work ends and lets hum the tunes we danced to.
as children with no convictions.
.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
When I was 6,
For Christmas
I wanted a nail polish set
That is for GIRLS
My mother shrilled
When I was 7
My parents found me in
A glittering princess dress
I had felt beautiful
You are a boy
Boys don’t wear dresses
Oh and when I cried
Boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry
*Boys do not cry*
Because crying is
For the weak and only
Girls cry
Showing emotion is
A flaw but I’m
Designed for flaws
From the beginning
Buffy the Vampire Slayer was
My idol and Fran Dresher
Was my mom
Women are treated as
A lesser being and
As an insult
And I’m sorry
I’m so sorry that I have
Enough respect for women that
I want to be in tune with
Myself and that
I looked up to women during
My childhood
Was surrounded by
Athena’s and Medusa’s making
Men kneel before them because
Women have a key
To unlock their souls
Women are warriors
And I want to be
A warrior
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
I don't think of my past very often these days
So much has changed in me in so many ways
The person i was, no trace of him remains
In fact his gender is gone too, in his place is a dame
Deep in my mind I've discovered the truth
That trying to always be a man was an error of my youth
I hid it from the world year after year
But I've come out as trans, and its perfectly clear
And I'm happy now, full of kindness and love
On a journey I've started like none I've dreamed of
With all the things in my life that mean most
I'm seldom reminded of all my old ghosts
But sometimes I remember smiles of my past
Friendships long ago that I thought might last
And its okay that they haven't, I don't really mind
Most are forgotten, or lost for all time
This poem is to one, I think of sometimes
Her name is Fran, and some fun times we had
But decades have passed, all of us have changed
I was just hoping she was well, and living her dreams
To Fran, from Mark
by Lj Mark 2015
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC