"furlough" poems
THERE is a woman on Michigan Boulevard keeps a parrot and goldfish and two white mice.
She used to keep a houseful of girls in kimonos and three pushbuttons on the front door.
Now she is alone with a parrot and goldfish and two white mice ... but these are some of her thoughts:
The love of a soldier on furlough or a sailor on shore leave burns with a bonfire red and saffron.
The love of an emigrant workman whose wife is a thousand miles away burns with a blue smoke.
The love of a young man whose sweetheart married an older man for money burns with a sputtering uncertain flame.
And there is a love ... one in a thousand ... burns clean and is gone leaving a white ash....
And this is a thought she never explains to the parrot and goldfish and two white mice.
5k
Look at yourself
All *****
Blackened with a sour demeanor
Rip the top off
Take a look inside
An endless carousel
See the stars
And be thrown to the next page
Never to come back again
The stories for the next chapter
Clenching to previous excursions
Remnants, recollections of once new beginnings
Once you start you can’t stop
Can't turn and have second thoughts
Once you’re out
You’re gone
Falling to pieces
Smoking, dangling
A mental spasm
A lapse, relapse
Push them away
They speak too loud and bright
A half baked scheme
It’s something to pass the time
Hedges of red
Busted fence posts
Inconspicuously
Punctured shell
To the roots
Vibrations to my brain
Purple furlough
Roofs fall
Pedal till they bleed
Bleed dry to the bone
Till the bone breaks
And the pain grapples me into submission
We ignore the fruits in front
Of us for the mirages
We pretend are real
Putting In hope and taking out lies
Riding the ignorant air of pride
Crawl in desperation to continue
It wouldn’t lie
Stick to the plan
Raise the voice
So they hear and believe
We won’t stop till it’s found
They won’t stop till I’m in the ground
Buried, out to pasture
Fresh fertilizer here
I hear his deceit meshed
Deeply in his voice
Yet I fool myself to
Believe due to my denial of doubts
It won’t let me continue
Smile for no reason
When I think about it
Disorientation follows
Don’t utter another word
The grass is dead on both sides
So let’s make them equally green
Plant the seed
Pack a lunch
As we walk, we remember
The lesson we were taught to never
Tread here
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Dark, this
restive hour, when
I search for a secret
peace, that lies lurking in the heart,
lost moon,
pre-dawn,
before worry
rises to shine on the furlough
when grey the twilight in furtive
retreat:
this hour,
when winds summon
birds to the distant realms
when little voices rise on beaming
star lakes.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
There is power within the people.
Not the politicians.
Witness this political climate.
Federal employees on furlough without pay.
TSA employees calling out.
But it was the airline traffic controllers that could have halted it all.
Not a single plane could take flight.
While the elected fools fight.
No pay, no work.
Even the president protection squad could halted his travel.
With just the phase for your safety sir stay within the White House.
ANOTHER SIGN THAT THE POWER IS WITHIN THE PEOPLE.
The group always proposing walls and segregation camps?
Should be the ones assigned to feel the agony of the hurt and pain.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 12:27 AM UTC
Sun comes up,
she goes down
on some upended main drag,
if i were an archaeologist
i still wouldn't dig this place,
every other day she dwells
in tedious, empty cafés,
but on the weekends she flashes
her "license and registration"
to oncoming traffic,
hoping for grifted furlough
to wear as silken, shiny beads,
and so we ride
this merry-go-round,
because moving in circles
is far better than being trapped in a square,
we've stopped climbing the calendar
in search of higher elevation,
she used to pour it on thick,
stirring drinks inside my head,
i used to shake
worries from her hair,
now with bitter orange marmalade
low in the sky, and stacked against us,
it's home before dark,
lest our eyes open wide to see
we are nothing more
but strangers at sundown.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 10:57 AM UTC
shut down the gubmint
it ain't workin no more
no end to tax and spend
libs gonna make us all po
shut down the gubmint
don't matter nun no how
unessential personnel
will enjoy a day off now
the gubmint don't funkshun
the gubmint is no good
the gubmint should go away
we'll manage our own hoods
everyone grab yer shotgun
fill the bathtub with water
firemen and cops on furlough
perps we'll give no quarter
the skools we can do widout
common cents is all we need
only teacher unions will be angry
publik skoolin just a liberal creed
won't mail the SS checks
financing lifestyles of idle poor
dis socializm needs stoppin
kick the commies out the door
national parks should be solded
only tree huggers will care
Koch Bros will snap em up
cut trees, strip mine, run job fairs
as long as the Army
keeps bombin the Tallyban
we be safe from Evil Doers
its all in God's good plan
so shut down the gubmint
its time to slash and burn
Teabaggers to the rescue
Obamanation gotta learn
You Tube Music Video:
PO PO Shut Us Down!
Led Zeppelin
When the Levee Breaks
Oakland
4/5/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?
Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.
This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.
If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.
If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Here comes the sun.
The puddles have dried from underneath my eyes,
And the storm-clouds evaporated from my mind.
In earnest, I call for jubilation!
Convalescence at last!
But then I remember.
My fitful feelings are simply on furlough.
This is only the eye of the storm.
Knowing this, I brace myself,
Hoping of mitigating my inert emotions.
In haste, I foist my harrowing memories,
Banishing them to far-away corners of the mind.
I defend my self-esteem,
Behind impregnable walls and menacing guards.
A shelter to ignite hope.
Inside, I feel valiant.
For once, I am strong.
Alas, it’s all to no avail.
My attempts quelling the insurrection will prove useless.
The enemy attacks from the inside.
And so with a sigh, I’ll wave my white flag.
My fortress will crumble.
Hope will no longer burn.
The storm will engulf me once more.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Springboarding
captured children,
locked in
vending machines,
like princes in the tower.
Swiping the barcode
imprinted upon their foreheads,
placing them in playpens
--free range, of course--
and listening to the stories
that caused them
to,
in this precise order,
fill,
spill,
chill...
To empty their lungs,
to rage against the machine
that first boiled blood
into the deflated veins
of their youthful tendencies.
Birthing a furlough,
for when
the wild
and profane
wish for scream time:
babes in the wood,
before figureheads to die for.
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 10:17 PM UTC
Dear Grandfather,
You are missed more than a thousand Chinese lanterns,
but I know you are not lost, nor are you off track,
I'm sure you float among the stars
sipping sweet red wine on mars
& play cards on the dark side of the moon
I still hope that one day God will grant you with furlough
to escape the bony handed captivity of reapers,
so that you can sit next to your loved ones,
and we can have coffee party's at 6 am
and ice cream socials at 9
I'd apologize for weeping even when you told me not too,
I'll always remember that you are the diamond glints on the snow,
and that you don't sleep so we can watch king of the hill and HBO all night long
and when your furlough is over
I'll know that when I wake up the next the day that you did not die,
I'll just call it going on vacation,
I've always wanted to go to space,
and one day I will see you there,
and we can surf meteors or make memories in the constellations.
but over all I'll always think of you when it rains,
and I'll try my best not cry when I visit your grave.
Always know I love you,
You're Granddaughter,
Emily.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
I'm buying some new old CDs
to remind me of my old young days.
The time of the trad jazz revival
and the stranger shores of Joan Baez.
Tom Lehrer made chemical magic
and poisoned pigeons in the park.
He promised to go with us when we go,
when we half expected nuclear snow.
Those were the days my friend
that came to an end, but like our parents,
we still feel warmth in summer suns
tht glow in memory's furlough.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
the department that handles
all communications
has gone on an extended
European vacation
they wont be back on the job
till sometime in late May
so all senders of messages
will be in for a long delay
should an emergency arise
and help be required
just know that the department
was holiday inspired
they weren't thinking
of our vital exchanges
nor of the distance between
our country's vast ranges
with a bit of luck they'll return
early from their furlough
to get the communication lines
back to a gushing flow
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Tender the whiskey or beer in my hand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Hazard as high as perception is low
Don’t tell my mother, she won’t understand
Pour me another, to recess we go
Scars are clothes-covered and flesh wounds don’t show
Hide all my bruises, pretend that I’m grand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Don’t call my mother, she won’t want to know
More to these feelings than she would have planned
Pour me another, to recess we go
Call the Mourne Mountains, and rosin the bow
Rattle the bog and the black velvet band
Pour me another, to recess we go
Don’t tell my mother, she still doesn't know
Sentiment-soaked more than she could withstand
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:56 PM UTC
your furlough, even
across the world
so beautifully ****
made immense by the primeval crush
of light.
there are places in the world
filled with soundless bones,
women in their lifeless braids
and swell sheen of moon
this bane of such swollen river
aching back to its source.
it is that your departure has the
scent of olives crushed against
the squalid home,
and that your presence never
lights an incense,
like death wafting searching
for flesh, or a lone animal
left cut in the wild pursuing rescue
with a hue of damp mauves.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
Miracle on 34th Street.
So good, she was terrifying.
Unable to cry on cue,
Mother tore a butterfly to pieces,
And she sobbed and sobbed.
Compartmentalized,
Body and spirit broken
By the hours at
Chateau Marmont.
From sweetness
To restlessness.
From academic nods
To drinking in the scenery.
From charmed head shots
To one too many dry martinis.
Gorgeous and gloomy,
"She clings to things with her eyes,"
And naturally was committed.
Her orchestra played
A signature tune:
Splendor in the Grass.
Picture is in the tank
And so is the marriage.
Again.
Furlough is on the brink
And so is the divorce.
Again.
Charting course,
Casting reels,
Dreaming where the boats vanish,
Drowning in a paradox of watercolors.
Who pushed you over the side,
Russian doll?
Jan 26, 2020
Jan 26, 2020 at 10:15 PM UTC
in some paradoxes, space happens when two people
are close but not close enough.
after hours of demand, the presence occurs in many ways.
ubiquitous objects rend the veil of vicariousness.
there will be a repetition of days in here,
an assertive swing of dialogues to make ends appear as though
real and accurate.
in a brief candleflame of silence on a Vietnamese restaurant’s rooftop,
there will be noxious space conscious of: we are waning.
the way words leap from fences of teeth and venetian hairs.
air becomes a fat mound of fools in arcades and then in an instant,
it feels as if there is no more space left to move in, so they wear
each other’s skin and shed right after the ballast’s fall.
when done explaining a dream, sleep goes to belabor a bell.
soundless beside them, stiff as a body dreaming for itself.
in some paradoxes, what is imagined is most real.
there is suspicion that this lacks sentimentality. it is as carnal
and as commonplace as a hint of touch from a closed-in expanse.
that time at the market when you had your hands fretting
for shapes of perfect fruits, taking them in your careful hands
wary enough to not beat them senselessly to the pulp of their
glazed figures – the prices start to inflate and you wonder why
people still remained when at the first sign of difficulty
you start your furlough.
and also sauntering with maimed pace, that of autumn’s slow
reprieve, making your way past decrepit buildings,
you stop to take sunsets not because they’re marvelous,
but because you easily forget – and accept that there are
also things wet under the rain and not with tears.
when in another paradox, things point to their source
when doused with oblivion – starting to breathe on its own,
occupying space
leafing through days when something instantly said
rushes back searching for its holder,
to be given, stolen, or say,
left to die on its own –
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
A pink small sparrow
Comes at my halo
And grants me furlough
To travel through hollow;
I do after her lonely flow
But at my trail many glow
With expectation inflow
Of Money red or yellow.
It made me strong fellow,
From yesterday to tomorrow,
Who travels lonely and slow
By using a wheelbarrow.
No friend or enemy allow
Me to enter in his furrow.
So ye decide judiciously now
And choose relatives or sparrow.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
I just want some time away
from war and anger in me.
It feels like WW1 in trenches
across no man's land forever
bleeding and crying
going mad in moments
rats wake me chewing
on me and I begin to
just let it go as normal.
I'm no longer myself.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 10:14 PM UTC
It's snowing covid
We've all had to take shelter from the storm.
We're wearing gloves & masks
As if it were freezing cold
We can see everyone's breath
Friends lovers strangers
Our own
carrying death.
Dangerous to go to the store
Apocalyptic vibes
We're like magnets staying polar opposites
pinballing around the room
To avoid each other
Total intimacy
Total isolation
Perfect relationships for the 21st Century
Everything's slowed down
Tahoe blue skies
Carbon ****** away
Coyotes running through the streets
The whole planet on furlough
Creative projects
Free at last
The agoraphobics wet dream
Rich in time
Poor in money
We're reminded once again
Nature bats last.
Ever since it started snowing covid.
Where we're going from here,
We don't know
Wishful thinking
Careful planning
It's all in the cellular snow
And it just keeps on snowing
its been said before
The one thing we do know
There's a bad moon on the rise
But
The seasons come and go
Wars they come and go
And the snow eventually blows away with the winds.
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC
As an indie alt rock'n tribe beck ha dishabille poet, hive u challenge writing *** null guess to begetting heir or heiress, which includes gestation of an, emotion, idea, sen timent, unbeknownst if outcome birthed to be fabulous then however the whim sic al notion spins within thine cerebral centrifuge, the imagination pregnant with fetus of a fledgling concept feeling with byte size sea legs, not quite ready for prime time beak combs obvious, as swollen womb expansive lettered girth manifests and coalesces into miniature Confucius versatile baby (unless unexpected contusions render exertion aborted effort, the proud procreator bounteous, which success inspires this scrivener to tackle another and fleeting thought and sire by product with audacity. oft times, the sacred seconds silenced by stillness louder than "Big Ben" ear splitting only to me squirreled away in this basement. den the dead quiet riot audio logical sonic boom decibel asper a water nymph sprung from a fen, or when sneaky fiery fox slips into the house, where yokes roosting long foster mass squawking. manifold egg on eyes zing hen, the end result metamorphoses into a totally tubularly unforeseen jumble of gibberish senseless wordy clump aspiring to convey some essence of logic, though best to take a furlough than persist to interpret trumpeted dump of discordantly strung English bits, which intractable insistence might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p as the mood one may find them-self, unless ***** can call the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph, and with any lucky the once amorphous lumpen pro lit tarry hit might undergo an amazing transformation. a cherished poem plump with wriggling juicy fruit weighing down the boughs as if limbs ready to slump iz born.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC
The maths was wrong for exam results, that caused a mums revolt.
Now you're messing with primary schools and half the kids have Covid.
Then you rolled the dice again and landed on a 6, geometric progressions really aren't your thing.
If six meet six and six meet six and six meet six today, saving the NHS will be next weeks headline again.
And now it seems companies scammed your furlough scheme while you were buying PPE, you mates made a fortune but was useless to me.
We ate out to help out, that was the catchy line. What will be the next one..
Stay home or f###### die?
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
I got the old furlough blues
I simply don’t know what to do
The world has changed
And I’ve got no clue
If normal will return
For me and you
I had a job
But its all shot through
I’ve got three weeks of nothing
The State’s paying my dues
I wake up late
But I don’t sleep well
The smallest task
Starts feeling like hell
I got the old furlough blues
I simply don’t know what to do
The world has changed
And I’ve got no clue
If normal will return
For me and you
I’m trying to keep on
An upbeat path
But reality is
This isn’t a laugh
I’m tired of dealing
In uncertainty
I’m bored of the endless
Cups of tea
I got the old furlough blues
I simply don’t know what to do
The world has changed
And I’ve got no clue
If normal will return
For me and you
I want to break out
I want to feel free
To give you a hug
And dance until three
I’m through with this lockdown
I’m sad and I’m blue
Guess that’s what they call
The Furlough blues
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC