"gab" poems
Sa irarum ku kanimong
matam-is na pagrukot
naintindihan ko
kung uno ibig sabihon
ku pagkapot mo
ku kanakong kamot,
ku mga text ****
malang siram
ulit-ulitong basahon,
ku magrani ka
mga labi mo
sa labi ko,
guru-gab-i ko
nababayad a magayon
**** mga mata,
maganting talaga a mga bituon,
pigdara ko kanimo
ku panahon na nauuda ako,
diri kabisado a lugar nag tangad
sana ako tapos tig sundan paiyan kanimo.
Kaiba ko ika sa irarum ko mga bituon,
nakatangad sana kita tapos
pigsisilngan su bulan na malakabilog,
nag ayat sa pabor
na sana...
sana...
bayaan na su nangyari ku kadto,
mig puon sa panibago,
gibohon na sanang ekpersyensya
su dating nangyari
ku kanatong mga deperensya.
Utro, puon sa uno,
nguwan diri ko na tutugotan
na mabayad ta ulit su puro.
Isi mo dawa kadakol na buwan
su naglipas diri nagbago
su tiwala ko kanimo.
Lang siram na payabaon ka,
Ika sana, uda na iba.
Kanakong Prinsesa
na diri mig uban magiging Reyna.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Nagpabilin nga mamingaw an mga kagab-ihon
Madampog an langit ngan waray bisan usa nga bituon
Maalinsuog an hangin nga nadukot ha akon panit
Pero ano man nga tigda nala tumaghom han nawara ka na ha akon sapit?
Hain ka na? Pakiana nga baga’t ruba nga plaka
An imo ngaran an akon inuguman tikang hiton gab-i kutob ngadto’t aga
An akon pagkakaturog in pirme man gud masaklap
Kay baga ako hin nahigda ha salog nga waray balon nga taklap.
Aadi pa ha akon mga kamot inin mga panyo nga minad-an
Han mga luha nga nagpapas nala tungod han kagul-anan
Gin mimingaw na gad ako han imo matam-is nga tingog
Sige man iton akon guliat pero dire ka man nakakdungog.
Hain ka na? mamingaw na an aton mga sonata
Hain na? hain na an aton gin-uungara nga istorya?
Waray naman gud rumabong an aton natindog nga relasyon
Waray kadiligi hin maupay asya tigda napuo an pundasyon.
Yana an huring nala han hangin an akon nababatian
Waray na bisan guliat o kurahab man la nga nadudunggan
Waray na gihap wantas inin uran, waray na ada plano pag-huraw
Sugad han aton gugma, nagpapabilin nga mamingaw.
- Caryl
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
Huna ko ba nga may ada mo iyayakan?
Ano man nga bagat na dire ka nga akon iton masabtan?
Waray ka na gad pag-tapod ha akon?
Pirmi naman la masulub-on iton imo bayhon.
Kumusta ka na? Bangin amo la gihap
An aton kahimtang sugad hin lasaw nga dire mo matarap
Kay kuno nalikay ka na ha akon
Ano ba itun basehan nga imo man ako pagbabasulon?
Mamingaw naman an mga gab-i nga marisaw
Napuno na hin kahagkot, kasakit ngan kahidlaw
Hain na an mga pahaliday nga imo ginhatag
Adton gugma nga waray mo ginsandag.
Madagmit man gud la an karida han panahon
Nga ha akon paghimangno dire ka na ngay-an akon
Aadto ka na man liwat ha iba
Aadto ka kay durudamo man it iya kwarta.
Waray ko na kababatii an imo tingog
Asya nga an akon adlaw pirmi nala maluntog
Pero aadi la gihapon ha akon huna-huna inin pakiana
Paglaom nga usa ka adlaw mabalik ka pa.
- Caryl
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 8:22 AM UTC
Pirang gab-ī na kitang arog kadi
Nag-aanap sa kin uno a pwede
Mainâ-ināan man basaŋ a kakundian
Arog ka upos na diri mo ma-anapan
Sadtō palan luwas
nag-aanap nanaman
sa kin uno man a pwedeng ma-unas
A problema ko ŋanî, dirî makaluwas
bawal kūnu, agko na batas
pirāng aldəw pa 'kō migəlat
gusto ko naman magluwas
baka maənawan mo
ako naman a nag-uunas
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC
Du gabst ihr dein Herz, doch sie gab dir Ihres nicht. Also gab ich dir meins, doch du hattest keins für mich. Jetzt hast du mein Herz und in mir ist ein dunkles klaffendes Loch.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
From the streets
Of the windy city
In a cold world that
Showed him no pity
He used his gift of gab
To sell their kitty
And it wasn’t done
By committee
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
He was a **** a playa
A consummate lady slayer
Who knew the game
So what’s his name
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
He had no shame
Or second thoughts
He was true to the game
Followed the dots
He ducked the law
Sidestepped their plots
Paid his dues
And carried knots
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
He was a **** a playa
A consummate lady slayer
Who knew the game
So what’s his name
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
Iceberg Slim was
A legend
True to the game
And his profession
Handled his business
With discretion
Then wrote a book
A true confession
He tired of the **** life
In the end
He couldn’t go through the motions
And just pretend
He started feeling like
He might have been condemned
And he didn’t like
What that might portend
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
He was a **** a playa
A consummate lady slayer
Who knew the game
So what’s his name
Iceberg Slim
I know you heard of him
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
cats can very well bear.
If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
policeman in conversation.
When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
that it mightn’t be both?
And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
at all to be done about that!
2.8k
Oh Papa Francisco, Supremo ng Simbahan
Ang iya pagtambong daw ano ka bulahan
Siya naghatag kalipay sa aton duog
Matapos ang makakulugmat nga bagyo kg linog
Gani sa una nga adlaw sg iya pagbisita
Bisan gab-i don madamo guihapon nakita
Nga mga Pilipino nga nagdulog sa iya alagyan
Agud siya sugaton kg amligan
Sa ikaduha nga adlaw sg iya pag-abot
Iya gin-akigan mga pulitiko nga kurakot
Iya ginpahanumdom ang pagtatap sa mga karnero
Iya ginlaygayan ang mga pamilya nga Pilipino
Sa ikatatlo nga adlaw niya sa pungsod
Iya ginpahagan-hagan ang mga nagakalisod
Iya ginbendisyunan mga biktima sg kalamidad
Iya ginhatagan puloy-an mga imol sa komunidad
Sa ikaapat nga adlaw niya diri sa aton nasyon
Iya ginpakigkita mga lideres sg iban nga relihiyon
Iya gin-ulu-ulo mga kabataaan nga nagpa-utwas
Iya ginpangamuyuan ang bilog nga Pilipinas
Gani sa ulihi nga adlaw sg iya pagkari
Madamo sa guihapon nagbantay sa iya diri
Sin-o bala ang magakalipat sa isa ka Santo Papa
Nga bisan may bagyo sa guihapon nagbisita
Bisan iban nga relihiyon sa iya nagsaludo
Kay iya ginpamatud-an nga siya para sa tawo
Matuod guid nga kay Hesukristo siya tiglawas
Salamat Papa Francisco sa kabalaka sa Pilipinas!
-01/21/2015
(Dumarao)
*Pope Francis Fever Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:45 PM UTC
Makahiridlaw an at' pahuwayan nga natukod,
Asay sinirungan kun an adlaw hapit na matunod
Pagsipat han im' bayhon, nawawara't kagul-anan
Duyog han panhuni'n gangis, panhapun han katamsihan.
Ngan kun nadangat na an kagabihon
At' gintatan-aw an bulan ngan mga bituon,
Panuro han tun-og ha panit man humarumhom
Kamataghom han gab-i dire nat' aabaton.
Salit ginkalasan ak pagsalidsid han adlaw
Nga ha ak' pagpukrat, waray ka na man ngahaw
Nagtikang panuro an makusog nga uran
Nabungkag an gintukod nga pahuwayan.
Yana hain man magtitikang?
Hain mapahuway kun gingugul-an?
Hain man masarig, hin-o't uulian?
Kun waray na'n im' kasing-kasing nga ak' puruyanan.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
The southern belle , her spicy drawl , gift of gab and traditions .....
Gentle ways with a soft look , master of culinary skills , jams , mint teas and cobblers , prowess in garden , she is truly a magnolia with the scent of gardenia blossom .....
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.
He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.
Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not ********
but many representatives are mentally challenged.
He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.
People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.
Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
met my maker
*not for the first time,
two acquaintances periodical,
two boon craftsmen, artisansals,
bs-gab-talking about who is surely
the better poet, glinting, side-splitting,
raucous laughter in our dueling self-mockery*
*neither takes the other too serious,
but of each other, we take endless,
never satisfied, insufficient, each needier
for the rapper inside and repartee, adoring
our jiving unique camaraderie, all-the-while,
knowing our balance unequal, but not caring*
*for as equals we meet, to revel and reflect,
revealing things of each other that only we
know, meant not for sharing ever, for these
webbed strands binding, at same time, release,
permitting a tough honesty tally, truth not a concept,
unnecessary, for how could we ever hide our love mutuel*
*we sitting bestride and beside, in ye old, weather-beat-down
chairs Adirondack, having come hewn from trees centuries old,
now overlooking the Bay, we eyeing a solitary fisherman whom,
we both knowingly aware, metaphor for that day that will come
to collect me away to a new locale, where we will yet still needle
each other, with mercy unforgiving, not for our misdeeds, for never*
is forgivenessasked for or given, not taboo, but
holy unnecessary for such is the way the between the
designer and the artifact, the poet and the poem, the craft
and the object, gardener and her fruits, a cellular understanding
that comprehends the interlocking necessity of our natures, that our
shared endings, are a duelity, both finale and gateway to our next poem!
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/462537/how-i-observed-the-day-of-atonement/
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:46 AM UTC
Why does it always feel
Like I am drifting away
Silent
Slow decay
Seems like a steep price to pay
For seeing the crowd
And choosing another way
My soul fades
Like letters in the sand
With each crashing wave
Struggling
To meet my own demands
How can I use this gift of gab
To string words together like strands
And stop hearts
From always feeling sad
A pen
A pad
Mixed with the best memories I have ever had
Maybe I find a rhyme
That properly pieces together your peace of mind
And helps recall times when you didn’t feel like cryin’
When you weren’t dyin’ inside
See there’s nothing wrong with driftn’
But listen
Give yourself permission
To find all the things you feel are missin’
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 7:20 PM UTC
No one has a monopoly on God.
When you hear them say that they do,
Make a dash for it! Don't wait around
For them to impose their merciless coup.
No group has a monopoly on truth.
Of those who say they "know" be skeptical.
If their "knowledge" can't stand up to questioning,
Their mind isn't more than an empty receptacle.
Terror and fear make desperate converts.
Truth and wisdom transcend petty goals.
Some will try to sell you a bill
Of goods that's full of vagaries and holes.
Beware of those with the gift of gab
Who promise to guide you down a path
Of slick salvation and tempting allurements,
Though one false step incurs God's wrath.
Beware of those who say they know
The mind of God both inside and out
And curse your attempts at inquiry
When with an open mind you doubt.
No one has the right to judge you
And tell you that you're going to hell.
Watch out for the crazed fanatic
And the sanctimonious ne'r-do-well.
Put everything into perspective.
Love and compassion should be your course.
Belief should be all about choice
And definitely not a product of force.
- by Bob B
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Sweet and charming she may be,
What you see is not meant to be.
Lovely nymph born with the gift of gab,
Emotional vampire fills the gap.
Manipulative mind behind those lovely eyes,
Entrenching her prey in her web of lies.
Loving her man as deeply as illusion permits,
Keeping her man as lonely as a hermit.
Come the day the illusion dies,
Her man's love for her revitalise.
Black Widow continued to act,
Lest her man violently react.
Tears and mucus drenched her face,
She wiped it off without a trace.
Cold and heartless are her traits,
For she reigns supreme in the straits.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat
The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,
No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,
Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper
They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped
And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.
Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies
To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs
Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes
They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer
The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,
Each with their
Swaying fat ***
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Uns,
geht alles gut.
Deine Augen, die hübschesten.
Dein Gesicht, das schönste.
Dein Lächeln, das hellste.
Dein Lachen, der glücklichste.
Dein Geruch, der beruhigende.
(Alles geht mir gut)
Dein Umarmung
Trost.
Deine Stimme
Ruhe.
Dein Kuss
Freiheit.
(Alles geht mir gut)
Meine Anerkennung deiner Liebe
Deine Anerkennung meiner Liebe
(Alles geht uns gut)
Aber dann gab es die Zeit,
Veränderung.
Unsicherheit.
Beklommenheit.
(Alles geht mir fremd)
Mein Misverständnis deiner Liebe
Mein Misverständnis deiner Anerkennung
Aber ich verstehe.
Verstehe ich gut.
Die Anerkennung ist nicht so.
Die Anerkennung gab es nicht mehr.
Die Anerkennung wird der Verlust
Der Verlust des Trostes
Der Verlust der Ruhe
Der Verlust der Freiheit
Der Verlust der Liebe.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!--
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,--
Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us--we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,--
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,--
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you--know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!--
. . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
1.6k
On no work of words now for three lean months in the
******
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:
To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.
To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death
That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath
And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.
To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas
If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's
work.
1.5k
Discombobulated...
"Bob! You late Again!?"
Its not
A statement
You can make
To make her change
The date again
Happy Belated
Birthday celebrations
Embracing
Her forgiveness
As the cure
For your forgets
Forged
Your signature style
Across the lines
Of her smile
As you kiss
With the intent
To signal her bliss
And ignorance
What's in store
For her
Is distortion
This portion of life
Fused with confusion
Contortionist
Twisting
The body
Of lies
With the a prose
That matches
Her pose
Unjustified margins
Never
Crossing the red line
But riding it
Writing with a wit
That could
Split her brain
In half
You call it
The gift a gab
Emotions versus Logic
The verse is
Littered with poetry
Personified
As a woman
Mixed feelings
Remixed
And mastered
To produce
A new product
For you to accept
Instead
You neglect
Her
Collected thoughts
!Implode!
She gathers
The pieces
To gain recollection
Of what happened
To her
To you
To love
She battles
Herself
To win the war
With you
Tie the knot
For christ sake!
Or undue
"To hell
With you!"
She yells
Her voice fails
To really reach you
It takes
Two
To tangle
Not to tango
To tango
Is to dance
And you'd
Miss your step
Every chance
You get
She feels
Obligated
To feel
For her first love
Inoculated
By the drug
That leaves her
Discombobulated...
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
My Dad built a whoopee room in the basement of our house, that's what we called it back in the fifties, basically it was a free barroom; he worked tirelessly, tiled the floor, knotty-pined the walls, built a Formica-topped bar, with foot rail, and a pool table center stage.
At one end, he pasted and framed with the utmost care, a life-like mural, a bucolic scene of mountains, pines trees, some guy canoeing across a deep blue lake, right underneath an eight foot, padded bench to sit, toss a beer, gab Red Sox, Pats, Bruins, Celts.
The guy could make anything, fix anything in his neat as a pin workshop, totally in control, competent, a rack of tools, his innate ability to figure out, you name it, he’d fix it, in hands-on kingdom this man did it right, measured twice, cut once.
In the Mr. Fix-it realm my father welcomed me, drew me in, shared his man in the know ways, I fetched his tools a quick study daughter, I observed knew ahead of time, like an operating room nurse ready to assist the famous surgeon at his work.
But then without prior notice he’d grow silent, retreat, drink copious whiskey shots, get mean, angry, tried to outrun the never good enough farm boy he once was, this love starved kid would engulf my honest, hardworking, overly sensitive, insecure father, then we all suffered his childhood trauma all over again.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC