"gerald" poems
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
School's coming to an end,
and it's GCSE's,
using all my expertise gained through-out the school years,
It could all end in tears.
Teachers say it's a big deal,
that's what they convey,
it is for them, anyway.
The last few weeks of term and you hand in your coursework,
that was fine, I wish I could shirk the exams,
not very good at revising,
but our teachers are advising us to watch GCSE Bitesize,
but it doesn't really cover what we've learned,
which is a bit of a concern.
We all cram into the exam hall,
it's a bit last minute,
but I'm trying to recall my revision notes.
An Inspector Calls by J.B Priestley,
something's stirring,
Arthur Birling,
a public scandal is too much to handle,
Eva Smith,
Eric and Gerald both had affairs,
but the latter actually cared.
That's a start, I guess.
The exam invigilator sets the clocks,
and permits one hour and forty-five minutes.
The Science exams are multiple-choice,
Biology is fine, but Physics and Chemistry haunt me.
Geography next,
tectonic plates,
and the traits of EDC's,
as well as Less Economically Developed Countries.
That's all over,
we await our mark,
the best part is still to come,
everyone meeting down the park,
and that too me is the abiding memory of my school days,
one last time we're all together in glorious weather,
before going our separate ways.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.
I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and, smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
161 to 180 of 3251 Poets
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Margaret Kaufman
Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949
Deborah Warren
Marginalia
Regan Huff
Occurrence on Washburn Avenue
Anne Marie Macari
From the Plane
Gerald Fleming
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Sebastian Matthews
Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille
Charles Harper Webb
The Animals are Leaving
Zozan Hawez
Self-Portrait
Jose Angel Araguz
Gloves
Russell Libby (1956–2012)
Applied Geometry
Robert Haight
How Is It That the Snow
Early October Snow
Dan Lechay
Ghost Villanelle
James P. Lenfestey
Daughter
Robert Hedin (b. 1949)
The Old Liberators
My Mother's Hats
John Maloney
After Work
Kaelum Poulson
The Crow
Stuart Kestenbaum
Prayer for the Dead
Emmett Tenorio Melendez
My name came from . . .
Gary Dop
Father, Child, Water
On Swearing
Berwyn Moore
Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand
«78910»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
A Pesky Pensee Of Two Leaders
I knew
Gerald and James
One took the world by storm
One took a nation gone wrong
Both on other side now
Tanstaaft 1
Godfather Brown
President Ford
Closer to Lord
Tanstaaft 2
President Ford
Godfather Brown
Now in the ground
Quinzaine
Gerald Ford and Ol' James Brown
Who has more guests
At their rests
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
-
i took no pleasantries in that adjustment
from the top shelf of Pastry Perfection
to the wicker-wire dust bunnies at the
"sole" level of humanity
after i mistakenly thought —you— took
some element of freeverse i had posted a
couple of years ago at one of the more-read
poetry sites on the internet-
then i realized something, Poet..
that for all those sleepless hours you
spent cramming for the SAT—
i posited on how many welding rods
could be burned down during a two
hour period of trade school
and with respect to those thousands of
words diligently packed into your
undergrad dissertation—
(*including that humorous description of a
knitted strap you used to keep the pencil
from rolling off the table*)
i wrote a brief essay of commonalities
on how much Gerald R. Ford and
Elwyn Brooks White
actually disliked
football,
and to those thoughtfully crafted lectures
in front of scores of distinguished
scholars and senior staff—
i was projecting shadow puppets onto a
screen during a slideshow while the
teacher excused herself to the restroom.
basically this;
as to the volumes of books
you have published
over the decades—
i have a few thousand words of
amateur poetry posted online
inside of a few years.
That Said,
for those carefully-placed words
(of mine)
you incorporated into your
latest masterpiece,
realizing poets will not always
happen upon the same instant
at any given intersection,
i recognized that most familiar sensation
we Both get when having correctly
delivered the punchline to the funniest
joke of the evening.
we —in fact— have only the readings
of fellow writers to blame for each
other's blending of creative impulses,
that during these miraculous,
yet humble birthings of verse—
i have it now on good authority,
that we all could possibly exist
within this capacity
as mere equals...
"The Lanyard of Amateur Poetry"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 6:53 AM UTC
(the reconvening of my mind)
It's always the extremes
that bring me back to center,
but it's the trips I take on purpose
that remind me its time to go home.
Today it was the thought of blood.
I cannot stand the sight of it,
and neither would I brave a plunge
in icy depths this time of year.
I’d rather gather sunlight
and convince myself there are
no ghost revivals,
only blood reprisals from
daddy's DNA.
I tell myself
I need to get away
to where I can pray
again, to quit giving in,
to stay and fight wars,
the black, the white,
the gray fluttering darkness that
comes out of nowhere swooping
past my ear, scaring the **** out of me
as if it never happened before
but it has, its just been a while.
So I call for a council of angels,
then prepare for the riptide
of demons that join the fun when
my cranial convention convenes.
The left against the right,
The east against the west,
The pros against the cons,
all the ups and downs,
I don’t give a **** what it is
just give me back my wars.
Give me back my reasons to live.
Give me Nietzsche
Give me Brennan Manning
Give me Sam Harris
Give me Frederick Buechner
Give me Bertrand Russell
Give me Henri Nouwen
Give me Daniel Dennett
Give me Gerald May
Give me M Scott Peck
Give me Pia Mellody
Give me Dante
Give me Jane Kenyon
Give me the Marquis de Sade
Give me Dostoyevsky
and that should just about do it.
Within these names exist
enough controversy,
enough conflicting views
on life, on love, on God,
enough heresy,
enough truth,
enough lies,
enough knowledge,
enough beauty
to keep me waging wars
inside my head until the day I die.
Give me back my wars.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Keep your comments to yourself
I’ll keep my bullets to the side
Through the center of President Ford’s head
Gerald Fordhead
Gerald Forehead
President Gerald Ford’s forehead
You want grey matter?
You get a miscalculation
In flashy red and blue
You heard a squeak
You know it’s me
Charlie never taught me how to surf
Charlie doesn’t even know how to surf
But then again, who does?
If I belong in the ocean
Then why do I have these hips?
Sorry, too much information
Please look the other way
And you’ll hear me
As I squeak
Squeak away
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC
Shh, hush my love let your heart be calm, your troubles lay at my door,
I'll pick them up and carry them a while and let you dream once more.
Close your eyes my blessed one, rest your troubled soul, for the morrow comes 'ere we know and I am bound for Sheol.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled heaving breast, and let me walk this mile.
You've tarried long in this task assumed blithely to be your labor,
Unknown to most a burden such they'd not carry for life nor favor,
Yet stand I ready to assume the task, at least to help yield the Axe, and,
Send those tormenting souls to Perdition's shore.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled vacant breast, and let me walk this mile.
Like rivers deep with hidden tides, currents of pain and woe, flow on in life and bring new strife for those who do not know.
Yet in their midst we walk aside the filthy and fetid sots
who spew forth words without a clue why on the floor see dark spots.
Yes our blood runs hot coursing through our veins, our fists like Gordian knots
(a stab a slice, the pain focuses - feels nice).
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled wounded breast, and let me walk this mile.
We raise our arm, Claymores held high, as if to claim our right - but yet, it is for naught,
For our lives once thought to our own are wrought as though they're one.
And though we're tossed into the night that brings a chill unto the soul,
We sing our song of hope and praise like Silas, Paul, of old -
and watch;
As shackles cold as the hearts of men - fall like dust onto the dung below.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled wearied breast, and let me walk this mile.
We rise from ashes like that gilded bird aflame with an heavenly fire
and surrounded by a host of wings, lay down our swords of ire.
For peace, like dew from the God above is sent to quench our thirst,
a word is given that fills our souls as if they could burst!
Yea love unfettered, unbound and unknown - for us and all who hear.
Love, given freely now, peace...no more tears.
Yes, I need your strength, your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
Now rest, my love, your nurturing breast, and let me walk this mile.
All rights reserved-Copyright 2014 Gerald T. Hollingsworth
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
All I know is locked inside my soul.
I heard them say it's all okay.
I want more than before someday.
My prayers never get answers.
Dissolves like a cancer.
Concentrating on waiting.
Impatience that's debating.
Autumn mist exists it's falling.
Do you hear nature calling?
Your lust appeals to my disgust.
You are no one I trust.
Can't you see me & just let me be me?
This mood is what I conclude.
Your lack of empathy is rude.
How I feel is what we all appeal.
I know what's fake & what is real.
Your misguided.
To you I confided.
Your room is where you hided.
You decide the seven deadly sins.
One of them is pride.
What is the prize you win?
Unmarked treasure, unclaimed & unmeasured.
Misery festers, judges are jesters.
As the family court house crumbles.
Judge gerald jessop stumbles.
Georgia mansury the mediator mumbles.
Terrance chucas the minors counsel tumbles.
Child protective services fumble.
Ariel is living a life that is humble.
***** donor in defeat he grumbles.
The *** offender data base profiles are ready to rumble. The madge bradley building will fall. Once & for all.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
I voted for him when he ran for President of the United States.
Sadly, he died on December the 5th at the age of ninety-eight.
Bob Dole fought and nearly died during the second World War.
If it hadn't been for men like him, we wouldn't have freedom anymore.
When it came time for him to fight for the United States, Dole willingly fought.
But when it was time for Bill Clinton to serve his country in Vietnam, he did not.
Bon Dole fought for his country and was even paralyzed.
When Clinton beat him in the 1996 election, I was surprised.
Dole was a Senator and in 1976, he was Gerald Ford's running mate.
He was a great man and he left this world at the age of ninety-eight.
Dec 14, 2021
Dec 14, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
First we'll use Spahn
then we'll use Sain
Then an off day
followed by rain
Back will come Spahn
followed by Sain
And followed
we hope
by two days of rain.
Gerald V. Hern. 5/8/2016.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
On Fri-the-day in Physics
we spent all trying on movie scripts
cutting them down, wrapping them around our calves like
shin-guards, tight and vaguely reassuring
And have I read it? just the first
You tell me juice instead of grey
I wish you best but do not say so
a woman makes a cup of her heart, and in that way I hear
how he came home to
a surprise celebration of Gerald
(tunes with mountains and bears)
the hell's bells man, what a sweet sound
they were
some kind
of astounding
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
To everyone born to this world with nothing
No social code, allowed to risk it all with no bluffing
While others get bored being handed their every desire
I spent my childhood days building dirt empires
Dreaming of the molds I was not cut out of
When I'd sit down with fellow folks talking of my aspirations
Most just laughed, brushed me off like I had no chance
So I fueled my fire with life's frustrations
My life works may never something tangible
But if you read every chapter of me, your hands would overflow
This world doesn't seem to understand my twisting mind
But at least I never looked at my dining room,
Thinking it's a great place to hang a clothes line
I'm taking jabs at my past but never dwell in that hollow home
Past these child eyes how much of me do you really know
If you were me, if you had to be, disrespectfully some say they'd **** themselves
Take that negativity and raise myself onto a higher shelf
I find my best inspiration in music and staring out at stars
one of my favorite pieces I ever wrote was just about passing cars
I'm scared that people are being cookie cut all the same
In a Stepford manner more messed up than Gerald's game
They hand you charts and define you in a statistic
Like they already threw you the ball but you missed it
I'm here to breath life into a deflated man's scene
Don't let these demons destroy your darkest dreams
Spark a light onto who you want to be
In a sea of fish, be the one swimming up stream
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
Sequester thee eternal sunshine.
The hummingbird does not speak to me.
Symbolizing a new beginning.
Harmony brings Destiny.
Doing the devil's work is heartless.
He can believe liars to this day.
For the biast lies about me the mediator had to say.
I thought heresay was irrelevant.
Her recommendations to the judge were sent.
I was not chosen.
My parental rights frozen.
Demons in human form in the courtroom posing.
Judge Gerald Jessop retired without remorse.
His senseless verdicts concluded it's course.
Who does he think he is to say
or think how we deserve to be separated this way.
At my side is the only place for Ariel to stay.
To take a child from their mother as a baby & a little girl is not for their best interest.
It was traumatizing enough everytime I had to leave just to work my shift.
The judge & his minions at Madge Bradley Downtown can drink giraffe ****
For what they did to my daughter & I's relationship
The devil horned one of red flesh can escort them with his pitchfork to hell as a trip.
Another sunrise they can skip.
Some evil is so bad that not even fire can destroy it
The natural order of things this way is meant.
The biast liars be ****** & die endless torment.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Gerald sat by the window,
He didn’t know why,
Perhaps it was because he liked,
To watch the passers by.
Gerald wasn’t very mobile,
In fact he was grossly fat,
And when he did get to up to shuffle,
His buttocks they did flap,
From under his greasy nightshirt,
The nightmarish apparitions appeared,
And Gerald, being Gerald,
Did what the passers by all feared.
He’d stand upon the chair,
And lift the nightshirt high,
And press upon the window pane,
His voluminous backside,
And a smile would play,
On his sugar donought crusted lips,
As the people who had seen this,
Would gasp and run in fits,
And Gerald laughed and giggled,
Because Gerald didn’t care,
It seemed to him he’d just prefer,
If none of them were there.
But he hadn’t always been lonely,
And when younger far from fat,
Handsome had he been once,
And considered quite a catch,
And caught he was by a pretty young girl,
Who soon became his wife,
And they loved and fought,
And loved and thought, that this would last for life.
And so it did,
But for her and not for him.
So Gerald sat by the window,
Which is where I did begin.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Our City teetered on collapse as pimps and prostitutes worked Times Square.
That long hot summer of Seventy five, ere Disneyfication happened there.
When fear ruled these streets and crime rode the subway trains.
The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Fun City’s last mayor had packed and left, the sad faced accountant now held the reins.
Along the Bowery vacant eyed drunks panhandled passersby for change
And squeegee men collected tolls on all the bridges.
The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Working and Middle class New Yorkers fled the mounting crime and social strain
Open enrollment disrupted schools as educational standards went down the drain
And FALN placed a bomb in Fraunces Tavern.
The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Then real estate sold for a song; there were so many vacant lots.
Fires up in the Bronx had consumed whole City blocks.
That year the Yankees played their games in Queens.
The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Gerald Ford told the City to drop dead when Beame went to him hat in hand.
Midnight cowboys plied their trade, strangers in a stranger land.
In Yonkers, a deranged young man was taking cues from a black dog.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
Ecce enim in
iniquitáte generátus sum,
et in peccáto concépit
me mater mea,
and the cloister
smelt of incense,
the mulberry tree sheltered us
at teatime on the garth,
the theologian monk
slipped his tea as anyone else
speaking of Aquinas,
I sipped tea gazing
at the Hugh drawn-faced
mouthing his tea,
furrow browed,
Gerald spoke of Wittgenstein
over his cup of brew,
you can have me
she said any which way
you please,
rain in the distance,
dark clouds,
biscuits on plates
on the trolley,
the French monk took one
and ate it
with such delicacy,
I fingered the rosary
in my pocket,
the silver Christ
smooth on fingertips,
she flower like,
blossoming before me,
I was born in sin as all are,
the bell chimed a quarter
from the clock tower,
we sipped beneath
the mulberry tree,
ate biscuits,
sipped dark tea.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
THE USS GERALD R FORD
100,000 TONS OF PURE POWER
THE LARGEST CARRIER IN THE WORLD
ITS ENEMIES IT WILL DEVOUR
PRESIDENT TRUMP IS VERY PROUD
IT WILL CRUISE THE SEVEN SEAS
WHEN OUR ENEMIES SEE IT COMING
THEY WILL DROP DOWN TO THERE KNEES
IT SHOWS OF AMERICAS MIGHTY STRENGTH
LETS MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN
THE USS GERALD R FORD
NORTH KOREA NOW MAKE AMENDS
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
"Mammy."
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
Love is a strong emotion
That can be recognize by those with ambitions
Despite of the greatest promotion.
And it is a peaceful war
That can be fought by those with star
In the strong tunnel of misery
Love seems to stand at the entry
And create an empty vacuum
Which gives rise to narrow two doors
Between the fallacy interpretations
One claims to be love,
While the other embrace hatred
In collective joy, hatred endows apiary
That excavates the thoughts
Of the victim in doubts
Incumbent authorized in fallacy
All works strongly to achieve void
In accordance with the mind,
The love forces of the alimentary
Is left out for the primary
to digest in great wallow.
While hatred desolate
in the boulevard of isolate
Solitude is filled with a great agitation
with the aim to stop the mutation
but all was rendered impotence
in the anxiety to achieve all pleasures
The mystery in love
can be understood by the competitors
who bang within the exacerbation
irrespective of the condition
Nevertheless, love have fate,
but the salary of love is Hate
which its extravangancy
is filled with vacancy.
In sincerity love blinds knowledge
And indemnifies the hedge
By Chidubem Gerald
For Inquires: e-mail, [email protected]
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC