"goodwill" poems
#
*I wander throught the works of art
upon a gorgeous but cool day,
Bewildered by the beauty
(and the price they ask to pay).
Paintings hang in canvas booths
in styles of every kind.
Statues, crafts and metalwork
aesthetically designed
Food and drink and music too
a rousing, festive place.
But oh my friends, the greatest art
was smiles on every face.
So many strangers mingling
with a common goal to share
To wit: a friendly greeting
and goodwill enough to spare.
Indeed, the day was perfect
with weather cool and fine.
But nothing tops a friendly smile
in harmony with mine.*
#
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
THERE'S RUDOLPH, FROSTY, SANTA CLAUS AND GOOD OLD EBENEEZER
THERE'S CAROLS SUNG BY EVERYONE FROM KISS ON THROUGH TO WHEEZER
THERE'S CD'S OUT FROM NAT KING COLE, THE BOSTON POPS HAVE TWO
THERE'S ONE OUT NEIL DIAMOND WHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE OLD NEIL'S A JEW
THE STORES HAVE TINSEL EVERYWHERE, THEIR TREES TOO,LOOKING NICE
THERE'S WRAPPING PAPER, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND EVEN PLASTIC ICE
THEY ATTACK YOUR SENSES CONSTANTLY, THEY MUST THINK I'M A FOOL
FOR ALL THIS STUFF IS ON DISPLAY, BEFORE THE KIDS GO BACK TO SCHOOL
THERE'S A RASTAFARIAN SANTA CLAUS WITH DREADLOCKS KNOWN AS "STONEY"
GENETICALLY ALTERED TURKEY MEAT THAT TASTES JUST LIKE BALONEY
PEOPLE DON'T BUY CHRISTMAS GIFTS THEY SEEM TO JUST GIVE MONEY
SO THEY GO SHOPPING BOXING DAY, AND THIS I FIND QUITE FUNNY
THE CHARITIES ARE ON THE PHONE AND AT YOUR DOOR EACH NIGHT
THEY WORK YOU WITH SOME CHRISTMAS GUILT, AND SAY "IT'S ONLY RIGHT"
TO DONATE TO UNFORTUNATES AND THEIR FOLKS NEED IT MOST"
AS THEY FLASH THEIR SMILES, FAKE I/D'S BEFORE THEIR PHONY BOAST
PEOPLE SHOP AND BUY AND BUY AND THEN THEY ALL RE-GIFT
MOST TIMES YOU'LL GET CHRISTMAS CAKE, THAT'S REALLY HARD TO LIFT
YOU WORK O.T. AND DO YOUR BEST, YOUR CHRISTMAS CASH TO SAVE
AND YOU SMILE WHEN YOU GET YOUR GIFT, AND IT'S THE ONE YOU GAVE
CHRISTMAS IS LESS FESTIVE AND TO ME IT'S GOTTEN RATHER CLINICAL
WITH SCHEDULES MADE AND SALES AND THINGS, IT'S MADE ME RATHER CYNICAL
TO SAY WHAT CHRISTMAS REALLY MEANS, I READ THOMAS ACQUINAS
BUT INSTEAD, I'LL USE A QUOTE FROM SHCULTZ'S PROPHET LINUS
..."AND SUDDENLY THERE WAS WITH THE ANGEL A MULTITUDE OF THE HEAVENLY HOST PRAISING GOD
AND SAYING "GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARD MEN.""
AND THAT IS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS ALL ABOUT....PLAIN AND SIMPLE.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
Bring to an end of this
Game of killing!
Bring to an end of this
Game of power to exploit the hard-up!
Bring to end of this
Game of censure each other!
Starts and look forward for opulence of all and sundry
Standing hand in hand
Working with head, heart and hand
No one can stand alone!
Give us a chance,
to live in concert !
Bring everyone closer!
Bring new trust to moving together!
Transmit and get going vocation for concord and goodwill!
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.
- m.f.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
A morning dew sits on my dearest rose:
A shadow of evening's coolness stands still.
How gleeful I'd be to remove that chill—
That accursed blight, I yearn to dispose.
Not in my powers, no warmth from me flows
Not matter the measure of my goodwill.
Only the sunrise this quest shall fulfill
And light, my dear efflorescence expose
Always that morning seems ever unsure,
Yet surely it comes as the world still turns.
Finite be the hours my rose must endure;
Nothing this must be allowed to obscure!
For surely as in the sky our sol burns,
Warmth still exists for my rose to make pure.
~ D.B. Guy (1990 - )
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Today I carried on a brief conversation
With a friendly goodwill employee as I was checking out
She handed me my change and as I hurried to stuff it in my wallet
Before the people behind me became annoyed
She told me to have a nice day
A customary phrase I thought nothing of
Fed to almost every employee by his or her boss
I flippantly said "You too"
And threw in a friendly smile
As I turned my back to leave I heard her reply
"All we can do is try, sweetie,
All we can do is try."
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
I take my imaginary pen
I write down my anger
I close my eyes and count to ten
just to breathe a little longer
It's laughable really
when I see you justifying
Sure, you're all touchy-feely
only goodwill, so hard-trying
When you said that to me
where was your heart at?
Why calling me your better-half-to-be
when all you wanted was a shoulder pat?
Oh you, with your wonderful poetry,
oh, lies so beautifully written down
please just stop, you don't know no poverty
in your emerald sea everything you wanted me to believe is to drown
I never thought you would make me think
the worst of you instead
And I swear I could only stand and stare and shrink
when you didn't care to lose your head
Now you haunt me like the headless horseman
and you will forever
but I do not worry for my sanity, oh boy of thoughts turned cyan
I walked with ghosts before and a headless one is so less clever
And if you ever come back looking for this head of yours
Think twice, try a little bit harder wannabe
It might stick out of the sand at your emerald sea shores
Your love for me was never poetry
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Saturn is in
line with
Venus tonight
but, nothing's easy
when you're down.
The clowns walk
around, dressed in
yellow; fast food smiles
and cheeseburger
souls, and nothings
easy when you're down.
The dancers with poles
and sadness, that Halloween,
fires burning, childhood
perfumed dreams,
kind of sadness fills the
navy blue night.
I can't find the North star,
and the jack-lanterns lie rotting
in the streets of Nebraska
and Kansas, and the candies
all gone, and the kids wait.
And I can't find
the deep blue shirt I bought
at Goodwill, and Billy Burroughs
is filled with worms and earth,
and Bukowski looks at Satan
and says, "what do you
mean, we're out of whiskey?"
I've never been much for the stars,
and family and Thanksgiving are
painfully overrated,
and nothing's easy when
you're down.
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
I’m driving on my way home
from a job that doesn’t make ends meet.
Pawned all my gold, silver and chrome
and placed my hat and sign on the street.
I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”
At each red, I clutch at my steering wheel
and scratch my lottery tickets.
Manifest a positivity I don’t feel,
when it scans I hear only crickets.
I’m living in a creative hell,
one that traps and encases me as a shell.
Preventing me from air, society and heat
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you could eat.”
I have no certifications and no degrees,
my only trade and skill are the words that I write;
the gift that both comforts and tortures me,
it’s too bad that no one pays for plight.
I’m living in a creative hell,
voicing it quietly while ringing a bell.
Begging for help but don’t want to be rude
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you had food.”
I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 1:11 PM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
The old order changeth, yielding place to new
-Tennyson, Idylls of the King
Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp
In spasms of existential death; they pass
At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver
Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there
If you vote they give you a sticker
The ephemeral Constitution changed
Like sweaty skivvies by each president
Law libraries catalogued for pulp
By obedient functionaries in tees
If you vote they give you a sticker
The faithful escorted out of the cathedral
By a bored security guard on overtime
The altar linens for sale at Goodwill
And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V.
If you vote they give you a sticker
Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds
And the others cheer only for the Blues
As the reincarnation of Jack Chick
Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps
If you vote they give you a sticker
Election placards on abandoned buildings
Promise again prosperity for all
The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz
Private Academy of the Dance and Math
If you vote they give you a sticker
An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will
Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ
Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather
If you vote they give you a sticker
And blessed be the Holy AR-15
God gave to His People to defend themselves
Here in the freest country in the world
Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence
If you vote they give you a sticker
While fleets of luxury presidential jets
Arc high over our public housing projects
Reminding us of our prosperity
Here in the richest country in the world
If you vote they give you a sticker
And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right
But them other Jews they just ain’t no good
Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither
And don’t you get me started on them Baptists
(We seem to have been otherwise engaged)
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new” –
(But neither cares at all for me or you)
But if you vote they give you a sticker
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
The Annual POCU Fashion Show held by the campus organization “People of Color United,” was held in the Student Activities Center on Saturday, April 18. The fashion show is the final activity of the year held by POCU. Junior Martell Prayear and senior Miranda Jackson were the show’s hosts and announcers.
The fashion show is a competition where various designers, or teams of designers, are required to create outfits that adhere to a general theme, but also incorporate the designer’s unique, personal concepts. This year, the general theme for the fashion show was: Thrift Shop. Each designer, or group of designers, was required to utilize clothes purchased from the local Goodwill and maintain a $50 budget. Preparations for the event, Jackson said, were very short. “I was really surprised how well it turned out, because we started practicing for the show at four o’clock that day,” Jackson said. “They typically start practicing way a head of time.” Despite the delayed preparation, the fashion show was an overall success. The first designer to present at the fashion show was Victoria Webster.
Webster’s fashion line was inspired by professional work attire. “I think it can be hard transitioning college wear into professional wear, on a budget,” Webster said of her outfits. Webster was able to find three models to wear the clothes, which she said was a combination of the model’s personal items, as well as those purchased through Goodwill. The second fashion line presented at the fashion show was designed by Iyana Lynch. For her personal theme, Lynch designed outfits that were inspired by the different seasons. The third designer to present that evening was Alyssa Nieset. Inspired by 90’s menswear, Nieset designed a line of androgynous outfits. The final clothing line presented was a team effort from: Jeanita Blue and Angel Powell.
Their theme was considered “90’s Reloaded,” and featured various throwbacks to 1990’s pop culture such as TLC and The Spice Girls. Blue said that most of the outfits in their fashion line were inspired by “eco-friendly fashion,” and were intended to decrease hesitation toward shopping at thrift stores. While the judges finalized the scores for each designer or team, the Urban Dance Association entertained the crowd with a quick performance. The judge’s scores resulted in a tie between Jeanita Blue & Angel Powell, and Iyana Lynch. Despite the general tie, Blue and Powell were awarded first place, while Lynch was granted second place. There was an off-campus reception held in Cleveland after the event. Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/purple-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Some days I think I could love you
If the grass was green enough
If I didn't associate your musk with the flannel
I search for at every goodwill
At every thrift store
Trying them on relentlessly
Button up, button down
As if each little plaid square could shrink my ******* smaller
Stretch my back vertically
Aesthetically speaking.
Some days I think I could love you
If was smaller and wiser
If I could believe in nothing
Rather than the absence of something
Every time I close my eyes and pray once more
Beneath the shadow of the hospital-tainted shower curtain.
Some days I think I could love you
If I remember the piercing blanch
Of whiskey burning in the back of my throat
If I recall the tears in your eyes on a mid-May afternoon
Standing closely in a gravel parking lot
Telling me "See ya later" instead of goodbye
Kissing my forehead, nose, and eyes.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me it didn't matter how prominent my collar bones are
Or that it didn't take the catalyst of pickling my insides
******* a lonely man while you were away
To make you want for me.
Some days I think I could love you
When you trace the lines of my waist
Asking me not to lose any more weight
When you tell me I'm beautiful
That you envy my heaven
When you ask to see me simply to hear my thoughts.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me you loved me
If that alone didn't set you apart from the rest
Aligning yourself a whole in one with the others
Only greater.
Some days I think I could love you
If I couldn't recall the misshapen line
Between a large vocabulary and eloquencey
Between a man and a frightened boy
Between an eating disorder and self-motivation.
Some days, I think I might love you
If I could silence my mind of all the fragrances of adultery
If I could leap elegantly past the fear of such a concept
Without wondering how I appear to you compared to the rest.
Some days I think I could love you
If I could forget that you can't
If I could remember how to open my own hatch
Without fear, as the key
If I could remember to love myself.
Some days, I think I could love you
Some days, I believe it.
Some days, I don't.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
"You can't always win, L."
he says.
He always says that,
the boy from Ohio with the lopsided grin,
"Sometimes, you just lose..
and that's okay."
Emphasis on the "okay".
Because he knows
that's the one word
I won't hear him say.
He knows this,
because he always says it.
When I tell him,
I don't feel right, where I am.
And it's worked before.
So it should work now,
he thinks to himself.
And perhaps if I were sitting next to him,
like I used to,
in that one room apartment,
in Victorian Village,
I would hear it.
I would hear it,
and it would resonate.
Before he punched me in the arm
and asked if I was done being dramatic,
so we could turn on the game,
because he just got a text that OSU is down by 7,
and he's pretty sure it's because he's not watching..
So I would laugh,
shove him off the couch I got at Goodwill,
and he would grab two more PBRs from my fridge
that only sometimes worked,
and it would be okay.
It would.
Because to the sound of him yelling at Braxton Miller
through the tv
like he could actually hear him,
and the hot summer breeze pouring through the open windows,
it made sense.
What he said,
made sense.
But we're not in that apartment,
and he can't hear how hard my is heart beating
from 700 miles away,
can't see the look on my face
when I tell him I think I'm losing my ******* mind.
Suddenly his voice sounds so far
and so foreign.
And he knows,
he knows it's not working this time
but that's the farthest he ever got
so that's as far as he goes.
And the long pause is deafening.
So in one final act of desperation
he simply says,
"Love you, kid."
And I just say,
"I know."
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?
Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?
Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.
I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,
but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.
Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.
Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning
nothing ever. I shall not want,
I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,
Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.
true? fair? goodwill? wait
if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?
from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,
then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.
From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,
George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,
thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.
Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so
many, many more.
Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.
I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,
winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
She remembers the day the stick turned blue, “wow for **** up the spout”
He remembers her smile when she told him. Smile, really?
Then there was telling her parents, “okay we'll make this work”
Then there was telling his parents, “You threw your scholarship away for this ***** you're a dumb ***
She remembers the morning sickness
He remembers the hangovers
She felt warm inside when he said it was her choice
He felt like dying when she said she was keeping it
She framed the first ultra sound photo
He deleted his Myspace page
She noticed the day she started showing
The same day he noticed the legs on the waitress
She was snickered at behind locker doors
He quit the team
Her mom brought home baby shoes
His mom circled the classifieds
She got peanut butter cravings
He got hand gun cravings
It's a girl
It's a girl
She remembers finally talking again after four months
He remembers being cornered after 3rd period
She wanted to pick names
He wanted to hang up
She remembers their second first date
He remembers how nice she was
This could really work please kiss me goodnight
We'll see how this goes please don't kiss me
The doctors say the shadow on the ultra sound could be nothing
What if the thing on the picture is something
She prays for the health of Amelia
He begs God to do something about this
They have such a bright future ahead
He had such a bright future ahead
She goes to Goodwill for maternity clothes
He rings her up at the cash register with a kiss
She remembers buying baby clothes at the mall
He remembers how cute the onesies were
She sees him smile
Amelia...good name
She's due next week
He packs his cleats to make room for the crib
She packs to move into his house
His dad packs for a motel
She's still craving peanut butter
He's still craving the waitress
She ate peanut butter
He ate the waitress
She's in labour
He's in traffic
Hold my hand
Ouch...Okay breathe honey...ouch
There's no crying
Nice, quiet baby
Amelia's dead
I'm not a father
She cries into her shirt
He leaves the hospital
She cries into the onesies
He returns the crib to Wal Mart
She burns the ultra sound photos
He grabs his cleats
She gets a hair cut
He quits his job
She returns the diapers and shower gifts
His new Myspace says “single”
She shops for a prom dress
The waitress finds out he's seventeen
Her mom hugs her as she falls asleep
His dad pats him on the back after wind sprints
She can't stop starring at him during prom
He wonders if she went to prom
She writes Amelia in bubble letters on a piece of paper she hangs on her wall a reminder of what's important
He buys a Costco pack of condoms and tacks one to the wall a reminder of what's important
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
I've lost the Christmas Spirit
It's nowhere to be seen
I don't want a White Christmas
This year it can stay green
I've lost all thoughts of putting up
A tree and Christmas lights
I don't want to hear another song
About a Christmas night
I've tried to get the spirit
Reading cards from years gone by
I just can't get in the feeling
And I know the reason why
Santa can stay home this trip
He can pass my house this year
I just can't get in the spirit
Not a chance of that my dears
You see, as the new year dawns upon us
I will be unemployed and out of work
So, you see, the Christmas spirtit
is behind a feeling I can't shirk
The spirit should be in me
But, this year it isn't here
I think I'll give up looking
There's no hope for me, I fear
I'm not worried about the presents
But, the feeling's not in me
I can't find it in the music
I can't find it in a tree
I think if Christmas Spirits
Came to work their magic act
I'd just pay them for their hours
And I think I'd send them back
Don't waste your time on me boys
My Christmas spirit up and left
Of goodwill toward others
I feel I am bereft
I would hope next year to find it
But, this year it's not in me
To wish a Merry Christmas
Maybe next year...we'll just see.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
There was a time,
A year into the future,
when we used to frolic and dance in the sand.
Usually, I don't like beaches,
I hate large crowds,
Hate 'em hate 'em
and I will 'till pigs fly.
Sometimes I think I'm not like the others
even though I desperately wish to be.
I'd like to donate my shoe collection
to the Salvation Army, or Goodwill,
for them to be put to better use
instead of sitting unused
surrounded by crumpled tissues and overdue books.
Or I could build a time capsule
to be opened the next century.
Hopefully the future Ebenezer Scrooge
finds the Ghost of Frolicking Past
and actually learns to enjoy beaches.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
These little things with their little things
( aptly, like pigs in blankets )
sit in their little worlds with little minds
With little senses and little knowledge
they look at all things with little perceptions
and little understanding
cocooned in their little lives with little desired
and little expected
which means
A lot of time for self loathing, a lot of time frustrated
A lot of time depressed, a lot of time unfulfilled,
a lot of time for mischief, a lot of time for hating
a lot of time deluded. a lot of time wasted nursing delusions
a lot of time fantasizing writing deluded ********
a lot of time projecting their ignorance and in pain
a lot of time for anger, a lot of time for mediocrity
a lot of time for distraction, a lot of time to be nothing
but totally and completely foolish and repulsive
but
Spare a thought for ignorance is bliss
and misery needs company
how can the unloved want others to love
why would a little one wish to know a magnum is in action
why would the frustrated ******* want others to scream in
******** throes
why would little damaged things want happiness for others
why would restless frenzied things want peace and goodwill
when they are just little things with Ninety nine problems
and ******** helps hide their twitching
These little things, with their little minds
and their little lives
poor pathetic little things .........
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
Hey Danny, I droped it twice but this one is just as nice
On the fly a small hummingbird on flittering wings just dusting the room
With dann dust and goodwill.
A quiver filled with curative pin point healing
She is wheeling and dealing
Danielle I presume is the full story.
Acufeel good. Feelgood ancient curative
Sent from the far east.
Miniature
Magic whipping about in sea blue scrubs
All good news .
Never gave me the bluesy tude.
Cool runnings miss danny.
Nuff respect.
A short poem for a big spirit. In. Small spirit
Country.
Seek and ye shall find I am inclined to believe
She has a good vibe.
Cool runnings hummingbird.
See you at the water cooler
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
When I was seven, my best friend and I used to dress up and have tea parties. We wore the torn, hand-me-down dresses from my cousins like they were gowns straight out of a princess’s wardrobe, and we were beautiful. We would prance around my room with purple plastic teacups, and there was no better place to dine than the blue **** carpet from Goodwill.
When I was seven I wanted to be a dancer. Not just a ballerina, no. I wanted to do everything. I watched with rapt attention as my cousin’s modern class tumbled to the floor of the stage, and as I stared at their neon colored tank tops and black jazz pants, it seemed that my world made sense. It seemed that as long as I was there on stage, dancing with the same skill and emotion and passion, I would be beautiful.
For my eighth birthday, my friend gave me the sixth Harry Potter book. My favorite character was Hermione. At recess, we would tie the sleeves of our red uniform sweaters around our necks and run around the blacktop pretending to play Quidditch. I thought Harry was smart and cunning and funny, but Hermione. Hermione was full of enthusiasm and rules and always made friends even if they were only in her head. She was top of her class with hair that everyone noticed and her brain was bigger than her group of friends at lunch and that was okay because she was like me. I never thought Hermione was beautiful. She didn’t need to be. Her bushy hair was full of intelligence and her buck teeth were strong enough to bite off the tongues of her oppressors and her dull, brown eyes weren’t dull at all because even the Whomping Willow began as a patch of dirt.
Hermione wasn’t beautiful like a garden. Her fiery eyes were dancing with flames that could wipe out an entire forest without even breaking a sweat. I have never wanted to be beautiful like a garden or the sunlight on the Fourth of July. As I tumble onstage in a blue dress with a tear in the front, my feet are ***** and my palms are sweaty and not one girl has brushed her hair. Footsteps pound the floor like a mighty pride of lions and hearts race as the bass drops and I am not a garden. Don’t you dare call me beautiful.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Memories of my past continue to haunt me,
In my dreams every night.
Our spirits swore their faith for all ages.
Open gates let into our lives;
Loyalty,
Goodwill,
To Rule Solemnly,
Exalted Ceremonies,
Showing the Correct thing,
Wisdom.
Bright Light and,
Justice for all.
We only need to find the courage to
Walk through just one,
To make our dreams
Come true.
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
I belong in a Goodwill.
They’re the only place that’d take a reject like me.
You guys don’t need me anymore.
You never did.
I’m merely a dusty doll.
Too ugly for even a footnote.
In the background, on her shelf.
I don't need pity.
Go.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC