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Jedd Ong Sep 2014
The State of My Tagalog:


Guess that's what you can call it.

The insecure prose that curls downward
On my notebook.

It reeks of bit
And piece
And syllable.

Because language
After language
After language

Enter my mind
And slip it
Just as quickly,
Leaving only

Oh, the frustration
As I ask
For loose change
My sister cashier.

I can't even ask for
The right amount
In Tagalog nowadays.


That adds up to 75, I think.

Passing score on my
Report card too.

My self-graded Filipino class.

Don't even know
How I managed
To spell "Ibarra,"

"Tanikala," "himagsikan,"

I'd sing and not spell,
If they never caught
At the bottom of my throat.


Ang Kalagayan ng Aking Tagalog:


'Yan ang pwede **** sabihin sa ‘kin.

Walang tiwala sa sariling gawa,
Patunong pababa ang mga salita
Sa aking kwaderno.

Ito’y sumisingaw ng piraso
At bahagi
At pantig.

Dahil wika
Bawa’t wika
Bawa’t wika

Ay pumapasok sa aking kalooban
At umaalis
Ganun ding kabilis,
Naiiwan ang mga
Kaputol lamang nito.

O, kay inip
Habang ako’y humihingi
Ng barya
Kay Ateng Kahera.

‘Di ko nga kayang
Humingi ng tamang halaga
Sa wikang Pilipino ngayon.

Ito ay pitompu’t lima, ata.

Pasang awa rin
Sa aking report kard

Sariling pagmamarka sa Filipino.

‘Di ko nga alam
Kung paano 'kong
Naisusulat ang “Ibarra.”

"Tanikala," "himagsikan,"

Nais kong kantahin at huwag lang sulatin,
Kung ‘di lang man silang sumasabit
Sa ilalim ng aking lalamunan.
Thank you to Sofia for the amazing translation. She is found here: Stop by—you won't be disappointed.
Jane Doe Apr 2014
Biology has no conscience
It doesn't care about love
It cares about reproduction
Biology does not care if someone gets hurt in the process
Biology does not care if he was your boyfriend
Biology has no sympathy
Lust is not the same as love
But often it is mistaken as such
4 letters
3 out of the 4 make all the difference
You are part of an on going experiment
Observed by a classroom of billions
Constantly watching
Constantly scrutinizing
Harshly graded by a force that you couldn't comprehend
Don't try to change this
People have tried to change this for longer than you could imagine
Embrace it
Catrina Sparrow Oct 2013
"you really are beautiful,
in your own kind of way",
he says
     as he spits through his teeth

in what way is that,
i wonder?

in a way that can't be crammed into a size five dress?
in a way that isn't actually aesthetically appealing?
in a way that's too intelligent to find your misogynistic outburst colored flattery?

he pushes the wire-like hair away from my face
and wipes an angry tear from my freckled cheek
     "see, all you have to do is try."

oh, boy
     that's what i'll do
so i can catch another in a long line of "men" who think i COULD be beautiful

as if beauty is only one color
     one size
     one shape
as if it can truly be measured with a bathroom scale and a hand-held mirror
and can be purchased at a costly brand-name outlet in a shopping mall near you

my mother's mother has an affinity for referring to my twenty-three extra pounds
in a way that one refers to the neighbor's busted-down ford that needs towed away
"oh, catrina, you really could be so gorgeous,
     if you'd just get rid of some of your fluff."

she pinches at my sides
     and the backs of my arms
     and the little curve at the tops of my thighs
          just below my ***
like i'm an over-stuffed pillow on her antique love-seat
that's about to burst at the seems
     should the seemstress not pull out the threads with her teeth
and remove the unsightly over-fill like black-heads from a slender nose

everything she buys me comes from a plus sized store
     and wears a fat filthy double XL on it's tag

considering that i factually only need a large
i fight back my plump tears and wear a cheap smile
as i give thanks i don't mean
and kiss her on her heavily perfumed cheek
     "oh, such lovely lips
     why not a splash of lipstick?"

as soon as i'm out of her home state
i take the clothes back to the "big-girl" store
and trade them in for pizza and beer money

the girl behind the counter ironically weighs ninety-two pounds soaking wet
and that's only if she's still got on her padded bra
     and supposedly ****
since when were curves a curse?
and who the **** decided it was a good idea to pattent worth with a lipstick shade, anyway?

     no way

i am beautiful without having to paint myself that way
my existence is not defined by the shape i take
my flaws and imperfections can't be remidied with any myriad of poking and plucking
     nipping and tucking
and all of my greatness and wonder sure as **** outweigh a tiny bleach-blonde *****

     and that pretty little pony you rode in on

i refuse to be pressed against a rubric and graded like a show-dog whose owner will only settle for best-in-show
     and kicks his failure of a companion sharply in the ribs when he doesn't bring home another ribbon

this obsession of society's is making us sick
we don't teach our children compassion and empathy
     we instead instill their heads with talk of thread count
     and color schemes
     how to brush on blush
     and how to pick a suit
cute won't save the world

i beg you sisters
let us not give this disease to our daughters
let us not allow our sons to carry the gene

     let's put to rest the ill-concieved notion of our beauty residing without us
          rather than within

let us never again bow down to the revlon gods of vanity

we are Woman
     and we deserve to finally soar
tomsout001 Mar 2013
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Abigail Madsen Apr 2013
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
A collaboration between my friend and I, this is what we came out with
Jimmy Solanki Jan 2016
What is my motherland?
Is it the dust that ravages my lungs
Or the bones of my ancestors
Humming softly the old and forgotten
What is my motherland?
Is it where I was born?
A piece of land, a group of people?

Or is it the place where
It's mothers are graded
In layers
Where some wombs only give birth
To sub humans
Where some wombs are scarred
Born from the ashes of a thousand dreams burnt down
I'm a survivor
Of all they could throw at you

Of all their insults
The predicament
My mother's womb that withstood all it could
And some more

They tell me this is my land
That it is my mother
The birth giver and sustainer of life
I spit on their faces
My motherland never was this piece of land
Or the people who **** on its soul
Each and every day
My people lived in a different world
On this piece of land where we were  worse than animals to you

Where is my motherland?
I have none
Robbed of it since my birth
Where is my motherland?
But in the hearts of all who are like me
Set in stone
Yet defying gravity
When my poems trend
How do they trend
Liked and loved
Lovely comments

Oh the perceptions
And my replies
Love them all

I post ,
Poets and poetesses
Do the reposts
Oh wow ,
I love the
Merry go Round

And then
The poem shines
On the front page

Alas !!!!
Graded yes Graded
Don't like that at all
A Big Sigh

As it's Snakes and ladders
All the time
And then comes
The great slide
Wow !!!
what a smooth ride
down the ramp
Zoom ....... it slips down

By the time I check
It's like Humpty Dumpty
Had a great fall
And ................,,,,
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty
Lol Lol Lol .........

Oh I did love the
Merry go Round
Yet the slide ride down
Wasn't bad  at all
An Uncommon Poet Sep 2014
Every course should be marked on content.
In todays schooling we ask students to write final essays or regular essays to discuss their knowledge in a specific topic. However, marks are deducted for minor sentence errors, grammatical errors and style errors. But does that mean they don’t have sufficient knowledge about the topic or that the content of the essay does mean standards? No. Students lose marks for unrelated reasons. Grammar is not content. Grammar is grammar. Content could be excellent while the grammar is horrible. Philosophers potentially had the worst grammar ever, however we have glorified their thoughts for centuries.
This is where schooling has changed. And this is how schooling needs to change. Writing an essay is irrelevant to knowledge about a topic. Writing skills and understanding of content do not intertwine. If I wanted someone to apply knowledge they learned from a topic an essay is perhaps a very irrelevant way of doing so. Why judge someone on something that is, in today’s society exposed to interferences? Interferences such as grammatical errors.
If I wanted to know someones knowledge about a certain topic and wanted them to apply logic and theories they learned from courses, why not talk to them rather than using paper as a pigeon to share ideas? If it was spoken I can’t say “you lost marks because you didn’t put a period here and a comma there.” If it is spoken, you will still be able to notice if the student understands the topic. This way there is not interferences. It is strictly about content of knowledge and the students ability to apply what they have learned into specific views about a question I would have for them.
If I asked a teacher to have a class discussion where everyone had input, how would the teacher grade them? On quality of their answer, and clarity. Clarity being their ability to get to the point. However, if it is not clear, can the student make it clear for the rest of the class? Because what sometimes isn’t clear for one person, could be unclear because they are not as intelligent to be able to understand. The other student might not be so stupid because he said it in a way that is unclear. Maybe the listener is stupid because they didn’t understand? However, if the student can make it clear then their quality of the answer enhances and they will receive a higher grade.
For instance, if this was a formal essay that attempted to answer “What is wrong with schooling?” I would lose marks because I asked questions. Asking questions for some reason is not allowed? Is it informal? No. But society tells us we shouldn’t ask questions we should instead assume something and make a statement because that imposes confidence in a thought. But, if I was questioning certain aspects of something would that prove that I have sufficient knowledge towards one topic? Wouldn’t that impose that I have enough knowledge to understand details and question them? But hey, don’t formulate that statement in a question. It’s stupid. Question everything because you will never know all the answers regardless of all the resources.
By discussing a topic, the answers are direct. Content may vary depending on how much the student learned (providing the teacher is good at teaching and the proper course are in place). If the student struggles to understand a topic it will be evident in the quality of their answer. We can still see if the student is trying too hard (which is never a bad thing to set the standard high, shoot for the stars), or if the answer they have is someone else’s because they aren’t necessarily answers that they would have or words that they would use. But that is an assumption. Never assume, instead question. We can still notice if the student paid attention the course lectures and successfully answered the topic question with detail, reference, questions, relations, and application of knowledge that was taught to the student.
Just because a student can’t write a thought out on paper, does not mean they didn’t understand it. **** I used contractions, I would lose more marks there as well. See what I mean, a highschool teacher would tell me that I can’t say “Can’t” I was supposed to say “Can not” because that is formal. What is formal? Who said that is formal? Jim Joe Bob down the road? Who cares, does the student understand the topic or not? Stop docking marks for things unrelated to the subject.
If this was a writing course it would be understood why a student would lose marks for grammar and word choice and sentence structure or clarity. But students lose marks in History essays for word choice, and in political science for forgetting a period and in gender studies for saying “you” in a final essay. These are unneeded reasons for losing marks. At the end of the day does the student understand the historical importance of the topic? Or does the student understand the importance of the judiciary amongst the political system? Or does the student understand that sexism will only negatively impact society? If no, then he or she gets a bad mark, if yes, they get a good mark. Stop making up reasons for bad marks.
However, one will say; “Well what if the quality of the essay is so ****** I can’t even understand their knowledge?” This proves the instability of essays. Don’t ask for an essay. Ask to talk to the student about the topic. You’ll know if he or she understands. Just like when you go to a retail store and ask for advice about a product. We know if the associate knows what they are talking about, if they have no idea or if they are just telling us what they learned from training (which isn’t bad). Teachers potentially train students in a certain area. Why not ask a question which enforces them to apply the knowledge which they gained from the training to their answer? The teacher will know if the student knows what they are talking about (because they paid attention in training/class) or if they have no idea (because they did not understand or pay attention). Even if they retell you everything that was taught to them. Don’t they know something about the answer? Yes, it’s not the most enriched content because it was your own words but the student learned something right? Isn’t that why they go to school? To learn?
Another will say; “But we can’t escape writing. We have to do it everyday. A person must know how to write.” Fair. But why not teach writing in a writing course? One where the student will be marked on their ability to be clear in writing, or their ability to be grammatically correct, or their word selectiveness, or the sentence and paragraph structure. This seems like an appropriate course to deduct marks for incorrect application of knowledge. However, another person will ask; “then how do you teach structure and grammar?” Through exercises. Ask them to write a paper. Go through assignments as a class, encourage class participation and discussion. If the student doesn’t talk, the teacher will know what they understand therefore, how are they to give them anything but a bad mark? It’s at the student’s discretion but the proper systems need to be in place.
An example; how many people have gotten a paper back, looked at their grade and put the paper away? Did not even look at the corrections or suggestions for reasons why the mark was so poor or decent? Every one. Why not give a student a second chance? Why not scare them to do their best? Try this: Ask students to answer a question, any question. Have them hand it in 10 days from the assigned date. Students who want a good mark will use their time wisely to proof read, get the proper references and apply the correct knowledge. Students who want to get by will start two nights before. Once the papers are handed in, edit them. Once finished, return them without a mark. Wait for the students reaction. They will come up to you asking “what’d I get?”, “why isn’t there a mark?”. Tell them that, they aren’t getting a mark, they need to read the corrections and implement them. Have the paper due in three days. Once the papers are submitted, grade them. There will be less grammatical errors. At least for the students who took the time to read the corrections and implement them. The students who did not, will not receive a high grade a potentially face the threat of a failing grade. Hand the papers back with grades. Once this is done, ask for them to write another essay on a different topic. A topic such as “Should capital punishment be reinforced in Canada?” This topic is ok because you can write about any topic, its still writing. Writing is not confined to topics such as grammar, story writing or essay writing. Writing has infinite topic possibilities. But once the essay topic is given out, tell them they have 10 days to hand it in. Once handed in, give them a grade. Don’t give the chance for editing this time, and see if there is less errors for each student, ask to sit down with them and compare the errors that were made. In this way the student will learn and most importantly remember why and why not to write in certain structures while adding certain grammatical content.
With this exercise the student will learn how to clearly write, but it will take a while. It should be mandatory that students take a writing course throughout elementary and secondary school because the statement is true “we cannot escape writing”. Everyone must know how to write. But in society we struggle to remember that, just because someone can’t write something doesn’t mean they do not understand the topic. If I was to ask Einstein to write a topic on the differences of between time and space in APA format, His content would very well achieve high academic standards but his grammar and format would be god awful. It would be horrendous. He did not know how to write in specific manners, he would use his resources to learn but that was because from what we know he wanted to achieve in the highest manner possible. But he understood the content, and isn’t that what is most important? O the other hand, if I asked him to tell me about the topic, would it be more credible? Would it blow someone’s mind because they couldn’t take away marks. He would receive 100% on everything because he understood the content. That’s all that matters. For those who want to write, take writing courses. Or in today’s society, every context course is a writing course, as students are not be graded on their quality, rather, they are being graded on writing abilities. So to conclude, are we teaching history, science, politics, law, child and youth studies or are we just teaching students how to write without expanding their knowledge of the topic. We can’t base content off of what is written down,  interferences are infinite. ****, I used “can’t”. Sorry.
Juliana Dec 2012
Let’s make vulgarity beautiful
for a couple seconds.
Dwell on the ******* gimmicks of language,
the shock value of mixing syllables together,
the stupidity of poetic “terms”.
I’ll tell you about my hate for
******* clichés,
****** overused poetic devices and word pairings
that ruin the fun for all of us.
I’ll lay down some ground work here:
too many minutes of my life spent
trying to count syllables ,
rhyme words,
analyze and alliterate annoying argumentative articulations.

You know what?
**** alliteration, assonance and consonance,
bastardisations of the brilliance of poetry.
Destroying all appreciation of something so fine
at such early age,
with red pens,
poor introductions,
and misconceptions falling out of every ******* mouth.
Reused and recycled clichés
trivializing the beauty of rain,
that stomach hiccup when you see someone you like
the actual emotions that fundamentally make us human.
The over-judgemental *****
who can’t write for ****,
think they’re high and mighty,
overusing these feelings with the vocabulary of an eight year old,
giving us poets a bad reputation.
**** those *******
with their dark souls
empty hearts and
broken dreams
**** them over cups of cold coffee
in vintage mugs
snapping in a low-lit jazz café.
Sonnets, haikus and ballads aren’t the only forms of poetry,
nothing has to rhyme,
I shouldn’t be graded on my ability to be a thesaurus.
******* teachers narrow-mindedly give us
“creative writing” homework
that's not creative,
like the colour green.
I don’t see how they can judge poetry,
perhaps how it flows and word choice,
but I have an extra syllable
and purple doesn’t rhyme with anything,
**** me right?
Because purple is the only word which
accurately portrays what I mean,
excuse me if I pronounce this differently
rendering my iambic pentameter to ****.
I didn’t deserve a B.
Poetry isn’t something you can confine to four walls,
it can’t be truly ugly,
it can be the sort of ugly where your mum doesn’t want to put it on the fridge
but she keeps it until you’re satisfied,
and then she trashes it,
but it’s not ugly.
Remember that poetry is supposed to be beautiful,
Forget about that *****-*****-***** who ******* you over,
that ******* who didn’t say thank you or
that ****-faced ***** who should go digest a bag of *****
and write something worth reading.
Something that will makes eyes wander back to revisit phrases,
admiring the careful craftsmanship
that translates into something universally beautiful.

The moral here is that
poetry is an art to be mastered and
no one has yet to master it.
Some have come close,
and not all of them have used alliteration,
similes about the heart,
metaphors for love,
binding syllable limits
or rhyme schemes.
Whoever told you otherwise is a raging *******
who doesn’t deserve even the lowest paid *******.
Don’t be afraid to use taboo words;
it's your writing and anyone who doesn’t like it can *******.
Despite the irony,
vulgarity can be beautiful.
Olivia McCann Sep 2014
Maybe my writing
Will improve
When strewn over
Blue lined graph paper,
Tiny boxes,
Coaxing out order,
Perhaps even
Clarifying boundaries
Between crazed truth,
And detrimental lies.

The grid putting
Poem in context,
Poem like graph,
Levels of THC
Number of Kisses
Tears Cried
Outliers of secrets uttered.
Box and whisker plot
Displaying anxiety,
Skewed data toward extremes.

Linear writing would
Reveal the chaos inside.
I can't fit the poems
To the squares.
A graph can't really cry
The way a person can.
There's a losing feeling
Etched in pen
On a harshly graded
Parcel of mathematical quizzing
That a poem has no place to
Instill in me.

And no one would
Be able to read my work
The way they tell you to show it.
My poems have no color coding.
Definition between data
Becomes hazy as
Layers of black are added
In empty,
All encompassing anger.
And I smoke while I write tonight,
Haze growing,
Lines wobbled,
And I may have put a poem
On a piece of graph paper
But it's nothing like the math homework
That stays in my backpack.
Needless to say, I wrote this on graph paper.
Michael Pick Apr 2014
We, the children of a system that awards you simple papers
That state 'he/she has achieved what we deem quality'
As we are all judged and graded in exactly the same way
Because they promote individuality unless it's intelligence

'We all learn differently, and at different paces'
Is an often preached sermon of our progenitors these days
Yet I know more about synonyms for ancestry and parents
Than how to survive once our papers begin to mean nothing

So here I'd like you to tell me what is considered knowledge
And I'd ask of the older generations to insert customary wisdom
Because more adults have spat quotes to me like gospel
Than tought me what I really need to know and value

I've got a track record spanning back almost two decades
Of being sorry for just being myself at all times
So I think my teachers should be proud of themselves
To know that the things they preach to me really get through

You see, homework and exams mean almost nothing
To those who need to really think on their feet
Because this same system idolizes the memory
Mistaking it for a wealth of rawest knowledge

So I love it when they say school is too easy on kids now
Rewarding losing and not promoting any ambition
Because I've been berated for attaining success at any level
Due to grades that define me not successful enough
SassyJ Mar 2016
Vietnam, you uncovered my soul
Gave me a song, a direction smog
Looked at the pandora box I held
Unstripped my flames up temples

A hologram of the graded existence
Seasoned in explosions of burnt haste
Decked on buses,ducked in valleys
Chilled bays, overly paddled kayaks

Such sweet taste of the Halong bay
Undreamt mist of the skies stared
Fishing squids and bellied jellyfish
The soil, the sound,an orotund playlist
Travels.... I miss you Vietnam..... you were hyperreal!
Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza  
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, ***, Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
work in progress.
Nora Agha May 2012
Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in

Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in

Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client

Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks

Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod

Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care

Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner

Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven

The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to

The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready

TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone

Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to

Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood

Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide

Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood

Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all

Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss

Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing
Bree Nov 2014
I tried to tell her.
I did! Did she listen?
No, she didn’t bother.
It was test upon test.

You can’t pass something
You haven’t learned
However hard you’re trying.
But I gave it my best.

It was today that she
Finally graded that those tests.
Her look a degree
Colder than cold.

“This is very, very bad,”
Said she, and I agreed.
I couldn’t tell if she was sad or mad,
But she showed me my mark.

Fifty three out of fifty five.
“At least I got two,” I thought.
No matter how you strive,
You can’t know what you don’t know.  

I tried to tell her so.
Turkish class... "Learn how to fail a test."
Keiko Larrieux Feb 2010
A needle in my eye
Injecting my sight
Evading the light

I was graded in solitary youth
Molded by a truth

My tongue saturated
With a souring tease
My words backwards
They always bleed.

With a finite wire
With a touch that is dire.

I was graded in solitary youth.
I was molded by a truth.
Though loth to grieve
The evil time's sole patriot,
I cannot leave
My buried thought
For the priest's cant,
Or statesman's rant.

If I refuse
My study for their politique,
Which at the best is trick,
The angry muse
Puts confusion in my brain.

But who is he that prates
Of the culture of mankind,
Of better arts and life?
Go, blind worm, go,
Behold the famous States
Harrying Mexico
With rifle and with knife.

Or who, with accent bolder,
Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer,
I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!
And in thy valleys, Agiochook!
The jackals of the *****-holder.

The God who made New Hampshire
Taunted the lofty land
With little men.
Small bat and wren
House in the oak.
If earth fire cleave
The upheaved land, and bury the folk,
The southern crocodile would grieve.

Virtue palters, right is hence,
Freedom praised but hid;
Funeral eloquence
Rattles the coffin-lid.

What boots thy zeal,
O glowing friend,
That would indignant rend
The northland from the south?
Wherefore? To what good end?
Boston Bay and Bunker Hill
Would serve things still:
Things are of the snake.

The horseman serves the horse,
The neat-herd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind,
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.

There are two laws discrete
Not reconciled,
Law for man, and law for thing;
The last builds town and fleet,
But it runs wild,
And doth the man unking.

'Tis fit the forest fall,
The steep be graded,
The mountain tunnelled,
The land shaded,
The orchard planted,
The globe tilled,
The prairie planted,
The steamer built.

Live for friendship, live for love,
For truth's and harmony's behoof;
The state may follow how it can,
As Olympus follows Jove.
Yet do not I implore
The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,
Nor bid the unwilling senator
Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.
Every one to his chosen work.
Foolish hands may mix and mar,
Wise and sure the issues are.
Round they roll, till dark is light,
*** to ***, and even to odd;
The over-God,
Who marries Right to Might,
Who peoples, unpeoples,
He who exterminates
Races by stronger races,
Black by white faces,
Knows to bring honey
Out of the lion,
Grafts gentlest scion
On Pirate and Turk.

The Cossack eats Poland,
Like stolen fruit;
Her last noble is ruined,
Her last poet mute;
Straight into double band
The victors divide,
Half for freedom strike and stand,
The astonished muse finds thousands at her side.
kenzo Jul 2014

It makes me sad that we choose to sleep at the prettiest time of the day.
Put down your phone. Pause what you're doing and go outside. Go outside and lay down and stare at the stars. Forget about everything for a while. The night sky is so becoming, isn't it? It makes me seem so small, like the speck of matter I am and feel. It's the time when my thoughts are efflorescence; when I grasp a pencil and begin to write down whatever visits my mind.

Though those thoughts are quite evanescent, and that seems to make my writing 10 times better than when the sun is present. (I write better under the influence  or when I'm depressed as well and I think that's ironic.) Maybe it's the lack of of halcyon from the sun, but when it comes to night, my emotions are lilting. Knowing that there is so much to this spinning colossal cylinder we live in that I have not yet explored and most likely never will makes me so unbelievably sad. Knowing that nobody seems
to acknowledge it anymore, that we are neglecting earth because technology and narcissist have taken their toll.
We are told we have freedom yet we spend more than 17 years in school full of ****-sapiens differing in traits, personalities, class and abilities. Traits that don't clash with yours, making it easier for them to judge you based on your differences from them, putting pressure and preventing some people to  be who they're not. It is human nature to judge what we don't understand. We are forced to get a job to pay for cars, houses, bills , insurance and  cigarettes (well, for some)
Go to college, fall in love, get married, have kids, watch them grow up and barley ever call you and then, you die. Congratulations, your skeleton is turned to ashes in a urn in your daughters closet tucked behind old boxes and you exist only in peoples memories and photographs and stories. It's something we neglect to think about, the truth.
At a young age, we are asked what we'd like to be when we grow up. Silly us, we responded with an astronaut, firefighter, doctor etc. Nobody ever told us that we most likely won't achieve those goals.
Nobody ever told us that through all the pain, you must maintain that grade because It's not about the lessons, it's just about your GPA and how good your memory is.If I could go back in time to my 6 year old self while being asked that as I play with my barbies, I would say I don't want to grow up. Life isn't dulcet. The word life itself isn't very mellifluous to
me. It only gets worse as you age, and thats the bitter truth.  All the people I love will pass away, more responsibilities and stress will be piled on me weighing me down, my lungs and heart might get weaker due to my nicotine and cannabis intake which is my panacea. Then again, you
can live your life as if you were to die any second, which you could.
For **** sake, I don't want to live a life of a normal human being. I don't want to follow the orders of life, I'm naturally rebellious, I hate living like this ******* it. But I have to. Pieces of paper run our whole entire world, community and ecosystem that we have completely destroyed. It doesn't matter how you are in person, all that matters is what is printed in files and
papers. Your future is based on how your grades are in school, not by our intelligence, but how different teachers graded you. Not only that, but some of our lives are lived by a book. Some of our lives are ended by a book, and destroyed by a book. The Bible, if you didn't catch my drift, and frankly I don't want to live by a book. I want my life to be my very own pastiche.
I want to travel, not only to every place on the planet, but in the stars and in space. I want to make imprints, to leave something behind as proof I was here, I was somebody, that I survived.
I want to come face to face with the man in the moon, to touch the milky way with the palm of my hands and I wouldn't even mind being ****** in by a black hole if it meant I  had the opportunity to be in space. This is what the world does to you. It makes you believe that you can achieve your dreams, that you can do whatever you want. That's the demon of it all.
I am so sick and tired of just staring up at the dead stars, smoking my cancer stick and imagining scenarios in my head. The stars make me feel so alive, yet so dead. Dead knowing that I'm probably never going to go up there, maybe in astral projection, but my meditation skills are not up to par.
When I die, I want my soul to be in space. I don't care how cliche that sounds, I want to be with my loved ones exploring the places unknown to the majority of  individuals on earth.
There is more to this earth than we know, life itself is one big mystery and I don't know how far the universe goes, and that to me is scary yet astounding.
It only makes sense that there is a world after this one. There just has to be. Think about it. We have no idea how earth got here. We know we're made of flesh and bone and stardust, but we have no idea how we are formed. We have theories, so many theories, but no proven facts as to why we are here. So many varieties of different life forms and different planets. There just has to be something after our organs give up on us. We're more than our organs, so much more. I don't know how to explain it. But I guess until my time to leave this earth for good comes,
I'll never know the denouement to life.
So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.
Andrew Rueter Aug 2018
There are two kinds of lives
Examined and unexamined
So we see two kinds of drives
One of grace the other famine

Two lives
In the line
We call time
In a bind
Of the blind
Versus kind

We needed an example
Of how to be nice
Though those were ample
We found Jesus Christ
To lead the way
Through the fray
Until the day
He was slain
And died for our sins
Because the bad guy wins

Now when
Holy men
Goal tend
We bend
To their end
As they send
Us to mend
A devil's den
That is of their apocryphal creation
Of which they deny any relation

There are no angels and demons
Only people who are the reason
For this devilish season
And those who are not
Are caught
In the empire crossfire
Until they retire

Floating through life peacefully
Treating everyone equally
The people at the steeple see
Ways to help through deep beliefs
But others pervert it
To divert it
And insert it
Into hateful ideology
That falls onto me

The imposition of their will
Is how they get their fill
Becoming jaded predators
Not caring who must be killed
Our pain doesn't register
Once we're billed
Cash in till
Their heart goes still

Pain lingers
From bane stingers
Of shame singers
And grave bringers
Using slave fingers
As blame flingers

The righteous save brothers
The wicked blame others
The two became lovers
To hide pain under covers
Because the righteous
Want to be like Jesus
Once the wicked fight us
The righteous leave us
To turn the other cheek
Until we're up **** creek

Plenty of people act like Jesus unintentionally
And live life exceptionally
Others study religion fervently
Yet continue hurting me
This dichotomy
Is odd to me
Do we need God to see
A way to be?

The real dichotomy is net negatives versus net positives
Though we may never conceive
A measurement I still believe
This battle exists
Our actions persist
But the only judgement we'll receive
Is in the way we're perceived
Yet society's goals aren't the same as humanity's
I know it sounds like insanity
But we act counterintuitively
Like the lawyers suing me
So they can get theirs
While saying life isn't fair
Which may be true
But only because of them
So my frustration grew
Once I saw the problem's stem

I wanted to be a good person
But then I got headaches
And bad breaks
From high stake
Growing jaded
After society graded
My endeavors slated
As failures awaited
I became one of them
A broken gem
Can someone please save me
From remaining the same me?
Or will I spend my time
As part of the grime
Not reading the signs
Until the day I die?
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
I'm sorry you had to steal
what was already freely given.
I hope your heart never burns
like mine did the day I wrote that.
I give to you freely
what you honestly deserve,
that is a second chance,
and a word of advice.
Give from yourself,
no gift can ever be poorly graded.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
Euphony* * the quality of being pleasing to the ear, especially through a harmonious combination of words; making a phonetic change for ease of pronunciation

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock

Trickery, diddly, rot,
This Diddy's life poems rhymed not,
The boys and girls all booed,
Your poetic life thumbs-down *******,
Trickery, diddly, rot

sipped his morning coffee.
thoughts about mortality and mean
saw what wanted not to be, the unseen,
trickery, diddly, rot,
brain refrain, relief not,
the **** clock ticking,
the mouse laughing,
at his euphonious nonsense

he wept for being found out,
the noises in the house
joined in
all mocking with accusations
you phony, us,
you, phony us*

another work day ended as it begun,
or began to end
teach felt
for felt
tipped pen reach,
inky dinky in the dockers it  flowed,
now I am red-tro-graded,
bold letter, no fading,
for failing
to phony us

slipped his head under the water,
but the words auditory
and most un laudatory
feared not a drownery,
followed him down
a bath poem
pluto Jun 2015
I wasn't afraid if the Devil sent you to me. In fact, if it was the Devil then this would all make complete sense. But the thing I'm terrified of is if God was the one who brought you to me. I wondered if you were a test- some graded assignment I had to complete to get to the Gates of Heaven.

Yet after meeting you, I didn't want to ascend into the Gates of Heaven. I wanted to stay on Earth, still using 24 hours trying to figure out why we are here. I wanted to stay in Purgatory, sinking my nails into the depth the darkness while you hold me up. I wanted to descend into the hole of hell to feel comfortable in the fire with you. All I wanted was you- in each stage of hell or life. I wanted you.

You see, thats why I think God gave me you. I think God gave me a test, and I'm still not sure if I passed or not.
Christina Cox Dec 2015
At two weeks old I was blessed to be healthy, happy, and strong.
Which is actually really sweet.

At eight years old I was baptized fully underwater in a giant tub.
It sounds stranger than it was.

At eight years old I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and given the gift of the Holy Ghost.
But why would the counsel of the Holy Ghost be a gift only given to those in this church?
And why is the name so **** long?

At twelve years old I was moved to different classes separated by gender then brought back together an hour later.
The concept and schedule of a three hour church day is quite strange.

At sixteen years old I could have followed the rule my parents and higher-ups had made to not date until sixteen but only in groups.
At fifteen years old I broke the rule and found a boy to call my own.

At eighteen years old I graduated from seminary, even though I lied.
It helps when we graded ourselves.

At eighteen years old I could have followed the rule my parents and higher-ups had made to be allowed to date without being in a group.
But I broke this rule three years prior.

At twenty-one years old I could have chosen to spend two years away from school, family, friends and serve the church through a mission.
A scary thought to me but a great experience to those who are faithful.

At twenty-one years old I told my parents, “I don’t think I believe.”
**And crazily, they still love me.
I was born into the church and have just put a few experiences here. Just like any church, there are people who believe and people who do not. Please don't take this as a strict, "This is what this church is." That would not be fair.
dj May 2012
Over the course of my tenure
I've noticed something about
These concrete walls and me.
Something's changed i n m e.

Over the course of these days
It has completely eaten away
My tongue . Cutting a w a y
Neatly and p a i n l e s s l y  .

It even has a personality, I've
Nicknamed him C l e e t i s P.
However, instead of parasiti-
-zing my life. It u p - graded

Me. Replaced that uncouth T
Somewhat enlightened m e  .
Above the soloists -no longer
"I" or "me"; but "us" and "we"

you see self-communality i n
"we". It's slimy-self now fun-
-ctions as o u r newest *****;
A mouthpiece & a voicebox

It lives off of small drops o f
Blood from my tongue-stub
That won't ever, ever c l o t!
My business has a s e c r e t

I t s a y s t o m e                     :
Regardless of  Earthly losses
Give y o u r everything to us
W e are your dearest bosses .
Pt. 2: Story of the communal CEO. About the poem's odd structure = it's a 7 story office building :-)
brooke Dec 2014
do not feel the need to change your works/pieces because people on this site don't think you're up to par. I encourage all of you to keep writing
in whatever forms the words come to you. This is not high school or college. You are not being graded. Criticisms are welcome and considered but don't have to apply to your work if they don't fit in with how you think your poetry should be written.
I've never openly responded to things happening outside my profile and in the community. I was a bit peeved to find that there are people on this site who feel the need to police "bad" poetry and think that we need to be pushed to a preconceived betterment.  Keep writing, keep writing. Some of you don't have any better outlets and I want this place to stay a safe haven for all of us. I am in no way bad mouthing the people who do give criticisms and help people who genuinely want help with their writing, keep doing you. But please be considerate.
Sophie Herzing Oct 2014
I took Billy Collins to lunch with me today.
He kept me company, Horoscopes of the Dead
and new versions of Dante’s hellish sandwich.
My pasta was dry, but I ate it
between stanzas and between pages.
You walked in, backpack and all, at the top
of the stairs. I choked on some graded cheese,
because of the way you looked in your khakis.
I hate the taste of cucumbers but I would have

kissed you anyway. Even though,
I sometimes laugh a little too loud in the mornings
you still make sanctuaries out of my sheets,
covering us in a layer of polka dots,
craving each other’s skin, listening
the lullaby the ruffles of the duvet make.

And even though I sometimes know
that wanting you has its clumsy consequences,
I still lose my breath when you walk up
to the lunch line, or when you grab my face
with both hands, or when you say my name
backwards between sighs. Maybe Billy understands,

and maybe I can just stay a poet. Maybe,
you would look good on me. I’d love
to try you on. But I lost my breath
when you walked in this afternoon.
Toodleloolove Jan 2015
Love has no conditions
We make our own traditions
This isn't our first edition
Love has no conditions

We fix each other along the way
What gives you the power to say
What is right or wrong in any way
If love has no conditions

Tear me down, wrip me apart  
Condition, condition, condition
Am I not enough
Are you calling my bluff

Do you not see the same me
Standing here before you
Begging you, asking you
For you to accept me as I am

Are you settling with being content
When you strive to be elated
Maybe our love has faded
I didn't know I was being graded

If love has no conditions
How dare you not accept me
If we were sand and sea
Id see how you wrestle me

I never wanted to fight with you
I only wanted to be with you
This was our time to shine
If love had no conditions

I can't blame you, slay you, betray you
I want all of you unconditionally
I find myself adjusting to you
As we dance this rhythm of love

Love is just a game
The players tend to say
Ive never felt so played
Who am I today

If love has no conditions
Pigs began to fly
If love has no conditions
This is the day I will cry
I want to be loved unconditionally, with all of my flaws.
Another Monday comes and goes
and with it brings a new set of woes.
More ******* assignments
and papers to write
about **** that I don't care about
but I'm forced to try.

Got my graded calc test
I scored a 68.
Because I don't care about your curves
or if the line is straight.
Teach me something useful
like how to be an adult.
Don't fill my head with nonsense
That I'll never use at all.

College is a joke.
Such a cleverly crafted scheme.
To get us to throw money at them
because we "need them to succeed."
But I grow tired of the *******
and I'm sick of your games.
Just give me my degree,
and I'll be on my way.
ln Apr 2015
Don't tell me to get of my phone and play hopscotch in the wilting paddy fields across the house
the same paddy field that decorated the chest of every newspaper last Thursday, written across the title  in bold; 6 year old girl strangled to death

don't tell me to get off my couch and try make some friends
the same friends that got my neighbour's daughter gangraped at her sixteenth birthday party

don't tell me to only fall in love with a person of the opposite gender,
not after hearing the screams of the lady across these cracked walls, whom as usual would make excuses to cover up the reasons behind the galaxy toned punch scars across her no longer smooth skin, a result of being beaten up by her drunk husband each night

don't tell me writing isn't going to get me anywhere, that only science will, not after you've seen me bleed across these pages trying to make you understand my passion and love for writing & trust me when I say these numbers & stupid scientific terms will never be able to diffuse into my numb skull the way these lovely letters  have

don't tell me that the numbers written on one piece of paper that is graded by a person who probably had a million and one reasons to make me fail, defines  my intelligence, not after looking at that girl from high school who failed  her maths & ended up becoming a world renowned poet

don't tell me that it's right to hate a person because they were born a shade darker than I am, not after the person who saved my life that summer night I was sprawled across the bathroom floor, overdosed on drugs, was 'fifteen shades darker' than me

don't tell me that I don't have a right to stand up to you because I'm younger than you, not after a 50 year old man ***** his 12 year old student; in no way does your age define your maturity

and dear generation X & Y,

don't tell me what is wrong and right, for I am old enough to face the consequences of my actions, for there is no way I will learn without making mistakes,

and dear generation  X & Y,

we'll show you how life should be lived.

Thank you, sit down.
A note to you, from gen Z
Sjr1000 Dec 2016
Waking up one morning
It's a normal kind of day
Only there are bulldozers
on their way

It goes this way:
At the end of your driveway
down to the right
in front of the picket fence
The land is graded
a horizontal drill brought in
made to feel at home

You see,
We you me may own the land
But the mineral rights are theirs

A concrete utility structure goes up,
in what do you think?
About three weeks?

Chemicals are shot
horizontally under the land
under the house
to release the gas from the sand
While the ground water
is fearfully shivering
it knows
its days are numbered.

The concrete utility chimney
pouring out chemical smoke
24 hours a day.

The  County says,
"What do you expect us to do?"
The State says
"***** You "

Cancer clusters
Sick kids
Chemical water tasting very weird

Guess what?

Whether it be our 89,000
189,000 or 889,000 dollar
American dream home
The dog is going to be
taking a **** in the backyard
claiming ownership.

Welcome to LA too
No matter where you are
Every other day
the earth is shaking
buildings tumbling
Dance Dance Dance

Dots on a map
thousands of them
all around us
coming our way.

Better take a drive
next time on talk radio
"Drill baby Drill"

All hail Exxon
Cars love Shell Gasoline

The old USA
******* gas
And it sure ain't nitrous
cars idoling on a stop and go freeway
finding our true purpose
a grounded oil derreck
for the Koch Brothers
He who pays the piper calls the tune
Oh yeah
Drill baby Drill
I'm heading up Highway 101

The Earth hot and *****
for a new life form

Welcome to the new world order
Welcome to the new USA
Purloined, poisoned, polluted
The United Petro States of America.

Hey Hey Hey
"New world order" of course, Bruce Springsteen, the Boss.
If you live near one of these friggin fracking structures, love to hear about it.

Sometimes you gotta write a protest song.
Ellie Stelter Nov 2013
Truth of the matter is, I never was one for essays.
I can insert quotes like mad, I can, but the words
Don't sing for me in papers like they do in poetry.
I can't paint you a world cause you're already
Living in it and you already know it well.
The only gift an essay has to give is analysis and
Let me be honest with you, my opinion
Ain't worth as much as my heartbreak.
Essays don't let me talk like I want,
Don't let me layer in the truth behind a lie.
It ain't fair to kids like me that we get graded
On how well we use big words.
I wanna be graded on a scale I can't trust,
I wanna get credit for making you cry my tears.
Maybe it's hard to be an artist so that
No one will half-*** it: only the idiots who
Wasted art class making cartoons,
Failed English for the sake of their poetry,
The idiots who can do nothing else,
Will be the ones to do nothing else.
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.
V Harrison Jul 2013
What if the Earth stopped its long flight and finally stood still?
the gods controlling the universe, hiding in our footsteps, suddenly tired of our inadequacies and decided
to end this grand cosmic charade.
Coming out of Shadows  
and out of foot steps . perception
torn asunder
and reality recognized as our own inept construct. When in truth perhaps, buy some vain hope,
those ideas invoices we held dear ,
like pin ****** a lighthouse is in the dark and vast ocean,
are found to be merely sparks in the wind,
buffeted and intangible
and the earth suddenly stops.
And the asteroid belt is too small.
and the combusting Sun fails.
And the most frightening possibility of all ?
Will foot steps fade into darkness?
will there be time to dig a final grave what to say last
And will we be seen as works in progress or graded as complete?
judy smith May 2015
Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates.

The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers.

“Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.”

Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work.

Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges.

Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.”

The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist.

The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

“Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions.

“My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion.

“It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.”

Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more |
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The Editor

Late in office,
sour coffee taste
the single constituent
of his yellow bloodstream,
The Editor.

Way up high,
72nd floor.

The city's twinklers mocking.

Life is ours, outside,
where explorers dare,
not inside your

That word, cubicle,
a sugar-substitute for

Another 12+ day.
Empty apartment waiting.

But that no matter.

Old news, her scent,
almost unnoticeable
except for the lavender hand-soap.

On the desk, a manuscript.
A child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses.

The older man lived, loved words,
An editor now, by trade.

Once, he baby-dreamed.

Shaping moments in the lives
of thousands, with tastings of,
with his words.

The answer given, graded, long ago.
Offered a choice,
outrageous misfortune elected,
the arrow taken, his was the
"or not to be."

on the desk, a manuscript.
a child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses.

An unsolicited gift.
By the hundreds, they arrived.

To his desk, the mail room delivered,
trained to snicker by prior generations,
at this lowly assignment.

This one different.

Original, raw,
full of ingredient-courage that
posed the questions
we all ask, answered,
in a nouveau riche way,
not a poseur-way.

Well, so well, he knew Brutus's words:

We at the height are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

His tide, his high tide, missed,
gone out

Instead at the heights, on the 72nd floor,
in the shallows, the bad miseries of
chances missed, ventures lost,
his own words, measured down,
never up,
yet he floated on a sea of others,
drowning but never dying.

On the desk, a manuscript.
a child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses,
a young author, unaware,
his gifts could rule the world.

Just another submission.

No one would notice,
the missed fortune,
if it were lost at sea.

Just another tsunami body,
thousands of worn words
suffocating, still born,
still dead.

Just another Brutus omission.

Another tide, washing in,
another washout day,
except for the
coloring book, someone else's
on his desk.

Dear Sir/Madam.
Thank you for bringing your manuscript to our attention.
We receive many unsolicited submissions and at this time, we are unable to...

Yours truly,

Some are artists,
Some are house painters.
Some craft, other just tidy up
the empty studios of the real.
Did the windows in his office open?
Somewhere his best effort,
paper tarnished by metallic dust,
sweat garnished,
vanquishing tears bookmarks,
a homeless one.

No place to return to,
for to be homeless,
words had to have had a home.


^ Julius Ceasar
Saw pieces of Julius Ceasar. Came home did some editing.
This corny poem, an embarrassment, came out of the the intersection.
At the crossroads, post, publish, or ****** thyself more in little ways.

— The End —