"growler" poems - Hello Poetry

artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights... ~~~ to, for & from SJR ~ this force, burnt soul kindling, rampant urges that bow a man's spine write write rite right consumption of the soul straighten up, flex, flex to the curvature of the Earths invitation to write write rite right cast my eyes to the mountains, from whence will come my help? street prowler, heart growler, Art Deco lampposts, the mountain range of east seventy second street, begs the baggers question, each a post begging each other, from whence will come my inspiration? lick the stubbled sidewalks, fall down living in their caverned cracks, light needed needy soft heated orange and green pizza neons say here, if you see upon what be, your homelands colors of veracity from candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights. all queries so queer, so cheerfully answered in the ***** air, in warped woof of city write lights he goes home in the dark of a green moon, and its delighting inviting moonlight, he composes what is his eyes have decomposed into a single memory, and is satisfied unto sleep praising the eyes, light lidded, but eager closing, that had wisdom given to observe light various by which to write write rite right 4/16/16 10:30am nyc

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Apr 16, 2016

Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights...

artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights... ~~~ to, for & from SJR ~ this force, burnt soul kindling, rampant urges that bow a man's spine write write rite right consumption of the soul straighten up, flex, flex to the curvature of the Earths invitation to write write rite right cast my eyes to the mountains, from whence will come my help? street prowler, heart growler, Art Deco lampposts, the mountain range of east seventy second street, begs the baggers question, each a post begging each other, from whence will come my inspiration? lick the stubbled sidewalks, fall down living in their caverned cracks, light needed needy soft heated orange and green pizza neons say here, if you see upon what be, your homelands colors of veracity from candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights. all queries so queer, so cheerfully answered in the ***** air, in warped woof of city write lights he goes home in the dark of a green moon, and its delighting inviting moonlight, he composes what is his eyes have decomposed into a single memory, and is satisfied unto sleep praising the eyes, light lidded, but eager closing, that had wisdom given to observe light various by which to write write rite right 4/16/16 10:30am nyc

59

my little cousin is almost 3 and she is just like me - or just like I was when I was 3. she’s stubborn and she growls. I used to growl, apparently. she’s a climber, a growler and an observer with messy messy curly hair; it is such a nest, I recalled the years my mother would yank a brush through my ringlets and I would cry. my little cousin knows what she wants, obviously, she’s 3. I was sitting on a bench, listening to my family talk about old stories with my aunt that is now dying. she stood in front of me, my little cousin, staring quite blankly, like she didn’t need anything. I looked in her eyes, she looked in mine. "you got a ouchie" she told me. "yeah? where?" I asked her. "there," she touched just below my knee with her index finger. indeed, there was a fresh scar. and immediately I was buried in a memory of how I got that scar. it was just over two weeks ago, actually; and I hadn’t felt the skin rip until the accident was over. or I could call it an affair, or a pit of passion, or I could even call it a mistake. "how did you get an ouchie?" my other cousin asked me; she’s almost 7. I was devastated. I wanted to be upright, be honest, in a calm kind of way; but you can’t do that with children like this. I wanted to say, "a boy gave this to me." but instead I said, "oh, I fell a couple weeks ago." "on the sidewalk?" asked the almost 7 year old. "something like that," I told her. "you fall hard and got ouchie!" squealed the almost 3 year old. she’s too smart, for her age how did she know that’s exactly what happened

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Sep 2, 2013

Sep 2, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC

samasati

"you got a ouchie"

my little cousin is almost 3 and she is just like me - or just like I was when I was 3. she’s stubborn and she growls. I used to growl, apparently. she’s a climber, a growler and an observer with messy messy curly hair; it is such a nest, I recalled the years my mother would yank a brush through my ringlets and I would cry. my little cousin knows what she wants, obviously, she’s 3. I was sitting on a bench, listening to my family talk about old stories with my aunt that is now dying. she stood in front of me, my little cousin, staring quite blankly, like she didn’t need anything. I looked in her eyes, she looked in mine. "you got a ouchie" she told me. "yeah? where?" I asked her. "there," she touched just below my knee with her index finger. indeed, there was a fresh scar. and immediately I was buried in a memory of how I got that scar. it was just over two weeks ago, actually; and I hadn’t felt the skin rip until the accident was over. or I could call it an affair, or a pit of passion, or I could even call it a mistake. "how did you get an ouchie?" my other cousin asked me; she’s almost 7. I was devastated. I wanted to be upright, be honest, in a calm kind of way; but you can’t do that with children like this. I wanted to say, "a boy gave this to me." but instead I said, "oh, I fell a couple weeks ago." "on the sidewalk?" asked the almost 7 year old. "something like that," I told her. "you fall hard and got ouchie!" squealed the almost 3 year old. she’s too smart, for her age how did she know that’s exactly what happened

68

Delicately, I drop onto the canvas With the grip of a barbed cactus The sand shifts amidst my toes And the sweet quiver as the air arose As the night fades into pitch black I feel a sensation to unpack The time has arrived to release All that has come without great peace Taking my first step I enter full dept Breathing in the warm breeze Just for the taste of bittersweet ease. "Open your eyes, And look at the skies, For the past makes you willingly wise. There is no time to run around, You have done enough, It's time to be crowned. Take this hour, You have earned great power, To overcome the one last growler." This is what I have to say, To make my world no longer gray. I hope you too, will take the time For their will be so much to climb.

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Jul 19, 2014

Jul 19, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC

alexandra-maule

Dessert Hour

Delicately, I drop onto the canvas With the grip of a barbed cactus The sand shifts amidst my toes And the sweet quiver as the air arose As the night fades into pitch black I feel a sensation to unpack The time has arrived to release All that has come without great peace Taking my first step I enter full dept Breathing in the warm breeze Just for the taste of bittersweet ease. "Open your eyes, And look at the skies, For the past makes you willingly wise. There is no time to run around, You have done enough, It's time to be crowned. Take this hour, You have earned great power, To overcome the one last growler." This is what I have to say, To make my world no longer gray. I hope you too, will take the time For their will be so much to climb.

25

"I wish I was happier," she confessed, to me, in-between puffs and awkward silent pauses. "I'm not disappointed," was all I could say, forcing back down my throat, the "me too." We stood there, in quiet, surrounded by loudness. The other few, ate, and drinking inside. Goes back in, she kisses him. What does he know? Answer? More than he's liable to make known. I can't look at her. If I do, I'm caught-in-love, and stuck on the possibilities. If my eyes can avoid you, my dreams can stay fantasy, not just unfulfilled. She's tired of hearing she's perfect. She'd rather be told the truth. but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot. And I'm sick of love, lying, and truth-telling, too. I wish you were happier. I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out, before you. I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together. I wish I could make happy, like some folks brew beer. I'd pour you a growler, (On the house, of course) and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it. This poem is the list of things I never thought could make a difference. This poem is the litany of reasons why I think I deserve one last chance. This poem is the one I'd read to you every night, if it would change your mind. It wouldn't. It won't. This poem bites, the last dying hope of a beached shark, spying the wave that could save it. This poem is the black pods we once foolishly believed were shark eggs. This poem knows I hate the beach, and brought me along, anyway. I started this poem months ago. It'll never really be finished.

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Sep 12, 2017

Sep 12, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC

seanflagstaff

Happy Sharks

"I wish I was happier," she confessed, to me, in-between puffs and awkward silent pauses. "I'm not disappointed," was all I could say, forcing back down my throat, the "me too." We stood there, in quiet, surrounded by loudness. The other few, ate, and drinking inside. Goes back in, she kisses him. What does he know? Answer? More than he's liable to make known. I can't look at her. If I do, I'm caught-in-love, and stuck on the possibilities. If my eyes can avoid you, my dreams can stay fantasy, not just unfulfilled. She's tired of hearing she's perfect. She'd rather be told the truth. but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot. And I'm sick of love, lying, and truth-telling, too. I wish you were happier. I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out, before you. I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together. I wish I could make happy, like some folks brew beer. I'd pour you a growler, (On the house, of course) and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it. This poem is the list of things I never thought could make a difference. This poem is the litany of reasons why I think I deserve one last chance. This poem is the one I'd read to you every night, if it would change your mind. It wouldn't. It won't. This poem bites, the last dying hope of a beached shark, spying the wave that could save it. This poem is the black pods we once foolishly believed were shark eggs. This poem knows I hate the beach, and brought me along, anyway. I started this poem months ago. It'll never really be finished.

56

there are nights where your absence chokes out my breath and the only way i can finally rest is to heavy-handedly pull at the tides of my brew the way you'd paw at the hips of my skirt silently signaling you'd finally had too much to drink your lack of grace illuminated in whiskey-breath and neon jukebox glow so off we'd go leading the liqour-lust parade trailing downpours of drink chips in our wake and you'd take up my hand in your forklift phalanges such a prideful little man-cub with a puffed out chest and a leather vest only softening your edges in the sanctity of my lumpy bed when you've got the chance to rest your noisy head atop my naked breast oh you rusted demi-god though i do miss the struggle and the snuggles and the *** i'll be just fine with my growler of stout and your leftover whiskey in the freezer forgetting what i'd learn during our staggered steps home

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Mar 11, 2014

Mar 11, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC

Sparrowfreckles

last call.

there are nights where your absence chokes out my breath and the only way i can finally rest is to heavy-handedly pull at the tides of my brew the way you'd paw at the hips of my skirt silently signaling you'd finally had too much to drink your lack of grace illuminated in whiskey-breath and neon jukebox glow so off we'd go leading the liqour-lust parade trailing downpours of drink chips in our wake and you'd take up my hand in your forklift phalanges such a prideful little man-cub with a puffed out chest and a leather vest only softening your edges in the sanctity of my lumpy bed when you've got the chance to rest your noisy head atop my naked breast oh you rusted demi-god though i do miss the struggle and the snuggles and the *** i'll be just fine with my growler of stout and your leftover whiskey in the freezer forgetting what i'd learn during our staggered steps home

25

“poet, it’s your day,” she says. groggily growls the growler, “what’d ya mean?” “the sun came up today early, but partly cloudy interrupt-us has arrived subsequently, worse, the Great Swami Interpet predicts rain comes heavy this afternoon on our journey home.” he reflects upon his craggy, scraggly image that is reflected upon the cold brewed black coffee. replies carefully without thinking, “today I will commence writing under a new guise, a new name, a different persona!” “whom shall we be today then?” “come back to bed revelation poet” sunrain

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Jun 14, 2019

Jun 14, 2019 at 7:38 AM UTC

sunrain

morning revelations on a sunrain afternoon day

“poet, it’s your day,” she says. groggily growls the growler, “what’d ya mean?” “the sun came up today early, but partly cloudy interrupt-us has arrived subsequently, worse, the Great Swami Interpet predicts rain comes heavy this afternoon on our journey home.” he reflects upon his craggy, scraggly image that is reflected upon the cold brewed black coffee. replies carefully without thinking, “today I will commence writing under a new guise, a new name, a different persona!” “whom shall we be today then?” “come back to bed revelation poet” sunrain

15

I was banging out some music When from the dark I heard a voice Son, if you want to make a living Then you gotta make a choice I heard what you was playing That was music, not just noise Son, you wanna make a living You gotta make your choice Son, pass me that there growler Over in the corner Don't drop it, you'll be sorry if you do It'll burn on through the florboards It'll burn right on through to China It's a wicked drink, A nasty witches brew He said, I know you is the cleaner You clean up when night is done But, I've heard you from the alley You're a bullet, shy one gun Kid, you play piano like it ain't been played before You're wasting your **** time in here cleaning up the floor There's a whole world out there waiting, just go on through the door Oh...they call me The Bluesman....before I say much more I played some boogie woogie something light just to begin He said, boy...get that growler I need some med-i-sin He pulled up close beside me Rubbed his face and scratched his chin Now, follow close young player The lesson will begin We played for near five hours Didn't hear the storm outside We played what struck his fancy We told stories, we both lied He played that guitar so smoothly With the strings so loosely tied He brought things out from deep within me Stripped bare, nowhere to hide You got to feel the music Not just play it to get paid You got to let it lead you You got to know why it was made The folks who made this music From the normal line had strayed You got to feel the music Play it right, you may get laid He drank most of the growler said, son, now I need to rest I've heard bluesman all around here And I'd say you're second best There only is one bluesman And then he puffed his chest You met him, and he taught you It's up to you to do the rest I finished with my cleaning Heard him leave and go out back Then I heard the whistle Of the train, pass on the track I had to choose the music Be a bluesman, not a hack I learned that in five hours I'd learn more when he came back

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Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC

roger-turner

The Bluesman teaches (A Street Poem)

I was banging out some music When from the dark I heard a voice Son, if you want to make a living Then you gotta make a choice I heard what you was playing That was music, not just noise Son, you wanna make a living You gotta make your choice Son, pass me that there growler Over in the corner Don't drop it, you'll be sorry if you do It'll burn on through the florboards It'll burn right on through to China It's a wicked drink, A nasty witches brew He said, I know you is the cleaner You clean up when night is done But, I've heard you from the alley You're a bullet, shy one gun Kid, you play piano like it ain't been played before You're wasting your **** time in here cleaning up the floor There's a whole world out there waiting, just go on through the door Oh...they call me The Bluesman....before I say much more I played some boogie woogie something light just to begin He said, boy...get that growler I need some med-i-sin He pulled up close beside me Rubbed his face and scratched his chin Now, follow close young player The lesson will begin We played for near five hours Didn't hear the storm outside We played what struck his fancy We told stories, we both lied He played that guitar so smoothly With the strings so loosely tied He brought things out from deep within me Stripped bare, nowhere to hide You got to feel the music Not just play it to get paid You got to let it lead you You got to know why it was made The folks who made this music From the normal line had strayed You got to feel the music Play it right, you may get laid He drank most of the growler said, son, now I need to rest I've heard bluesman all around here And I'd say you're second best There only is one bluesman And then he puffed his chest You met him, and he taught you It's up to you to do the rest I finished with my cleaning Heard him leave and go out back Then I heard the whistle Of the train, pass on the track I had to choose the music Be a bluesman, not a hack I learned that in five hours I'd learn more when he came back

62

The Sundance Romance Daisies flowing She sprawls Dad growler He drools The Moth____ Mothered flies gathered Missing some wings ((ER)) Whoa!! Emergency Room_____ Being dismissed He misinterprets Moth-loving both Her and me ***** of fire Babe Ruth Tolerate In-laws You're hired Mothers Amazing graceful Being prominent Words are Imp-or-t-ant His glass half full 1/2 Her beauty whole Of all ((Mothers)) Providence The E-R emergency The 99 bottles of beer on the wall Someone must Save the date Please call? Singing mouth he drills That sunshine Sunpower *pill Tony Tiger Bengal his gals Rejuvenating Dad loves the mating Alice in Motherland ((For Tea)) lips of hearts Beside me Remembering B.L.T... Kevin-Bee- Bacon Best greens lettuce Lips Palace Kissed her face Linked to her Charm bracelet 3 words magnet I- love- her Motherlove** The triple-decker sandwich ((Upper-Dove)) His temperature Mothers day Spring fever Smiles worthwhile Waiting My Mom E Everlasting R- Nature name Robin Blessed by Mother, Book could read A+ home Entertainer My emergency Show some heart Be hear___t T tremendous We learn so much from To outlive this world Because we are way Over with flowers Like Motherlove The earth loves her The emergence of birth Emergency she saves Heart so smart______*

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May 13, 2018

May 13, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC

robinHelloRow

Moth--ER

The Sundance Romance Daisies flowing She sprawls Dad growler He drools The Moth____ Mothered flies gathered Missing some wings ((ER)) Whoa!! Emergency Room_____ Being dismissed He misinterprets Moth-loving both Her and me ***** of fire Babe Ruth Tolerate In-laws You're hired Mothers Amazing graceful Being prominent Words are Imp-or-t-ant His glass half full 1/2 Her beauty whole Of all ((Mothers)) Providence The E-R emergency The 99 bottles of beer on the wall Someone must Save the date Please call? Singing mouth he drills That sunshine Sunpower *pill Tony Tiger Bengal his gals Rejuvenating Dad loves the mating Alice in Motherland ((For Tea)) lips of hearts Beside me Remembering B.L.T... Kevin-Bee- Bacon Best greens lettuce Lips Palace Kissed her face Linked to her Charm bracelet 3 words magnet I- love- her Motherlove** The triple-decker sandwich ((Upper-Dove)) His temperature Mothers day Spring fever Smiles worthwhile Waiting My Mom E Everlasting R- Nature name Robin Blessed by Mother, Book could read A+ home Entertainer My emergency Show some heart Be hear___t T tremendous We learn so much from To outlive this world Because we are way Over with flowers Like Motherlove The earth loves her The emergence of birth Emergency she saves Heart so smart______*

102