"hacky" poems
Granite plaque in a tulip bed, end to the Oregon Trail.
Teminus for ordeal by ox and prairie schooner,
where slight survivors began rejuvenation,
the wretched fortunate refusing a backward glance,
children with ancient faces set atop skeletal frames
tried desperately to remember what it meant to play.
Manifest Destiny's broken terra incognitae rested.
Swamp Mama Johnson's concert in the park,
a blues-to-the-wall celebration of life and love,
was a saxaphoned shibboleth for offbeat orphans.
Homeless youth played hacky-sack in time;
a baglady danced with the little girl with Downs;
a camera rocked on the shoulders of the PBS man
--- Olympia gave hommage to ghosts in the gazebo.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Consumer Culture makes me sick,
it burns like acid contained in
coffee cups the size of
your heart exploding.
Music that will **** your ears
for only a buck
because it is a song shaped by greed
alongside factories, with smoke stacks
acting as sploof tubes,
covering the smell of life
created just to be killed.
They have innocent eyes
an organism giving away its only truth
for convenience, for simplicity
**** your fast food,
**** your jellybean president.
Employment is conscription to join
on the losing side in the war on
your time and mind, The Double Bind.
You ought to love your country
but do you?
You ought to compete, go for the win
**** your friends, get to the top.
Do you know what the prize is?
One morning you wake up and find
that your game was a farce
and you aren't what you really are
but what you could of been.
Defend your limits.
For we are waterfalls, spinning wheels of imagination
shaping clay with organic inspirations
planting ideas in the fertile unconsciousness
Don't form beliefs, form a question.
Understand we are ice-9
collectively, we are the watering-system
We are the true god through experience mystic
disbanded stars that are the galaxies.
Properties of our composition suggests that,
you better let this water flow,
because if you don't
a world full of love
would love to strike you down
making you coo and swoon
over the symbols of a dream,
the beautiful sunflower riding a bike,
hitting a hacky sack perfectly
at the end of the day
a cup beckons inscribed with your name
are you just going to sit and stare at it?
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
I remember paper lanterns with small red candles floating down the river
but I don't remember the festival or in who's honour they were lit.
I remember roadside shrines and little envelopes of money, not proper
money but a special kind who's name I don't remember either.
I remember the big pagoda but couldn't tell you where it was.
I remember so much about those years but there's so much I forgot.
I remember warm rain and warm puddles that we jumped in with flip flops on.
I remember the little guy on the motobike and sidecar that used to come
round selling soda and taking caps for prizes and the bubble stuff in a
tube.
I remember the paper pucks with feathers in that the local kids would
play with like hacky sacks.
I remember the smell on incense in the temples
I remember the markets. The sights, the smells, the sounds of so many
things never seen or heard or smelt before or since.
I remember Hong Kong
And I'm sure its changed since I was 5 but I want to go back and see
just how much.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC
Rocking my snap back, blowing up like a bellow back, juggling bars like it were a hacky sack. Life tries it’s best to give me set backs, but I just sit back and get back up for a comeback. Underdog from the underground, not here to blunder around for I want to be glory bound. Bound for glory, can’t keep me downed man for this is my heroes story. Story of my life, story that almost ended with a knife. Had enough of being left astray, for I no longer was going let myself be treated like an ashtray. Going into the fray, going in but this time I promise I won’t lose my way. Weighed my options, weighted the choices, and now they come to flourishing motion. I only listen to my own notions, and I will sacrifice anything to succeed even if I end up like the borthans. Death stares through the stars, but I won’t be taken by no Death Star. Starting ground up, for you gotta do what ever it takes to get to the top. Toppled the haters and the fakers, for my bars are like eating a snickers. Keep yawl satisfied and I’m so grateful that my effort has been gratified. Bonified dignified undenied modified undefined went in applied and rallied from a moral guide to tear apart the diseased hide. Government conspiracy, government deemed freedom of speech as heresy. And here I see the flaws, and here I came out of the depths with my claws. Clawed for my dream, dream of attaining cream. Escaped the depths of the Demi-gorgan pit, because it’s all about survival of those who are more fit. Fit to be a decency, but because I’m different I’m deemed a discrepancy. So I’m going in like a ghost doing recon call me Tom Clancy, exposing all these ******* fallacies. Falling down an icy slope, and for the longest time we couldn’t open up because we was introduced to dope which was anything but dope. Dopamine filling my being, neurotransmitters firing so fast that I attain this happy feeling. False perceptions to stimulants, false ideals gotta use discretion’s before I end up in a addiction predicament. Moving fast, moving slow, the ride won’t last, so I always gotta have me mo. Self medicate self evaporate self ********** which leads to self hate and broken fate.Too long since I noticed anything but myself, feel like a ***** villain man so should I arrest my self. I just long for rest myself, and maybe it’s time for someone else to assess myself. Maybe it’s time to visit the mental asylum
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.
My poems hide in board games while camping.
My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.
My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.
My poems hide in compliments from strangers.
My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.
My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.
My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.
My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.
My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.
My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.
My poems hide in my relationship with God.
My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.
My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
ive been going back to a better time
collecting comics because it was a hobby when i was a child
i got a hacky sack it reminds me off my college days
******** wrestling fan rocking my tees
ready to go back to jui jitsu get my black belt
play a guitar making music release my soul through the sound
write to get it all out since i dont always have some to talk with
i dont quick making the comeback
learned to stay come not overreact
live strong be strong
be tough when things go wrong
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
I grabbed death by the wrist and fought with him until the bitter end
And here I stand with Hell buzzing aimlessly by me
Playing hacky sack with Satan.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Mister Kerouac,
that’s all I can fathom as I sit
at my desk weaving my hacky
sack between my fingers.
This old hacky sack has seen
much, it’s a handmade ball of
beans, the leather is worn, the
stitches are torn the logo is faded,
but I never waited to fade it
off my shoeless foot.
It’s like you,
simple
yet
Profound,
is the right word
for what goes on
in your head, in
your hacky sack.
But as I sit here, thinking…
I only know you as a photo
a dismal,
content,
forceful,
thoughtful,
imaginative,
smoking,
cool
black and white
photo.
Yet your ideas resonate throughout my head…
I think of a flower nodding to a canyon,
I think of a man sitting in a black and white
chair, in a black and white room, wearing a
black and white shirt, smoking a black and white
cigarette, drinking a black and white glass of
scotch, writing with black ink on white paper.
The thoughts and pondering wandering to
the black and white respective pen and paper,
or the click & clack of your black and white
fingers depressing on your black and white
typewriter.
So I can only come to one conclusion,
you’re not just a black and white photo,
doing black and white things
in a black and white world,
you’re an idea. And although
the image is black and white
you’re the color, sparsely
pouring over the world with
the colored ink spatter
from the place in your
hacky sack.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
we'd play hacky-sack -
I don't know how, but
I'll make it up
and I'll teach them
what to do when
they get papercuts.
And when I make their fluffer ****** for lunch,
I'll leave a note that says
“sweetie”
and they'll throw it out,
and I know they will
I'll **** five hundred trees
but it's all worth it
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
old lover holds my heart
with casual hands
sometimes tossed
often fumbled
a hacky sack
kicked into a corner
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
somewhere in town,
a dog licks at the hand of a child.
a man with no shirt plays hacky-sack alone
The stalwart city has come crashing to her knees,
and so against his own he kicks the bag
again and again
as if he could raise the razed ground
with the power of a child's game.
I CRIED
YES I CRIED
and
LOVE TRIUMPHS OVER HATE
and
UNITE.
by a fountain on the curb
men with long hair and guitars sing together,
only strangers before today.
a woman who saw someone yesterday
gasping in vain for a smokeless breath
inhales deeply from a cigarette.
A saxophone sings out sweet and low,
his melancholy tune sung
for everyone who can only hear
the screams, long gone silent save for in memory,
where they pierce as loud as sirens.
a boy walks to the movies with his mom
and asks her what the sign says.
she reads it aloud, eyes brimming.
baffled, he cannot understand why
a free movie
and a sugary drink
and a tub of popcorn
brings his seamless mother to tears.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
eating fast food as I watch you wear your old Hawaiian t shirt you adopted from the bottom of a bin at the local thrift shop because everything has always been comfort over style and you can't change now
a fry falls onto the lap of my thighs and you ask me when the last time was I used my kitchen floor for dancing instead of pacing around but my mind falls short into the drops of condensation sweating into a couch that I hate sometimes and admire for the sturdy way it always manages to **** up my back
I'm already what I want to be but I pretend that I throw around my identity like a knick-knack hacky sack and I'll always blame you for the aftershock effect of feeling like I've been spun in a tumbler and left to be drunk by the gnats you breed by never throwing old fruit away
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
a few weeks back an
acquaintance
of mine, and i were playing
hacky sack
with one of those mini bibles that they hand out
we were making jokes about how we were those
atheists
your parents warned you about
today i saw a guy i used to go to church with
he seemed well off and happy
and i found myself being happy for him
given his circumstances in the past few years
i'm not quite sure what made me start hating religion
it makes so many people happy
it gives so many people purpose
and i used to love this purpose giving
faith driven
machine
but now i find myself giving god the middle finger
and giving god a little g
and putting god on my shelf, collecting dust
just like that bible i used to hold dear.
maybe it was depression that made me start hating religion
that's what i always blame it on.
depression
that's a dangerous thing.
i've just noticed that my belief in a higher deity began to
deteriorate
as soon as i started getting sadder
it was almost synonymous
then when i started getting
happier
my beliefs continued to become less and less.
in church they always talked about the story of job
the man who had so much faith
that through all of the **** god put him through
he still remained faithful.
i remember one point in my life i tried explaining that to one of my
atheist
friends.
he told me he didn't understand
and that it was really ****** of god to do something like that.
i tried to explain it
but i found myself at a loss for words
he now attends church regularly and we don't
speak
anymore.
perhaps it was the feeling of rebellion that made it fade
it's difficult being raised in a religious household
so that the one moment when i tasted freedom from the
choking
restraints
my parents put on me
i couldn't get enough of it.
cause let's face it
sin is fun
and i haven't been able to stop ever since.
i'm happy when people are happy with religion
i was much happier with religion
but i can't find myself to go back to it
no matter how hard i try the idea of god
or some form of higher being
just doesn't give me the same
feeling
that it used to.
i wish i could say it did.
sorry, god.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.
Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.
There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.
Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.
Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
.
.our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list.
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.
Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 9:22 AM UTC
Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive
music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip
here's the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed
the innocence of the day as I raged in a cage
there was folks with love swinging on its sod
there he stood the radio man with stereo in his hand
would rap to his music calling it sonic fusion cause he knew what he was doing
Break dance pants and folks playing hacky sack gave me a heart attack
those were the days getting lost in a purple haze better to act your age
yet for the radio man he had a plan
started block parties to raise money for his ailing uncle Freddie who had cancer
Radio was quite a dancer and fine tuned romancer on the village block he was the king
then one day many had need to pray Radio man went away to a mental facility
folks got word and thought it was absurd
there was no one else to entertain many grew insane
until a little time had passed then the Radio man was back
free styling cause he knew what he was doing
back on the mic never giving up on the fight
he was the center of attention with his brand new invention
a beat box mixer on his radio taking him places he needed to go
bust up the beat to promote the tempo it was Radio the king with his flow
always cracking jokes and smiling cause he had fish for frying no he ain't lying
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
Writer's block, written on to the chopping block, waiting for the crowds, all their awe and shock. My head rolling off, migraine popping up, losers talking to me, yelling to me, “Was-sup!” Teachers told me, I could amount to so much, put my mind to the music, and now I bet they think I'm such, a disservice, a loss of good life, a beautiful mind, lost to rap and rhyme.
****** of crows or a raven flock? Hearing the celestial clock, going “Tick, tock”. Lost to time, and I can't keep track, putting my songs on the top of the rack. Lost my heart, sold, like a starter cap. But don't worry y'all, least I ain't going back! Laugh at me, say my beats are hella wack. But one day I'm going to be throwing all of you like hacky sack!
Only 16, and I've already gotten my heart broken twice. Every-time you talk to a someone, it's a roll of the dice. Adults think experience is what makes a man. I think it's the bravery to say I can!
I can talk to her, I can be with you, I can be immortal, if that's what I want to do! My music makes me grow, it makes me a man! Way better, than silly old life can. That's the way of my elders, not the way of me. I loved you kids; see you on the other side of the street! Tick, on the chopping block, tock. I guess a kid doesn't have writer's block….. Straight outta love and I'm straight outta hope, being broken by the current, crushed like a rock.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:13 AM UTC