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CK Baker Dec 2017
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles

moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear

they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste

cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them
Gemma Apr 2018
A field
(Grass, mud, flowers, bugs)
One winter
(Hats, coats, scarves, gloves)
Was one of my favourite walks with you.
1,2,3,4 legs running full speed
Like they were designed to.
You were thirteen
and I know age is just a number but it means a bit more now there's something wrong.
Everyday your still mistaken for a puppy
but maybe it's because that's what age you are , forever, in my heart .
Who knew, cause I never did, that a dog could finally give a hectic family a meaning ?
Who knows , I don't know, whether when it happens I'll ever be able to pass the stage of grieving ?
You were always more than enough ,
more than a hug, a walk , a fuss
You are a part of the family
And you have served us love.
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018
Tradition! The Pope's Grand Inquisitor
And Champion of Tories and White-Hats alike
Long have we burned by Gomorrah's Sponsor
With ***** salt our Nails to crucify
That you by nature have never been wrong
Since from my origin I took Respect
But that Pink Exercise training that strong
Was too much for your Pride to interpret
So you sent your Armies to **** our Cause,
Those Innocent Seeds we died to preserve
Quoting the *****'s Functions as our fault
Then getting the Whipping we all deserve.
My Message, kind Sir, is that Object
Which you must Observe; Which you must Reflect.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
CK Baker Apr 2017
to exonerate the clipping
we took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the scape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey ~
the needles
and stragglers
(from shady bay)
remained in numbers
on the outskirt
of the park

the fabled town
of horse drawn tours
was stone washed ~
on the back of
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set on high tide
against the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddles
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerow trimmed
alongside the sea walk
rolling hills bend
before the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in back
But when we try to Seek what has been Sought
Of so many Globes those White Hats confound
And Paradox bears its own Hard-Deal, fought
That Tripe Sanity so many will count
A Useless Journey, I say; You Agree
Since Fifteen Thousand Miles we are apart
No Threatened Worries; And then you are Free
To Tally my Charges and Tear me Apart
As what your Kinsman calls the Chicken-Hawk,
A Heresy Grave I will sure Attack
As my Film's intent is never to Gawk
But revive the Toddler's Fresh Friendship back.
If so, then the Informant says he lies
That, by Discount, our Age by Time soon dies.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Hg Jun 2018
poems are laced with mercury
like they used to use in hats
that’s why the best poetry
will often drive you mad
©Hg
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.

Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gail outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.

The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.

Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.

Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.

Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.

The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal

sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.

Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
CK Baker Jan 2017
He filled his week bag
with quick picks
from the commissary
cover blades
and skull caps
canned goods
and half stated pearls
liquor bills
and bleeders
for the flight of weary

Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana
and nurture sage
past the pomp
and ceremony
out of robe
and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas

Light infantry
and yelling men
muscled
and scorned
fly boys high
in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners
filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape

Tarrant tabers
and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands
grease the mill trap
carnage makers
mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers
and pile bags
and earth pack)

Trench helmets
and metal backs
under machine fire
minefields burn
in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel
and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold
despair

Slouch hats
and burning rats
kerosene lamps
and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken line
and limb
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped pipe
and beam

It was an all in
end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the
fokker pursuit
over rolling hills
and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
near the brae corbie road
Third Eye Candy Dec 2012
At Nineteen Miles An Hour, Smoking On A Train

chugging along the lilacs of twilight in the plasma darkening of a stretch
we fetch the improbable road to our destination. we give a ****. but the birds are listening.
and that might lead to luggage. so much, you might sweep the light fantastic
into army hats. you might march a sustained coup on your hopeless epiphanies.
at nineteen miles an hour, on a train... you see your god.
are you too light to darken the right words
to a happy demise?

are your zeroes at odds?
Greg Obrecht Jan 2014
A grey room with soft walls is waiting down the road.
Purple pills and quiet voices will ease my  heavy load.
They'll place electrodes on my head to shock away the pain.
Then I'll sit drooling as I stare at the morning rain.

Maybe a friend will visit and stare with wide unblinking eyes.
They'll speak cautiously and try to fill me with empty lies.
Even with my drug addled mind will see  through their mask.
There are questions visible on their tongue they refuse to ask.

The stern nurses in their funny hats take us out in the sun.
The sudden warmth and bright light jolt us like a firing gun.
We must stay in line and only speak when we're spoken to.
When one is barely conscious that's an easy thing to do.

I'm back in my locked room starting to fade off to sleep.
I wonder if God can hear my prayers under layers so deep
Please come and save your creation from this destiny.
Sprinkle your magical dust and set this tormented soul free.
Krysel Anson Sep 2018
Metal bones dropped over another
clashing sounds across the night of smoky denials
in a city of thieves, paupers and scholars.

Worn down and without memory, someone's father
brushes off the dust of a young person's tombstone.
The oblivious student bends over information
into another alarm bell of insatiable chases.

Huddled in a street corner
like sprites of another dark jungle,
workers in uniform and hard hats share
stories and spare time as if nothing else matters
but this fading incomplete point in time.

Overhead looms the impending bright dangers
and dim warnings being built
From metals and soil into another giant promise
trying to excuse itself as it rips through
the city lungs, calmly abiding
and seeming always ready to die or live through.
Becca P Jun 2017
Skinny is a feeling.
The feeling of a necklace scrapping protruding collarbones,
The feeling of rings slipping off thinning fingers,
The feeling of sharp cheekbones slicing into skin,
The feeling of hunger scratching stomachs,
The feeling of jeans becoming baggy around pencil legs,
The feeling of bald patches covered with wooly hats in summer,
The feeling of sharp ankles balancing on scales,
The feeling of needles in arms,
The feeling of hospital blankets,
The feeling of cold.

But there’s no feeling in death.
Woody Sep 2018
Today began with the best
of intentions, I made a list
of all that needs doing:

Sort out receipts for
those things FEMA
will assist with, but hope
is a check in the mail, Yo.

Faith I gave up
a long time ago,
and evaporated milk
in coffee still *****.

(Any if y’all have a cow for sell?
There’s no dairy products or produce
to be found in The Ferry, but plenty
of smokes, alcohol and dope. Go figure)

I YouTube’d how to
replace roof shingles
and now I’ve changed
my resume to Hammer
and Tacs, but No Sycles:
Will Work for Freedom
and Women for Free
Room and Back Rubs
Hot Tubs, Soft Beds,
No Board required.

(Those of a certain sort
of persuasion, of course.) ;)

I even posted online
for work in Amsterdam
or any **** place but here.

(And here is a big **** place.)

Hell, I’ll even go back to Afghanistan
and repair those errant holes on stone
statues  and clay homes; I’m also quite handy with a trowel and shovel, you know, though I don’t dig hats like Indiana Jones;  no,
no hat man here, me, you see.

(Particularly those tacky red MAGA hats
that remind me how great America once was, and the check’s in the mail, Dreamas)
Yo. A bit of a lightheated post. My best of choring intentions drained out somewhere between Harris Teeter and the pub where I stopped for a cold beer. Tomorrow is Mundy, after all.

It’s Thursdy now and I’m thirsty.  My local pub Blackbeard’s is mostly gone. The Riverview lost her fish house and all shuttered up. McDs doesn’t serve the kind of beverage I need. Still no milk to be found in the Ferry. FEMA came for an inspection of my place. Ha!  10 minutes and on his way. You good, bro, he say. Yo.
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
On This Christmas Day With Trump

There's an odd Santa Claus
In the air
Riding and laughing
Atop Trump's hair
Even through the fluff
Blinded by the glare
Reindeer pulling gifts of prayer
Through the roots they go
Low lights here and there
Laughing in despair
** what sadness  it is to stare
On a one,
****
White Horse open
Night mare
**, **, **
Ploop
Open open mouths  a sneer
Tounges at war appear
Whispers everywhere
Laughing in despair
Hats off
We spare
To the red suited fare
Abound
And confound
To Trump's
Wishy washy care
Waiting in repair
**, **, **
Santa,
My good man,
We have clause
To tear
You're in a mess
To bare
For humbug in Trump
So held in arrear
We're crying in despair


Logan Robertson

12/06/2018
This was all in fun. Maybe. When Santa's reindeer return home their coats are due for a cleaning. I, mean, after all look what they have been through. The American people, too, need a spiritual cleansing when the next election takes place.
By the stairs side
Stands
A tall stranger taking coats
White bags and light hats for that
Easy fumed air
Hanging  
Beside the wide-eyed picture
Framing the dark horses
Running
Trampling with laughter over the growing lawn.

A grey-shaded blooming shudder
Covering over the other,
Catches the light,
Hats seated,
cover over the other
Entrancing over the etched dancers lined against the walls.
Mountains that grew over the ancient
fire, could still be moved.
Behold, the sky's desire.
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