"hawthorne" poems
The colour draining from my face.
The life draining from my body.
The hatred for the Capitol building.
The everlasting sound of her name.
“Katniss Everdeen”
She doesn't deserve to be killed.
She doesn't deserve to fight
An impossible battle to live.
That battle takes place here everyday.
“Katniss Everdeen”
It's painful to watch.
It's immoral to watch.
It's too vile to watch.
But I can't stray my eyes
From
Her.
“Katniss Everdeen”
The blood, the gore, the killing:
Is not the reason I can't look away.
Each glance, each touch with him
Kills.
Me.
Inside.
“Katniss Everdeen, I love you”
- Gale Hawthorne
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 2:55 PM UTC
The death of the Newfoundland Regiment
They attacked after the Hawthorne mine was blown
But it never saved them
Newfoundland boys then crossed the line
And death was there to claim them
Most never made it to the starting trench
Now choked with dead and dying
For just four hundred yards away
German machine guns were barking
There is a place called Dead Tree
Where we were not to tread
For it now marks the place
Of so many Newfoundland dead
Beaumont Hamel now the resting place
Of boys so far from home
Beaumont Hamel now the place
Where heroic Newfoundland ghosts
Will ever roam
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lightened up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping *******
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foilage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver.
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brillance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat
the tings she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The sowrds of the liles
battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she as a maiden
when I took her to the river.
2.2k
Section 25, Lot 1115…Gate of Heaven Cemetery….Hawthorne New York
Number 3 in your program, number 1 in your hearts.
Gramps would tell me all the stories and what a big deal they made when he walked up to bat.
Number 3..3..3, Babe..babe…babe…, Ruth..ruth..ruth! Followed by the roar of loving fans!
Today Babe, I’m leaving you a Sabretts hotdog & a fifth of Scotch.
I know you’re out there cooling off under a shade tree with a cabbage leaf on your head.
1-2-3 who are rooting for? Well it ain’t those lousy Red Sox's!
It’s the Babe doing the walk up to “Ain’t She Sweet, See her walking down the street."
The cathedral of baseball, the Bronx Zoo,
The House that Ruth built right there at 161st and River.
You just can't beat the person who never gives up!
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Self satisfied hipster ******
immaculately disheveled
crawl up anarchy patched
and retro fitted
from every bagel shmear
coffee house hell hole.
I hope this whole district gets fire bombed
leaving only the book store
so I can sit here in peace.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
SPRING
Like a bull, she charged the dandelion hill
Her child-sister a pack on her back, until
The braves swarmed from the wooded rill
She shouted to her comrades to lie still
Among the sweet grass and the dewy chill
Wild girl
SUMMER
She clutched the bark skin of Hawthorne trees
Skidding down, then pressing in her knees
Mop of chestnut hair blowing in the breeze
Which smell'd of hot soil and sweet peas
The sun above as close as she could please
Wild girl
AUTUMN
Page after page, her blackish eyes devoured
Tales of elves and warriors, from her tower
Where real-life through the faery-glass did sour
In presence of such phantasmal power
Of all the leather-bound leaves they flowered
Wild girl
WINTER
So it was, she crafted bricks of blue and red
Into cathedrals and creatures concocted in her head
Riled dragons to hear the tales they said
Climbed mountains others would not dare to tread
And did it all before momma called her to bed
Wild girl
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Infidel and traitors to Christ!
Dreaming of a utopia with Pope Frank
and the devil.
Mocking individualism,
and parading around with indians
for liberation.
You don’t make sense.
Organized religion now dead;
due to your deeds to now.
Idealists still not satisfied in hell.
New thought, new thought, new thought.
Here is another one, tired of the same ole one.
Divine science.
Look for the self & God
Do you see it?
Hail Nathaniel Hawthorne
And Edgar Allan Poe!
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
Facebook's not a journal,
Twitter's not a place,
That's the massive problem
With the current human race.
Your mood is not a hashtag,
'Selfie' is spelled with an S,
We're really all addicted,
Which we know, but won't confess.
Our kids will play computers,
They'll be Apple's biggest fans,
But what about the authors,
Who wrote things with their hands?
Dickens, Wilde and Hawthorne,
I'm sure would bear a frown,
For PAPER was the only way,
They wrote their stories down.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
Towering headlights screaming through the skies of daily banter
For a cup of wine and a glass of tea
Mixed shades of blue, winters blooming crystals
Sad sad mister snowman withering at the sight of bees
A tired Hawthorne and some busy Daisies
Carrying the leaves of tomorrows autumn day
Have a blanket
waiting for the dawn
with me
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 4:35 PM UTC
What are we doing spinning our wheels?
I ran when you asked.
I thought that you asked.
You told me you're more forward than that.
I ran for nothing.
I laughed and told you.
You gave me clearance, and I dropped the act.
What scares me, you ask.
I haven't been acting
. . .
What are we doing meeting for drinks?
Walking down Hawthorne.
Poking fun freely.
You told me you may move away soon.
I first idly shrugged.
Cringe now in panic.
You dropped your shroud, I dropped mine in tandem.
What drives me, you ask.
I analyze my moves
captive to Virgo suns.
You gave me clearance, and I dropped the act.
What's funny, you ask.
Still laughing I kiss you.
What's scary, you ask.
I haven't been acting.
Still you do seek me out.
Still you seek me out.
. . .
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
There’s a place on 12th and Hawthorne
and one on 12th and Morrison
I want to take you there
and talk about how I care.
we just have to pay the bus fare
it’s just on the 70…
no where near my Kennedy
we’ll walk a couple blocks
it could be more like five
that’s ok we’ll be at high dive
I hope we do see mo.
she’ll be playing sad love ballads.
if we end up seeing shon
we’ll think he’s the Foo fighters lad
then there could be dan.
he’s still trying to be a man.
we’ll walk a few blocks more
there’s an attraction here
it’s called roadside, dear.
we can have a few beers.
we’ll sit on a lovely swing
and I’ll talk about this thing
I want to take you there.
however I’m just too scared.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
We'll stroll one day
Down a country lane,
Palms together, flesh to flesh,
Stopping to kiss
In sunshine-dappled glades.
My hawthorne hero, holding me
against you as we gaze,
Stopping to laze
Upon each other,
Drunk on heat and sweat and summer ***
The scents of oh, everything, including us
And we are all.
Giddily, we'll fall
Together. I will know
What it is to lie with you and laugh,
*********** happiness in warm spurts
As you take me in your arms,
Fondling your possession
Finding me forever willing
Following me, fascinated, into the hot, hot
Summer of our lives.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
i never thanked the man who saved my life.
I still smell the tobacco
and hear the noise his beard made against my face
as though the books beside him
would never speak again.
I like to think
just being here
is thanks enough.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 12:44 PM UTC
A close friend of mine was enthusiastic about his upcoming botany project;
he wanted to show me what he had learned so far;
the anatomy of a flower, a rose, a tulip, a daisy
a lily, a Poinsettia...
As he was talking I couldn't help but
interrupt his silly game of catch
with a hearty laugh
I said people don't want to hear about the inside
of something so beautiful, so perfect, so clean
They want the illusion, the absolute, the ideal!
After a couple of hours
of hand motions, direct eye contact
and awkward body language
I finally managed convinced the man to quit school,
and take up poetry.
That was 2 years ago from today.
Last I heard of him,
He was roaming around
some small city in France,
managed to use what little money
he had to phone me
and tell me poetry was the best thing
since American sliced bread.
He is now a starving artist
that goes by the name of
Hawthorne l'bouffon.
Keep a lookout on his collection of poems
entitled: A Life Worth Leafing.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
Reacting to the new dangerous trend of taking the ****** off in an until then consensual ****** act.
Dear America,
I strolled down your famous Sunset Avenue
Tasted the marine-inspired SF clam chowder
I had dreams about a Hollywood Undead venue
I had in mind Madonna, Monroe and their powder…
Dear America,
You gave me Ginsberg, Baldwin and Brooks
You gave me Hawthorne, Poe and Hemingway
You gave me strength and glory along the way
You gave me all my poems found in these books.
Dear America,
Today I want to tell you about stealthing
No I’m not talking about your crusade and sword
I want to tell you about a new trend and word
Consisting of taking your ****** off in the act
Dear America.
Irving told me he saw a desperate mother– it made me cringe
At the hospital, watch her son slowly pass and leave her
In his arm they gave him an against whatever AIDS shot syringe
This mother planted the needle in her arm.
Dear America,
The gay community was stigmatized because of barebacking
Horses of desire that they decided to tame
And you tell me your youths are, as we are speaking
Making love risking their lives, and no one is to blame?
Trumpets of shame I hear, crumbling the walls of reason
This brand new world to our bodies is nothing but treason
What is that? Is stealthing **** America? I don’t know, say,
What was your reaction when they took your freedom away?
Dear America,
To the insolence of the 1970s youth, the recklessness
This generation responds with an air of stupidity
Go waste yourselves on the altars of dumbness
We won’t move a finger, to again witness this madness?
April 28, 2017
Lyon, France
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
I've never been rear-ended
But boy does it sure feel like it
Wish I could say that straight-faced
But as a baby I was *ss-raped
Now over fifty years
of living with this pain
And I can't shake it/make it go away
A life filled-up with rain
The ***** of ****** from Hawthorne
Made me look sorry for not marrying her
She may have been a Muenter
or maybe just related to it
You sorry girl, you're so pathetic
LOVE IS NOT POSSESSION
Now all those ***** hippie bands
Can be exposed as two-faced-too-fakes
It's a long goodbye
So please take the hint
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
Politician's daughters lie
They steal inheritence
I've known this now for quite some time
And know that whales have ate it
When all the homes in California
fall into the ocean
I'll give that ***** a second chance
or just ignore that notion
Untill the crooked Big Jew Mob
return the Vatican
to the church it once belonged to
I won't believe in Him
Sometimes they are just as evil
as those killing in His name
I should have kept my mouth shut
They shot cancer in my coccyx
It's so long/goodbye
Would you take the hint
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
To my dad in Colorado
Are you still making **** for kids
To my mother in the Poconos
Still ****** her grand kid's kids
If you ever find a mirror
Try to look into/inside it
It could scare the life right out of you
I hope, I wish, I pray for it
And those parasites in Florida
That make tapeworms look so innocent
I have my own kids/family now
Though I was brainwashed to forget them
My eldest daughter, Melanie
Has never been accepted
So why should I give gifts to yours
When they marry some old hothead
It's so long/goodbye
And please take the hint
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
Jack and Joe sit on their porch
Make fun of people different
Amazingly how they can judge
While sitting on their pulgars
The stars have all been realigned
Like old chalk on a sidewalk
I can not help them anymore
This one last thing I do wish
Frost said eyes meet eyes
And I say lips meet lips
I truly hope to one day find
From ear to ear a happy smile
That isn't full of sh*t
It's a long goodbye
But do take the hint
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
So use your demi-gods
But don't blame me for your sins
The only thing I've ever blown
Is kisses in the wind
It's so long/goodbye
And please take the hint
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
The only thing I'm blowing
Is kisses in the wind
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
Frozen fountain,
a grotesque carved waterspout,
the throat of some fanciful life-blood
that has been congealed by cold,
the triumph of frost.
It would be pleasing to recall
the blue Steller's jay
with its shrill trilling
and hopping about,
so blithe amongst the Hawthorne trees,
keeping watch over the graves
of those sacrificed to the Arctic blaze.
In my bowels are hot ashes,
remains of the cursed one,
my hollows, a feverish season,
a raving desire for the pure allure
of dark hair
and embroidered tongue.
As pure as the snow,
pure as the cold,
licking that which is within...
These ember days,
a running course,
my body, a votive offering.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
Cedars on the ice-blue horizon,
lonely hills shrouded in hawthorne groves
curling over the mantle of snowy white.
Tones of a breeze brush through the trees,
like adagio for wintry symphonies.
Echoes of a river
sweep along the secluded forest of gray.
Scarlet clouds streak through the sky
in twilight’s dwindling gaze.
Stones of a glade near the solemn cascade,
entwined in a starlit sewn serenade.
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 3:03 PM UTC
Just take this paper and
Fill it with your hopes and dreams
Get it all our, purge yourself
Ink as acid, eating your thoughts
As they are put into records
Pressed into pedals
Invest in a quality pen
It will be your best friend with
Whom you fight but it all works
Out in the end sometimes
Free your mind, meditate
Don't run away when you look
In the mirror and see a fungus
Staring back at you, beady eyes
It's just a dream, so write about it
Understand insanity is a relative term with a long
Twisted history of art, and
You are the next generation of the Dickens
The Poe, the Dickinson, the Card, the Hawthorne
Discover greatness in yourself, for
You are a writer
And you can do anything
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
The wonderful thoughts: pre-memory logs of Ocean Drive and ferry rides blend with wet and warm, smell of salt, shisha and Hawthorne… and you.
Every day meshed of hours, spent with you and broken glass on my palm. Old poison re-flows through a dead brain, new love for world of woes and wonderful thoughts and I can’t handle being around you with this secret thumping in my chest like an escaped orphan and it
burns.
Oh, how you freeze and burn in my hands.
shooting stars behind my eyes, I catch them all in the jar on my cluttered shelf.
I named my lies after you, and I’m trying once in a while to be less broken and undeveloped. Music in both ears clashing waves, weave in and out of practiced thought. Pain chills and heat breaking over cold sweats and I still want you near me even if you’re just a star I burn for in orbit. Sleep now and I wish you rise fresh. Next week might might might might be the day. Just stay around?
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC
my cuneiform heart
marks me indecipherable
to all but you
I am the superheroine
in Hawthorne’s tale
a transcendent A
marks my heart
pure and Angelic
my Ogham soul leaves messages
readable by none
but you
I am the Wonder Woman
safely hidden
a transcendent A
marks my soul
pure and Amazonian
my hieroglyphic being speaks
to none
but you
I am the kindness
the strength
the protection
a transcendent A
marks my being
pure and Awakened
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
Deceit, false flags waving.
Accusations, Gavel of Injustice.
Apate controls your mind.
Mentiras, Você mente.
Crying witches
bodies in the river.
Forest rituals
laughter and dance.
The Crucible, great Aurther.
White coated, glass-eyed
Judge John Hawthorne, you are.
Don't believe Abigail Williams
Salem witch trials commence.
Screaming ****** ******
Witchcraft! Sociopathy!
Don't throw me in the river.
Believe the innocent.
5 lives, central park 5
liars are adults, kids are angels.
Don't throw me behind bars.
Erro de diagnóstico.
White walls, white lies
empty promises, filled pockets
lamb in wolf´s cave.
Happy little pills.
Serotonin, mess up his mind
make him an empty shell.
**** him up, porque quem se importa.
White angel in white hell.
Josef Mengele, don't touch me
evildoer, you are. **** salute
go back to screaming Heil ******
Touch me once, I will resist.
Tell me twice, I will talk.
Tame me thrice, I will scream.
Trail of final letters, suicídio.
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
I learned of a love for treehouses,
And 8 mile.
Both the Detroit and Farmington sides.
I gave up deepthroating and cigarettes for New Years.
I developed an attachment to bridges.
Morrison, Hawthorne, Burnside, Steel, Tilikum
All pacing my afternoon runs.
Ambassador.
My favorite thing about traveling is coming home at the end.
I met another soul mate, one I don’t kiss.
We read our poems between English classes,
Scrounge up quarters for midnight subway runs,
Bond over an old love of car rides and vampire weekend.
She says
Life is excruciatingly painful,
And as your best friend I’ll let you know
“I only smoke **** with you, on tuesday evenings.”
(“And I only cry in public bathrooms at noon.”)
I learned home is where the heart is,
And my heart is always with my mother
I inked our love onto my skin in June.
I know now, that ******* is less scary and more of a sad college kid thing.
(But ****** is just as scary as it seems on TV.)
I met the pigeon man on 6th and Yamhill,
Swarmed by hundreds of grey flying rats
Kissing each one on the head before setting them back down.
I finally lost my father.
It didn't hurt half as badly as I imagined it to.
I invited too many girls to stay the night.
And one too many boys.
But I never regret holding you all close because friendship is ****** magic.
Thank you my little pony.
I learned no, you can't flush toilet paper in Asia
And yes, elephants are incredible.
That spinning on a pole makes you an artist before anything else.
That embarrassment is worth it.
That therapy is worth it only sometimes.
I learned a language where I can finally be quiet.
Admitted to
Guilty pleasures
In pop music
And fried food.
My body is a temple that can handle some mac and cheese.
And beauty is much more loving your current state than anything else.
I love my current state.
Rain, and no sales tax,
and a candlelit home.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 1:53 PM UTC
And this for, And this is four touching the He A drone old and un-grown the same beat goes unchanged, unknown so old, just eat it to survive and the real test will be in time.
The bathroom never lies whether you look at the bottom or not
the stomach digestion is never forgot.
I will burn for my fetishes as i drive place by as a Passenger Hawthorne Six Wands scary divination a study of sing a king the Unsung hero never learned to believe and Please don't forget How numb the water felt as it convalesced As a Serenity home farmed eons living longer than the leviathan can be beached.
When did Men learn to think, Oh once in a while i randomly stumble upon a little humble bubble before i burst in reason to feel the besseched treason of an exodus of paradise ending as a leasing agreement betewen the understanding of inside-outside upside-down bear in steam bears the whole release of an existential equation, a tranquil season the drop of weather beat to the endless feeling of orange leaving to say hello to sticks and pine needles I had an idea that you and i sing to each other every time the forest sleeps that the core of the Sun I Am is fused together in a fissure, and i am the monster with the lowest attack.
Not power, not Strength, just a tack on the wall within the sake of arriving with you, I can make this into everything a transcendental feeling an incredible leeching bloodless as a long spear on a chariot pulling the Reins of the Morning rooster's triumphant call to start the shaving of darkness from the last drop of dusk echoing across the Sabbath. I no longer want o jeopardize the love rather I readily swear to keep the hope that the perpetual yellow Sun has promised us, Forever, thank you
the Christened Kris of Hoarse Illusion
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC