"hemmingway" poems
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë
Earnest as Hemmingway
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way
There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd
Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a match
Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there
Chico plays piano and
Harpo with his harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie
You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
I can make anybody pretty
I can make you believe any lie
I can make you pick a fight
With somebody twice your size
I been known to cause a few break ups
I been known to cause a few births
I can make you new friends
Or get you fired from Work
And since the day I left Milwaukee
Lynchburg and Bordeaux France
Been making the bars lots of big money
And helping white people dance
I got you in trouble in high school
But college, now that was a ball
You had some of the best times
You'll never remember with me
Alcohol
Alcohol
I got blamed at your wedding reception
For your best man's embarrassing speech
And also for those
Naked pictures of you at the beach
I've influenced kings and world leaders
I helped Hemmingway write like he did
And I'll bet you a drink or two that I can make you
Put that lampshade on your head
'Cause since the day I left Milwaukee
Lynchburg and Bordeaux France
Been making a fool out of folks just like you
And helping white people dance
I'm medicine and I am poison
I can help you up or make you fall
You had some of the best times
You'll never remember with me
Alcohol
Alcohol
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
In the early dark of the morning,
dark inside the crypt of my bedroom--
you sparrows came to me there.
I had only said in mind these words:
a forgiveness of sparrows
And there you were, feathers
all fluffed out, and I
searching inside myself.
I think now to tell the better truth -- to say
that mixed in with my need for calling you
was Brueghel, his painted picture with the crushing board,
trip-cord, and feed for bird killing
and my imagining snapshot young Hemmingway
capturing pigeons in Paris to eat them
and feeling the presence of
the one small bird I'd shot as a boy
out of the apple tree
falling falling falling
Sparrows, forgiveness flies all around me!
The world cries out, everywhere!
A police car slides down my street,
as I hear your first chirp in the morning.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
/ as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
i'm "new" here,
and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
given that that:
requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
guns guns guns...
over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
and then...
the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
same so in moscow:
not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...
in reverse -
abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
who persisted counter to this?
as heidegger would have put it:
that's not even question-worthy.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
i smoke cigarettees too **** much.
this is how you know nothing original will be said in this poem.
i use cigarettes as a social crutch.
i don't know about you
but when i'm in the mood to be honest
i'll tell you
i smoke cigarettes because
i want to be 'cool'.
because let's be honest:
i can't think of
a poet
a musician
an actor
an olympic swimmer
a hockey player
a president
a priest
a ****
a serial killer
or a psychiatrist
that's worth mentioning
that did not smoke
yes, i know you can
and go ahead,
but let me first
make a point instead
let me be honest,
if i can smoke a cigarette
and maybe be alone for
5.75 minutes
then maybe
a thought will occur to me
something outside this ******** world
and it will be good enough to write down,
just maybe.
let me be honest
i don't need you
with your judgemental eyes
and your cursory glances
walk away from me
at a party
i don't miss you
i am with her.
i garauntee if you asked
Whitman
Hemmingway
Freud
Phelps
Obama
about their actual relationship with smoking tobacco
they would have similiar descriptions.
but go ahead, tell me
about the hazardous effects of cigarettes
let's talk about the cancer
and the tar
and the disgusting phlem
that i will constantly have to eject
from my throat-hole
when i'm fifty.
go ahead, tell me about
******* people over
and ripping their minds out
and the sickness
and the disease
and how it's all so wrong.
it's as amusing to me as it is to you.
Mcdonald's will **** you.
Pall Mall will **** me.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
Jumanji was your favorite Robin Williams movie
Mine was Dead Poets Society
You didn’t think it was too interesting
And you fell asleep on my shoulder
When we watched it on a pixilated
2” by 5” screen
Moving at 1 ½ miles per hour
On a bus
Going 5000 frames per second
Over a burnt sandwich chips
We stopped near Michigan and State
To talk about our favourite books
Yours was As I Lay Dying
Mine was The Old Man And The Sea
We talked about the relationship
Between Faulkner
And Hemmingway
And if they ever kissed
Or shared coffee
Or at least thought about it
If Faulkner liked Jumanji
And Hemmingway was partial
To Dead Poets Society
If it turned out
They were chips of a fractured whole
Did Faulkner ever take Hemmingway home?
Does the Hemmingway house still have Faulkner’s toothbrush
On a splintered wooden nightstand?
Did they ever wake up with the wrong socks on the wrong feet
And laugh it off because it was so funny
Were they ever afraid?
Were they ever happy?
Did Faulkner write to Hemmingway
About the Post office?
Did Hemmingway write to Faulkner
About fishing?
“The old man lay dying in the sea”
We wondered if they ever wrote together
Held hands
Traded coffee cups
But you fell asleep
And I kept writing
And watching Dead Poets Society
Wondering if Hemmingway ever would have
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
"It is really beautiful up here" she whispered.
Her skin brightened in the glow of the fading masterpiece of crimsons, yellows, and golds the sun had brushed across the turquoise sky "This is it, this is what heaven is like."
I couldn't hear her, but I could read her soft spoken lips and study her face—which I always imagined as less of the cover to a book and more every word inside. There was not a greatness or a sadness that ceased to mask her portrait. She was all heart and soul, every bit of her.
I watched as her bright eyes changed to become more glass than eyes. As if, for the first time, she was seeing life, love, and something more. Something so deep and beautiful that not even Hemmingway or Fitzgerald could even begin to put the prefix of it into thought.
Among the dusting of the clouds and transparent sunset, I felt her heartbeat could silence and the lungs of which gave her the life I so cherished could empty turning her flesh a pale blue—and she would fade peacefully into the scene before me.
This very thought frightened me. Too soon would her feet touch the ground—and nothing I was humanly capable of, or possibly godly capable of, would ever captivate and hold her so perfectly or turn her eyes as vivid—and there was nothing more I wanted.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
I’ve been going to this boxing gym and training every week.
And everyone there is fighting something
You can see in their
Eyes
They’re punching their dad
Or they’re punching
Whoever their wife is sleeping with
Or they're punching
Their kids who ignore them
Or they’re punching
Themselves.
Their boss
Their job
Their alcohol problem
Their poverty
And every week we get to fight our problems together
And we’re exploding inside.
What?
You can’t fight your problems?
It’s not only that I can.
I will.
And do.
Because crying alone isn’t good enough
Because all that fire you build up inside you has to go somewhere
Or it’ll burn you alive.
So you throw it into the heavy bag
Or into the guy you’re sparring
Or into the ground you run on.
We’re all fighting something
So what about you?
What are you fighting that’s so god **** important?
No, don’t tell me.
Tell that heavy bag.
He listens.
He listens when your wife doesn’t give a ****
He listens when it doesn’t even matter
Tell these padded mitts.
That one-two punch says more than a twenty-four volume encyclopedia
And speaks more concisely than Churchill or Hemmingway or Ghandi ever did.
Don’t tell me how it feels.
Don’t even try.
Let that punching bag know.
Because you know he’s listening.
And he doesn’t have anything else more important to do.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
That could describe you
That could describe me
Those of us of obscurity
Who do not have a name to back us up
Not an Ernest Hemmingway
Not a James Joyce
Not a Maya Angelou
Just a continual scribbler of some thoughts
Only are we considered underrated
Because we're not well-known
But that doesn't mean
We can't give the best of them a run for their money
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
unsure of living
I have discovered
the waiting room
of the nearly dead
there are pictures
of the famous ones
hung upon the wall
****** Hemmingway,
Hammurabi, Harrison
in their different times
they all sat in these chairs
reading magazines and
quaint biographies while
they waited for their name
to be called
the most unsettling thing
is not knowing if you truly
belong here
so sitting in death’s waiting room
I flip through greasy, old pages
wondering if I’m brave enough
to walk out the door and see if
anybody notices
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 4:58 PM UTC
I hope Dave doesn't mind, but I am used to her holding my hands now, the certainty of death has a curious way of removing barriers of uncertain modesty.
Today she has come in with a basket of my favourite books because unlike the sombre woman in white overalls, she knows I need my Hemmingway more than I need the dripping blood of another man. After all, it was she who started that stupid ritual of calling me Old Man, after she saw me reading Hemmingway at 16 - the stain of the spilled medical cocktail on her white shirt still makes me wonder whether it was all a mistake.
She has stopped crying these days, the tears make me uncomfortable like they always do - Her 2nd year analysis on patriarchal oppression of men might have helped her understand my plight, but it can't stop her from wiping off the occasional tear when she thinks i am asleep.
Today she can't stop kissing my clean shaven head - i wonder if it feels different from the days when she used to play with my outgrown tufts. The kisses make me a bit more naked than the dressing gown they make me wear, but it's the kind of nakedness that makes you feel feel more thoughtful on winter nights.
As she strokes my face, the edges of her engagement ring are gently rubbing across my cheeks, and reminding me that he will arrive any moment.
She has to leave a bit early today- Dave is meeting her parents, so she apologies as if I will die the next day - what ******* I am gonna stick around for no less than 2 weeks the doctors have said.
As i see her leave, I take out the half torn tissue on which i had been secretly scribbling - old habits die hard. The poem was almost done - almost, apart from the last lines. You see, when you are dying, you tend to become obsessed with endings.
"And so although Its been twenty years since you said I would be your last,
You still look beautiful when you wear your past"
I hope Dave doesn't mind.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.
I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.
Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.
Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Benedict turned the page
of the Dostoyevsky novel.
His brother puked in the bidet,
too much cheap wine,
Benedict thought,
but he’ll be fine.
He immersed himself deeper
into the Russian world
of ****** and fear
and dark corners.
Crime and Punishment
was one good tale all right.
Even the book cover held
the attention, he thought,
turning it briefly over.
His brother’s moans
interrupted the puking.
Benedict asked an
are you all right?
There was a groan
of response.
Benedict recalled the time
he had been in that condition
in Yugoslavia the year before,
same cause: too much
cheap wine.
And that beautiful guide
came to his room
to see how he was
and sat on his bed
and all he could think of
was when would
the puking end.
No thought at all
of her presence there,
her body so close,
her perfume making him
more nauseous.
She was Croatian,
he thought, pausing at the page
of the Dostoyevskian novel.
And that waitress
he and his brother had liked
in the restaurant
at the Yugoslavian hotel.
***** Yes, that was the name.
Got no where though.
Just the luck of the draw.
His brother returned
from the bathroom
and flopped on the bed.
The puking over maybe,
Benedict thought
and his brother hoped,
pale of complexion,
perspiration on brow.
Outside the window
the Parisian streets
echoed with life:
Cars, coaches, buses,
people, natives, tourists,
males and females.
Tomorrow they’d be out
on the streets again.
Sit in restaurants where
the famous once sat
over coffee or beer:
Hemmingway, Sartre,
Picasso, Henry Miller
and the others.
Art thrived here.
Ideas born
from philosophic minds.
Benedict book marked
the page and closed
the book and put it aside.
Some one laughed outside
in the street, another sang,
voices of ghostly singers
of the past, breathed
from the walls.
His brother returned
to the bathroom,
more puking.
Benedict thought:
poor brother.
Of course, he mused,
gazing at the Parisian
night sky, they’d never
tell their mother.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
TEQUILA SLIPPED DOWN EASILY, A MYSTERY
WHO THE NEW MAN WAS BECAUSE HE CARRIED
AN AURA WITH HIM WHICH EVEN HEMMINGWAY
MIGHT HAVE BEEN INTERESTED IN; THIS HEAT WAS
EVEN TOO MUCH FOR CAMPESINOS BUT NO
BEAD OF SWEAT APPEARED ON HIS FACE,
AS HE FIXED HIS GAZE ON ME MYSTICALLY,
HE SAID THAT, 'YOU WON'T SEE ME AGAIN
BUT WHEN YOU GO OUTSIDE IN THE DUST,
YOU'LL CARRY ME WITH YOU AND I WILL
GUIDE WHAT YOU DO,' AMAZINGLY, I BELIEVED
HIM, FINISHED MY DRINK AND DON'T CARE WHAT
YOU THINK, IT WAS TRUE - NEW ENERGY
GRIPPED ME AND NOW WHERE I WANTED TO BE.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
It was at the crack of the afternoon always when like some old circus bear i staggred to life.
Coffee surged through my veins with a touch of turkey to embrace the day to day troubles
with a sense of reason in the insanity.
The whispers were heavy like gunshot's that filled a early morning duck hunt.
Where half drunk men shared bottles and stories of conquest's some false others just straight ********
He's losing it ya know?
They had read my scrbblings and saw the flaws yet dared never to speak the words to
the devil in the flesh.
But much like a villan or a dam good ****** with a std i was just waitting to
run yet again.
The Gonzo of old died hard and a writer of insanity
seldom was at a loss for words or far from a intersection of trouble.
The road called.
And I her slave seldom ignored her for any woman worth her salt
was a cruel ***** at heart and thats what made them so dam aluering.
I was the president of debauchrey the chairman of the boy's club
a locker room jester who seldom showed his flaws.
But time scars us all and I was no diffrent.
I had slowed yet went past that edge like a child who tears into a gift seldom
looking at the paper let alone who its from.
Still that gleam in the eye did exist and the danger was all but to real.
I was ready to claim it back although none could take it from me.
The bike was older yet still had a howl like a devils hound on a sunsets promise.
the drugs the ***** the women all where but part of the drive and freedom
of a perk.
Much like the whiskey that burns in my veins id never
water down my word's
Cold wether was pointing me south the Key's were calling
in a tragic Hemmingway sense the old man's sea was but a bitter pill
and a islands stream of erased thought.
On a road that never grew old as I.
Soon i was off.
And God only knows what would lead to this tour of destruction.
But all i can say is gentlemen start your engines.
For the chaos has just begun.
Welcome To The Boy's Club
Part One
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
That year
in Paris
you took
Dostoyevsky’s novel
Crime and Punishment
to read when
you weren’t touring
the sites
and you became
so immersed in the book
that you became
Raskolnikov
and killed
the old woman
and her half sister
and looked about the streets
you looked for the detective
Porfiry whom you suspected
was following you about
and as you sat
in the Champs-Elysées
or stood by
the Arc de Triomphe
you thought of all
the famous
who had stayed here
in this fine city
Henry Miller
Ezra Pound
Hemmingway
Debussy
Van Gogh
and that fanatical
conqueror ******
with his sick smile
under that
silly moustache
and that evening
your brother
in the hotel room
puked in the bidet
after sour wine
or too rich food
as you looked out
the window on
the Parisian street
to see if Porfiry
was out there
waiting for you
to charge you
with the murderous crime
you didn’t do.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
When the saints...go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Of all the saints, I want to know
The ones who write, I'd love to meet
Oh how I'd love to meet all the authors
When the saints go down the street
E.A. Poe...even Thoreau
Hemmingway would be ok
Mailer and Andrew Taylor
I'd learn to drink like a sailor
when these saints come strolling in
The Writers Guild...I'd be fulfilled
Meeting writers long since dead
Just think of what I'm learning
All that knowledge in their heads
I'd love to know, I'd love to know
Is Bill Shakespeare who we think?
Christie, Austen and Dickens
This is where the whole plot thickens
When the saints go marching in
Is it the best, of all the books
Is the bible just a tale
Can you think of someone better
When Melville speaks about a whale
Capote sits, while Chaucer reads
Bronte knits while Stoker bleeds
Oh how I want to be in that number
When these saints go marching in
The list goes on, oh on and on
There's just so many who've passed on
It's a list that leads by example
When these saints go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
How I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
i like my mouth when its with yours
the way my lips seem so soft and alive
& how i smile when your mouth presses against mine
i like my hands when they're with yours
intertwined as if they belong there
& how my stubby fingers don't seem all that stubby when they're locked with yours
i like my legs when they're with yours
when we're lying in bed, i can drape mine over yours
& not for a second feel as if they're too heavy or too large
i like my freckles when they're with yours
when our faces are pressed together, they match
& its like a map which leads from my cheeks to yours
i like my nose when its with yours
the way our noses bump ever so lightly
making me smile everytime they do
i like my toes when they're with yours
the way i have to get on my tiptoes to reach you
& the struggle to reach your lips makes them all the more desirable
i like my voice when its with yours
its a sweet melody, the two of us laughing together
makes me wish we'd never stop talking
i like who i am
when i'm with you
because you make me feel
as if i am loved
as if i belong
as if i am cared for
as if i am significant
you make me feel
as if i am someone
in this world
where everyone feels
like a no one
hemmingway was right to say:
"i like my body when it is with your body"
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
Dear warmth,
May you rub your back against my shoulder
‘til the windows mist with condensation,
and we fall back into youth, hiding
away from the older.
May your temperature, rising to the point
of red cheek puncture, provide an oasis
under the sand of duvet’s cover.
May your hair whip around like every
flame I’ve ever seen, no agenda or judgement,
just sheer ecstasy and excitement.
May you conjure up that lone shower feeling,
that one where for a brief slot in time everything
you know and have become floats away through
that extractor fan, out into the air- climbing higher.
May you provide that gasp of heat that
hits the cook in the face, after opening the oven’s
gate in hunger and haste.
May you be that holiday sun I always seek.
May you be the metal womb of a car when
outside in the myriad hospital world
where it’s cold.
May you be humorous and humid and
totally lovely to be with.
May you be a heated conversation and argument
and disagreement, that torment of words
I need to hear.
May you be my laugh that bubbles up
from the volcano underneath.
May you be the heat caused by key
and lock, that one that stops
others from coming in and making
for ruin.
May you be that first sip of ‘the
most civilised thing in the world’, as
Hemmingway put it, and let it ignite
a dance below.
May you not judge the mixture
of my grape and grain, and my love
for walking in the rain and my waiting for
ex-girlfriends every time they call.
May you always let me bed down
in that manger in the snug, though
Steve doesn’t know I borrowed his
blanket rug.
May you forever toast that bread
at midnight, just before bed.
Yours faithfully,
The Cold.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
Like a Hemmingway
I wish to shoot myself in the head
In the hopes that what comes out
Will fall on the page in just the right way
That she is left in awe
Of my scattered (splattered) thoughts
As though I were Van Gogh
I slash and sever my body
And offer it up to passersby
Who only offer indifferent glances
While I slowly bleed to death
Atop another blank canvas
And just like the great wordslingers
Luminaries who build empires from pen strokes
I will take the stage with my magnum opus
Only to crumble to dust in the light
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
What does it take for a poem to be great?
A riddle, A rhyme, without any mistakes?
Does it need words, those that are fancy?
Or simply bold words, not of a nancy.
Should it have humor or wisdom?
Written on rest or excessive ***
For Hemmingway said “make sure to write drunk,”
Or to make it scary, get locked in a trunk.
I heard about some guy, who wrote on his head,
While rappers turn poems into righteous street cred.
It’s rumored that some poems were writ on a trip,
But not the kind with a map and travel tips.
Other great poets flirted with death
or were simply in love with their friend named beth;
some great poems came from hate and abuse
or about women whose pants were too loose.
Some poems inspired by breaking the law
or by an unforgettable ménage trios.
So many things could derive a great write,
But these extreme measures just don’t seem right.
Maybe all that is needed is a little emotion
So that one can avoid all that commotion,
and maybe what’s great is all a perspective,
And that it’s better to read without an objective.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
Vonnegut was easy to admire. He gave you the sense that he'd seen people die, that war was something he lived - like an oracle saying, "Hey, this is what war is, it ***** ***** So it goes," you know? Then there's trenches, and Hemmingway.
But what happens if more people actually split an atom?
I'm a writer. I have no idea.
I did watch a guy get beheaded today - on Youtube. Almost. 30 seconds in and I couldn't do it. I've never lived war, but I watched an English aid worker, at the mouth of death say, "My name is David Cawthorne Haines. Following a trend amongst our British prime ministers who can’t find the courage to say no to the Americans, it is we, the British public that, in the end, will pay the price for our Parliament’s selfish decisions.."
Then a faceless man starts to rip an aid worker's head off.
So it goes. Writers go to war. I never had to. But I watched from home, between a Friday and Monday, and do my best to warn my children about the end.
Mother Do You Think They'll Drop The Bomb?
For most my childhood, I was lucky enough to ask, "Mother do you think they CAN drop the bomb?"
If you know Floyd, as far as breaking my ***** goes, done. I finally get that, pops. ***** will always be broken. But the bomb? That's not too different than the ***** is it? There's always someone. The hippie's now, I feel, just hope a little less, and pray a **** ton more.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem
when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”
I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head
and in truth,
I don’t believe
it
I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk
I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all
I’m a kid
they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame
and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration
but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture
I stand aside while
standing atop
I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt
I count all the poems
I’ve written
over five-hundred,
I chuckle
suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad
untraditional
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 11:57 AM UTC
There is a sort of romance one can find at a bar
A mysterious sense of love
Removed from everyday life
From work or phone calls home
If you close your eyes you can hear it
The clacking of ice-cube
The clacking of glass
The slow pour of a beer
The faster swish of it being
Slid down to your hand
Bumping once or twice on the uneven wooden surface
The slightly cold drip running down the side of your glass
These sounds are romantic
Hemmingway wrote at a bar
Odds are your parents feel in love in one
First kisses and embraces with friends you’ve missed
They happen at a bar
If you close your ears you can see it
A dingy light from over head
A spotlight for a pretty girl’s smile
The colors that the last sip of whisky
After they’re watered down with ice
The swooshing hues of red and white
Inside wine glasses from a couple a few seats down
The hand of the bartender covering yours
As you hand them their tip
And in that same second lock eyes
Before quickly looking down
A love in a life before this one maybe.
One can find romance in a bar
In the littlest of things
When paid attention to
They hold a sense of mystery.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC