"hitch" poems
I hitch a ride on the Battle Bus,
Everyone else jumped out, I must.
I deploy my parachute below,
I glide my way to Moisty Meadow.
As I land I slurp some shields,
Extra health and a pistol I wield.
I loot the houses and **** the squads,
Which would not be possible without my mods.
I run from the storm throughout the game,
I post on the 'Gram that I won for fame.
Everyone that saw my Victory Royale,
Commented below and said "Dang, Wow!"
Now that I won, I'm the coolest around,
I walk down the halls with a figurative crown.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Where do they all go
the unspoken words
Do they melt, into nothingness
burning in the backs of our throats
Or delve into the blue deepness of our thoughts
a sunken treasure
I think they hitch rides
with the hopeless
and the heartbroken
Sitting heavy on shoulders
And I'm walking with the weight of the world
and I'm walking with the weight of the world
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
A green flamingo
Did land with the flock
Frank said "you ok"
"Yep"
"Air sick once more"
I tried to fly with my eyes
Closed
But I flew in to a
"Tree"
"Bill"
&
More,
I tried to hitch a ride
But the plane engine
****** me in"**
Now my head is bald
And my bottom is
Cold,
&
Soar,
I think next time Ill take the train
I only hope I don't get motion sickness
I'll be an odd flamingo if I am green once more.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
no introductions required
I don't need to know your name
nor you, mine
I'm here to bind
your naked wrists together
behind your bare back
slender shoulders
skin spilling over rope
watch your bare chest hitch
shallow breaths
restricted by my tension
careful to avoid your *******
cross the pattern along ribs
observing the bruises along your neck
as I move your hair out of my way
I am busy working
observing patches of blue and black
on your sides and stomach
where he had his way with you
and I feel a pang of envy
somewhere deep in my stomach
because I wish anyone would want me
the way he wants you
but I'm here to learn
how to fold string
create red patterns
on your soft skin
hoping someday, someone
will want to be bound
the way you are now
mine for more than just the hour
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
It's my birthday and this year I turn ten
It's my birthday and this year I turn ten
It's my birthday and this year I turn ten
Gonna have a party and invite over all 'o my friends
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
Gonna use my birthday cash to bail him out again
Mamma says no matter, I should love my dad
Mamma says no matter, I should love my dad
Mamma says no matter, I should love my dad
I already think he's the best I could'a had
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
It's my birthday and Papa's in the cooler again
Gonna use my birthday cash to bail him out again
When we paid the bail, gonna walk up on a snitch
When we paid the bail, gonna walk up on a snitch
When we paid the bail, gonna walk up on a snitch
Snag him in a snag, we're gonna hitch him to a hitch
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
A day recedes,
I'll chase down one more night
A lamed and hobbling Spring
tries to outrun the tide
of all the misspent months
and all this wasted time
The northern breeze sings cold,
it sighs through tattered topsails
sea of questions waits.
schools of unanswered voicemails
My footfalls share the sidewalks,
steady,
sure. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling
Walking outside
soaked lungs need some new air
I'm nervous and shaking
fold the map, don a blank stare
my days wearing on
fill 'em up with a fool's words
I'm saltwashed, stuck and
peeling paint off my memory
for now.
A day's been seized--
a metered length of life
Can't place a price on Fall
and can't outrun the tide
of these layered seasons
as his time unwinds
The eastern wind comes hard
and shreds through mended mainsails
river of answers dried
so ask the waving cattails.
His footfalls know the sidewalks
leaking
down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries
Walking around
A hitch in his slow gait
A ghost of our town
shuffles on with a fixed gaze,
his days playing out,
As he strides down the sidewalks
his life plays a film,
flashing bright on glazed eyeballs
And I'm southbound,
4 p.m. driving Orange Street
completely drowned--
--swore I woke up in Gimli,
Manitoba January
seared into my youthful memories
I'm freezerburnt
Autumn heat, don't leave me
I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly,
then drive back home.
Autumn heat, don't leave me now.
...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
We climbed from bedrock
to Idyllwild the home
of Pines to Palms
and Suicide Rocks
but not for us
only for those
poor tired souls
for whom the world's gone
flat
refusing
the night threw
itself boldly into the fray
of winds which blew
from storm to calm
so this morning we awoke
to a placid knap
slipping on snowy piste
to turn cold snaps
hot
spiced Nepali tea
sipped from ice
nipped cups
I see promise
picks up
from backward leaps
time forward flips
breaking free range igneous
into pan
piped sizzling
congenial song
that carries on the tree line
like spring
water sprung from
creeks to go scurrying off
with wet socks
until pulled up
by old school granite skies
hanging pools out to dry
in sopping blue rinsed sun
ahead any bald rocks
or hairline fractures
are long since dialled in
as baseless fears
knowing this mobile age
can merrily slip like air
through numb fingers
while baseline hands declare
“hold me close to gather”
edelweiss echoes gone
rappelling through time
the route we've chosen's
to be tied to each other's
peaks in the way of sun
and moon
come what may
be it creases in our skin
or crevasses
we'll win the battle to slim line
any overhanging ridges
so I take care to tighten
my girth hitch to top notch
and hold firmly
to both your conviction
and reach
that setting
out to move mountains
we call home
achieves more than
staying home
and calling mountains
so bright
you have me forget
all things too trite
banal office hype
shopworn old hat
mowing lawn weekends
too dishy to be clichéd
you polish off the stereotype
slam the Dior on out of shape
and dull as ditchwater tripe
keeping a victorious secret
or two in the slip knot
too tranquil shade
taking allure to new heights
we'll never drop
down from
tonight
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
Dysfunctional behind closed doors
Shapeshifted the lovesick *****
She'll touch you timid, trembling hands
Scared that you arent coming back
Digs through drawers and under the sink
Searching for her missing link
A cigarette will do for now
At least it isn't puppy chow
Shameless in her actions past
Comfortable in coming last
Theres more than at the surface level
And everybody's personal hell
Clove hitch knot around her waist
She followed at a steady pace
Wrapped around your pinky finger
She mimicked all you seemed to give her
What her eyes can do to you
Back of my throat still tastes like glue
What a sullen memory
Of what that **** can do to me
She bites her nails and fingertips
Terrified that she might slip
A clumsy dance that she once knew
Of falling into penance due
Twirl your hair and crack a smile
This one's gonna take awhile
Different or the same old same old
They've paid for it in pounds of fools gold
Chasing after fading dreams
Tripping up on memories
Will she make it on her own
A concept simple, yet unknown
A reunion of the sweetest kind
Desperate to escape the time
Spirits burn an empty soul
But never can they make one whole
Echoing within her chest
"You have always been the best"
She sips and stares across the room
Shadowed by her phantom groom
Cut off from hearts nourishment
All on her own cursed to lament
The choices that she didn't make
And chances that she didn't take
A sigh inside an empty mind
A drop of water off the tide
She's buried next to clementines
Roots entangle, synchronize
What a pretty little mess
Of despondancy and tenderness
And she's still waiting underground
For a love once frolicked, love once found
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
hear the winter closed the door
many reasons wouldn't ask for more
in spring bloomig mind Is the Cure
but i would skip it for what i wore
since all what soldiers does is war
here the field awaits for the summer
While I write words, With A Hammer
To engrave The words in Every Hour
A look in my Eyes it would'nt alter
as the glimp of the hitch fire
and A sunrise drives My desire
in every season of the year
i still feel you there getting near
As falling leaf on my Shoulder
And the autumn's angular figure
here she comes as a falling star!
how long goes and how much far!
But A cloud pointing on me finger
rain!, rain!, upon your chin my sir!
sorry! a man could'nt hold a tear!
let's play the song Near the river
you rain!, I rain! who's The Winner
but take it easy, she's the swimmer
i hold my chest with so much fear
All the thoughts going about her
While She took a boat on a tinder
the water drove me like a *******
dump my heart, till it won't appear
And no matter what would occur
I Know that was nice fall in a snare
Author / Aladdin AURES H.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
(I Could Not Knot a Knot.)
My tale is one of tortuous frustration,
when two ropes caused me aggravation,
and my every effort resulted in a situation
that left me in a state of angry indignation!
Oh, what a knotty problem I had got,
when I found I could not knot a needed knot!
Though needing help on how to knot a knot,
no one I knew, knew how to knot my needed knot!
I had two short ropes - which I’d a need to knot,
and which I’d knot together with a special knot,
but it never worked, for the knot did not knot,
and my knot came undone! I felt such a clot!
Firstly, I took the ropes, which I twisted tight
together, but still the end result, was not right,
for when I tugged, the knot, not only fell apart,
but showed no sign of a knot! Making a fresh start,
I took one rope, and placed it firmly under
the other. This was so easy, I did wonder
if my actions should have been reversed,
for it too fell apart! Oh, how I cursed!
Seems tying knots is not for faint hearts,
for any knot, that’s not knotted, soon parts
when it’s put to the test! That I’m not a knot
expert, you can tell. Truly, my forte is not
that of being very good at tying knots,
for I do not understand what knots
need, to keep them from falling apart!
Tying a knot right, right from the start,
is important, and that’s why my knot
was not reliable, but why I did not
understand. Yes, I’ve tied many knots.
but they’re knots known as Granny Knots.
Other knots are what folks call a Slip Knot.
Then there’s the Turk’s Head - a special knot,
as is the Cat’s Paw, Clove Hitch,and Bowline.
Truth to tell, - none of these resembles mine!
Then there’s a Timber Hitch, which is a knot
that truly puzzles me, and not an easy knot to knot!
There’s many other knots, that need the greatest skill,
such as the Hangman’s Knot - a knot that’s made to ****
Whilst the sheepshank? That’s a tricky one to see!
So many knots, but they’re not knots for me.
Methinks of all the knots, the one true knot for me,
is the “Lover’s Knot”, which I have tied successfully!
Rhymer. April 24th, 2018
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Son of a Snitch
My daddy was an informer to the FBI,
got caught selling drugs to this undercover guy,
his only recourse was to tell what he knew,
but people found out and gave him the *****
they even took it out on me, I'm Mitch,
and rubbed it in my face, call me son-of-a-snitch
came home from work the other day,
looked for my ******* and my can of starch spray,
magazine was gone could not find it at all,
I said hey, who took my friggin book off the wall,
wife looked at me and with nary a hitch,
she said why you ask me you son-of-a-snitch
went to the super to get me some cheese,
beans and beer and bread if you please,
wanted a streak but the cost was to high,
asked man behind counter I say hey old guy,
why this price so high is this some glitch,
he say don't ask me you son-of-a-snitch
everywhere I go I get the same old crap,
a punch in the gut, a facefull of slap,
just because daddy bought his way out of debt,
this is the kind of treatment I always get,
I plead my case give it my best pitch,
quit that whining you son-of-a-snitch
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
As The Far Distance Of The Skies
The Distance From Your Eyes
Then The Ground And The Stars
The Distance From Your Ears
I Send Whispers And Sparks
And Few Words For The Times
When I Used To Touch Your Arms
With That Look!, Everything Charms
Here I Am Calculating The Miles
On A Woeful Stressfull Verses
In A Camp Fire Talking To Ashes
Few Words To Burn With Papers
To Fuel My Fire With Poetry Pieces
Hear My Hurtfull Heart Weeps
About Many Shattered Dreams
Bleeding Between The Life Claws
Tell Me About Her Glorious Flames
Tell Me About The Hurrican's Chase
The World Where They Hitch Rides
Tell Me About The Next Goals
Remind Me About The Lost Souls
I'm Paying The Bills For My Sins!
But I Did Not Do Any Wrong Things!
Gasping Breath And Washing Tears
Playing Guitar, And The Letter Sings
Author / Aladdin Aures H.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
I remember my old Grampa
And the way he used to look
He had so many stories
He was much better than a book
I remember on our visits
While the folks would head outside
Gramps would get us grandkids
And take us for a story ride
He'd hitch up the hay wagon
We'd get up and off we'd go
Then gramps would start to talking
And so began the show
He'd tell us all the stories
Of our folks when they were young
Some he had to censor,
And sometimes bite his tongue
Now, Grandpa told the stories
Whether we were in or out
And we'd all sit and listen
To what they were all about
When we'd gather by the fire
He'd pull up his rocking chair
He'd have his pipe and all us grandkids
And his dog, Whiskey, always there
We'd all sit in front of Grandpa
We'd want to take in every word
And he would speak up louder
To make sure that we heard
He'd tell us tales of Cowboys
Of bank robbers and the trail
Of how the west became the west
And how his horse once lost his tail
The folks would gather round too
When it was almost time to go
But, Grandpa, being Grandpa
Wasn't set to end the show
See, he'd told the tales forever
To our folks and all their friends
You could tell that some were truthful
And in some the truth....well....bends
The older ones among us
Knew deep down that most were fake
But, to see old Grandpa work the room
Man, that man just took the cake
We'd get together monthly
All us kids stayed close to home
We weren't like lots of others
Who had that built in urge to roam
The stories, we'd learn later
Were mostly from TV
He'd be talking of those cowboys
And of how things used to be
A few years back we lost him
His dog had up and died
Gramps old heart was broken
He couldn't take it, though he tried
My brother tells the stories,
Not as good as Gramps at rhyme
But, the kids all hunker round him
I'm sure that he'll be good in time
We still go on the hayrides
Tell ghost stories now instead
To all us grown up grandkids
We still hear grandpa in our head
Each month we get together
There's near a hundred now in all
The kids go with my brother
And he tells tales ten feet tall
The stories are consistent
Of old cowboys and the west
I can close my eyes and listen
And still like Grandpa's versions best
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
Ebola has my name on it, the Doctor
Who came back with Ebola
In New York, yes you heard me right
His name is Mr. Spencer, I’m a
Spencer, he rode the subway in the dark
And he went bowling a week after
He came back, and he only went
To the hospital very sick
This is dementia of the public system
And the main stream media
Is being blacked out by the Czar
Appointed by Obama, he’s a lawyer by trade
Are you surprised that Ebola
Can hitch a ride with a Doctor without borders?
There are no borders for a pandemic
It increases exponentially
And peaks sometime in 2017
I’m sorry to be the first to break
The News, but Ebola is running wild
Somewhere in New York, somewhere near you
There could be a city that has it already
And do you think the media would let you know?
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Moment by moment
Life drips out
And empties the soul
Of living
Full and contented
Living is not meant to be
Each moment passes by
Bringing its own emptying-ness
Scouring another few bits of happiness
To dump it in the trash of memories
And experiences
To live on
While life is being wasted
On living
In and out of belongingness
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
I walk across the landing
and through the double doors
and aim towards the lift shaft,
that's where I'm going, of course.
It's as if it hears my footsteps
and needs no company
as that old elevator
shoots down to level 3.
Every single morning
as I approach its doors
it disappears pretty quick
down to those lower floors.
I swear it sees me coming
and doesn't like the look
so as I rush to hitch a ride
the **** thing slings its hook.
The doors are on a system,
computerised I read.
But whenever I get near them
they change the ****** speed.
I stand alone here waiting
and it just isn't fair
'cause I am stuck up here
when I want to be down there.
It speeds down to the bottom
and sits on the ground floor
you can here it taunting you
with the movements of the door.
Then after what seems ages
it gradually starts to rise
giving me some hope at last
as I can hear the noise.
Then it makes a pit stop
at another floor
and seems to take forever
to open and close its door.
Each and every level
seems to get a viewing
as if it wants to **** some time,
with my mind it is ********
And then it reaches the sixth floor
as if it is my saviour
and finally opens up the doors
as if it's doing a favour.
It seems as if this machine
requires me to stalk
so now I've found the stairwell
and instead I'm going to walk.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
She Looks Like a Tiger
See how she places her paws so lightly, so as not to be heard.
Silently, she moves through the crowd, head held high, today she doesn't want to hide.
Depicted in peach coloured stripes. No red, no brown, no blue, no black.
Today, is the first day she felt it was safe to show them.
Asking for the first time in her life, for the world to continue doing what it's always done
Lean on her, sing her our our sorrows so she could sing them back and pretend, that we could not see her scars.
She has always been the brick wall.
The concert hall
The shoulder to cry on.
The logic you would chase after with your pedestrian problems and she was the designated driver.
But when it looks like you're a casual on bridges over troubled waters, there 's no one talking you down from the ledge.
She would never have asked you to.
Hannah, your name sounds like a semi-permanent tattoo.
I hope that's what this poem feels like to everyone who hears it
So that every time they think they know broken,
they feel cold lines crisscrossing their body and can honestly wonder,
was this feeling your blueprint.
But I think you look like tiger.
And I know, I shouldn't give time to some little boys who refuse to use her real name because it fits her to well.
Callin' her some emo, weak hippie freak.
she's just looking for attention.
Because when you're the first person to make it through Hell and back alive, you're a liar.
A hitch hiker piggy backing on someone else's problems.
But her arms served as straightaways for razorblades for nine solid years,
and its no thanks to people like you she's still here.
You think, she should be ashamed of herself. As if scars are a ***** in the armour.
Like she was peer pressured into self-destruction and couldn't resist.
No one asks you:
"Hey there, wanna cut? Wanna, self-mutilate?"
Just like I won't ask you not to hate the idea of someone being that low
That every beat of the heart feels a little like ****** assault, and cutting was the best way she could find to say no.
She looks like a tiger,
and she didn't earn her stripes. People rarely do.
But she has earned the right to wear them for what they are;
Battle scars.
Things she's long overcome.
Her head is held high again.
And I know, I shouldn't be wasting my time on people
Who refuse to use her real name,
but Hannah is still Hannah inside out, upside down,
Backwards, Hannah is still Hannah,
Even with her insides out,
Hannah is still Hannah.
She's still here.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name
With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride
He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold, so the girl got inside
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home
Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys
But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
You think you are someone of great strength in mind,
as you belittle all the people around you,
for the sake of not appearing kind,
because it was the only thing you knew.
Taught to be tough and a big boy,
you can go and use a gun as a toy,
become accustomed to the ability to destroy.
As you see nothing wrong from stealing the light in one's eyes,
being the artist of their demise,
as you ruin their families lies.
BANG, BANG, BANG,
goes the gun in your hand,
over a dead body you stand,
just as you planned.
Put that hit on that sonofabitch,
it went off without a hitch,
now you a man who put someone in a ditch.
The only sacrifice is morality,
but you are so young, you don't see the brutality,
only the gangster mentality,
so you can live in the violent normality,
not realizing that you have lost touch with reality.
But that is a life that no longer belongs,
replaced by coke, *** and bongs,
you will never know that what you do is wrong,
until you hear the bell's gong,
and it is you who is gone.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
UNDERDOG RAP
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.
And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.
Brent Kincaid
March 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
I am the hero who remains unsung,
The brilliant, the innocent, the beautiful young.
The resilient youth who is ever strong,
Who never gives up and always forges on.
Who doesn’t rest her weary bones,
But struggles through life ever alone,
She rescues the weak, and slays her foes,
And onward on her journey the lonely knight goes.
From town to town, to fight and war,
Images of death never seen before,
Each death she causes has its cost,
And soon her brilliance and innocence are lost.
She takes on the dragon, the wizard and witch,
And battles on without a hitch,
But with each step her youth is left behind,
With each ticking clock she hears the passage of time.
One step further, one battle more,
To help the weak and save the poor,
To rescue the damsel and aid the king,
And never of the hero do the people sing.
Never is she thanked for all she’s done,
Never do they recognise that she’s the one,
Who kept them alive and kept them safe,
Never do they think that she may need some space.
She’s seen so much evil; she’s seen so much pain,
‘Is there any happiness in life to gain?
Is there sun beyond the cloud?’
The lonely knight asked aloud.
She could see that darkness lay in front,
And that if there was trouble she would bear the brunt,
No love was waiting for her, no warming home,
She was the knight, she travelled alone.
Finally she opened her eyes,
To the truth that lay beyond the lies,
To the despair, and death of this barren land,
And no longer could she bear stand.
The knight has fallen to the ground,
Lying face down westward bound,
She fell before she saw the light,
The lost, the lonely, the Fallen knight.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC