"holidays" poems
Why, when I know
she doesn't notice me, like me back,
or even realizes I'm a living, breathing being?
Why, when I just end up hurt
as the sun touches lips
with the moon and stars?
Why must I allow little butterflies,
pink purple green yellow red black blue gray,
to flutter inside your stomach?
As if my breakfast this morning
was trying to tell me
something.
I can't control myself,
I can't control my emotion:
Love, Hate, Jealousy.
They spill out of my heart, pour into my mind,
changing the way
I think, live life,
act and behave,
my personality;
A broken version of who I am,
who I really am.
Or was.
So yes, I have
a crush.
Because there's something with it,
something that is so...
a d d i c t i n g.
The pain I'm anticipating,
Being hurt as constantly as the moon
changes its face.
A constant flare of excitement,
being able to look at her face again and
Hope.
Hope to be able to get that face time with her.
Even if her time is mine no more,
(it never was)
as others are her time now.
But I want to be happy (at least appear that way)
in front of her so she too
can flash her pearly whites
as her eyes wrinkle from a wide grin,
sometimes a tear rolling down her
soft smooth cheeks
from too much laughing.
All these presents wrapped nice and tight
in one gigantic wrapping
of Disappointment.
And rightfully so,
now that the happy holidays are upon us.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
That relatable gay dream of running away,
Wind blowing through what's left of your hair,
the first ties to be cut.
That relatable gay fear, questions you'd rather not asked and that subsequent relatable gay sorrow after the answers.
That relatable gay loneliness, all hollow spaces and devoted secrecy.
Bitten back tongues and hidden colors.
That relatable gay moment of finding love in your friends.
Not the kind that you kiss but the kind you hold dear in the night,
as tears drip from cheeks to shoulders.
That relatable gay plan of holidays with your other gay friends, a real family, the one who would love you no matter what.
Cheers and queers and all too far away.
That relatable gay longing for love-
true love-
Like the kind they never show in fairytales,
Real and supportive, never hidden away or forgotten.
That relatable gay anger,
Boiling from injustice always under the surface,
Waiting to erupt in pointless shouts of grief for a world that was not built for me.
That relatable gay exhaustion, hostile slurs and benignant apathy blending together into a reality of unending fights just to keep on existing.
So when someone asks me what makes you a community I show them all those relatable gay moments of anguish and loss, of solemn support and stolen minutes.
And I tell them of how terrible it is that they are so very relatable,
But how wonderful it is that we could at least live through them together.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 12:03 PM UTC
See the emblem waving
Proudly, touted in the sky.
We walk among our brethren.
We recourse, resource the reason why.
All, in trepidation...
We cry out for separation.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
Citizens of the nation,
Before humanitarians,
First comes clicks of locking doors.
Equality does not endure.
A man of any land should be my brother.
The whole earth, to us, our mother.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
See the burden being carried
High upon laden backs,
Tautly stretched, with shoulders bending.
Each fear the other will attack.
The words have been the same,
But for intent that's not their own.
For too long, have we been believed.
Equality is just for some -
Is just for some.
Freedom is only for the free.
The lines that keep the captives buckling,
The doors that keep them let them go.
They have no where to escape.
Always there is tyranny
For the landless refugee.
He is no man as worthy as you.
Equality is just for some -
Is just for some.
All the lessons that teach us to love
The home of brave and free
Are based on notions that could not be true,
If all are not the same as you.
And, are they not the same as we,
Who are decorating for our holidays.
Living in our plentitude,
Singing songs of charity and caring -
Charity and Caring?
Gifts are given and received.
Do we remember the lessons taught
About the kind of men we are,
When another is in need?
Do they not rate the same concern
As the presents and the tree,
As we pray in Holy Spirit,
Singing songs of charity and caring -
Charity and caring?
See the emblem waving
Proudly, touted in the sky.
We walk among our brethren.
We recourse, resource the reason why.
All, in trepidation...
We cry out for separation.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Mom is drunk, talking ****
Grandma is drunk, laughing at her pain
Dad is drunk, yelling
Aunty is sobbing
Brother locked himself in a room
Cousin won't stop crying
Uncle passed out
I clean up all of their broken pieces with no one left to clean up me
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
Just the thought of them makes your jawbone ache:
those turkey dinners, those holidays with
the air around the woodstove baked to a stupor,
and Aunt Lil's tablecloth stained by her girlhood's gravy.
A doggy wordless wisdom whimpers from
your uncles' collected eyes; their very jokes
creak with genetic sorrow, a strain
of common heritage that hurts the gut.
Sheer boredom and fascination! A spidering
of chromosomes webs even the infants in
and holds us fast around the spread
of rotting food, of too-sweet pie.
The cousins buzz, the nephews crawl;
to love one's self is to love them all.
9.7k
She is the house that built me
when my heart had nowhere to grow
and hers are the hands that held me
when i was scared to be alone
she catches me every time i fall
like it was her assignment at birth
and she makes me feel like in this world
i finally have some worth
she has taught me lessons
i could have never learned
in a classroom
sitting behind a desk
she is the reason my heart is still beating
in this tiny chest
and even if i only see her
when she's home for holidays
or if i pay the airlines
to take me across the states
my favorite part of this world
is only a text or call away
it is so hard to put her into words
because she is so much more
than i could ever describe
and i want her to know,
and you to know
that she is the sunlight in my skies
she holds me together
i am the storm
and she is the better weather
and whether or not
i have promised it before,
i am hers forever.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Infinitely and often nightly but very quietly
I creep into the garden shed
and make a bed among the flower pots
where those dainty blooms with purple spots
spot me
and open up their eyes to see who sits among the rakes and spades
and somewhere in those dappled glades
my eyes will rest upon a cur-ved apparition and entirely of an auto responsive
suggestion
I will greet her with a midnight smile taped on my lips
and when my heart has done its forty skips and my body settles down
I invite her to come a little close and sit beside me by the oak tree
she
smiles in a light to brighten any night and any day I know would be proud to say
go with the moment it is yours to own
but on my own trapped in a shady place
I face the fact that
this place in the garden shed is only pictures in my head
and I retreat
beat it back indoors where the thunderous snores of all my many days
come back to haze me in some juvenilish way
it's the way of it
it is the way and I have bitten off more than a piece or two
and flown too close to sit upon the heat
of the sun
burned my bridges
burned my ***
and never learnt to hold my tongue
but it is the way
and one day the way will become oh so clear
the potting shed that's in my head will disappear
and in its place
the face I look to meet
will greet me
deferentially I shall shape my tongue to fit around the words I want to say
It is and always has been
this way.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
on the other-side of a grave wall
there may rightly be a water-vessel
that is chicken-hearted by birth
there may not be around her
a stretching of water-body
do remember
when we all went that day to catch the train
the room of the rail-station was totally vanished
after enquiry it was revealed that
it had gone to observe holidays with its family
in the yolk of the eggs of the snipe
before opening the no-door to take a leap i also knew
that the top-branch of a green and large grasshopper
was mainly made up of white-stones
i did not also have
any mystic words
given by the moon
to recite silently
so without caring for the water
i made a all-complete ocean
with sands and cement
throughout the year
solvency gets down
from the body of the traffic signal
even-then
the monsoon this year
has been under the poverty-line
and the ray of hope is that
it is this circuitous route
leading to the top of the himalaya
that would one day
play the tune of differential calculus
on her guitar
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
I am from New Jersey.
From the paradise of small towns
And the inferno of concrete jungles.
I am from truck tire playgrounds,
Porch Clubs, and the whistle
Of the Riverline.
I am from divorce.
From alcoholism and denial,
From broken doors and hearts.
I am from next to hell.
From pouring out full forties
For one's homies passed away.
From too many candlelight vigils
And sidewalks littered with fourth grade pictures.
I am from the garden state.
From cows, corn, and Clinton,
And tractors in the parking lot.
I am from tradition.
From pasta and seven fishes,
From "Mafiosa!" screamed in the streets
And "No WHOPs" pasted on storefronts.
I am from love.
From three parents and four siblings,
From six dogs and duplicate holidays,
And the smell of tulips and holly.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
Choose **** Choose a dealer. Choose your rolling papers. Choose a **** Choose mind numbingly long conversations about **** all. Choose home grown. Choose frequent holidays to amsterdam. Choose red eyes. Choose the biggets pizza ever for when the munchies kick in. Choose paranoia. Choose chilling with mates. Choose hallucinating about a giant green hedgehog following you home. Choose watching Cheech and Chong. Choose skunk. Choose super skunk. Choose hiding your stash from the police. Choose spilling ***** **** water on your carpet. Choose a fake jamaican accent. Choose space cakes. Choose your future. Choose ****
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
At the end of the day
Like yesterday and today
And many other days
I count my blessings
Knowing that I should be
Grateful and say thank you
What I've received is more
Than what I have given
Gratitude makes the world
Circling around, and dancing
When the holidays are here
Love is in the air, everywhere
How wonderful it is, to love
And to be loved. Thank you!
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
My Blue Eyed Blonde
By Joeysguy
I’m just a man with a broken heart trying to show love
To the woman who I lost and is now in the heaven above
I think back when we met we shared a kiss
Now the days go by I think of my wife who I terribly miss
Life seems so very unfair
I was older but it’s my wife who is not here
All the years we were married I gave her all that I could
I gave her all my love and my heart the way a husband should
When special days and some holidays come near
It hurts more on these days that my wife and I no longer share
I wish I could remember everything from my past
I would burn my wife in my mind so it all would last
Over and over as the days go by
I try to get by with out a cry
Joey was my wife and now she is gone
I am finding my days so very hard to move on
On our wedding day some words I had said
I promised to always love her and with this ring I thee wed
We have two girls Barbara and Patricia are their names
Also their is our son his name is James
My wife was a tall and slender blonde with blue eyes
She loved me and I guess she was very wise
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
*hug me,
so that I'll stop
hurting myself.
hug me,
so that I'll live
another great day.
hug me,
so that I'll stop
being so stubborn.
hug me,
so that I'll be all
warm-up in the holidays.
hug me,
so that I'll stop being
so lonely inside-out.
just hug me,
so I can stay happy...
*
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!*
first it was avocado on toast...
who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
nothing near guacamole,
but fair enough...
but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
i couldn't stop...
you can find it in the weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******** me...
cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
i was in a restaurant once,
and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
a bit like: bread... but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
and now... cauliflower on pizza...
it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
how about beetroot?
thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
the toast? marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say: cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
avocado on toast...
caulifower on a pizza?!
now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
You're the wind the blows the treetops
It rustles through my hair
The hand that touches my shoulder
Quietly, you are there.
You're the story left unfinished
A poem left untouched
For 20 years you fought alone
20 years escaped Death's clutch.
For 14 years you held me
Through plays and concerts all
You filled up puzzles and read the books
Alone, you stood so tall.
You told me all the stories
Answered that question many times
Why I never did see Grampa,
Why I never saw you cry.
You showed me all the pictures
Played Santa on Christmas morn'
We made fruit salad on holidays
You've loved me since I was born.
Not once did I say goodbye to you
See you later, kiss goodnight
I'd see you in the morning
Bananas and donuts under the counter light.
You were a genius in your own way
But never flaunted it so
You taught me games I'd not thought of
You loved me more than you could show.
We offered you a guard dog
A cat to spend your days
You never were an animal person
Dependence is not your ways.
You got home from bingo one night
Laid down to rest your head
Your sister woke to call you
Somehow, you weren't out of bed.
From then on you hid your voice from us
Never to be heard again
Tests and cards and flowers, too
Not one, not two- more than ten!
Leading up to then, you'd had enough
Enough for a lifetime, I suppose,
Because one night you took your final breath
Your cheeks lost the color of rose.
I've never been the hugging type,
And I handle sadness on my own
Crying in front of others
Is something I've never been shown.
The next week had been quite tough
But your sister was always there
Your sister, my Nana, the only one
She told us she would always care.
We said goodbye, a final one,
I tried my hardest not to cry
I'd only said goodnight my life
Not once have I said goodbye.
Sometimes I wish we got you the dog
Maybe we'd share another morn'
I love you for the rest of my life,
The one I miss and adore.
It was the night you'd not return
None of us know why
But now we know you're happy
Playing bingo with Grampa in the sky.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
The holidays are upon us
Time for family and fun
Some families put the fun in dysfunctional
But if yours is not one
Take comfort in this jewel
If your family put the FU in dysfunctional
You're no different from Gods that rule
Chronos, Zeus, and Aries
Make you brother, uncle, and mother
Look like happy fairies
Dysfunctional also spells love
If you drop the dysfunctiona
And add the OVE
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Happy Holidays
and happy make her holler days
Spreading the holiday cheer
By being naughty this year
That's what Santa feared the most.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
I love my younger siblings lots:
having one sister and one brother.
We keep ourselves in our thoughts,
because we cherish one another!
Tammy is my sister's name,
while my brother is then Tim.
I love keeping our pics in frame(s):
both sibs look great to me, so slim!
We're chatting online so much:
keeping each other up, of course.
Usually loving to keep in touch,
together, we're kept: a strong force!
On holidays, we stay back at home:
to play games and take tons of pics.
We're all kept together in good zone;
our hearts are all definitely so fixed!
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Molly came to school when I was fourteen
but she was years older, appearing as a beautiful traveller
who'd circled the globe and made friends with everybody.
She was always the popular one, but one I never got to know,
because my sister at thirty-five told me that she had killed a man
once or twice.
The kids I knew found this hard to believe, as Molly got to know them all.
She'd hang out with them after school, and was always there,
waiting to widen her circle.
Molly never lost her charm,
and she stole the hearts of boys I loved.
She opened their eyes to a world I could not show them,
she drank their blood on Friday nights.
Every boy I'd meet would have a story to tell,
her name dropped like an atom bomb into conversation.
They'd all met her.
They all knew her.
They met her at nightclubs,
and stopped caring about how **** the music sounded
They met her on their holidays ,
and tasted her before the alcohol wore off
They met her at festivals,
where she'd creep into their tents before the main stage lit up
I wonder maybe one day will we be friends
Instead of resenting each other
because she's killed a man
more than once or twice
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Dress up days
FOR KIDS
I don't mean the times
They dressed up for Church
Or for special holidays
But the times they found
A long dress in their moms closet,
And their moms high heel shoes
Oh and the hats they found
In a hat box in the closet.
Please mom, please....
They were in seventh Heaven...
And the special box
In a best friends basement,
Filled with formals
And a box of high heels.
That insured them a great
Play day...
I grew up in
Dress up days
My girls grew up in
Dress up days
But this day and age
It seems there are
Dress up days
Filled with Princesses
Bought at Target
Or on Amazon.
Stealing the creative ability of a child.
They are expensive, beautiful
And they sparkle
I'm sure the little girls
Probably get more excited
Over Princess dresses
That sparkle
Then the ones that hang
Over their shoulders
And drag on the ground.
Either way, they can still
Have fun while singing
"I'm so fancy"
By Judy
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 5:52 AM UTC
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.
Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.
In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.
Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
Looking at this Rose,
“ya, it’s beautiful right?”
How can something so marvelous
grow in a world so frivolous?
Vibrantly blossoms just to wait out it’s days
Waiting To live out a purpose
other than to wither away
So many potential uses such as dates, marriages, deaths, and holidays
Except for this one Rose
Which got plucked
for no other relevancy
but to just wither away.
Sleep in Peace Jahseh
You left this world way too early but you have left much purpose for us other roses through your music and the way you were changing from your past mistakes. Thank you X
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
I had always heard that festivals are symbols of joy,symbols of happiness.
but I think more than that it is feeling o f peace,prosperity,love,kindness it is the only time when everyone in our society have get together,follow rituals and the most interesting part is the broken relationships,friendships & every other relations get adhere together.
friends i always thought that festivals means only having holidays and enjoying it but today i came to know that every festival has its own story like Christmas for birth of lord Christ,
Diwali for returning of lord Rama and goddess Sita.
on the occassion of DEEPAVALI I wish everyone HAPPY DEEPAVALI and may this diwali bring prosperity,Elation,peace in your life!!!!
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Amadou awakened with a start, it was Omar one of the guardians(security guards) of Yaldagou (the largest Hospital in the capital of Burkina Faso) knocking on the window of his taxi, Amadou had just settled down for the night after a long day in the heat and fumes that was Ouagadougou it was just after midnight on Sunday, he struggled to wake up rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Omar explained in Mori(local language), that there were two white people in need of his special service.
After a quick explanation that someone had died in a private clinic nearby and the body needed to be transported to the morgue at Yaldagou, he snapped out of his sleepiness and thought for a moment how much he could charge the rich white people, it was two days after Eid and as a strict Muslim he had been celebrating the holidays and now he had been offered an opportunity to supplement his taxi income, someone had to do it and it was an unsavory job and anyway on the few occasions he had done it, it had been lucrative, it might as well be him!
Amadou thought to himself, if you had the misfortune to die in the day time there was a private service but in the night dignity went out the window and it was up to people like Amadou and a select bunch of taxi drivers with seats that could be configured to accommodate the corpses of the recently deceased to perform this service, so taxi 87 driven by Amadou would take this lady who had died from kidney and other ***** failures, after struggling for some days she eventually lost her battle and slipped into unconsciousness and finally died.
Amadou finally settled on 10000 CFA(local currency) a fair price, after all the so-called professionals would charge 30000 CFA three times more and it was around Eid "Allah Akbar".
A quick "Thank you" to Omar for helping them and the two white people left with him for the short journey to the clinic, after the usual discussions the body was released and transported to the morgue to join the other recently deceased waiting for burial in the morning,
Amadou, rearranged the seating in his taxi after parking up in his favourite place under the trees of Yaldago it was just after one thirty, a good ninety mins work he thought to himself, yawned, and settled down to sleep a few more hours before dawn prayers.
This was Africa and "someone had to do it" was his last thought.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
I am not at home.
Home is where you go back to after vacation.
Where you don’t worry about whether to take your shoes off in the entryway.
Where you know that the light switch between you and your parent’s bedroom
doesn’t actually do anything.
Where you know you can leave your ***** dishes on the counter
because somebody will put them in the dishwasher for you.
Where people say, “What are you doing for the holidays?”
And you say, “I’m going home.”
And they say, “Oh, that’s nice,”
and it is.
That’s home.
But I have none of those things.
Sometimes things like that depress me. And then I have this strange urge to tell someone,
just to see if it depresses them too.
It doesn’t have to be someone I care about. It just has to be someone who would listen.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC