"homey" poems
Please do tell me
You smell
the intensely arid hotness of summer.
The tender wind blowing
brings peace to bottom of
every swaying soul.
Please do tell me
it's an invitation from you
two glasses of hot tea with
old silver straw
It's the day you back to home
back to me again
When your feet
sink into warm sand of ***** desert
When your eyebrows frowned
humming the familiar tone
I know it's scent of home
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
As I write this from up above a couple hundred feet,
Overlooking this beautiful and bustling city
-- which I had only known lesser than twenty-four hours --
I cannot help but heave out a sigh of contentment.
***** even though we're hundreds of miles away from home,
This city has not ceased its glaring warmth.
Maybe it's the environment, maybe it's the people
Maybe it comes down to being just blessed.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while ***** looks out the window and sees only smoke.
***** doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
5.2k
He is a country boy,
I city gal.
I like pop and country,
He think that metal is the best.
He's a thousand miles away,
but he seems so much closer.
We make each other happy.
He's shy and nerdy,
I outgoing and reserved and nerdy.
I'm not beautiful,
But he still tells me I am.
He's handsome,
But he won't believe me.
He's a little older,
I a wee bit younger.
He's so strong and sturdy and ***** and trustworthy
I so broken
He's like the glue of my broken ceramic heart.
And yet despite all these differences,
He and I fit so well together
like puzzle pieces,
meant to be.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
I've never really been mesmerized by brown eyes
but today when i looked up and saw you staring
i was amazed and at a loss for words
now i can't get them out of my head
and i'm in a constant state of awe
jesus, why am i so stuck on your eyes?
why do they have to feel like home?
why do i have to crush on you so much?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC
Awoken from a 4 1/2 month dream
Find myself hanging by my feet
30,000 above and swinging wildly
Nose bleeding like waterfalls
Eyes suffering drought in Arizona
The dream was about you
Unsure if it was reality
It sure wasn't fake though
A "steal" heart shall sit in my chest
because you stole the one that beats
Swing, Bleed, Suffer some more
Fake airplane air makes me wonder
Where I am whenever I awoke
Captain, "To the right lies Kansas City"
I knew those lights in the distance
They twinkled like your ***** eyes.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
The night crawls under my skin
Fever delirium laced with heartbreak
in the cracks of my chapped lips
I let down my walls
Now kite drifting away like balloon let go
You were the walls of this maze called home
fog blanket me into Limbo called fever delirium hot and *****
icecream cone by the fireplace
defy the logic
cut the shoelaces
defy the logic
jump and walk on the sky
defy gravity
Swallow the whole **** ocean
Do the impossible
Have *** demand icecream for breakfast
throw punches in the street
Do drugs you don't know what they are what they do how they can hurt you
trusting abuse like a unicorn but it's just a horse
hear the dragon roar
Underneath the bed you make love on
your friends are sometimes the monsters
Spilling the probation all over the floor
Realize he's not sleeping next to you
He doesn't love you anymore
You can tell she hurts
Lives away from home
Digs teeth into words like wounds will heal like they are stitches
Fall for boy in coffee shop
Leave dream boat to pursue reckless thought
You give leaves
He gives you hope
Helps your lighthouse at sea float
Secretly as you sleep inside the sun
When your lighthouse work is done
He paints over the stripes
He thinks it is like the love story of your mother and father
She is angry with a tiny clustered house with the smell of her smoke filled lungs
He paints every room like reversing time
But it's all pretend, just men being men
Let the leaves burn
Steal the words from books
Cut them out
Cut your heart out
And try again
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and up the long path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the home’s entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon it
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight of the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed it open
That mighty wooden thing
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.
Oct 18, 2023
Oct 18, 2023 at 4:09 PM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
I imagine my happy place,
I picture it in vignette taste.
Like looking through colored glass,
There's a sepia quality to its grasp.
Like wading through a dream,
There's a vagueness to its every gleam.
Everything's the same yet different here,
A constant familiarity hangs in the air.
The picture varies from time to time...
Always it would be a house of some kind;
The edges forever unrefined,
Be it a cabin, a mansion, a farmhouse or two or three
Every ***** nook and cranny this mind could carry
Always it would be somewhere remote;
By the sea, the countryside, by a cliff, or under trees,
Sometimes in an open clearing of endless green grass swaying in the breeze.
... Home.
Though every version varies,
One thing's for certain in this house of made-up stories.
Always, always, and always a thousand times more,
You'd be there standing by the door.
Now I never questioned this part somehow
Cause here's the truth of the matter in tow:
This place could be a garbage dump for all I care
But I'd still call it heaven so long as you're there.
And I find that it's the only thing that matters;
To have your figure carved into this place's corners
I'd gladly let this place take your shape
The smell of warm bread and books here you shall drape.
This landscape is treacherous and ever-changing.
But I know as long you're there in my dreaming,
These childish mock-ups of reality
Shall remain my favorite moments of clarity.
It is my piece of heaven on earth,
My secret happy place while I'm on this dirt.
Heaven don't have a name
But God forbid I find it fitting
That if it did, of course
It would be yours.
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 6:25 AM UTC
Home boy thought he was a killer
Kept a necklace round his neck
In a villa near manila
A strange accurance
Small body found dead
Little ***** died underneath the currents
Homeboy was sure of his assurance
A good swimmer
His name was probably Laurence
He was just a few feet from shore,
When this Alligator about six feet or four,
His eyes went wide, bug eyed and crazy
This is when it all got a little hazy
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
The FBI chief, Mr. Comey,
was loved by Trump like his best *****
For he went around hintin'
about emails and Clinton,
making Trump fans excited and foamy.
But then Comey provided reflection
upon Trump aides and Russian connection.
Trump did protest and howl,
stamp his feet and cry foul,
for the tide has turned since the election.
Trump thinks Comey is guilty of slander,
though his Hillary probe raised no dander.
So I guess Trump's excuse
is what's good for the goose
simply does not apply to the gander!
So why Donald Trump am I hounding
through this verse and this poetic pounding?
It's Trump's hypocrisy
that so motivates me
and we're used to it!... That's what's astounding!
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
Day's Work Is Done...
Sun is setting,
Feet are fueled up...with enthusiasm
Thoughts are filled with pictured expectations,
To be met at the door with warm hugs and kisses
A hot meal on the table...steaming coffee awaits
All these, comfort my fatigued limbs and minds.
A smile, in anticipation ...a sense of *****
Atmosphere tickle my mind...i hurry
To enter my safe ground...my comfort zone
My own White Picket Fences.
|| || || || |\ || \| // || ||
They may have tiny fractures
Some boards missing, broken, or collapsed,
Its concrete floors and walls may be creviced
I can not shun........or hide from
Imperfect truths, about my family,
Our relationships, our health.....every truth
About my loved ones and me...
It is where i come home to...
After each struggle's end
My feet and mind take me back...to my own,
My known familial boundaries...
An inner force spurs me to make those broken boards
Upright...firm once again......like hardwood trees,
Be unshaken by water and wind....be unwavering
Then, i repaint them
...to bring back the glow.
Some broken fences could still be fixed
some are worthy of fixing; but,
There are those that seem to be, beyond repair
needing some kind of intervention.
/| || || // |/ \\ ||
Sally
Copyright July 9, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
This is the 21st century.
you can have everything you want
if you work hard enough
you can have Christmas lights
in february
an indie girlfriend,
folk music,
and ***** clutter
in an urban apartment.
you can have cookies
whenever you want
but still,
you’ll want to blow up parking garages
sometimes.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
i.
Afire is mine aura as I soar over thine spirit to get a peek.
I seeith being, living, animation, the light ive alway's sought,
The abode I shalt alway's keep, afore didst I weep, and I couldst not sleep, mine anguish once didst creep; as Poe with his raven.
ii.
Though now do I rejoice, for thee I shalt shout in conquering the celestial's, I shalt reverberate in thine mind, mine voice; leaving flashes of comforting butterfly song's moist. None need for other women, none question's for choice, for thou art mine one and only.
iii.
Amour' evident, not phony, bower me rosas ng diyos: in thine core I feeleth ***** None more brine from ourn sight's, just water of life flowing, none dismay or might's, none distress or downward flight's, just gliding together, two bird's of a feather.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication ( filipino rosas)
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
America.
Oregon.
Eugene.
***** hippies,
Homeless kids,
Handcrafted knickknacks
For sale at Saturday Market.
Rain
Rain
Rain
Rain some more.
These tourists cannot
Perceive how happy
The rain makes me,
When their droplets of
Life fall and surround me.
They do not have
That Oregonian Blood.
I have ducks in my heart,
And rain water
Courses through my veins.
I am a Country Fair girl.
I am a Eugene Girl.
I will be an Oregonian forever.
Portland may not be
As quaint,
As *****
As close knit.
But,
When it rains,
I get chills.
I kick off my shoes,
And I dance in the
Glorious lifeblood
of my home.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
I saw a banner
“See something say something”
bestriding a Union City street
raising eyebrows of suspicion
in a hood’s ***** retreat
I see blood red MAGA caps
embolden distemperate fits
ready to answer jingoistic dissings
with an *** kickin liberty chit
I see a Blue Line stained flag
It slices a field of united states
a wall to seperate us from them
God save us from reprobates
I hear shouts hailing militarism
saluting troops marching to war
Patriots offer sons and daughters
from families of the nation’s poor
I see a hoisted Gadsden Flag
boasting Don’t Tread on Me
true liberty a hissing asp
venomous country tis of thee
I see the stirring marches
aggrieved white nationalists sing
Confederacy of Blood and Soil!
cries for freedom ring
Music:
Lotte Lenya in Alabama Song
by Kurt Weill recording 1930
Art:
George Grosz
Vienna Street Fight
Puyallup
7/10/18
jbm
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
In the morning I'll wake
To the sunshine, rain, smell of new lawn
Jump up and for us, morning tea I'll make!
Walk around with next to nothing on
Take my time in the shower
But keep it under half an hour
Dress in the comfiest thing
Turn up the radio and sing
Flop down on the couch beside you
Wearing a little girl's smile on my face
Your shining eyes turn my heart to fondue
Holding me in this warm, ***** embrace
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
Waves from the beach match my waves for my drink
The waitress comes over and asks what’s my order
I said I can’t choose “I’m feeling like there’s clouds above me,
It’s been a rough few days and these double hotel rooms are bland and lonely.”
“Not a problem, sir. I know just what to get to make you feel *****
She comes back with a Hawaiian margarita.
It came with an umbrella which I set aside while saying thank you, Senorita.
I guzzled down the drink to reach the tequila faster,
But the wind picks up and it looks like a disaster.
I ask for one more, with the umbrella.
This fairy godmother returns with another margarita.
The buzz has transformed me like I’m Cinderella.
I leave a 20 at the table and walk towards the beach, ignoring the families with kids who all they do is screech.
Clutching both umbrellas, I walk to the shore
One of God’s many gifts for us to explore.
I never noticed how nice he made the decore.
Tequila is the only alcohol that’s an upper, or so I’ve been told.
But I enter the water even though it was cold
What happened next though was a story previously told,
My umbrellas caught air like Mary Poppins,
As I floated along the coast listening to Phil Collins.
The speakers down below blast the drum section from that one song,
And I stayed up there for I don’t know how long,
But when I descended,
My pain was suspended and my emotions were splendid.
So next time, when your mind feels cloudy and your thoughts are rowdy
Ask for a drink with an umbrella
You’ll soon find yourself smiling, cheesing more than mozzarella.
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
It's nice to wake up next to you
A comfortable feeling
That I could get used to.
Rising whenever we please
Taking our time to get out of bed
A ***** feeling, it puts me at ease.
Just as I am waking
I know you're next to me
And a smile is immediately forming.
I really could get used to this
Sleeping next to you
And receiving a good morning kiss.
I want it to last
But you cant stay in bed forever
I am hoping tonight comes fast.
So I can get close to you again
Hold you in my arms
And maybe the night wont end.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
Ronnie couldn’t talk
And be rhymless at all.
He could barely walk,
I'm pretty sure he'd fall,
Unless he was rhyming.
He said to me, “You see
The thing is with me
It all has to do with timing.
The cadence when I walk
Become words I hear,
The beat when someone talks
Makes a poem in my ear,
Then the rhyming begins
And seems to make good sense.
The words like magic appear
Poetic possibilities immense.”
All of the time I knew him
It seemed to be the truth
He rhymed almost constantly
From his very verbal youth.
He was like a Hallmark card
Sometimes saying pithy things
That fit the moment exactly
And had that ***** ring.
But other times his utterances
Were acerbic and very witty.
When it came to sarcastic tilt
He was the Mayor of Snark City.
Or he could rhyme endearingly
And paint pictures with his words
Saying some of the nicest things
That were ever put into words.
Yes, he was Rhyming Ronnie,
A poem for any current thought.
You couldn’t stump him even once.
At least not that I ever caught.
Ryan was amazing for sure
And some found it rather vexing.
But oh boy in the internet age
It came in handy when texting!
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Why is it that reheated fries are so disappointing
Why is it that everybody I like lives so far from my home, *****
Why do the good die young, why are the evil immortalized
Why does the sun go down, because I can't sleep at night
Why is it that if a bunch of people like something, it's automatically overrated
Why is it that common sense is so rare, but stupidity is hotly debated
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
The legion of mine zeal for thee
Outreaches unknown boundaries,
No barbed wire to holdeth me back
Just a ( I loveth thee to mine mami) ( to mine love)
And a ( I needeth thee now) oh papi ( from mine love)!!!!
From the one I sit on hold....
Slang we shalt speaketh as peasants
But ourn amare richer than most,
To guide her by mine allegiance
To bathe with her in comet lighting toast...
Her jazzy sensual patois
To pleat me in mine king throne bassinet,
The queen to taketh mine angst
And lie me in a dream I canst forget.
She whispers deeply secrets
As mine ears perk in excite,
Her eyes burn voluptuous through mine
She comforts me at night!!!!!
I canst never tread off
From the only familiar ***** rose,
I've toldeth thee all long ago
We were past life amour's of long beginning show.
The asteroids we used as projection
To maketh ourn way here,
Yet now the earth's ending
We must return to infinate angel years...
Ourn Chronograph's don't telleth Pace's
Only ourn soul's affection for eachother,
As a monarch of the Luna atmosphere she is
Twas I was sent here to bring her back into her home
Mine arms.....
Mine eyes
Mine mind
Mine soul
Mine spirit......
Wherein she already knoweth she belongs!!!!
As tis
She was mine
Long before she ever kneweth it..
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
The sun kissed the horizon
The plump Russian babysitters have
Strolled away with their strollers
Long ago.
But I watched her make dinner
On the bark stove she carved into her mind.
She set the table with her fanciest china,
Tonight was a special occasion
I presumed.
She placed a heaping plate of potatoes
On the flower-splattered tablecloth,
Made to match the grass growing
Underneath her feet.
I could almost see the steam rising
From a distance
As she scooped each golden yellow tater
One by one into each dish:
First, second, third.
How sweet,
She’s preparing for our family dinner.
It will be as likely as the willow branches,
Serving as her ceiling,
Will protect her from lightning.
It starts to pour
I start to leave
The horizon has swallowed the sun whole.
I want to run back and tell her
That the willow will not be the only one
Weeping
some day.
The branches will curl onto themselves
And the stove will rust with age
Until it can no longer be used.
I turn
Behind her still thin lenses she peers at me
With twinkling eyes;
Penetrating my already thick ones.
Her head is like a protrusion of the tree.
I want to go back and tell her
To run away with me
Far away from the willow.
But all I can manage is
A heavy yawn
Ready to swallow
The glowing beacon hanging by a thread
In the sky.
How time has flown by
And how I wish,
My little darling,
That my memory of you
Stopped haunting my dreams.
She wanted to tell me
The willow is not as ***** as it seems.
But I’m not meant to make such predictions.
With a regretful tear I turn away
And run up the hill
To what I thought was higher ground.
Maybe one day
She will greet the journey with a smile.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC